westwhere | the sunken

the sunken | part i

THE SUNKEN

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Welcome to the first log of Arc VI: the Sunken, which covers 15 May – 2 June and doubles as a test drive meme.

Back/forward date as needed! The calendar date suggestions are indicative.

The TDM is open to everyone! If you decide to apply to the game, you can get an invite from current players or the upcoming enabling meme — or participate in the test drive meme and get in touch @

groundrules to chat things over. We currently have 13 slots available for new players.

Test drivers can use this post for logs and network posts — old timers, please make your network posts at

eastbound.

LOST AT SEA | TEST DRIVE TOURISTS

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You wake, gasping, in a stormy sea, your thoughts slowed to a confused trickle. Skill, floating wood or a kindly stranger — who you can’t understand — help you to reach shore.

Villagers discover you collapsed on sand and provide critical (if rickety) communication and translation devices. They say you are in Sunken Yancai, a fishing village progressively overtaken by waters and cursed by the secretive ‘ladies of the lake’ to transit through time.

■ Rescuers group newcomers and supply questionable village couture, warm meals and accommodations in abandoned, half-flooded homes or spare small boats anchored in Yancai’s waterways. Huddle up, recover your strength and don’t think too hard on why your memories are hazy over the next three days.

■ Come morning, you visit village leader Quanze Tsaymien, then the sorceress Karsa — who explains you are otherworlders summoned into Akhuras by undead lords who wish to weaponise you in their battle against humans and one another. Karsa is an associate of the Merchant, who leads otherworlders towards ancient transport beacons east.

■ One such beacon rests dormant in Yancai. The group must infiltrate the village and wait a few weeks until it shifts to a point back in time when the beacon was active.

■ Newcomers are handed passport papers with their new identities in Yancai, where they may be known as a bankrupt merchant, perpetually drunk sailor, whale hunter, raft surveyor, mermaid who has just gained their legs, crab collector... feel free to invent a dutifully ~~hilarious~~ apt role for their seaside sojourn.

OLD TIMERS | THE DRIFTING

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You dragged yourself here in a haze. You arrived long ago, as if in a dream. You were born and bred in this village. In truth, your memories of reaching lively Yancai feel nebulous and alarmingly inconsequential.

Characters are facilitated new identities and dwellings by the Merchant, or believe they have had them all along.

■ A weary Karsa warns to say nothing to party members with altered memories, until the sorcery that affects them runs its course.

■ Memory-altered characters progressively regain their memories within three to five days (by 20 May). They have their memories partially or fully back at night ( midnight to 5 a.m.). Throughout the day, memory regains can trigger migraines, eerie confusion and paranoia.

■ Hauntings begin once characters have fully regained their memories.

■ Once everyone is ‘back to normal,’ Karsa explains that Yancai periodically transits through time. The memory alterations are a magical solution endorsed by the village council, which ensures locals mentally weather these shifts. Villagers continue to blithely accept you as part of the community.

(DON'T) HOLD YOUR BREATH

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Karsa reunites the existing party and newcomers, issuing first assignments. The Merchants’s information suggests the beacon of Yancai will be online once the village travels in time within weeks. A dubious Karsa asks the party to check on the beacon, located in the former House of Commerce of the largely inundated merchants’ district. Reach it by rowing boat.

■ Villagers say the Master of Commerce, a famous musician, took precautions against intruders.

■ All ground and lower floor entryways of the palatial House were boarded to restrict flooding. To enter, pick locks or climb the putrid stairwell towards upper balconies.

■ Inside, the hissing of running water — and, in the lower levels, of thin, slippery leeches whose bite numbs your limbs, while they attempt to feed. You seem to experience pronounced vertigo when entering any decaying rooms covered in black mould.

■ The beacon is located on a dais in the basement vault room, where water rises near 1 meter. Only a few scattered scrolls and golden decorations remain among decorations, while a large ceiling carving writes, greed deafens man to the cries of his conscience; music sets him free.

■ Some tiles of the marbled floor stand out as you wade — step on one, and all doors abruptly slam shut, while dozens of obscured holes in the wall start to rapidly spill water, threatening to fill the room to the ceiling within the hour. You hear the tinny, waning sound of a village song played from a hidden source.

■ To stop the pouring water and open the doors, sing the song you hear, or find the music box that produces it amid debris on the water-covered floors. Wind it, and it plays its song in reverse, revealing the voice of a laughing elderly man who says, Depressingly, Anurr was right to worry.

■ Don’t forget to check the beacon — and report back to Karsa that it looks structurally untarnished.

THEY SLEEP

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After surprising revelations at previous citadels, Karsa tasks you to investigate just how… permanent death is in Yancai. Villagers share that their dead are buried in a strange rite at sea — part of which will take place within days.

■ The dead are ‘entombed’ in one-man sarcophagi ships with carved and chained lids that depict their likeness. These burial boats are set at sea on the first day of each season and return three months later.

■ Join the harbours around 22 May, when mourners gather to receive the burial boats. Characters must pretend to be greatly anguished relatives, acquaintances or debt collectors to join the grieving.

■ The boats float towards you, seemingly of their own volition. Gaze afar and spot a boat carrying a man in black — the same who haunts some characters — who observes until the last burial ship has reached the piers, before he disappears.

■ Sailors draw up the boats and unpeel the untouched chains and lids, to reveal… no corpses. Peer closer and find neither biological signs (stench, liquids) of discomposure, nor the magical chillness of spaces where cadavers have lingered long. Scratch marks litter the inside of some boat lids.

■ Mourners seem grateful that the waters have ‘accepted’ the bodies. Some say that their relatives whose boats have yet to return must have been stolen by the ‘ladies of the lake,’ a villainous witch coven. Speak to mourners or sailors for clues.

■ Linger long near opened burial boats, and you feel tempted to throw yourself into the sea, slowly losing consciousness — until someone rescues you.

AMONG US

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On 25 May, village leader Quanze Tsaymien drags the chained and half feral mistress Miang-si to households and Yancai’s largest market square.

The young woman, he says, was seduced by the ladies of the lake — the furtive witch coven that condemned Yancai to time travel. Luckily, the village elders have… coaxed Miang-si back onto the righteous path.

■ Miang-si is brought door-to-door to point out her 'accomplices.' Ill at ease, villagers whisper of similar witch hunts leading to false accusations and blood-curdling repercussions.

■ Both men and women are suspected and brought before Miang-si. Perhaps she takes an eerie interest in you, getting especially close to catch your scent, touch or remark on (in)visible hurts, or even dotingly kiss you. If you whisper quickly while she’s near, you might be able to ask one question.

■ If you are patient and kind to Miang-si, she briefly squeezes your hand as she withdraws. Within the hour, you find blood writ on your palm that warns, Our fat moon rises red.

■ If you are agitated, or if Quanze rushes her during your visit, Miang-si erupts into sudden, side-splitting cackling — while you find yourself croaking like a toad, or transforming into one and retaining human speech. The spell dissolves after eight hours.

■ Quanze’s long-suffering men say this sorcery breaks faster if you kiss one of the curmudgeonly emerald toads that hide in some of Yancai’s lakes. Catch one such delightful, slime-spitting creature or barter it from merchants at a costly premium.

ILL MET BY MOONLIGHT

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A full moon is set to rise within days of Miang-si’s visit, on 27 May — just as Yancai shows signs of time shifting. Villagers are prone to stilling and staring askance, seeming lost or adrift.

The village itself evolves: one moment, the same house appears freshly new, then drowned, while waterways overfill with water, then seem barren. Overall, the village deteriorates.

■ That day, the sun suffers a midday eclipse, while droves of black birds circle the woods and village outskirts, attacking those who come close.

■ The waters increasingly thicken and darken, preventing boats from entering certain waterways.

■ An exceedingly bright moon and a diffuse lunar replica rise with nightfall. Come midnight, the village is alive with the sounds of ripping, structural collapse and shrieks. Tar-covered corpses emerge from the waters, clawing on and climbing up piers. They swarm, drawing passers-by into waters to drown them. Help them — and foremost, yourself.

■ Light and fire keep the dead at bay. On some waterways, wildfire now spells, WHAT IS WET WAS WRONGED

■ Weaker alone, fresh corpses climb into your rowing boat, pretending they are innocents who seek shelter. They betray themselves by speaking very slowly, struggling to keep track of the conversation or obliviously peppering it with details of their death. They stubbornly ask questions about you, repeating your answers, and become violent if you say they are dead. Push them into the water at first opportunity.

■ Quanze Tsaymien and other men of the village take arms, urging villagers to barricade in the nearest home, harbour or warehouse and weather the night. They advise to be silent and beware the dead who imitate living voices, warning not to touch any black mould or water that suddenly appear in your home — which alert the dead of your presence within.

■ Some dead try to tear you apart, while others seek to feed you a disgusting, tar-like black mould. A small taste of it makes you sluggish and feeble for two-three hours, while an entire fistful can kill.

■ If the undead infiltrate your house, hold your breath, do not move and keep from screaming. The dead have weak sight and olfactory senses and might pass you by, as long as you stay silent. It can be more efficient to fool than kill the dead.

■ By 5 a.m., houses start to replenish themselves, gaining a new appearance, while water and mould retreat. The dead withdraw into waterways. Outside doors have been marked with blood: vertical lines tell how many living people remain inside; horizontal ones count how many within died overnight.

■ You step to seize a brave new day — while Yancai enters a new time period (further details due in the next plot update).

NOTES

■ The game enabling meme goes up on 25 May.

■ Hit up available NPCs here or in their new inbox!

■ QUESTIONS.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He holds onto Wangji for as long as his little brother needs it, unwilling to let him go when he can feel the tension gutting him from the inside. ]

Stay, it's alright.

[ His robes flutter around them, enveloping his sibling as Xichen muses the oddities of this land that it can bring the dead back to life. ]

I will speak with all of them later, if they have the time. Wangji, [ his tone softens, the tilt of Xichen's head resting it against another's for a moment, ] I am proud of you.

...for?

( It seems a cruel thing, to beg the kindness of his brother's attention, to bid he explains himself. Pride is an oddity, a prohibited luxury. Lan Wangji, undeserving, a dog feasting on scraps, should not ask for meat and obne.

He lingers, inevitably, and thinks —

If this is a moon's fever, a dream, let it kindly not break.

If this is an illusion, gaining brother's face, let it kill him with swift cunning.

If this is madness, then — )

Weeks prior, a demon borrowed mother's likeness. ( He does not say, I watched her culled. Burrows like an animal hurting. ) I did not recall her face.

For surviving and keeping the others safe.

[ Surviving is the hardest part, it requires the impetus to try; Xichen knows a lot about the yen to give up. He is sure the others have drawn strength from his brother's stoic bravery, wounded and chipped though Wangji may be inside.

He holds him tighter than their mother is mentioned, the cruelty of this realm a ball of grief he cannot swallow around in his throat. ]

It's alright not to remember. [ It was a long time ago, Wangji was very young. Xichen thinks it might be better if whatever monster Wangji faced did not look familiar. ] I am sorry I was not here, you can be mad with me.

This is no part brother's guilt.

( Not his fault, his blood stain to bear. Nothing he knew to fend from. They are alone, neglected, night-shrouded. He feels, for the first time, and he a son of Gusu Lan, a chill cradle and encircle him.

How young is he, to be held so? A man so slight, doubtlessly prone in seclusion to inedia, yet his brother's strength spreads unwavering. Tightens. He clutches once, fingers coming to fist to crush the silks gathered at brother's bank, on his flank. )

You wake to carnage, from confinement. I pity you.

( Like a hunting hound, is Zewu-Jun, stirred from respite to madness. )

[ Having been here some days, his clothes still smell like the hanshi at Cloud Recesses, lingerings of sandalwood and wildflowers from the gardens. A cool sweetness, low and woody as it wraps around Wangji where it also belongs and shrouds him in its own sensory comfort, lost in long billowing robes. Xichen brings his hand on an arm up to cup the back of his brother's head and briefly hold him there as they hugged when boys, a reminder that Wangji is safe when Xichen feels the fist behind his clothes. ]

I am not sorry to be where Wangji has need of me, nor should he be.

[ His hold eases slightly, letting him regain his composure or break away if he wishes. Xichen smiles with a slow, knowing blink. ]

Wei Wuxian is here, you say. Has he been attending you?

( Attending him, as if Lan Wangji were an errant king, a despot, a master entitled to service. As if Wei Ying were not the perennially injured party between them, deprived of earned amends. He flinches, arc of his back uncurling, flattening, straightening out.

Pulling back, he is himself: living wound, cultivated rancor, sculpted jade. A face like a mask, brittle. Under this moonlight, he remembers, all is pale, all is dark. No nuance. No requirement for such compromise. )

He is in health. ( Not the answer to a question ill posed, not one Xichen will dispute him. Wei Ying's condition, like that of a sickly elder or a woman carrying child, is not to be discussed publicly or at length — only affirmed, between careful nods, and accepted with finality. )

At times, the dead things here aim to seize him.

We ought to make sure that never happens, then.

[ We, because Wei Wuxian is family now, and even if he weren't Xichen would still be aware of how desperately Wangji loves the man. We, because Wangji is no longer alone in this realm of horrors. ]

Is there somewhere safe people can retire to?

( We. An army, a legion, all the hands that took steel and imprecations against Wei Ying and wore them true, wore them well, who turned tiger's eyes on him, who showed fang, who lusted for his meats, the crackle, thin, of his bones, unwinding. And how many legions sprawled like fungi in soiled waters by moonlight, at Nightless City?

He remembers, his brother, armed. Shielded. Remembers, Lan Wangji too, indifferent and undecided. Flinches, but does not speak the truth of memories like prickling nettle needles. )

Newly arrived. A first attack. ( Apologies, little information known. But: ) Four of us share a lair. Brother may adjoin.

Which four?

[ Are there not more here he mentioned? He cocks his head inquiringly, wondering which grouped together. ]

We were assigned quarters.

( As if they were disciples again, finding their place in barracks, and not men grown. As if it does not offend to be settled into sleeping arrangements for the convenience of others, like cattle. )

Wei Ying. Wangji. ( His mouth, slowly wet, glistened. Beneath moonlight, every sin seems stark. ) The woman Yelena. The witch Vanessa.

( A pause, and careful: ) No perversion. No indignity. ( Two men do not corrupt the honour of these women. )

Wangji, [ he hardly keeps his smile at bay, ] I assumed none.

[ Besides, as crazy as Wangji is for Wei Wuxian, Xichen somehow doubts his protective little brother would splash around the intimacy of their relationship in front of anyone, let alone strangers. ]

The 'witch' ... ?

[ That can't be good, surely. ]

( A fine thing, to count on the utmost and unwavering faith of a brother. Others — fools — would presume belief that Lan Wangji and Wei Ying were entertaining their own mischief, a harem. There are... unpleasantries wagging tongues conspire to manufacture from distressed, if slightly incriminating circumstances.

Brother does not question, does not oppose. Silks blood-sodden, step weighted, Lan Wangji starts them on the route to his — 'home' of designation. Ah, but how to tell Xichen — )

A sorceress. Turmoiled temper. Fragile. ( Lacking the heat of Chifeng-zun, but no less wrathful. ) Apolgoies. The dwelling is... humble. Stone.

( ...all. Stone. )

No apologies are necessary, this is not our realm. I am content to remain by your side.

[ He does not need much, truthfully, though it is always a bonus of being a clan member and sect leader besides. There will be nothing gained from vanity. ]

Is the sorceress a threat?

At times, to good humour.

( ...ah, his shining, before unseen wit again. Truly, Wei Ying's mark is a blessing, a burn. Perhaps it will amuse brother to witness it, to behold the seasonal transition of Lan Wangji's sullen temperament, ripening and thawing and turning — kindly. Warm.

He laughs, almost. Looks back, feline-like, as if assessing if the considered prey is fat and slow enough to bother. If his brother warrants an easy tell.

Then, just as he jumps to descent on another rooftop: )

Sizhui has grown to chance gaze upon maidens. ( Do not gossip, except. )

[ Not a real threat then, if Wangji can make light of her. That's someone else's influence; he wasn't always so lighthearted, even if no one else would notice the difference.

He follows him, a jump behind. ]

Which maidens? I should like names, if you suspect any.

[ If Sizhui is now at that age. ]

Discretion becomes him.

( Unlike Lan Wangji, hereby a gossip, a matron, a true force of child-rearing nature. But Xichen must know, as they cut their path towards the cave. After all, did he not raise Sizhui as much or more than did his father? Did he not intercede to offer warmth and care and guidance, when Lan Wangji succumbed to his wounds, in want of urgent treatment?

...no, no. If Zewu-Jun must learn of Sizhui's appetites, better it be here, from Lan Wangji's own wretched mouth. )

But he is... kindly to a girl. ( As, some might say, is entirely his nature. )

Which girl, do you know her?

[ Not to be overbearing, but it's good to be informed of these things. Sizhui is a good boy, upstanding and righteous, but he is also a young man with zero experience in romance. Xichen wants to safeguard him from any hurts, if possible. ]

( He hesitates, choosing his words if not his moment, caution finally lacquering his voice. )

You shall know her. ( When the time is ripe and the stakes thin, when they are not given chase by the dead, Lan Wangji's footing feeble. He does not slip, for all his balance briefly falters. )

When the dead do not spill. ( ...perhaps, within a few shichen. )

[ Fair enough, the dead are somewhat more pressing a matter than Sizhui's first crush. But only slightly. ]

We need to get inside, how far is it to this place you spoke of?

[ Xichen is good for another day or so before he will need to sleep properly, although a short rest couldn't hurt. ]

Perhaps twenty li.

( Less than half a shichen's run, if Xichen is not yet so reduced, so feeble. He appears in tolerable health, holding, if bloodied. Weighed down by bloodshed, stench corrosive. Lan Wangji, no better, disdains the offer before he makes it, forever hesitant to stain Bichen's blade, yet — )

Can you yet fly?

( Perhaps not so, if Xichen's qi has exhausted itself beneath two watchful moons, while hellspawn wander. )

I can.

[ Riding the sword is not his first choice but he summons Shuoyue forward so he can step on her flat blade, focused as he rises into the air and waits for Wangji to direct them. Xichen is not at the top of his form after three months spent languishing in self-pity, but neither does his posture slacken when the need arises for competency. He can indulge in his aches later. ]

( In truth, wind whipping, neither does Lan Wangji favour flight. Swords are thin, threadbare, volatile. storms hinder progress, the flier's posture is either at all times tense, stiff or wobbled. Cultivators must reroute their qi towards purpose, sitting empty-handed and targets for attacks airborne.

It is... a difficult endeavour, but they both settle on their swords, and Bichen leads, advance expedited. In the end, all is water, blood, bodies. Remains. Lan Wangji crosses the distance, until here lies the beauty, the peak of hospitality — his... cave.

He stops, loose-mouthed and eyes downcast, slipping off his blade and calling her to hand, before the open straw door. )

I bid you welcome. ( To the cave. Heavens help him. )

[ Look at that, it really is a cave. Xichen dismounts, sword once more sheathed, and looks upon the humble abode without judgement (albeit surprise, somehow, even after everything else so far). He enters and looks around, casting an inquiring look at Wangji for further explanation. ]

( It... is not altogether lacking, as caves go. Lan Wangji, for his part, would presume to say it holds a great deal of promise: here, a scratched wall, where past occupants appear to have carved their cries of help. There, fresh, moulding moss. Beyond, corners and jutting sharp edges.

And everywhere, blood-curdling cold, sparse but for the handful of belongings each of the four dwellers had laired in.

Truly, an empire of hospitality. )

Our assigned home in transit. ( Lan Wangji, the spirit of grace, beckons his brother towards the nearest mat of tufted, woven straw, covered by a wilted blanket. His own domain. ) Be seated. Rest.

[ There are cries for help etched into a wall, oh. Okay. And mould. Xichen is making a list of things he will never be commenting on. He wants to take Wangji back home with such keenness of heart that his chest aches.

But Xichen sits without quarrel, looking back to Wangji. ]

I spoke with a girl named Hermione. She gave me a notebook to read.

Edited 2023-05-20 20:37 (UTC)

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this entire tag is a criticism of sword flight lmao

most ganky elegant ability

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