westwhere | the sunken

the sunken | part i

THE SUNKEN

Image source.

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

Image source.

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

Image source.

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

Image source.

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

Image source.

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

Image source.

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

Image source.

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

Wangji ...

[ How does he explain he has been afraid of so much since his murder of Jin Guangyao? His own weakness, mostly.

His entire purpose is to keep his family safe, and he failed spectacularly at that for years, manipulated in ways that could have spelled his own demise as well as his brother's and uncle's had a-Yao not cared for him, specifically, in his own twisted way. Xichen does not want their safety to be at the hands of his poor decisions again. ]

I will ensure you see the snow fall in Cloud Recesses again.

Edited 2023-05-21 21:31 (UTC)

I would wish to.

( It comes punched, airy, with a quality of dissonance, as if the wires that produce his sounds are rusted, brittle, collapsing. As if he is a lessened version of himself, whittled down with age.

He hears his brother, his sect leader. He must obey, curtain of his hair weed-like and blood-tarnished, hands red and silks rained. He is a horror of himself, no better than Zewu-Jun, and this is how they greet one another.

They have been stolen even the dignity of a proper welcome. )

Will you rest here? ( No. The bribe: ) I have a comb.

[ That's decided then, with Wangji's wish: they will go home at some point. No more arguing about the likelihood. ]

Aiya, [ they are something of a state, ] if you let me fix your hair then you can do mine. We'll make it look right before the others return.

[ They are both deft of hand and Lan hairstyles are easier with an extra pair of acceptable hands to adjust a ribbon, much as they are quite capable of doing it themselves. This slice of domesticity settles some of the sickness roiling in Xichen's guts. ]

Bring the comb, let me have it.

[ He can also make Wangji look nice and sleek for Wei Wuxian! What a sneaky motive. ]

( Look... right. As if they are more than ghosts of the waters, hair weed-like and clinging, mere straw. As if they do not both know that any attempt to tame them into pleasant aesthetic elegance will fail miserably and unspeakably.

All the same, he goes: to seek out the comb first, bone, and cleanse it with a tired hand. Then a bowl filled sparsely with the water brought in with a barrel. Then, at long last, the two stabbing things, his pins, secretively hidden away like ancestral treasures in the nooks and crannies of his qiankun purse, and a small jar of oil confiscated from travels prior.

The dregs of comfort, for men of their station. Luxury and finery, for the inhabitants of a cave. These, he presents, each item assembled on hard ground like soldiers before the sect leader, Lan Wangji knelt before Xichen. )

We are not yet such strangers to ourselves. ( They still have this. )

Mn, not yet.

[ He shrugs off his outer robe and uses a belt from his waist to tie back his sleeves as Wangji prepares a little station for them. Taking the comb, he gestures for Wangji to bend his head over the barrel. ]

Take off your headband, I will wash your hair.

[ To better cleanse and style it for him, even if their clothing ... is unable to be saved, blood spatters unsightly across fine blues and whites. He can be gentle and attentive, give his brother this companionable act to settle some of his fears through sheer proximity and familial touch. ]

( His headband, spared through the sorcery Wei Ying has won through the grace of a... magical carp, was it? A strange affair, too given to whimsy. It slips between worn hands that lethargy stitched together, clumsy — caught at the last heartbeat before it might kiss the floor, as he watches it as if it it alone, snow white and pure, is amiss here.

He does not move. Does not speak. Holds himself with the stiffness of high fir trees, their immutability. Let Xichen do as he can and pleases, Lan Wangji will bear, eyes unfocused and gaze trembled, yet on his ribbon.

It strikes him to murmur, when water's dripped down: )

...congratulate me.

[ He's busy shuffling behind Wangji to gently get the knots out of his hair with that comb. ]

On ... ?

[ He can't read your mind, little brother. ]

( A tender hand, sliding, parting, dividing, bringing back. He eases into the treatment, tension extracted, dripping off his bones. And hums, gently, one of the petty small songs of Caiyi, no better than a childhood song.

Ah, to be a talent in a clan of musicians. )

The day is fortuitous. ( Answers, what are they, in truth? ) Brother's hand is soft.

( Such flattery. )

That is not what you wanted to say.

[ That is Wangji letting his mind drift, deliberately. Xichen smooths out the hair for a bun, wrapping it around as he replaces the guan. ]

So, what do I have to congratulate you for? Hmm ...

[ He is Thinking(TM). ]

( It is not his place to play, to tease. Wei Ying has taught him a fault of character he should not have inherited but grudgingly, carefully now names his own. He settles into the heightened lilt of his voice, how it thins and deepens with each sway of the melody.

Now and then, he obediently dips or lifts his head, content to let Xichen pass the comb, tighten the strands. Tug or release. )

We won wars. ( Two, by his count, for all Jin Guangyao's defeat was a quiet, tender affair. ) The sect thrives. I have a son.

( All fine reasons for congratulation. )

Your son, that you had with ... ? [ Ah, what a trail of breadcrumbs. ] Do you really need congratulations on sharing a child or for the fact you have someone with whom to share him?

[ This is very circular, Wangji. Luckily, Xichen is used to hopping in circles to get closer to the point where his brother is concerned. ]

I shared him with the sect.

( Snapped, almost. Sharp, like hard metal. Singeing. He stills for a moment, perfectly and completely, the whole of his body answering the calls of his heart's part.

Inevitably, he simmers, recalling to bow his head, tighten the line of his mouth. Here speaks the sect leader, the man who did not pay for his guan with Wei Ying's bones and dust and ashes. His brother was worthy to receive Sizhui. All others, perhaps not so.

He does not speak for long, pained moments. )

Forgive me.

You did, and we are grateful for having him in our lives.

[ His hands have stilled, comb hovering before he hears an apology and continues. ]

That is not what I meant.

( Isn't it? Ah, but his mouth wears tension like tassels, like bruising. It lingers long and deep before the moment's passed, done, dissolved. He feels unlike himself, an animal cornered, belly to the ground. The hunt isn't done until one man's bled.

Strange, how more than sixteen years ago, he learned to turn weapons on the sect. How he has yet to put them down. He stirs, shifting. )

Gratitude. My hair is settled. ( Humblest of thanks for this fine work. )

[ He sits back with a ghost of a sigh, letting Wangji escape his clutches. There is something he is not being told, something he should be congratulating him for, and he does not know whether it would be best to press. He has been invited to, with that hint, but perhaps Wangji has thought twice of his own courage in the matter. ]

All done, yes.

[ No more questions. ]

( Hardly performative, never unintended: the bend of his back, when he turns, arc deep. He holds the bow, muscles and spine trained for this one purpose, his biology attuned to the urgency of paying his brother, his sect leader, due respect.

Then, rising, he sees this: Zewu-Jun, bright as the jade that names him, honouring their people, against sad dearth and silence, dust and decay. Zewu-Jun, unsuited to these lands, and Lan Wangji, mouth agape, who may not have summoned him — but yet wishes him, selfishly, close. )

May I attend you? Serve tea?

[ He resists the urge to pat him on the shoulder, instead brightening his smile. ]

Mm, let's have some tea. That would be nice.

[ Although he wonders, what kind do they have in a cave? ]

( It is not the tea of their ancestors, or any brew that Cloud Recesses might deign to present an honoured guest. In truth, on better days, Lan Wangji would hesitate to present it — but appetites exceed dignity, elegance is the privilege of the scant and the few, and Lan Wangji rushes to introduce the gravelly, stale powders Wei Ying has no doubt secured at an obscene premium.

A heating talisman later, a few chipped an scratched wooden cups, the vessel for brewing. He remembers, at least, the forms to greet a guest and display the offering, to pour with a steady, graceful hand. One cup, offered from bowing hands. A second, for Wangji's safe-keeping. He drinks once, behind his sleeve, and does not linger on his confusion if he has tasted herb, flower or sewage dregs. )

Wei Ying... has a forgiving palate.

[ The ingrained ritual is comforting to watch, tired as he is growing. Fondly, Xichen receives the first cup and ... chokes, a little, before he can hide it and straighten out his expression. Oh. That shouldn't have been a surprise. ]

It's tea, all the same.

[ Which is all he can really say for it, taking a slower sip to try and taste something better this time. ]

( ...all the same. Which is to say, in terms uncertain, his brother's appetite and palate have been both offended in ways material, inescapable and underestimated.

Shame should wash every part of Lan Wangji that isn't eagerly pining for a hole in hot, dark earth to rescind himself. No, no. He must not show face further. Only pour again, until his brother's cup is once more filled, because if they suffer to save face, then they might as well bleed.

Cough with feeling. )

Zewu-Jun's kindness honours him. ( A moment, then: ) You have lodgings?

( If everyone is assigned dwellings, then surely Xichen — ) Retain them.

( — cannot have worse than a cave. )

I admittedly didn't pay attention because I did not think I would be staying here.

[ But! He fishes out the documents for Gao Long and his profession as a Lotus Picker, handing them over to Wangji as they both drink terrible tea with straight faces. ]

I was given these.

( ...Lotus picker. Of course. Of all the tasks, of all the indignities, of all the toil sect leader Lan, the esteemed Zewu-Jun might be confronted with, sullying his hands with weeds is what this world deemed fitting.

Lan Wangji does not begrudge much, only this: the tension of his hands, their tight-knuckled, rash clench. How he breathes out in empty, strained exhalations, and manages belatedly: )

Retain your sleep quarters. I shall do your work.

You shall not, I am perfectly capable of standing in a lake and pulling up plants.

[ He isn't going to pretend to be better than anyone else who has been displaced from their home or shirk any responsibilities. ]

If such a menial task is what will lend a low profile, so be it. We should not make waves; not until drowning the enemy once and for all is a certainty.

Such work —

( Is beneath the First Jade of Lan, completely. A crass and loathsomely pedestrian task, better suited for lesser men and children. For his part, yet stubborn, Lan Wangji punishes himself that he could not protect his brother from this calamity with another taste of the...

...tea. Grimaces. Shudders. Moves on. )

Does not become you.

Wangji, you have been living in a cave.

[ A poignant silence lingers. ]

We cannot be picky with our ways and means. [ Gently; ] I am capable and willing, it does not demean me.

[ Thank you for caring. ]

the sunken | part i

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)