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.

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Wrathion flinches as the name is spoken, as if bracing against a physical impact.

Is that what Alexstrasza meant?

In a manner of speaking, yes. She was speaking, he thinks, to specific events. Wrathion is not fully cavalier with life, but he made a decision once that was... unwise. The illusion there was tapping into his insecurities about that, he thinks, his fear.

"She left out plenty of detail," he offers. "Many of my vices were learned from experience. As a child, a member of her family kept me a prisoner in all but name. When I tried to escape, agents were sent to recapture or kill me. Not something that breeds trust, I am sure you agree."

Emilia does not flinch, does not look away, but her chest does crowd with indignation and horror. It's a fire in her lungs, and she could exhale smoke if she isn't careful. "Of course I do," she says, the tenseness of holding that back almost coloring the tone of her voice, swift as she is to answer him.

"Was it because of ... your abilities?"

No reason would make their actions anything but deplorable, but it goes without saying Wrathion is special in his own way. She wishes she'd acted out on her threats that day, futile as they might have been.

The woman would have well deserved it.

Edited 2023-06-19 02:49 (UTC)

His abilities.

He hesitates, glances around the room warily -- but they are alone for now. One hand lifts, turns palm up and gives an idle flick of his fingers. Into it, he conjures a small, translucent image of a man with long hair, slicked back from his face. His armour is plate, bulky, tall curved spikes on the shoulders.

"It was because of my family," he admits. "A long time ago, when our world was young, dark forces landed on it. The Titans who protected our world trapped them deep within the earth, but some of them could still reach out. Communicate from within their prison. One such creature, N'Zoth the corrupter, reached out to my father. Some say his affinity for the deep places of the earth made him more... susceptible to such things, made all of us that way. He was promised power, and eventually he accepted. One by one, our family turned with him to madness -- turned against Alexstrasza and the others. He stole power from them, so much so that it began to rip him apart from the inside out."

He twitches his fingers gently, and the image of the man changes. Wrathion suspects, by now, she might have guessed. If not, he supposes this will be the last piece. It shimmers, turns into the spectral form of a monstrous dragon. Glowing heat seems to leak from its chest, its mouth. Plate armour affixed directly to its very body.

"Alexstrasza's title is the Lifebinder. Her family preserve and protect living things. A member of her family, Rheastrasza, was afraid we would all fight ourselves to extinction. She decided to... intervene, wanted to cure this madness or protect us from it if she could... but all her attempts failed. In need of more test subjects, she kidnapped my mother. Held her in an arcane prison. Beat her and stole her newly born children from her, and forced her to keep producing more."

Wrathion closes his fingers slowly, diminishing the illusion and letting his nails dig into his palm.

"She cut them up, searching for answers, then turned to Titan machines to analyse them for her."

Emilia strives to keep her expression neutral, attentive.

In spite of all the patience she has learned to cultivate, all the pragmatism she values and enacts, she is at heart ruled by fire. She feels things deeply, especially when it comes to those that have been wronged.

Her stomach churns the more she learns the shape of this story, the more she understands. There's hardly space to process that her suspicions have been proven correct once the dragon is conjured in Wrathion's palm. There's only the warmth that intensifies at her cheeks, her lungs. It feels like smoke.

Too much of this story is familiar to her.

"Did Alexstrasza know of this?"

Know the unforgivable things her family member was doing.

On this, he hesitates. It is much easier to be angry. Anger drives you forward, after all. Anger is a fuel. Without it, sometimes only emptiness is left.

"Certainly they knew something was done to me, that I was... cured. I struggle to believe she could know this, and not be curious of the detail."

Yet he does, admittedly, have no proof. She could be ignorant of the detail, could have been spun some lie about how it was all done. Could have simply refused to believe that anyone in her family would have do such a thing. Perhaps never looked into it, after Rheastrasza herself died.

Still, he does wonder.

"Much has been made of the historical wrongs committed by the hands of my father, less is spoken of the wrongs that were done to us."

Two wrongs don't make a right.

It's how the saying goes, isn't it? Except she'd sought merciless vengeance upon believing her twin was dead. There'd been no obstacle she wouldn't remove, no hurt she wouldn't swallow, so long as she could achieve her mission. It kept her moving when the world threatened to crumble around her.

She gave everything, and she gave it for nothing.

There are still no words for this cruelty, for what this woman did to Wrathion's mother, to her children.

"Your father is accountable for his actions, as surely as they are accountable for theirs. Fear can make monsters out of many, and I loathe the ways in which that has hurt you. I'm sorry, Wrathion."

It doesn't seem like enough to say it, but she does mean it. He deserved better.

His lips thin, unhappily.

"For a long time, it was easy for me to believe what they did was for a greater good. That the pain had a purpose. That they must be been correct, that none of the others could be saved. I thought, perhaps, if I could show them I was different -- if I fought my own family to save the rest of us they would see we were on the same side."

Wrathion darts his eyes away, brow furrowing.

"Not long before I came here, a brother I never knew I had came to light. He'd been living in an area protected from the influence of N'Zoth for some time. He started to feel the corruptor's influence. I made him a potion myself to protect him."

So was that it, then? Was it all for nothing? Could they all have been saved, if back then he had only known how? If only he had decided not to take the word of those who ripped him apart for granted, and investigated himself?

What is pain that has no purpose but needless suffering?

It isn't difficult for Emilia to see how Wrathion came to that conclusion, nor why he would've been desperate to prove them wrong. She can't help wondering how many siblings he ultimately had, how many of them were considered a threat before they did anything at all and there was only the fear.

She looks back to Wrathion, even as he looks away, her heart a bit heavy with the knowledge. The illusions, the potions, the dragon... she also wonders what else he can do.

"Is there a way to weaken N'Zoth's influence? To block communication from his prison?"

Titans trapped this corrupter. Titans.

He considers that a moment, then turns to look up at her.

"What do you think I did?" he prompts, gaze steady. "What would you have done?"

They have something in common, Wrathion thinks. A heat in them, a desire for vengeance. Wrathion certainly did not give up, did not sit idly by and let things continue as they were. He's never been one to back down from a fight, not when there is even a sliver of a chance at success.

He already knows the answer.

Must already see the parallel understanding in her eyes, how they kindle like a flame.

She says it anyway.

"I would not have stopped until N'Zoth was vanquished by my hand."

Emilia does not believe in senseless violence, in brutality for its sake, in collateral. She would not shed a single drop of innocent blood if she could help it. But when a grievous injustice has taken place, she's relentless. The righteous strength of her conviction would have allowed for nothing else, here.

Wrathion nods in understanding.

"N'Zoth's ability to push the limits of his prison grew, until at least he lured someone in who could break it. He would not have stopped until our entire world was remade in his vision, one of darkness and corruption. I could not let that happen."

So, as Emilia says, he did not stop until N'Zoth was vanquished. Until the corruptor could no longer hurt anyone else, neither the pitiful remnants of his own flight nor the rest of Azeroth's citizens.

Emilia nods in turn.

She falls silent for a beat or two as she considers this, considers the ways in which Wrathion helped her with Haiva, one of the few to truly understand where she was coming from and why she did what she did.

"Did it help?" she finally asks quietly.

N'Zoth no longer being able to hurt anyone is obviously a net positive, but did it help him? She was told so often her anger was not worth it, to find forgiveness instead, and she could not. She could not.

Did it? He considers that.

"It cannot undo what was done," he admits. "Yet all the same, it was a pleasure to prove all the dark predictions wrong. To prove those who doubted my conviction wrong. To show that I am not my father."

That was, of course, what they all said. What they whispered about him, some thinking he wouldn't hear and some in the full knowledge he would. That the fall of the Black Dragonflight was inevitable. That his own fall was inevitable, that he could not be trusted, would turn on them at any moment.

She would not rob him of this pleasure.

The Emilia of old listened to her grandmother without question, was primed to believe the worst of offensive magic and her own husband. She was shamed for her anger, the parts of her that are not quite so palatable. The Emilia that stands before him now has confidence in her own judgment and choices.

"I do not know him, obviously. But what little I do know leads me to believe, without question, you are not. I am proud to call you a friend. And I hope you know what you've disclosed is safe with me."

Proud to call him a friend.

That stirs something in Wrathion, some tightening in his stomach. In his chest. More people in his life have been disappointed in him than proud. He blinks, hesitates, then inclines his head a fraction.

"... Thank you."

For what she has said. For keeping his secret. For the quiet understanding and patience in her presence. His eyes flit away to the dough where it rests, to his basket of fish.

"Is there some way I can be of assistance?"

He looks up again, and the steady curiosity of his gaze says this is an open question. For cooking, or for anything else, he is always at her disposal.

The hint of a fond smile pulls at her mouth as she nods to him in response, in understanding. He needn't thank her for saying something that is simply true, but she does know it helps sometimes to thank someone anyway.

"You can help me mince the garlic. It will add nice flavoring to the stew."

In truth, she doesn't need assistance. But it would be nice to have it, to introduce him to some of her cooking rituals and to see if he finds any peace in it, the way she does.

If nothing else, they'll nourish each other.

They'll share a meal, as family would.

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the sunken | part i

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Content Warning here on: SA, violence to/experimentation on children, mental health

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