westwhere | the sunken

the sunken | part ii

THE SUNKEN | PART II

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Get your toes wet in Part II of The Sunken, stretching until 28 June.

THE MORNING AFTER

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Waking from Yancai’s undead attack, you find the village has gone three years back in time.

■ Yancai remains flooded, but there are fewer waterways and some dry grounds. You can safely transit by raft, alongside row boat, though the waters run more turbulent.

■ Houses are sturdier, less drenched, their paints and furniture less eroded. There are fewer piers and minimal mould. The dual moons appear less… bloodthirsty.

■ Most locals don’t recall the future. The elder council, including leader Quanze Tsaymien and Kuthuba, remember, but feel compelled to re-enact the past, like an itch they must scratch. Those dead in the undead attack are alive, feeling as if they never perished.

■ Telepaths can hear echoing screams from the undead attack over the two days that follow the time travel.

■ The House of Commerce is less sunken, its beacon offline and musical boobytrap unarmed. The Master of Commerce yet lives and may be contacted.

■ Some struggle with partial or full amnesia, or might undertake their assumed identities. These effects wane within 24 hours — but vertigo, nausea and a sense of displacement may persist.

LIVING FIRE (NEWCOMERS, OPT-IN)

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Spooked by the memory meddling, party witch Karsa rallies newcomers, who have least experienced Yancai’s magic, to assemble ingredients for an elixir that will help settle clouded minds. ( ”Minds? What minds? You learn to use them now? You’re too old. You only take your little drink to stop staring like fools.” )

■ You must locate red-eye root on the outskirts of the forests that border Yancai. The plant lives in ancient, immense trees that have been burning from the inside for decades.

■ The red-eye root grows within these endless fires.

■ Briefly stop, divert or enter the fire wall to collect the root — but beware that flames stoke, if you loiter nearby. You can also find the resident fire gnome, who’ll surrender a handful of roots — if you amuse them by fulfilling requests ranging from playful (songs, dances) to humiliating (pretending to be animals, sharing uncomfortable secrets) to cruel (asks for blood, punching a comrade… )

■ Dilute the red-eye root into a painfully bitter elixir, then distribute it and coax the reluctant to drink.

■ You can enlist anyone’s help with the quest!

HOME AT SEA

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Slowly, surely, Yancai sinks — a fresher reality for villagers who reward help to raise piers, wade through waterways to reach their families, or design new boats, infrastructure and safety mechanisms. Cash in on your good deeds here.

You overhear veteran fisherman Temiu mutter that mould dregs have knotted his nets — while newly arrived Captain Alia of the New Brigade wonders how Yancai can be so flooded, amid quiet seas. The population seems tender, weary.

FARE THEE WELL

Once more, the village observes a funerary rite — this time, setting dead bodies at sea. Hostile, sullen and silent embalmers contracted by the elder council prepare corpses for final farewells before laying them to rest in one-man casket-vessels. The ships are bound with thick, weighty chains, closed and set on water — destined to return empty after the dead are claimed.

Drifting distantly at sea, the Man in Black of hauntings awaits them on a ragged boat.

■ Some villagers murmur that many casket-ships have gone missing, leaving those dead without rest. They argue the wisdom of burying their dead at home — but superstitious family aggressively object.

■ Stay among the grieving to collect information on the dead. You can also inspect the bodies by… borrowing coarse, greyed robes, and painting your eyes and lips with wood ashes to mimic the embalmers.

■ You recognise a small minority of the bodies sent to sea as the undead who attacked in the future.

■ There are unused casket-ships, built for lovers who perished together. Partner up, descend into a casket and fake… perfect… stiffness, to experience the disappearance firsthand.

THE MOON, HOWLING

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A sight to be seen are the twin moons that steward Yancai, one true and one diffuse. In the future, they gleamed cold and waiting — here, those with a lunar or astral connection become increasingly and inexplicably convinced that these moons are… not real. No distraction, no reason, no proof convinces you. The true moon is captive.

In your moon-hunt, you are drawn to the dam-fenced, heavily flooded south-western district of Yancai — into the now deserted former seat of the elder’s council, the drowned but majestic palace-mansion of the Storm’s Stage.

■ Can’t hurt to tell other party members your suspicions and enlist help. Alternatively, they might follow you because of your strange behaviour.

■ Scale the great wooden dam, mindful of guards.

■ You find the district overwhelmingly submerged, with waters thick, unnaturally cool and darkened (but not black). Refugees have removed row boats, and remaining rafts are threadbare, forcing you to swim, leap or scale rooftops and balconies to advance. Beware deep rotting and crumbling architecture.

■ The Storm’s Stage is a flat, one-level building, where waters run 1.5-2m high. Its large, wide and labyrinthine corridors have made it a favourite hunting ground for Weepers: carnivorous 1m-long sea creatures with cruel teeth and human intelligence. They produce a sobbing, hiccupping sound — their cackle of enthusiasm, before they attack.

■ These obscene creatures spear the decaying bodies of their former human or animal prey in their teeth, propping them up and mimicking voices to lure you closer.

■ Make it far enough into the twisting building, and you may encounter a magically locked room, behind which, the sensitive are certain, lies the moon. Elders’ leader Quanze Tsaymien might have the key you require — or find a way to open the door yourself. Are you in yet?

THE LADIES & THEIR LAKE

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You hear that beautiful maid Miang-Si has come of age, and her rich merchant family now accepts marriage offers. Jubilant, modestly attired, kind and in good health — this Miang-Si is a far cry from the spiteful, sly creature you met before.

Yet, in a small village, murmurs abound: some of Miang-Si’s friends hint that her reputation won’t survive more sneaking out at night. Others say that Miang-Si appears… distracted, her appetite lessened. Others, still, say the girl has returned to her obsessive fixation with a beautiful woman glimpsed in the forest years prior.

Miang-Si could have information on her future accomplices — the allegedly ladies of the lake.

FOR RICHER OR FOR POORER

Miang-Si’s parents have exacting marital standards: you must be rich and publicly righteous, all genders welcome. An exotic gift might go far to gain you a private audience with Miang-Si.

■ Choose and present a potential suitor: dress them in the village finest, polish their manners, hire an entourage and commandeer a suitable courtship gift. Swat if they complain.

■ Raise the suitor’s odds along with their public profile by flaunting their feats and virtues in the marketplace.

■ Woo your would-be parents-in-law by capturing golden scales from a rare Mura-sirri lake fish. It spits slime on its pursuers, who instantly flee, irrationally startled.

■ To the seeming ignorance of Miang-Si’s parents, their dark, dusty, mausoleum-like house appears haunted: strange women appear in reflective surfaces, or run down corridors. Joining your hosts for tea, you feel inexplicably covetous of your ‘intended,’ certain that you must have Miang-Si at all costs and that jealous rivals oppose you. Invisible to others, a beautiful woman clings to you from behind and whispers you need only verbally or physically eviscerate everyone at this table to claim your bride. Hopefully, your wingwo/man can prevent bloodshed.

■ Sign up here for one of three RNG-drawn audiences to speak to Miang-Si or investigate her quarters.

AT NIGHT, WE DALLY

You can also trail after Miang-Si on one of the nights when she slips out of her dead silent house. She leaves when the main moon is full — while the twin moon feels disapproving. Follow Miang-Si to the outskirts of Yancai, to the Silver Lakes. Here, she tosses in a silver coin and wishes for safe passage, then takes a small boat.

■ If she discovers you following her, Miang-Si firmly tells you to go home. The twin moon seems at ease as you heed, however unwillingly.

■ If you also drop a silver coin in the Silver Lakes and wish for safe passage, your ship turns invisible for two hours.

■ Miang-Si stops her boat in the middle of the Silver Lake and touches the waters with her hand. She is answered by several skeletons, who swim to surface and gather by her boat or climbing in. The parts of their bodies that exit the water gain flesh, then skin and the likeness of beautiful women — the rest stay skeletal in the depths.

■ One such woman greets Miang-Si as queen of the night and kisses her on the mouth, about to drag her in. If you only follow, you notice she disappears for hours, then re-emerges with a look of dark conviction, before returning home.

■ If you seek to intervene, the skeletal women capsize your both then look to embrace and kiss you, also dragging you into water. The kiss allows you to breathe underwater, while your lips are locked — but steadily steals stamina. Your captor progressively decays back to bones, losing sentience, as you reach the bottom of the lake.

■ Here, you find dozens of skeletons and mismatched bones, webbed in wisps of familiar black water, along with rags of clothing — including shreds of a white shroud.

■ The waters hold no bodies, once Miang-Si leaves.

A-HUNTING WE WILL GO

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Village elder Kuthuba urges the crafty and the brave to a forest incursion after several lumberjacks are a week late returning. He fears the men lost. The village’s numerous piers, pillars and boats depend on timber, and Kuthuba seeks to retrieve both wood and any prospective casualties.

■ Two dozen people leave at dawns with daggers, bows, arrows. Some say they previously entered the forests before being driven out by vicious animals, but are not keen to speak further. The grounds are inhabited by woodland creatures, but eerily silent. Predators are scarce, thin and terrorised.

■ A thick mist drenches the forest, deepening until you struggle to see past 3 metres ahead, or to spot the waning sun in a grey sky. Network devices do not work, and torches are essential. You feel increasingly paranoid and hunted, distrusting your companions.

■ If lost in the woods, villagers say to set your dagger on hard ground and spin it. If the blade lands on you or your companion, wet it with your/their blood, until it no longer does so. If it points in a proper direction, head there. If it starts to cackle, bury it in dirt or flee — it has caught a taste for blood and will now seek out your throat.

■ The forests brim with diffuse whispers, women’s laughter, shrill growling and heavy steps — until amorphous many-bladed beasts descend from trees or burrow in soft ground. Aim between their carapace plates and run. Happily, rivulets abound and the creatures fear running water.

■ Deep in the forest, you find the resplendent vegetation thins into a small barren clearing where nothing grows. Here, even the earth has cracked, showing signs of black mould spores, while animals and birds avoid the region. You discover the belonging of the lumberjacks, but no bodies, along with a few scattered diary pages.

■ Take the belongings back to the lumberjacks’ families. The hunting party returns with sundown — only to realise three days have passed in Yancai.

NOTES

■ Feel free to investigate other regions of Yancai!

■ NPCs for this event!

■ QUESTIONS.

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( khonshu is on asgard, jailed by the aesir. marc knows this. marc has spoken with khonshu, been spoken to by khonshu. (marc, my son, pay me a visit soon. I miss you—). marc has not. marc does not have much to be grateful to khonshu for, does not have much he appreciates for the life marc — moon knight — has is a life marc has grown to loathe and regret.

he doesn't need to speak with khonshu to know that something's wrong. it starts as a gnawing sensation at the edge of his thoughts, eating away bit by bit, an emptiness, a doubt that eventually, finally gives way to stark realisation: the moons are wrong.

( no, that's not it, they're fakes that shouldn't be. the moon — the real moon, the one that marc should work in the shadow of at night, has been taken, held captive—
—like khonshu— (father). )

he stands dressed in white, looking up, gaze fixated. he frowns, though it's visible only through the pulling of fabric — white! of course — across his face, a crescent moon stitched neatly at the forehead. it's matched by the small crescent moons that serve as buttons on his waistcoat, as cufflinks at his sleeves. marc is not the moon, but he is its servant. he works by its light.

a voice, paternal and mocking all at once, tells him that it needs to be rescued, that how can he — marc spector, moon knight! expect to protect the travellers of the night if the night is wrong?! it echoes in his bones, in his being, and he knows the voice (khonshu) is right.

footsteps behind catch his attention (distantly) and it's not until they stop that he does anything other than stare at the not-moons. it's then that he turns his head and drops his gaze, eyes seemingly as white and silver as the moons should be behind the mask. )

They're not real.

( he says, and it's with the conviction, the faith of a man who knows it in his soul that what he says is correct.

(no, he will not be offering any evidence at this time.) )

[Moran's eyes are likewise fixated upwards.

He's been unable to explain his own restlessness, but something tugging at him tells him this is related to his power and its connection to the constellations. He's not sure how, though.

But when the stranger speaks, his certainty is only reinforced.]

No, they're not. I don't know who would have enough power for such a deception, though.

[That's a little concerning.]

Gods, ( marc suggests, and that's all it is: a suggestion. he doesn't know yancai, doesn't know its superstitions or its beliefs. he doesn't know what here could have stolen the moon and replaced it with something else, but a 'god' seems as good a place as any to start.

but outside of that, he's relieved to know that it's not just him. that his belief — no, his knowledge — is shared. it's easier that way, easier if they're on the same page. marc has never done well at convincing others of his convictions, and for it to be an unneeded step is welcome. ) But here? I don't know. ( a beat. ) It doesn't matter.

( or it might matter, but marc doesn't particularly care for it. whoever — whatever — has done it is a fact that straddles the line between relevance and irrelevance. it's happened and now it must be rectified. the moon must be found and it must be freed, and whoever has done this must pay.

it is not complicated. )

Hm, I'm not sure. At the very least, if it's one of the undead lords, we would know what we are up against... but none of the ones we've met so far would be powerful enough for this.

[But it is true that a simple fact remains.]

And if those are fake, where is the real one? How do you conceal an entire star? And where?

( marc doesn't know. these are the questions he'd usually ask of someone else, someone more in the know of magic and esotericism. oddly, the fact that he has no answers doesn't seem to bother him, not in the ways it usually would. he feels as if the how is of little importance, that it's the where that's the problem.

(and that, too, is just a feeling.) )

That's not really my speciality. Traditionally, I've always been better at finding things than hiding them.

I'm not necessarily an expert either but...

[For a second there, a symbol starts glowing, purple and silver, on Moran's forehead. If Marc is at all familiar, it's clearly the astrological symbol for the Aquarius. His eyes glow with the same light, and then it slowly vanishes.]

There is a half-drowned building. The neighborhood is almost entirely flooded. It will be guarded.

... Beware where you step when you get there.

( the words that leave him feel like a truth.

it's the same feeling that drew emilia out into the night, moonstruck and certain. the same feeling he gives voice to now, so full of conviction it should be frightening. she can't rush to trust such an instinct, no matter the gooseflesh left on her skin.

no matter the unearthly glow of the pale lavender tattoo on her arm that crawls up to her elbow: twin crescent moons lying sideways within a ring of stars, serpents and wildflowers twined around the moons to form a larger circle around them.

(it all used to remind her of a fresco, of a secret long-buried. something about gods and monsters. someone.)

she studies the man sharp-eyed, studies his own crescent moons. why will he not show his face? and — )

You feel it, as well?

Edited (i too can write tags) 2023-06-10 03:40 (UTC)

( marc feels it. he feels, too, the dull distant awareness that feeling does not make it so (but would he doubt? should he?). he'd told andrea — doctor sterman — that he was good at following orders, good at not questioning, good at ignoring what was in front of his eyes and in the depths of his soul pulling at the edges of his conscience even when he knew he should. this does not feel like that. it does not even feel like the near-madness that'd gripped him tightly after bushman, after his legs, after raoul's face—

—does it?

but she agrees and she is real which must mean so too is this. )

Yes.

( his gaze shifts from her face to her tattoo, the change evident only in the way his head moves, and for a brief moment marc is unsure if the apparent glow is inherent or if it's thanks to the cool, cold light of the twin (fake) moons. it doesn't last long and he looks back to her, mask wrinkling at the bridge of his nose as his brows beneath knit together in a tight frown. )

Like it's being held.

( nonna maria would tell her to abandon her skepticism and embrace intuition instead.

then again, nonna maria also blamed the devil for the stirring of the seas and the downfall of the first witch. she said all would be well in their small corner of palermo, so long as emilia stayed to the light and behaved as all dutiful witches must.

she fed her granddaughter a steady diet of measly protection charms and a fear of pyres, all while knowing the fire belonged to her. if nonna maria was protecting anyone, it was not her, and it breaks emilia's heart to know it, so she tries to know it less.

what she does know: she is not alone in feeling the moon(s) are wrong, and a traveler in white wanders akhuras, raising the dead where he can. is she standing before him? probably not, but she'll remain on guard all the same. if she's right, then she's stumbled on someone who wants answers like she does. if she's wrong, he burns for what he did to this world. to kamala. )

And Yancai sinks.

( how much time they have is anyone's guess, but indecision is death. exhaling, she centers herself, focusing on this feeling(hunger?) and where it means to tug. south, she decides. and with one last look toward marc, she starts to head in this direction. ) Are you coming?

( marc hmms, and the sounds's punctuated by a quick, wry quirk of his lips — not wholly evident, but there enough in the creasing of his mask — followed by a loose handwave. in theory the false moons and the flooding is unrelated, but marc's not going to assume that just because it'd be true of earth, it's true of here. his response, then, is acknowledgement — agreement — for whatever it's worth. )

I've already drowned once. I have no intention of doing it again. ( drowning hadn't been his least favourite death — that'd been the first, in the deserts of selima — but it was a solid second of the three he's experienced. slow and unpleasant, distinctly panicked.

she turns and it's not the invitation that has him joining her, it's the fact that she heads in the same direction as he would, towards the south, to where he feels drawn. it's not coincidence, there's something to it. it's notably — even to marc, in his newness to yancai and akhuras wetter and less inviting. in spite — or perhaps because — of his remark about drowning, it doesn't seem to put him off (though he may end up finding the mask less than useful—.)

a lingering pause, almost palpable, and then— ) What's your connection?

( ... Well, all right.

Emilia can hardly fault him for that one. Drowning would be a dreadful way to go, and this world is filled with dangerous and impossible waters. Or what would have once seemed impossible, back when her world was small and she thought witch hunters were the worst of her problems.

She'd been such a fool.

Back then, her answer to this connection would have been vastly different. She'd thought herself a descendant of a goddess, not an actual — she has yet to wrap her head around it. Her agelessness. Her ancient history. Her... real mother. )

I'm not opposed to answering, mind. But this conversation would be a bit less strange if I could see your face.

( She is just saying. What's up with that, Marc? )

( marc can't say the comment's expected — at home, it wasn't something anyone asked, vigilantes in masks a more-or-less normal thing. whilst marc's particular fondness for his and overall determination to wear it whenever he can is different to most — self-loathing! a deep, desperate desire not to look at his own face coupled with a deep desire to not be marc spector — outwardly it presents as the same. he's only ever received questions the longer it's persisted, the more outside of DEDICATED VIGILANTE TIME he's worn it.

this is not one of those.

there's a moment, lingering and considered, where marc weighs up his options: remove the mask, continue their conversation. don't remove the mask and attempt to explain why, then maybe continue their conversation. it's a small community — compared to new york, it's not as if he's doing much in the way of hiding his identity (not as if he'd done much in the way of hiding his identity there—. 'marc spector is moon knight' was all but common knowledge after bushman, after the branding debacle, after his questionable idea to release a documentary, after the age of khonshu—.)

still. )

It makes me more comfortable. It's part of my vestments.

( the way marc describes his clothing is specific, or at least that is how emilia's pendant translates the term for her. her circumstance and time period evoke memories of the brotherhood, memories of antonio: the revulsion and desperation he met her with upon learning she had magic, the accusation she made him fall in love with her through some wretched spell. his serenity upon their reuniting in house wrath.

how many nights did she and vittoria hide under the covers as children while a fratello named carmine stalked the streets in search for anyone with evil and devilry in their souls? and how can she trust any of these memories, knowing what she knows now?

she curtails those thoughts before the roots of them can grow. whatever her past, whatever memories are real or not, this is not that. the man before her is connected to the moon just like she, in yancai of all places.

still, emilia reconsiders him with a fresh pair of eyes, for all that the question is not accusatory. )

You are a priest?

Yes.

( a simple answer to a not entirely simple question.

it's an odd means of self-identification. for all that marc does is khonshu's name — protection, moreso than any of the other aspects, and vengeance — marc is not a priest as such. he does not worship khonshu, not in anything other than what he does, has no admiration for the god, no longer harbors an innate desire to please as he once had. instead, it's a twisted, warped sense of self, the awareness that without khonshu, without his mission — metaphorically speaking, rather than the physical building he had in new york — he's nothing. has nothing.

marc spector's identity — not steven grant, not jake lockley, both of them far less tied to moon knight and to khonshu, far less wrapped up in marc's guilt and self-loathing — is entwined with service to khonshu. debt and guilt, for living. duty, because khonshu had given him what he'd wanted even if that want had changed. purpose, because marc has managed to lose, ruin, or destroy every positive facet of his life and been left only with khonshu.

so 'priest' it is, even if khonshu is an unworthy god, and even if marc does not worship. )

To Khonshu. ( because it seems pertinent, given their conversation, given where they're going, what they're in search of. ) The god of the moon.

( the name is not familiar to her, not immediately, but it doesn't need to be. he has some divine connection to the moon, same as she. he finds himself scouring the lands of yancai for an impossible thing, same as she. masked though he remains, is he not familiar?

in this sense, if in nothing else.

emilia nods in acknowledgement, a sharp and decisive motion. it isn't hesitation, exactly, that keeps her silent after his reply. envy, perhaps, that his answer can be given in such simple terms. she longs for that certainty, requires it.

in this world, in her own: indecision can be death.

a curse locks some of her memories away, though they have stirred restlessly as of late. they skirt the edges of her mind, some she wants to grasp with ferocity — others she hesitates to give name to. what can she say that she knows to be real? knows to be hers? ) I am the Daughter of the Moon. Divinity is in me. Magic is.

They're not. ( America agrees to that, she feels it, too. It bothers her she doesn't know how though. Still, she's convinced, just as full of conviction. )

So what do we do about it? How do we get the real ones back? Can we go somewhere to find them?

( She thinks more on the physical level, less of the spiritual and less of stopping an individual who might be causing this illusion. )

I don't know, ( he admits. there's a feeling, as strong as the one that tells him that the moons aren't real, that says he ought to follow it — that it'll take him to the real (question mark) moon. ) It could be a trick.

( it wouldn't be the first time — how many times has marc followed clues and gut feelings, expectations, only to find that there's something else waiting for him afterwards? enough, but that doesn't change what he'll do and where he'll go.

but before that, america says 'we' and marc is not sure. it's not solely that he's opposed to help and assistance, though there's certainly an element of it, it's more marc spector (moon knight) has done the take-a-younger-person-on-vigiliante-escapades before and it has not ended well. jeff had been an unmitigated disaster in every way, and marc had mostly known what he'd been getting into then. )

—We?

It could be. So we should be ready. ( There is a pull, though, if America focuses on it. A direction to go, but why? No idea. She can't explain how she knows any of this, or how she's so sure. )

( She turns to Marc and says it very plainly and firmly. ) We.

I feel it, too. So we might as well go figure this out.

( her repetition of 'we' is firm and determined and marc considers arguing for all of a second before instead choosing to wave a hand, disinterestedly and dismissively. ) Fine. We. ( a glance, sharp and considered though — fortunately, unfortunately, who knows! — not particularly clear between the (fake) moonlight and marc's mask. if america thinks she can take care of herself, then so be it.

the pull that both of them feel is to head deeper into the wet, the semi-drowned, sinking past-slash-present of yancai. nothing marc's got a particular fondness for, but nothing he's inclined to avoid. (just don't drown—.)

he gestures loosely, and looks set to head off before pausing, just briefly, and— ) Mr. Knight.

( She can live with the dismissive tone, even if she rolls her eyes at him for it, at least he's not arguing. They are, after all, going in the same direction, so why not team up? And she can more than take care of herself, despite her youth. At least, she thinks she can. )

( America's eyes narrow in confusion - Mr. Knight? she mouths the words - before she thinks he means his name. Wow, he is taciturn. )

And I'm America. You usually miss full sentences?

( he looks at her when she asks if she normally misses full sentences and he inhales sharply, the precursor to a sigh that he doesn't quite manage to swallow all of. small talk is not his thing, has never been his thing, but he veers between talking a lot — monologuing, ranting, rambling about the moon, about vengeance, about his mission and — not. he's found often that working with others, working with anyone that isn't frank (before they'd fallen out) and badr, carries with it an expectation of talkativeness that marc very rarely meets. )

I don't find myself missing them, no.

( that is: he knows what she's getting at, but he's not going to acknowledge it.

instead, that's all he says on the matter before letting that feeling, the one that seems to sit within him and his mind, lead him (and america) towards storm's sage. to more water and both partially and fully sunken structures. )

( America frowns, then shrugs it off. )

Got it. Doesn't like to talk, guy. ( Yes, that's probably going to be his name in her mind, now, but she lapses into a quiet herself, an old habit of her time spent alone.

She follows, eyes looking around as they tread through the water. Her feet feel a bit heavy, water logged. She keeps following that pull, it's somewhere here, or past here. )

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the sunken | part ii

the moon, howling ( pt. 1 )

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