imaginarylogs | prelude {{ Log 01.

prelude {{ Log 01.

Island Prelude ; Log 01

Life's a beach—

You wake up on the beach.

Okay, scratch that: you wake up on a beach. Some beach, somewhere. You don't know where it is, much less why you're there. You can feel the warm sun and a light breeze on your skin, along with the insidious prickle of sand worming its way into your fantasy Nikes. You have no memory of being here — but then again, you might not have any memory of being anywhere else.

At least you're not alone. There are other people scattered along this beach, toes trailing in the surf as they brush sand out of their shirts or shake seaweed from their weapons. Each and every one of them has an unremovable bracer locked around their wrist. Maybe you should get up. Lend a helping hand, or ask for one. Maybe somebody else knows more about the situation than you do. Maybe somebody else knows where that music is coming from. Is there a beach party going on?

—& then you d̵̡̪̻̿̽͒i̸̟͓͍͌̾͐ë̸͖͇̪́̔͊.

There's only so far you get before noticing that something's wrong, though. Even if you've got no memories but your name, something in you knows that trees aren't supposed to look like that. They're not supposed to be so . . . low-res. Right?

But these trees, not to put too fine a point on it, kind of suck. Some of them, anyway. Every few trees has one patch that flickers in and out of existence like an old neon sign. Every couple rocks seems to have spasmed and frozen up in one large pixel blob. If you touch these glitched spaces, nothing happens to you, but it certainly doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like you're touching anything at all.

Looking back to the space you woke up, you might notice a pattern. The section of beach strewn with newly-conscious amnesiacs is exceptionally glitchy. There are a couple small patches of sky that seem to just be missing. And out at sea? There's way more of them out there.

If you're a strong swimmer, you might try swimming out toward the horizon. There's only so far you can go, though. After about half a mile, you hit some kind of resistance and blip back onto the beach. Watch the sea long enough, and you might see some boats making the same mistake — although they just end up closer to shore rather than beached, fortunately for them. Boats are expensive, and the barrier, whatever it is, seems to be doing its best not to damage them.

(Jaws Theme)

Walking up the beach towards the source of the music, you start to feel a little bit watched. Turn, and there's no one there. Just a quaint thatch-roofed vending machine with a strange cat face on the plate. Innocuous, though, and certainly nothing to worry about. So you keep going.

Except then you feel it again. And if you manage to pause in time, you'll hear this shuffling sound, like wood dragging through sand. Turn again, and the vending machine is right behind you. Like, right behind you. There's no way it moved fast enough to close that distance, and yet.

There are some options here. You can run — but it'll catch up. You can try to fight it — but you'll just hurt your hand (or other appendage). You can try to reason with it — but it's unrelenting. What it wants, as you'll soon discover, is to yeet a small bottle of dark, thick liquid at your face. It's also very insistent that you drink it. If you don't, it'll just fling another one at you, and keep flinging them, until you're crushed to death by vials or drink one, whichever comes first.

Everyone gets this treatment. The vending machine is never in two places at once, but its ubiquity might make it seems as though it is. When one inevitably breaks down and drinks the Kool-aid, it tastes just awful, but at least it's over and done with now. Surely this will never come up again.

This sparks joy

If you follow the music for long enough, you'll find yourself in easily one of the busiest places on the Island. The marketplace that spreads out before you is known as the Boardwalk, a fact that's easy to discover from any of the friendly locals. For most of you, these will be the first people you've encountered who didn't wash up on the beach alongside you. They're very fuzzy faces, too. The Animalians, a menagerie of anthropomorphic animals, almost all speak Common and seem pretty unfazed by the cluster of bewildered strangers. After all, new faces mean new customers!

There are a truly ridiculous number of things for sale on the Boardwalk. The predominant one is food, of course, and the smells hanging over the canvas tents and open-air stalls are positively mouth-watering. There are a wide variety of foods represented here. Maybe one or two of them will strike you as familiar, or trigger a memory? Pretty much all of them are delicious, though, so there's nothing to lose by digging in. Other goods include clothing, weaponry, art, and jewelry in a variety of styles. If you're lucky, you might find a tent that sells beautiful locally-made instruments — a Bard's dream!

Lack of coinage won't be too much of a handicap here. Barter is welcome, and should you not have enough to barter with, most sellers are happy to trade goods for services. It's highly likely that a newcomer or two will be found up to their elbows in dishes by the end of the night, or doing similar odd jobs for vendors.

Still, no one gets through an excursion to the Boardwalk without being swept into at least one dance. It comes out of nowhere: an Animalian's paw or claw on your elbow, a gentle nudge at the small of your back, and you're swept toward the gazebo, the source of the music that's been swelling all day and into the evening. It's joyous and captivating, the Animalians' love of dance infectious. Even buzzkills might be tempted to softshoe just a little.

What's this? What's this?

The Island seems to be sprouting miscellanea. Extremely distinctive weaponry stuck up a tree, books half-buried in sand or earth, clothing neatly folded or possibly being worn by an animal, or Animalian . . . At some point, it just becomes chaos. There's a great deal to recover, or to steal if that's more your bag. On the other hand, you might choose to be helpful and match belongings with their owners. You never know: a found item might help someone find the memory that goes along with it.

Just west of the Boardwalk, there's something else that might be familiar. At the center of a saltwater lake, easy to get to by rowboat, is a miniature island and swim-up bar. Each place is adorned by a menu listing strange and deja vu-inducing items, from nanchos to decaf espresso paradox. Some are helpful. Some are harmful. Some are just weird? He'll make you anything on the menu, but nothing more. Strangely, should you be overcome by the urge to ask the chef for something special and unique, he will gravely extend one of his tentacles and place a single, smooth, heart-shaped stone in your palm. The squid does not speak Common, but you understand an IOU when you're delicately, slimily handed one.

There's so much to explore here that, by the end of the day when you stumble back to the cabanas and attempt to sort out where you're going to collapse for the night, you haven't covered more than a sliver of it. There's tomorrow and the days after for looking around more, for stumbling across more of your belongings (or other people's), for discovering ruins and murals and memories. No matter how much time you take to fuss over sleeping arrangements, everyone ends up more or less in the same place: an open-air cabana, with the breeze blowing over them through the night and into the morning.

Everyone dreams — peacefully — of the moon.

OOC

Welcome, everyone, to the first Island log, our Prelude! While we will not be taking RNG requests during this log, we encourage you to stretch out, explore the space, and get your ~~sea~~ island legs. For questions pertaining to this log, go here. For general questions, head to the FAQ. For more places to explore in this first log, check out the Setting and NPC pages.

NAVIGATION ⯈

code bases by tricklet

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[Sometimes, when one is an amnesiac skeleton re(?)discovering his magical talents, one gets so into pulling off cool moves that he doesn't notice anybody approaching.

It helps that there's nobody actually approaching Papyrus, so much as lurking around and silently watching. Sans is a natural at that, even what with being another amnesiac skeleton who doesn't remember gaining his stealthy skills. Maybe it comes with already being the unofficial head of the unofficial Papyrus fan club, what with fixating on that significant photograph so much. Not that Papyrus knows that much - nobody mentioned a picture when they talked, and the skeletons haven't crossed paths much. Not to his knowledge.

Instead, Papyrus is busy practicing what he picked up from the murals in the ruins. Conjuring wisps of magic into scents, sounds, and flashes of light. Occasionally switching it up with a blast of force into a nearby tree, or a burst of darkness that covers the area. All in all, exploring what he can do, without any idea he's showing off for an audience larger than himself and the dog.

His familiar, now, catches the scent even under the smells of prestidigitation. The combination of bones and fried foods is too much for any dog, even a particularly magical one, to disregard. And it trots off into the brush, seeking out the source of those smells.]

[Sans has definitely been keeping an eye on things. Not all the time, of course (and not just because he has other people to stalk, too), but often enough that he's wondered if the impulse is odd. It doesn't feel that strange when he tries to examine the feeling, though, and the fact remains that these people, in pictures he'd kept close, are his most solid link to the past he can't remember--and Papyrus is the one in an actual photograph with him, the only other skeleton Sans has seen at all on the island.

Right now, Sans is watching the magic show. The magic being used doesn't strike him as familiar, but Sans is hoping maybe the way Papyrus goes about performing magic will. (It doesn't occur to him that thinking that the expression of magic would be telling in the first place might be worth examining, since the idea seems so natural to him). He's also keeping a particularly close eye because, well, Papyrus doesn't know he's there, and Sans doesn't really want to get hit with errant blasts of magic.

Thus, for the second time since he's arrived, Sans's sneakiness is foiled by a creature with a particularly keen nose. He doesn't realize Papyrus's dog is on the move until he's already right in front of him.]

[It's fair to be distracted, it's a good show. This part just might ring a couple bells in that skull noggin - Papyrus switches again over to summoning bones. They first appear in a muddled pile, a mix of blue and white that he reaches into by hand to organize. It's not long before he lines them up and directs them to floating around the area, reflexively refining the patterns they organize into as if hints of memories are asserting themselves. He cackles with triumph as they form a wave that rises and fall at a random leaf he's designated the target for this exercise.

Meanwhile, a paw taps on Sans' foot. There the dog sits and stares up at him, tail wagging slowly with expectation - and a dash of canine extortion. Somebody who smells so freshly of fried goods, that expression says, must have some snacks stowed away, yes? And if Sans doesn't, well... It's just so easy for a dog to forget that this is sneaky quiet watching time. So easy to bark. But it's hard to bark when there's food in a dog's mouth. The dog tilts its head. They can have a little understanding, right?]

It doesn't move the same... But they feel so similar. What gives!

[Papyrus, over in the clearing, proceeds unaware of the extortion in progress. He's busy comparing one of the summoned bones and the bone he's wielding like a sword. They're similarly shaped, if slightly differently colored - the weapon is more offwhite, as with age - and very likely from the same source.]

[Sans's attention is pulled away from the dog when Papyrus starts using bone magic. Again, just a feeling, but a familiar one. Skeletons and bone magic go together, so maybe it's not that surprising, but--the pattern--

Wait, right, the dog. The dog is giving him a look. ...Is this dog trying to extort him? Sans kind of appreciates the ingenuity? But there is only one kind of food Sans is carrying on him: (monster) ketchup. Do dogs like ketchup? Sans holds up the bottle. He will absolutely squirt ketchup into this dog's mouth, that's a normal thing to do.]

[The dog looks slowly between the ketchup bottle and Sans face. He's kidding, right? Does that look like something a dog can chew on and be too busy eating to bother alerting its person? It'll try a squirt, but it's not at all convinced.

...Mostly because its knowledge of the world is partly based on Papyrus' ideas of how things work, from before the amnesia. The sight of that condiment bottle goes paw in paw with flashes of bar visits, overlaid by feelings of agitation. Maybe it's just that Papyrus doesn't care for ketchup, and the dog will. They've already discovered other differences of opinion between them! But, somehow, it suspects this offering isn't what it's looking for. It opens its mouth, but watches him.

Back in the clearing, Papyrus hasn't yet noticed the dog's disappearance, preoccupied with messing around with the bones. Trying to levitate the oddball bone hasn't worked out, though he quickly discovers he can summon it to himself in about the same way. It pops to his hand instead of floating in a pattern, what convenience! He tosses it and pops it back to him a couple times, throwing it with increasing flourish each time.]

[This dog is really distracting him from watching Papyrus practice. There are a lot of flourishes to the way Papyrus moves that he would otherwise be focusing on here! Sans still tries to watch even with the dog, but eventually he gives a sort of "this is all I've got" shrug in the dog's direction and squirts the ketchup into the dog's mouth. Beggars can't be choosers, even if they are dogs.]

That's good! Because you're probably stuck with it.

[It looks like it's stuck to Michael's head, even if it's soft and moving slightly in the breeze. But things like scissors, razors, or hair dye aren't coming to his mind, so it seems as permanent a feature as his own bones feel.

Really, Papyrus concludes as he pokes at his cheekbones, there's only the slightest give, and that mostly just on his face.]

I might! [Rose hasn't decided yet. She's mostly been acting on spontaneous desire.] It might happen again tomorrow, but maybe it won't.

[So it's worth taking advantage of now.]

[Beggers may not be choosers, but they can be coughers. The dog's face scrunches up the moment ketchup hits its tongue, not sure what to make of this much salt and sugar at once, and it coughs a couple times.

Papyrus pauses what he's doing - prodding the blue bones through his weapon, watching how they float through like ghosts - when he notices the sound. He looks up with narrowed eyesockets, glancing around the area, but doesn't yet focus on Sans' location. He's too busy looking at the ground, where the small dog might be.]

Hey, are you okay? Are you choking on a bone???

[That was one time, the affronted dog's expression says. But it makes no move to rush out of the greenery, nor bark a warning about Sans being here. Instead, it grabs a mouthful of grass and starts chewing.]

[And then the dog had to go and make noise anyway! Man, extortion is too expensive for too little profit. Sans leaves the dog to its grass-chewing--he pops out of existence, leaving only mist where he was, and reappears in a different patch of brush. It's a little closer to Papyrus than the old one, and a different angle.]

It's rained every day so far, why stop a good thing?

[Like clockwork, he would realize if only he was carrying a clock. Or doing anything structured and scheduled with his life. Instead, he digs around in the paper bag and pulls out a fruit.]

But that doesn't mean it will always rain every day. [At least, Rose is pretty sure rain doesn't have a schedule. Admittedly, she can't remember previous rain experiences.] But a day where it doesn't rain at all would be fun, too!

[With that change in location, Sans narrowly misses Papyrus' search for the dog. Ketchup didn't buy the dog's genuine silence, it's true, but it did at least get Sans a chance to pop out of sight by the time Papyrus finds the right bushes. The sound of chewing is enough to alert him but not enough to alarm, so he never remembers he could just see what the dog sees, with a twist of effort.]

Okay, not choking... But what's that in your mouth? Is.... Oh my god, is that grass bleeding??

[Hanging out and watching a chef do their thing was an informative experience about how much blood animals can have in them, but it was a little light on the details of what does and doesn't have red blood cells. The mix of green and red stains on the dog's mouth aren't helping with that.]

Or a day... where it does nothing but rain!

[At least it would be predictable. And then he'd know the importance of getting and carrying an umbrella! These short bursts haven't sold him on buying one.]

But I like your idea better! It gets in my eye sockets every time...

[Well, that's not a reaction Sans was expecting. Sans isn't actually sure how the familiar bond works--he can't remember, what a surprise--so he's not sure what kind of information Papyrus might get from the dog. He's left watching. Mostly, he wishes he'd had more time to see that bone magic. Sans is sure that was familiar. Maybe if he'd seen more of the patterns... Sans mimics one of Papyrus's motions from earlier, wondering if that would be enough to trigger something. It doesn't give him any new memories. It does send three white bones clipping through the underbrush, which was not really something Sans was planning for.]

[Hm, that does sound like a problem.] Maybe you should find something to wear over your eye sockets. Like goggles!

[ After a few moments, he gets the distinct feeling he's being stared at. First, out of habit, he looks around his eyes level, but given he's up in a tree that proves fruitless. At the sound of the "wha" however, he looks down. ]

Oh, uh, hi. Sorry, I didn't disturb you or anything, did I?

[ He considers this for a moment. ]

I guess gold is kind of a rock, yeah...

[ Tommy can't quite tell if he genuinely thinks it's a good point, or if he's just humoring him, but it was definitely true, he guesses, from a geology standpoint. Something about gold coins catches his attention though, sparking a memory, ]

Have you found any gold coins? Maybe with like, animal pictures on them?

Oh, yeah! I think...I think it's called the Dragon Dagger? It seems to be mine. Well, it feels like it's mine, I guess.

[ Tommy looks down at the dagger in his hand again, giving the air a few quick swipes with it. ]

I've definitely used it before, at least.

I'm Tommy.

[ He leans back a bit, relaxing his posture as he looks out at the ocean. ]

You know, you sound like somebody I know. All that stuff about sticking together and things working out.

[ Tommy looks back at Monika, smiling a bit wearily. ]

Of course, I don't remember who that other person is, but you definitely sound like them.

[ His gaze returns to the ocean, and he concentrates again. Whoever he's trying to remember, they remind him of the color red. ]

[Ogata huffs. He hates having to admit that;]

I don't know. All I can remember is my own name. So I can't help you.

...Oh.

[He frowns, disappointment plain in his face. But the idea of saying 'nevermind' and going their separate ways is uncomfortable, even alarming.]

Well! That just means, we have something in common! The first step to being friends.

[And he wants so badly to be friends, to be not-alone here. Something in him reaches out for it, as he makes the first step by offering:]

My name's Papyrus! What's yours?

Animal pictures...?

[Papyrus takes a hand to his chin, thinking over the last few days. He hadn't paid much attention to the coins rarely used in trade, what with how much more frequent a currency barter has been. But the idea of golden coins for currency just made sense the moment he saw it, in the way he's realizing means it matches forgotten memories. With a moment's hard thought, he hums.]

Animal pictures... I don't think it was an animal. Some kind of shape, maybe.

Goggles, huh...? [He takes a bite of the fruit, thinking the word over.]

Oh, like sunglasses! I saw some of those before. I wonder if they come in rainglasses...

Well, I could cut it.

[He says off-handedly, because he doesn't really want to. It's a good length, he thinks. Sidelong, he watches Papyrus prod at his own face.]

What do you think? [About his skull, he means, but you know, whatever.]

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Page 45 of 51

prelude {{ Log 01.

D: who stalks the stalker?

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cw; papyrus learned about bloody meat at some point

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