imaginarylogs | 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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Again, it comes automatically:] A spotless record, ahaha!

[Did she always make jokes like this? She doesn't think so, but they're pretty fun. And the magic thing is a pretty big point of distraction, but suddenly on the stick of the ice cream, she notices...] Hey, there's something written on my stick!

Oh yeah? [Sans glances at his own stick. Oh, hey.] Looks like these're the kind with jokes. Hit me with yours, kiddo.

[She squints a little at the stick and reads it aloud.] "A skeleton scared of a ghost sounds pretty nuts, / But when it comes to skeletons, no body's got the guts!"

[...]

...

[She bursts into giggles.]

[Yeah, that gets Sans to laugh, too.] Jokes that rhyme? You've got some high-quality merch.

[Aw, it feels nice to make him laugh! Also, weirdly, makes her laugh a little harder? It's that laughter feedback loop.] Ahaha~ I wonder if they all rhyme! You should read me yours!

[Sans looks at his ice cream stick.]

How do you know it's your poet friend at the door?
As soon as they see you they say "have we metaphor?"

...

[Oh my God???

Just. Wheezing laughter. She has totally and completely dissolved, and after a moment reaches up to wipe the corner of one watering eye.] That's amazing!!

[It's not like Sans wrote the joke or anything, but he's delighted by Sayori's reaction even so.] No wonder you're famous, if you've got this kinda material on your ice cream.

[It's not something either of them are capable of noticing right now--it's not something Sans would probably even be capable of noticing in himself--but there's a brighter shape to his excitement at Sayori's reaction. It's a kind of reaction free of exhaustion and devoid of wariness.]

[The hand up by her face waves in a motion that's half dismissive and half flustered, and she has a little bit of trouble getting her response out through her persistent laughter.] Aww, c'mon, it's not like I wrote them!

[...

Wait, that feels...

Her laughter tapers off as she looks at her own stick again. Her smile remains, but there's a mystified furrow to her brow as she reads the joke over again.] Wait— maybe I did?

[Sans knows almost everyone has lost memories; the idea isn't that strange that she might have. Really, if she did--] If you did, you're great at these. D'you like poems? [Since this is a poem joke and all.]

[Does she like poems?

Even though she didn't know a moment ago, she answers easily, without hesitation.] Yeah! I love poetry.

[And then with realization, a beat after that sinks in:] It's really important to me.

[Judging by that reaction, that's regained knowledge. He makes note of it; at least someone is regaining some memories.] I don't know if that sort of thing was ever really my thing. [He cannot rule out having forgotten, but also it doesn't feel like something he knows much about in a more fundamental way.] Makes sense you'd be into it, if your merch's got poems.

[Her eyes trace the words of the joke on her stick, searching for the memory of writing it.] Yeah, you're right.

I don't think I wrote all of these. But I bet I wrote some of them.

[She looks to Sans again, a bit of a sentimental smile on her face.] You don't do poetry, but you like jokes, huh?

Yeah. I'm mostly made up of funny bones, y'know. [WINK.]

prelude {{ Log 01.

no subject

no subject

1/3

2/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

im still fucking reeling at this joke

it's high qualitcee

it's a-mel-zing

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject