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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

{ life's a beach }
[ The sound of waves in the distance and the feel of sun on her skin awakens Christine and she lets out a groan before covering her eyes with the back of an arm. But then she hears movement, conversation, and she comes to realize she isn't alone.

Sitting up, she shields her eyes from the sun and takes in her surroundings. A beach? Pulling herself to her feet, she brushes sand off her clothes and considers where she might be. She shouldn't be here, right? Wait, where does she belong? Who is she?

Christine. She knows that. But who is Christine? Staring down at her hands, she gets the sense that she's done something unique with these hands. But what? And where is that music coming from? Music... dancing. Something about dancing. ]

How did we get here?

[ It's said to the nearest person. Things feel familiar, but not. Maybe if she takes a moment to take stock of this situation it'll come back to her. ]

{ this sparks joy }
[ By now Christine's memories have come flooding back to her and she's sure to come up to any Reclaimer she recognizes to touch base and see if they're all right. But while doing that she also does a bit of shopping. It's best to be prepared, right? ]

{ what's this? what's this? }
[ Christine comes across the chaos in a clearing and does her best to find her own things. She was never a visitor to others' rooms, so she can't really help with finding their things before they do and returning them. Eventually she has a little selection of her items from the moon base on her: a pink shawl draped over her arm, a short sword in a scabbard, a small book, a compass, and— ]

My music box!

[ It's said to a Reclaimer who happens to be lifting a jewelry box out of the sand. Should they open it, a tune will start to play as a ballerina twirls in the center, a tiny mirror behind her. ]

[Sans isn't looking for anything in particular right now so much as he's noticed just how many things are scattered around the sand. It's not like there's any signs, but each time he picks something up to examine it, he gets the idea it isn't his. And, well, now that there's a woman shouting about the music box he's holding, it seems like his instincts were right. He doesn't bother closing it, letting the ballerina spin around as he holds it out to the woman.]

Weird place to leave your music box. [He says it like a joke--it's obvious something weird's going on, after all, and he doesn't think she actually left it here on purpose.

Something that Christine may notice: Sans, who always made a point of at least knowing the names and faces of every Reclaimer, shows absolutely no sign of recognition when he sees her.]

[ She huffs out a laugh as she takes back her box and closes it. ]

Thank you.

[ Tucking it under her arm along with her other things, she takes a moment to look Sans over. While she certainly didn't know him well, he always seemed to be at the heart of everything. He knew everybody, threw himself straight into missions, everything. But now he looks a little... lost, maybe? Well, beyond the obvious fact that they're all lost right now. ]

Are you doing okay?

[That question feels loaded to him, in the sense that he's not immediately sure how to answer without spilling a lot of beans he would rather keep bagged up. If you just go around telling people you've got the worst case of amnesia ever, you're leaving yourself open to trouble, he's sure. His answer, therefore, is pretty vague.]

Well, can't complain about a beach vacation, right? There's even treasure hunting.

Mmm, sure. Though the treasures are all of our personal belongings. Can you not find anything of yours? I could help you look.

[ It will very quickly become clear what's going on here, if the way others have been acting is any indication. ]

You think you'd be able to spot my stuff? [The question is maybe a little too quick--because Sans has, if nothing else, gotten the idea she seems to know a little more about the situation than he does right now.]

[ Christine opens her mouth, closes it, and narrows her eyes slightly. When she answers, the word comes out slowly. ]

No.

[ Because she never stepped foot in his room before. She doesn't know what he had. And if he's relying on her to spot his stuff... ]

You don't remember me, do you? I'm sorry; I thought you would.

[ Maybe because he always seemed so in control; so on top of things. How could he get struck by this... whatever it is? Collective amnesia? ]

[It's subtle, but there's a sharpening to the way Sans is looking at Christine. Not hostile, but she's got 100% of his attention at this point.]

Guess I'm in a pretty embarrassing situation, huh? Can't say you look familiar. You'll have to remind me where we met.

It's one of those things that's probably gonna sound unbelievable the more I get into it, but, here goes.

[ She lets out a breath before continuing. ]

We served together in this organization that hunted down these powerful magical items.

[ She lifts her arm to show off her wrist and the bracer there. ]

We all have these things. They're communicators, among other things.

[If Sans had eyebrows, they would be sky high right now. But she has proof of, if not the exact truth of her story, some sort of connection in those bracers. He lifts his arm and shakes back the sleeve enough to show his own bracer.]

Look at that, you've even got evidence. [Also, good to know he's not the only one with one of these things glued to his arm.] So, let's say I believe you. What are we doin' here?

That's the part I haven't got a clue about just yet. But all of us getting dumped here and without our memories either? Plus the sky and landscape kinda look wrong, don't they? I feel like someone's pulling the strings here, but I don't know why.

[ And in her book, there are few things more frustrating than not knowing something. ]

[Sans has that same feeling about someone pulling strings. Christine seems to be offering information freely enough for it not to be her, but on the other hand, it's not like he has proof she isn't mixing in some lies. He doesn't want to distrust everyone. Something in him still does, and he doesn't know why.]

I'd say trees aren't supposed to start flickering, but y'know, it's not like I'd remember. [Might as well make a joke about it, then.] But if you can remember--well, if it were me, I'd try to figure out what day it is right now.

[Christine can remember, if he wants to trust her. Therefore, it makes sense to measure the gap of time between the last thing she remembers and today.]

What day... [ She pauses, thinks, and the answer is immediate. ] Well, it's the day after Candlenights. Or, at least, that's the last night I remember before waking up here.

[ It was only yesterday that she held a warm mug of cocoa in her hands as she and others contemplated this story about an evil Santa Claus they were hearing be told. ]

christine | ota

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