psl;

[pridecroweth]

jamjar au;


monster attacks, low resources, no revival mechanics ingame but no power nerfing either.


weapons are available but hard to find. monsters are 'corrupted' but their bites don't transfer it. they are however v slow to heal.


set in a super fancy old museum with active historical displays. however, there's been lots of damage to the building/displays, few are 100 percent intact. the pcs have set up in the basement where the valuable archives were kept bc there's an actual vault.


power has been jury-rigged by pcs (idk, maybe tony stark is wandering around). water and food need to be scavenged for and rationed. maybe 30-40 pcs at present?

sam checks in with them regularly but has a 'hide-out' that's actually an old security/control room that overlooks one of the larger display rooms.

Comments

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver shrugs at that. It’s the sort of absurdity you just sort of accept, isn’t it? This isn’t one of his ghosts. There’s no memory or deeper connection tied to the image. He doesn’t love this man. Has never known him, never fought alongside him. There’s only an image and a voice and noise in a broken place. It means nothing.

That’s almost nice. He probably shouldn’t waste a bullet shooting it. ]

You talk a lot, [ he observes. That’s new, too. ]

[hallowing]

[ answer, he mimes zipping his mouth shut and throwing away a key.

Why yes, he is exactly twelve years old, thanks for noticing! ]

[fortitudosalutis]

Okay.

[ There's no mockery in it this time. Just a statement of fact. He's tired, Carver thinks. He hasn't been sleeping much. He might be getting sick, which will be a problem because then he'll get slow and clumsy. It'll take him longer to secure the area, to keep getting food and clean water. So far the monsters have been staying out of this area but that won't last. And even if it did, avoiding them on purpose would be a weakness - a sin against the commander and all that he taught Carver, at such great effort.

You lazy, son? Pope's voice hisses in his ear.

Carver stiffens. He makes himself lift his chin and watch the other man, the one who, not so long ago, had only one foot. It grew back by fragments, all of them bloody.

This isn't how it's supposed to go, Carver thinks. This isn't my role, this isn't the shape I'm supposed to fit. He wonders if everyone knows that, if they can smell it on him somehow. Sam probably could, but Sam was a little crazy too.

It happens. Like is drawn to like, in the end. ]

Go, [ Carver adds. He doesn't do anything so flashy as brandish his gun but he has it in his hand, pointed down, and he could. He could. ]

[hallowing]

But we're becoming such good pals.

[ Sarcasm, thy name is...

If Cy's remotely cognizant of the inner turmoil on the happen over yonder, he wisely keeps his mouth shut about it. Instead, he sort of gestures around like a realtor on a commission tour as he toes off his other boot. No point wearing just one, and he has no especial fear of being barefoot even if the inability to grow calluses makes it a bitch. ]

So what's with the whip?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ And now this man is barefoot, wandering around through shattered concrete and all the other shit that's scattered about. Not at all worried about tetanus, apparently.

Carver considers that. He wonders if it matters. Then he shrugs and glances down at the whip still coiled loosely around his arm. ]

People don't expect it, [ he explains. ] They don't know how to react.

[ It usually only works once, but once is enough in an ambush when you're out of bullets. ]

[hallowing]

Then you are at the wrong parties.

[ Yeah, yeah, it's a whole thing. Let it Not Be Said that Cy Salveo Doesn't Know How To Use a Whip. Cy just gives him a shrug as he meanders around, pausing to examine various little eccentricities of the space. ]

So aren't you gonna do the gentlemanly thing and introduce yourself?

[fortitudosalutis]

Nope.

[ His ghosts already know who he is. That's the one piece of simplicity God grants him. But he doesn't know this one.

That's worrying, a little. ]

Go away, [ Carver adds, in that same flat tone. ] You're not real.

[ He knows. He's not so far gone he doesn't know that. ]

[hallowing]

Rude.

[ So, naturally, he saunters right up into the guy's space. And pokes at his nose. ]

You're singlehandedly trying to undo years of therapy over here.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Oh. That's new.

Carver goes very still. Barely breathing. He talks to his ghosts sometimes. He knows he shouldn't but their voices are comforting even when they're detailing all the ways he's failed. Often, he can feel Pope's hands going tight on his shoulders in warning. But they don't stand right in front of his face and boop him on the goddamn nose.

So.

That's a problem.

Carver feels his fingers twitch. And then he takes a half step back to try and get into stance to shoot the fucker in the head. ]

[hallowing]

[ Both plot and rudeness thickens, apparently. Can rudeness thicken? That sounds pornographic.

Cy just raises both hands in the air in a gesture of (mock) surrender. ]

Wow, hey. Let's not be too hasty.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ If there's a threat, you have to deal with it. That part is always simple. Inevitable, even. Carver can feel his heart pounding in his throat and deliberately slows his breathing down.

Steady hands, son. Always.

He pulls the trigger. Of course he does. The shot aimed right between the stranger's eyes. ]

[hallowing]

[ Okay, so. We're doing this. Cy just. Lets himself get shot. What else is he gonna do, dodge? He's fast, but he's usually not speeding bullet in a single bound kinda fast unless he decides to use the void. And you know what? Nah.

He falls backwards, corpse-y as you please. His brain does actually short out for a millisecond or two, because hey, brain damage'll do that to you — but he's healing from it before he actually hits the ground.

But it's not too much longer before he's peeling a hunk of flattened lead out of his prefrontal cortex and flicking it to one side, all still while laying on his back. Contemplating his life choices. Then: ]

Do you shoot everyone you meet or am I special?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ The shot echoes. Carver can smell the familiar tang of gunpower, watches the impact and then the fall. A body hitting the ground. Bloody now. Of no use to anyone. He's almost heartened by that; he doesn't usually remember the dead once they fall. There are too many to count. No one has to take responsibility for them. He doesn't even know this man's name.

But then the body stirs, flicking a piece of brain matter away and staring up at the sky. Almost thoughtful when he speaks.

Carver stares at him. He brings his weapon up to bear again. ]

What the fuck?

[hallowing]

Surprise, motherfucker.

[ He doesn't actually make any move to stand. The floor's nice. Cool. About as comfy as you can get laying on years of detritus and broken concrete. He folds his hands behind his head, crosses long, spidery legs at the ankles. ]

Contrary to popular perceptions about immortality, I will have you know that getting shot still hurts, even if the end result is basically a jumpscare out of a horror flick.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Oh, no. This is not happening. This is -

Carver sits down. He doesn't remember deciding to. It just kinda happens. ]

I'm losing it, [ Carver realizes, with suddenly clarity. No, more specially: ] I've lost it.

[ Past tense. The train has left the station and they are on full tilt to crazy town. ]

[hallowing]

[ Okay, well that — makes him feel a little like a heel, all things considered. He does sit up now, crosses his legs. More somberly, perhaps: ]

Nah, man. You're on an alien world, surrounded by people with all kinds of weird shit going on. I'm just like, primo weird.

[ A bit of a shrug. ]

I mean, you're definitely a little off your rocker because who in the absolute fuck shoots someone who's not actively menacing you — douchecanoe alert — but the state of me being here and you trying to straight-up merc me isn't actually the 'haha gotcha' insanity highlight reel you might assume.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver rocks, pulling into himself. If there were orders, he'd know what to fucking do, but this time the ghosts aren't given suggestions like his own fucked up greek chorus. There's nothing but this man's voice echoing the same cadence and nonsense as earlier. It fades in and out. It probably doesn't mean shit but it's all he's got and nothing makes sense anymore. Even the weight of the gun in his hand and the gunpowder stink feel alien.

This isn't right. He isn't right.

Carver rocks. He closes his eyes tight, holding onto his weapon. Please, God, guide me. I've fought hard, haven't I? I did everything the commander said, everything, I never doubted. I suffered well, he told me I did. Didn't it mean something when we survived the fires?

Maybe not anymore. And God doesn't answer. ]

Please give me an order, [ he whispers, because it turns out he's not above begging. He's not above much right now. ]

[hallowing]

[ He gets up, and comes in a bit closer. Sits down beside the guy, companionable. Easy. He's lived in this body, for better or worse, for over ten millennia. It's demonstrated in easy grace and absolute certainty. ]

I'm not a soldier, [ he says with gentleness that perhaps feels jarring in contrast to the bullshit devil-may-care act. ] And I'm not really big on giving orders. Why don't you tell me about yourself, instead?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ The urge to do violence twists in his soul. To himself, maybe, if he can't find a better target. Because sometimes that shuts the world up for a second. Sometimes that's the only way things will go fucking quiet so he can focus just for a second.

It's easier when there's a target, something to focus on, but God's not always so generous.

Carver rocks. He brings his closed fist to his mouth and bites at his hand. The pressure doesn't do shit. He's wearing gloves. And someone's talking. Probably not a ghost.

For once in his life, Carver wishes it were. ]

I did what I was supposed to, [ he hisses. He was a good soldier, wasn't he? ]

[hallowing]

[ Don't they all. ]

Okay, [ he says, easy and slow. ] but wherever that was, whatever you did — we're not in that place, and those same things don't apply.

[fortitudosalutis]

No. No, they do...

[ There have to be rules. Otherwise the world doesn't make sense. You can survive if you know the rules. You'll suffer, sure, but that's just a given.

Carver rocks. He holds onto his weapon. That was one of the first rules. He hasn't forgotten. He'd never forget that. ]

They always do, [ he insists. ]

[hallowing]

[ He could lie. Let that be a kindness, and tell the man what he's desperate to hear. Would it be the coward's way out, he wonders, or Auhle's? ]

Kid, I'm over ten thousand years old. I've seen civilizations rise and fall. I've seen worlds burn to ash. Nothing is always. Absolutely nothing.

[ He thinks about Abbrenon, and how all that's left of it is a graveyard in the void. The city had stood for thousands of years, erased in an instant's ire. ]

Tell me about where you're from.

[ That, finally, has the ring of an order to it. He can give them, it seems — he just doesn't fucking like to. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Reflex says to clam up. Shut it down even though it's an order and he was made to swallow those. The world spat him out one way and the Valley cut him down to side. Burned the weakness out and what remained was what God and the commander decided was needed. The world can be simple if you let it.

He rocks. It's hard to focus now. Everything feels distant from his body. Nothing the other man is saying makes much sense. ]

A dead world, [ he replies, throat tight. He has to say something, doesn't he? ]

[hallowing]

Dead how? Gonna have to be more specific than that, buddyguy.

[ He's seen his share, most of them the product of his hands. Eleven worlds sacrificed on the altar of war. Billions upon billions of lives. He doesn't think anything can shock him now. ]

[fortitudosalutis]

People got sick. Dead came back.

[ He wants to get up and pace. Move. Maybe hit something. Carver grits his teeth and curls into himself. Adjusting the grip on his gun so he won't do something stupid and discharge it by accident. ]

People did what they do.