FEBRUARY EVENT LOG

[monstertruckers]

code

The Convoy begins a slow path through the forest, and a long road winding between the trees. The vegetation hangs thick overhead, with a perpetual state of dim light hanging over the surroundings. Sunlight and moonlight both have a hard time piercing the gloom. And alongside that is a sense of danger looming in the shadows.

01: DEPARTURE/MINGLE

Dawn arrives after a long and demanding night. As wane sunlight leaks through the forest, the forcefield flickers out. In its place, the Convoy hums to life. Engines thrum, breakfast appears in the dining car, and the speakers crackle with a pre-recorded, automated voice.

“The Convoy will depart in three hours. Please ready yourself for the trip. Secure your belongings, prepare your vehicle, remain as human as possible. End destination… Nirvana. Repeat, the Convoy will depart in three hours.”

The recording drones on a loop, before fading out in a crackle of static. Before departure there’s a few matters to attend to, some more pressing than others:
+Breakfast consists of bland porridge. Some might want better food, and with a decently stocked kitchen, one can make better.
+The showers have lost any hot water. Surely there’s some way to fix the heater or provide some hot water? Or otherwise grumble through a cold shower.
+There’s plant growth where the Husks have been felled. Flowering vines grow over the Convoy, and need to be pruned for departure. The foliage has an odd effect if directly touched, instilling wanderlust and curiosity. The affected feel compelled to wander… Or be curious about others!

02: HAUNTED GROVE

The trees grow into a tangle just a few paces off the road. They almost envelop the buildings, absorbing the structures until only the roofs are visible. The branches become more twisted, and almost arm-like when reaching out to you.

Vines hang like nooses from the trees. And a closer look shows moss ridden Husks draped in the branches. Still, those who ignore those ominous signs can find supplies growing and hanging from the branches; repair materials, and unnerving types of food like canned ham and frozen pizza.

And then… There’s the effect from staying in the shade of the trees for too long. There’s a lethargy that clings to you, even as it eases the changes wracking your body. Resting underneath the grove can heal a Drifter of one change, and leave them feeling soothed… But all of this is by design. The grove WANTS you to stay there and become a part of it, so that it can ensnare you with vines or absorb you into trees. It can restore Drifters, but if they stay there for too long they’re going to need some rescuing.

03: WRECK

There’s a collection of abandoned cars in the forest clearings. Some cars are better preserved than others, some even containing cargo, weapons, and ammo, with a possibility to scavenge equipment off them…

…If not for the traps, set around the wreckage in the form of steel jaw bear traps and snares. All of them are coated in something that leaves the vision blurry and sets hearts into overdrive. If exposed to too much of it, there’s suddenly a reason for that near panic; hallucinations of fears can easily flare up.

There’s also things prowling the wreckage on four metallic canine legs, with gleaming chrome teeth and red headlights for eyes. The guidance computers on nearby vehicles flash an alert as they draw close; identifying them as chromehounds, though these have seen better days. Dented, damaged, but still fierce enough. And still ready to pounce on anyone caught in the traps or drugged with fear toxin.

While the chromehounds can be dispatched, the fear toxin will have to run its course. Closer examination of the hounds and traps shows an insignia of a sword piercing the moon.

03-A: MONSTER NEST

Hostile beasts lurk in the woods. Many are cautious, nocturnal creatures that prefer to emerge at night, and hunt any Drifter who has strayed outside the reach of the Convoy forcefield.

A massive monster nest dwells in a crumbling, abandoned overpass in the middle of the forest. The Convoy does its best to give the area a wide berth, but it’s entirely possible Drifters might still stumble across it: particularly if some of the more annoying creatures like Great Jagras steal food and take it back to the den.

Many of the beasts make their dens in abandoned vehicles littering the overpass: Jagras and Slicemargl take up the better spots, while noxicaps and scavengers linger on the fringes. But the most territorial are the mutant bears, occupying the darker parts of the underpass.

04: SHRINE

The moon glows balefully overhead some nights. An eerie light glows across the sky, like a burning aurora that exacerbates any symptoms the Drifters have picked up this month. Sometimes the trees help to muffle this maddening light. But not always.

There is however a remedy that blocks out the light; dotted near the road or just off the forest paths are shrines carved from stone and wood. The aurora dims near these shrines, and offers breathing room. Small offerings dot the alters, and some are even medicines that can alleviate hallucinations, wanderlust, and the like.

But there’s a price for taking these offerings; the various candles dotting the shrines ignite, flames reaching for the intruder, and burn either a monster change, or a message into their skin. It’s equal odds which one a Drifter receives. The message fades in the span of the month, but offers cryptic words regarding the world, and can be logged in the Convoy database.

05: STASIS WARNING

Pockets of something… Wrong lurk on the road, or just off the path. Many of them are lined with Husks twisted into horrified expressions. Others are little more than a faint distortion and ripple in the air. But once a Drifter wanders into the pockets, the effects become all too clear.

The pockets are alarmingly still when stepped inside. This stillness tries to seep into anyone in the pocket, making them stiffen, their thoughts go sluggish and almost halt… But the Sigils on their skin dispel this before it can completely overtake a Drifter. Sigils disperse the field with explosive results; bursts of fire or electricity, surges of plant grown, rock explosions all burst as the field is dispelled.

The one warning for these pockets are strange symbols and the words ‘STASIS’ inscribed on rocks, trees, and signs around these pockets, warning about them. A couple crisscross the roads needed to take out of the forest. It seems that a Tough vehicle could easily wade in and survive the explosions of magic, while a Fast vehicle would be capable of outracing any trouble… While those on foot will need to hope for the best, or for fast healing.

06: RADIO HOUR

After several days of travel, and around nightfall the Convoy approaches a resting point ringed in Husks. It resembles a log cabin, with some unnerving traits; first, the trees near the cabin become more rigid and geometric, almost like pylons. Second is the large radio tower growing out of the cabin itself. Once the Convoy is in range, the radios, phones, and screens all crackle to life. Screens display a broadcasting logo, followed by an emergency signal drone. Astute Drifters can check the dates that pop up, and realize that this is an old recording.

“Attention, this is an emergency broadcast. Seek shelter immediately. A moon warp is imminent. Repeat, a Moon Warp is imminent. Impact: falling moon shards will cause destruction and distortions. Prepare by seeking cover inside shields. Those caught outside will be twisted. Seek shelter immediately.”

Outside the Husks pulse, and the broken moon shimmers. Several bright spots in the sky grow brighter… And larger, as shards of moon fall. The Convoy comes to a wrenching halt. A warning siren echoes, before the Convoy deploys its shield. Those inside are safe from the worst of the Warp, able to hide out in the Convoy. Nothing like a good time to bond with whoever you’ve been shut in with, right?

07: MONSTER HOUR

Those outside the Convoy will be in for a rougher time. The glow from the falling moon shards has a way of piercing into the brain and forcing a full transformation for as long as the Moon Warp lasts.

During the Warp, there’s plenty of trouble for Drifters. The Husks glow before bursting into a pack of violent, wolf-esque gryphons called Nargacuga, and a host of other beasts. These monsters favor scaling trees for dive attacks, or hauling Drifters up into the branches. But with their focus on the Drifters, the Nargacuga are easy prey for the chromehounds nearby, which pounce in a tangle and clash.

By dawn, the Warp has worn off. The Nargacuga are dead, while the chromehounds have been smashed. Transformed Drifters have two options in the aftermath; either they've burned off so much energy fighting they revert into an exhausted state. They will likely be suffering from disorientation and require rest, healing, and anchoring from others. Alternately, Drifters run wild ahead of the Convoy as something draws them north; they will have a chance to revert next month, in the Messages prompt!

07-A: MONSTER BRAWL

One particularly large and ferocious Nargacuga leads the pack of monsters… And seems to have a particular hatred for technology. He attacks the radio tower, doing his best to knock it down, and then strikes at the Convoy only to be deflected by the shields. Once he’s deflected, he vents his rage on the Chromehounds.

The radio picks up something from the lead Nargacuga each time he bleeds, and a patchy broadcast happens, with different fragments heard by different people:
1. “Serenith has ordered. I obey. Obliterate every trace of Wardens, cull their human flock. Justice for the packs they murdered.”
2. “Keep bleeding them until the moon Breaks, just like she ordered.”
3. “They gave me a place and a pack, where I could hunt.”
4. “Be ruthless. The Steel Wardens aren’t different, with the children they cull.”
5. “Hate… Loss… Blood. Always more blood.”

In its death throes the Nargacuga obliterates any remaining Husks, littering the area with quicksilver pools. Drifters must be careful around these pools, as contact with them will cause all pre-assigned monster traits next month to linger without special treatment.

MICRO ENCOUNTERS:

PLEASE NOTE! These are small bits of set dressing for players to include in threads if they wish, rather than full fledged prompts or events. You may handwave your exploration of these areas, or thread them out.

Radio Trees: A strange line of geometric trees leading towards the radio tower cabin. The closer a Drifter gets, the more they can hear faint music and old broadcasts regarding moon phases.

Hunting Grounds: An area of burnt out husks that have already burst open. There’s a few monster carcasses scattering the area, along with broken weapons and bullet casings. A symbol has been carved into the monsters, or a moon pierced by a sword.

Forest Flowers: A clearing that lacks the grasping trees from before, and instead is taken up by crystalline flowers. They give off a pleasant fragrance, and help to relax characters. Can be crushed into a medicine to help cure long lasting fear toxin effects.

Falling Trees: Drifters are advised to be careful of falling trees obstructing the road, and which may need to be hacked through. Granted, what’s knocking over the trees is another question entirely!

Lakeside: streams and rivers thread the forest, occasionally creating marshy areas. These rivers eventually feed into a massive lake that borders the radio tower cabin. The water is cloudy, and the bottom of the lake covered with the remains of destroyed chrome hounds: they’ve clearly been torn apart by the nargacuga prowling the area.

NAVIGATION

Comments

[thetatters]

Sprawled upon the double bed is John Doe, looking exactly as he always does: rumpled, skinny, and human. He is dressed in nothing but plain boxers, and it puts a frankly alarming collection of scars on display. There are odd circular tooth-marks over his belly, deep and long-healed knife wounds, and the puckered starbursts of gunshots in his belly and over his heart. He is bandaged in several places after the night's fighting. A person could count all of his ribs.

He sits up with the puzzled annoyance of a man who hadn't actually been sleeping.

"Serph?" He peers through the low light of the room and goes still, tense. "Jesus. Your... your wings."

There is a wary note in his voice. If Serph no longer looks fully human, is he still—?

[bufudine]

It takes him a long moment to recognise the person on the bed. It's... John, isn't it? Although it feels a little like intruding on another's territory, he really isn't up for trying to find another place to rest. Besides, he's slept in the same space as John so that little bit of familiarity is enough to have Serph step over the threshold.

"It's fine," he says even though it's not.

But it will be. With a very wobbling gait -- Serph reaching to steady himself against the walls with his right arm -- he moves towards the bed and doesn't mince words.

"Move over."

[thetatters]

"What—?"

But John shuffles out of the way, properly alarmed now. He's not sure whether to prepare for a fight, or... Or what? Run? Whatever Serph became tonight, he has clearly retained scraps of power where John has not. Back in Arthur's fragile human body, he stands little chance against any monster. Even one who has to stumble to the bed.

But perhaps that response is... hasty. Unkind. He loves their body, and he has allowed more damage to it tonight than he can bear to admit. The least he can do is allow them to rest, for Arthur's sake if not his own. Serph merely looks unusual. John ought to know better than to judge by one's appearance.

He crowds up against the wall to make room, still frowning, but with the tension slowly easing from him. "You're still injured."

[bufudine]

Unlike most others, Serph had kept his mind through the night. In a way, his demon had protected him from the worst of its effects, allowing him to fight other Drifters down... but it was because he kept his mind that he'd decided to sacrifice flesh and blood from his left arm in an ill-thought out attempt to slake some Drifters' hunger and bring them back to themselves. And when he'd reverted to his human form... everything had hit him all at once, as though he was transforming into his demon for the first time. But unlike his demon, whatever this is, it doesn't feel strong or full of unbridled power.

"For now."

Carefully, Serph hauls himself up to the vacant side of the bed, wings making that a much more difficult task than usual. Having so many limbs on his back weighs on him oddly and his control over them is still nascent, so the likelihood of feathers unintentionally brushing over over John in the process is high. Serph doesn't lie down on his (generous) side of the bed so much as let himself gently fall forward onto it. Only then does he turn his head to look at John properly though he's squinting as if trying to focus his vision, the third eye on his forehead barely visible beneath his fringe.

"You're unchanged."

It's as much as question as an observation. Maybe John had managed to stay within the shields? Serph says nothing of the scarring and obvious evidence of past injury marring his skin, though he silently makes note of them.

[thetatters]

The glimpse of that third eye sends a shiver of tension through John again, but he holds steady where he is. He only grumbles a wordless complaint and tuck his knees away from the pinions that sweep over him. He is frankly too exhausted to do anything more: Arthur's body moves as though it's weighed down by stones.

"I..." He weighs his options even as he pushes aside one of Serph's wings with the palm of his hand. He watches Serph carefully as he does, his focus upon that third eye. "I found a grove of trees which clears the mind. It helped me keep control."

That is a paltry fragment of the truth. But it is enough for now.

[bufudine]

Serph accepts the explanation without question; there are strange things in his land and it isn't like he has a good understanding of what's normal for trees. Are trees normally calming? He wouldn't know. There's no change in his expression, no sign that he thinks things suspicious at all

It's with some effort that he tries to fold the wings on the side closest to John so they're out of his way, feathers shuddering as the limbs don't quite respond as he intends. Yet another sign that this is different to his demon; he knew, instinctively, how his demon functioned from the very beginning. Eventually he gets those wings awkwardly pulled against his side while the rest stay splayed out over the edge of the bed.

"Most others lost their minds. You were lucky."

[thetatters]

"I suppose so."

Serph does nothing to lash out against the handling. If anything, he is polite in trying to draw his wings away. Those trembling, clumsy movements ache as sympathy in the back of John's mind: somewhere in the depths of him, he remembers a form with wings. Remembers the spread and shift of feathers, not so different from the shift of tatters that are at once fabric, tentacles, skin.

He stops thinking about it. Arthur's body does not move in those ways. Even last night, his form had been a crude reflection of some ancient shape: it had felt stifling to have only ten limbs, even after so long wishing for Arthur's four. He just... needs to adjust.

John eases himself back down onto the bed. This must be madness, keeping Arthur's exhaustion-slowed body within range of another's hands, but the closeness is strangely appealing. Perhaps it's some human instinct. And Serph doesn't look like much of a threat with his wings crumpled awkwardly against the side of his body and half his primaries bent.

Gently, John lifts a wing— by the joint, so as not to strain it— so he can shuffle back underneath it like a strange down blanket.

"Did you?" His voice has dropped softer. When Serph doesn't stop him, he lifts another wing to lay over his belly, and smooths the vanes of those primaries back into shape. "Lose your mind?"

[bufudine]

??? Serph watches John crawl under his wings in bewilderment. He thought John wanted them out of the way...

But Serph allows it, too tired from the day and night to make a fuss and... honestly? He's not as bothered by the proximity as he thought he would be and not bothered by the gentle touch on his feathers. Gentleness was a rare and precious thing in the Junkyard and in 'Nirvana'.

...He misses being surrounded by his tribe.

His own voice lowers to match John's softer cadence. "No. I was alert through the process."

[thetatters]

Serph makes no protest, simply allows John to reclaim his already-warmed section of bedsheet, now with the brush of feathers over his shoulders. It feels... frightening? Foolish? But it also feels... warm.

John is still reeling at how much he can touch now, how much he can do. Until recently, he'd never held a proper conversation with anyone but Arthur— not aside from horrors who would've liked to take him apart, or worse, swallow him back into their depths. This is different. Sharing this cramped, utilitarian bed feels like something a person would do.

"Perhaps we were both lucky." He does not shut his eyes: if something changes, if Serph turns on him, he cannot leave Arthur unguarded for even a moment. "Or perhaps our minds are stronger than most."

There is a touch of self-loathing behind it. John knows what shape madness takes for him: he cannot break in the ways a human would, because he splinters into something worse.

[bufudine]

Serph shakes his head, disagreeing. He isn't any stronger than the others. He's just done this before.

But if he says anything, he fears that everything else will come spilling out. The terrible familiarity of this situation. The strangeness of everything else. His unknown but terrible past life he doesn't recall. The new worry that his attempts to seek Nirvana is what traps him in this cycle of violence, again and again and again.

So he keeps his silence, like he always does. Like he did right until the moment he died.

Serph shifts into a more comfortable position, feathers briefly brushing over John before he settles back down, unbothered by the way John's gaze never leaves him.

"Maybe," he murmurs, eyes closing. There is a long pause before he says quietly, "Is it better to watch others suffer or suffer with them?"

[thetatters]

When Serph shakes his head it rustles across John's own pillow. When Serph closes his eyes, John can look into his unguarded face. The darkness renders him only in curves of shadow and the impression of pale hair.

Lying together like this stirs some inherited feeling in him, some instinct he must have drawn from Arthur. In their time together, Arthur never got this close to anyone but John, who took up no space beyond the boundaries of their shared skin. John isn't certain what this ought to feel like: he never had an opportunity to ask. He can't quite puzzle out the line between comfort and the quiet of a stayed execution, the stillness in the center of a storm.

But Serph does not reopen his eyes, and his voice is quiet as Arthur's has ever been. John thinks of the prison pits. He thinks of looking down at Arthur's skinny ribs, his many scars, and wishing he could share the ache of each.

"It is better to live." He can feel all their aches now, somewhere beneath Serph's feathers. "Even if that life is one of suffering. I would rather feel everything than watch from afar... distant and alone."

[bufudine]

Though his eyes (all three of them) are closed, it is clear that Serph is listening by the sharp inhale and long, shuddering exhale that can be felt in his wings.

"It's better to live even if that life is one of suffering," he repeats softly. Yes... Even though he has been cast down into this new hell, "Then I am glad we aren't alone."

Exhaustion finally takes him however, and his breathing slips into the calm, even inhale exhale of someone who has fallen asleep.

cw casually watching your new friend sleep

[thetatters]

Yes. To John, alone had come to mean without Arthur. It has been so very long since he walked among humans. In truth, he'd forgotten that other company existed: he would have scoffed to consider that it could matter at all.

There is still no comparison. There is no one in the world like Arthur Lester, and without him, John's mind and soul feel so very empty.

Even so. There is a familiar comfort to this: for months John kept vigil while Arthur slept, and measured time by the gentle rhythm of Arthur's breathing. John's breath has evened out into that same sleeping lull, but he lets his eyes rest half-lidded. Even when yellow light bleeds back into John's eyes, bathes their bed in a dim golden glow, he quietly studies the shapes of Serph's feathers and the dark lines of text on his arm. He can only keep the light at bay for so long, and it is nice to listen to the warm rhythm of someone else's breathing.

[bufudine]

It's a testament to Serph's current exhaustion that he doesn't rouse immediately; he normally sleeps lightly, ready to snap awake and fight at the smallest sign of ambush. So John is treated to his eyelids slowly and groggily opening, Serph squinting against the unwelcome light as he rolls over onto his side.

He very noticeably startles, wings jerking along with the rest of him as he comes directly face to face with John watching him with glowing eyes.

"John?" His voice is thick with sleep, caught completely off guard. His next words feel like something Heat would be more inclined to say -- and that thought sends a pang through him -- but they feel apt. "What the hell? Go to sleep."

[thetatters]

John blinks, and his breathing startles out from the deep rhythm of sleep.

"Oh," he says, embarrassed. "R-right, uh. Sorry."

He shifts his head against the pillow, lifts his left hand to rub the light from his eyes. It fades in uncertain flickers, until only his irises smolder with a lingering dull gold. In the quiet, he fumbles for an excuse.

"Your arm. The, uh— the one marked with a symbol. Did that come from... the shrines?"

[bufudine]

John. Asking questions isn't going to sleep. Serph doesn't answer for a long moment, instead rolling back onto his front and closing his eyes again with a grunt that could be interpreted as a 'yes'.

But he does unfold his arm from under his pillow and shove it vaguely in John's direction if he wanted to read the burned in words and symbol under the glowing light of his eyes.

It's all upside down at this angle though.

[thetatters]

John can tell when someone wants him to shut up and let them sleep. He has had eighty-seven nights with Arthur, by his own count, and many were passed on bad terms. By the same experience, he's grown very good at ignoring those cues.

He's also become rather good at reading when Arthur's head is at an odd angle, and the light of his eyes glows brighter again as he tries to make out the text.

"Aspect of Order," he reads aloud, his voice low but distinct, as though narrating to someone who cannot see it. "The strength to keep all Aspects in check and balanced, to keep from falling to Stasis. Domain of the Celestials."

He huffs a quiet scoff beneath his breath, and blinks the light away again. They return to near-darkness.

"It sounds like a cult."

[bufudine]

Despite having his eyes closed, Serph isn't trying very hard to fall back asleep. He'd not thought too much about the text that had been inscribed upon his arm initially but in the small, quiet moments to himself -- and there are too many of them, these days -- he can't help but wonder. The idea of keeping others balanced resonates.

Yet another piece of unknown knowledge sitting in the back of his mind, its significance just outside his reach.

Once John's finished reading, Serph pulls his arm back. "What's a cult?"

[thetatters]

John goes abruptly silent: his steady breathing stumbles and cuts out. For a moment he is tense, awkward, beneath the spread of Serph's wings.

"A cult is a type of religion," he decides. "One that serves a dangerous god. Those under the influence of such a god may be... loyal, dutiful to the point of madness. They trade in secrets, symbols, and hidden meanings. I suppose the shrines and runes remind me of such things."

[bufudine]

In the quiet of the night, it's easy to hear John's calm breathing turn to distress. Serph's eyes crack open slightly, watching the emotion passing over John's face and observing how the faintly yellow light from his eyes dances over his skin.

The glow isn't quite the right colour to match the orange lights of Muladhara, but it's the closest he'll get in this unknown world.

"Is that why you warned us away from them?" On the radio.

Is there a god that isn't dangerous? He only knows of the one who turned the sun black, making the world uninhabitable for humans.

He'd said nothing of it before, but Serph can see the past pain writ upon John's flesh. Scarring, worse than what he's seen despite having lived in a land of constant fighting. What did John survive?

"Was it a cult that gave you those scars?"

[thetatters]

"I warned you away because it was reckless." But his tone has gone hurried and harsh. "Our situation is dangerous enough as it is. We don't need to bring greater powers down upon our heads."

John falls quiet for a long moment. His breathing is shallow and tense. Every shift of his shoulder and arm gently lifts the feathers spread over him, so that Serph will feel it when he reaches up to run his thumb along the scar across his throat.

When he speaks next, his voice has dropped soft and low.

"Yes. I suppose it was."

[bufudine]

Serph remains silent for a long moment, long enough that if it weren't for his eyes still being half open, it'd be easy to think he'd fallen back asleep. But eventually, he curls the wings that are draped over John, phalanges bending at unnatural angles so they rest against John's side in an kind of wing hug.

Though Serph's voice never rises beyond its usual volume, there's a hard edge of certainty to it. "I won't let someone do that to you again."

[thetatters]

Beneath that gentle curl of wings, John again goes very still. His breathing hitches, stumbles.

He has been trying not to dwell on that final confrontation, those last moments when he was not alone. Arthur's bold, stupid, beautiful defiance: You're not going to have him. Not as long as I have anything to say about it.

In all his long existence, it is the only time someone has tried to protect him. The only time someone has treated him like a creature that could need, or deserve, protection.

"Thank you, Serph." His voice has gone thick. John tips his face away to hide against the brush of feathers, but this too is overwhelming: he can feel the gentle tickle of down against his cheek. He can feel the weight of wings settled upon his shoulder and over the small of his back, and the bunched blanket under his knees. He is not meant to have a cheek, or shoulders, or knees. This isn't how he wanted any of this. He— he didn't want this, truly, he thought he'd learned how to stop wanting this—

He clears his throat and pretends it does not sound like a sniffle. The wings are soft, and John settles close against them.

"Good night."

[bufudine]

That was absolutely a sniffle. Serph's expression softens.

He can't quite identify the emotion John's feeling, whether it's the same feeling that had Argilla crying in his arms or something else. Unlike his demon, whose instincts and form he slipped in and out of so easily from the beginning, his grasp of feelings seems so nascent, so distant that he always feels like he's stretching out his arms through a tower's window to catch a fast-falling object with his hands. All he knows is John's overwhelmed with some kind of emotion.

But John had seemed to take comfort in the touch of his wings in the same kind of way that hugging the others had helped. So... Serph doesn't say good night in return, instead draping his closest arm over John, the limb much more solid than the lighter touch of his wings before closing his eyes once more.