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GRAVEYARD
THE LAND OF THE DEAD
THE SUBURBS AND BEYOND
THE SUBURBS AND BEYOND
Arrival in the Land of the Dead is sluggish, as if there's a pressure in the air that you have to push through. It's strange, because all of the people—yes, there's hundreds of thousands of people around you, filtering in to the same location as you—seem to move with more ease. Fearful, fretting, confused, angry, peaceful. All manner of people from all manner of places have joined you in the march to your final resting place. It's... a little more anticlimactic than you were probably expecting, no matter your beliefs about the afterlife. Sorry about that.
Touching anyone around you will give the uncomfortable, chilled sensation that can be associated with ghosts. Most people, you'll just pass right through air. There are some that are a little more solid seeming, like you, but to them? You're the cold one, even if there's physical contact there. That's probably just as worrisome as the fact that color and vibrancy seems to bleed out of the world around you, as you follow a steady slop downwards to what looks like... a rubbish dump? It's more clear than your surroundings, at least, which have turned dull and formless—edges have lost their definition, and anything red is now a dim blood grey, a blue sky is almost steel, yellows have turned to muted sand.
Plumes of dirty smoke rise into an equally dim sky, lending more to the dreary atmosphere. The air is thick with it, and the acrid smell of chemicals, the rot of spoilt food and sewage, and the further in the more awful the smells and sights both are. Not a path of green grass or clean soil can be found as you explore the place you've come to rest. Just ratty weeds and yellowed, dead grass. Somewhere, somehow, there's some kind of electricity, considering the dingy lightbulbs that flicker occasionally, bare and casting everything in a sickly pallor.
The ghosts pass through the town, with a single-minded focus, while the more physical seeming remain in the holding area according to a bland attendant's instruction. You can fuss, you can throw a tantrum, you can try to fight them—but nothing changes, and they've seen this before. Might as well check things out.
Any injuries you're expecting from your death are gone, with no signs of what killed you visible. Count your blessings in this shithole. Because you're effectively on your own. There are no daemons in the Land of the Dead.
You are here, your home away from home. Aren't you so lucky? The town lay in shambles, with no city square, no streets, no real open space except for where one of the buildings has collapsed. Some businesses or establishments attempt to stand against time and decay, such as churches and other public buildings, but the roofs are full of holes and the walls are a breeze away from falling. Amidst the weathered, stone buildings are improvised shacks made out of repurposed garbage—old timber, hammered out tin cans, plastic sheets, whatever they can get their hands on. It's more and more apparent that the people here live in squalor, with these shanties and shacks and patched up shotgun houses, if they're lucky, and it's obvious that people are literally on top of each other. A single-room shack can house an entire family and then some.
The "and then some" comes in the form of people-shaped... things, purportedly men, quiet, with shadowed faces and shabby clothes. There's no real way to make out defining features, except for their ages at times. Some are unbelievably old, wrinkled, and weathered. They seem to be close to the more long-term residents of the suburbs, but are actively fearful of you, typically wary and shrinking away from any attempts to interact with them.
Get cozy somehow. Rooming is a free for all, and you'll be lucky to find a place you can all squeeze into.
Beyond the shanty town, there's a body of water encased in mist. The mist melds with the dreary sky, almost, so it's hard to see what lies beyond—but you can certainly hear the mournful, angry cries of some kind of birds from within. Let the mods know if you go exploring.
Touching anyone around you will give the uncomfortable, chilled sensation that can be associated with ghosts. Most people, you'll just pass right through air. There are some that are a little more solid seeming, like you, but to them? You're the cold one, even if there's physical contact there. That's probably just as worrisome as the fact that color and vibrancy seems to bleed out of the world around you, as you follow a steady slop downwards to what looks like... a rubbish dump? It's more clear than your surroundings, at least, which have turned dull and formless—edges have lost their definition, and anything red is now a dim blood grey, a blue sky is almost steel, yellows have turned to muted sand.
Plumes of dirty smoke rise into an equally dim sky, lending more to the dreary atmosphere. The air is thick with it, and the acrid smell of chemicals, the rot of spoilt food and sewage, and the further in the more awful the smells and sights both are. Not a path of green grass or clean soil can be found as you explore the place you've come to rest. Just ratty weeds and yellowed, dead grass. Somewhere, somehow, there's some kind of electricity, considering the dingy lightbulbs that flicker occasionally, bare and casting everything in a sickly pallor.
The ghosts pass through the town, with a single-minded focus, while the more physical seeming remain in the holding area according to a bland attendant's instruction. You can fuss, you can throw a tantrum, you can try to fight them—but nothing changes, and they've seen this before. Might as well check things out.
Any injuries you're expecting from your death are gone, with no signs of what killed you visible. Count your blessings in this shithole. Because you're effectively on your own. There are no daemons in the Land of the Dead.
welcome to the suburbs
You are here, your home away from home. Aren't you so lucky? The town lay in shambles, with no city square, no streets, no real open space except for where one of the buildings has collapsed. Some businesses or establishments attempt to stand against time and decay, such as churches and other public buildings, but the roofs are full of holes and the walls are a breeze away from falling. Amidst the weathered, stone buildings are improvised shacks made out of repurposed garbage—old timber, hammered out tin cans, plastic sheets, whatever they can get their hands on. It's more and more apparent that the people here live in squalor, with these shanties and shacks and patched up shotgun houses, if they're lucky, and it's obvious that people are literally on top of each other. A single-room shack can house an entire family and then some.
The "and then some" comes in the form of people-shaped... things, purportedly men, quiet, with shadowed faces and shabby clothes. There's no real way to make out defining features, except for their ages at times. Some are unbelievably old, wrinkled, and weathered. They seem to be close to the more long-term residents of the suburbs, but are actively fearful of you, typically wary and shrinking away from any attempts to interact with them.
Get cozy somehow. Rooming is a free for all, and you'll be lucky to find a place you can all squeeze into.
Beyond the shanty town, there's a body of water encased in mist. The mist melds with the dreary sky, almost, so it's hard to see what lies beyond—but you can certainly hear the mournful, angry cries of some kind of birds from within. Let the mods know if you go exploring.
full navigation
private conversations ✨ murder proposals ✨ curfew ✨ daemons ✨
private conversations ✨ murder proposals ✨ curfew ✨ daemons ✨
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[ How does that work? ]
I'm used to company, too. Sometimes they can be really annoying, but...
[ It sucks to be without them. Moving on quickly! ] It can be boring here, but I guess it has some interesting moments.
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(He knows a couple of swords that ended up down there. He'll hold up one hand in front of Nine and move his fingers. )
This form is still new. The water won't hurt me... but I dont' want to get my clothes wet!
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Huh? So you just thought it might happen because you consider yourself a treasure?
[ What
also what is up with the hand movement. watching for a moment before he just grabs it with his free hand. You are now caught. ]
Your clothes can dry. Don't you have another set some where?
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Usually, any damage to my true form translates to this form. If my sword began to rust, what would happen to this one? I don't want to find out.
Ah, but then, I wasn't connected here at all... but by then, I was having fun.
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He's tired after this whole week, actually needing to have a braincell for lore talk, and his cyoa friend/rival dying. So he's not going to say shit about the handholding at the moment. Just going to give his hand a squeeze. ]
Maybe you'll get scars or something? Rust can be fixed though.
[ Would it be like a hair trim or something for spirits? ]
You know, you're kind of like Jack.
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(And he doesn't sound like he likes that. Hm.)
Hm?
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Do you have any?
[ Show him the scars he wasn't looking when you stripped before ]
Jack is one of my- he's from Class Zero.
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(And he's very proud of this. He is, afterall, one of the best preserved swords in the entire country. )
Hm? ... So you have been to school.
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[ so he should definitely prank him with permanent marker some day ]
Huh? Yeah, I did. It's only been about a year, but I've gone there a couple times before with Mother.
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(It's more than that but he may or may not elaborate. Right now, he's more interested in Nine. He's in a good mood right now, something like
a cat lounging in a patch of sun but instead, he's just a sword being held.)
Only a year?
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[ Is it a weapon thing? Like maintaining your weapon or what?
He does rub his thumb against the back of Tsuru's hand. Being like this is new, but it's not bad. It's pretty warm actually. ]
Yeah, we were back at the research facility before that. It was on an island not that far from Akademia. We only got into the school thanks to Mother.
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(And as if to make a point, he uses his free hand to brush Nine's hair once more.)
I can't imagine Nine-kun studying boring subjects.
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[ Well, that is true for most of them. Leaning into the touch. ]
Didn't get much choice in what we studied. I did skip a few times to get a nap in.
[ He's a delinquent ]
Uh. Is there school for spirits or something?
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(Spirit shenanigans, spirit rules. TKRB, give me more lore,)
I am a manifestation of my history, formed by the desires of my master. I learned what was needed and I will continue to learn diligently from here on.
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[ go ahead and smack him for that ]
So what exactly is your master's desires?
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(he will not smack nine this time. he's in a good mood.)
Hmm... it's a secret. I don't know if I can say~
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[ Sure. He'll go with it. ]
When you say it like that, it sounds sketchy as hell, yo.
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(He hums, thoughtful,)
When it comes to surprises... (Voice trailing,) Time is important.
(heh)
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[ He would be more annoyed, but hard when there's someone right there petting his hair. ]
What about your desires? Do you have any?
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I'm surprised.
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(Not that he really thinks this as much anymore thanks to how many times people have been asking him this question but he's going to walk Nine through this because he's a sweet boy that needs it,)
A tool only needs to serve its master until the end.
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[ Looking up for a moment. Thinking too much isn't his thing, but it is reminding him of something. ]
I think I can get it, yo. I never knew anything other than following orders. The only thing my siblings and I knew how to do was fighting.
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