Deer Country Network

[ The feed opens to Ozpin's library in the rebuilt Clockhouse: gone is the overgrowth of red and blue flowers, and instead the room is a clutter of green and purple furniture, overwrought gold filigree, and a few cleverly hidden carvings of butts. He has clearly tried to position the camera away from most of the chaos, so it centers Ozpin at his desk with a stack of fairytale books. He still looks pale and gaunt with simmering Corruption; there is a glint of vampire's fangs in his polite smile. ]

Good evening, Sleepers. For those who do not know me, my name is Professor Ozpin. I teach those who would stand against monsters, and in payment I often ask for the stories they've brought from their worlds... fairy tales of heroes, villains, and fools. I find there is always a grain of truth in every fable, and certainly wisdom to be gained from the sharing of it.

I am one of those who was present in the dream called Deerington. I find that our numbers feel lower, as of late... and I fear that someday, the stories of that dream shall be lost.

A few among us may recall the August of two years ago, a festival of peace and music. We honored the death of Cynthia Sodder, now reborn as the Moon Presence, with stories for her spirit and flowers for her grave. [ He takes on a wry, more distant smile. ] To lay flowers on a grave is an old tradition indeed. But I think it's the stories that are of more use - for the one telling them, not only the one told.

Cynthia was a being caged by the stories told about her. Her daughter, Julia Sodder, suffered the same fate. Many Sleepers remember her as a child... but in this era, the people of Deer Country only seem to remember her by the nightmares she brought to life.

A very wise young man [ his smile softens ] once helped me see past that view. I thought, perhaps, in this month of quiet and reflection, we might share more hopeful stories with the girl now lost. Her spirit still dwells in Sleepy Town, and so - myself, Oscar Pine, and Paul Atreides - now propose a new festival, in the spirit of the season. We shall gather at those grand wooden gates to tell hopeful tales of heroes, of community, and of mistakes that did not mean the end.

You see... the end we chose for her was a mistake. I should like to undertake some act, however small, to ease her eternal pain.

[ that got weirdly dire, thanks Ozpin ]

You may find us at the gates of Sleepy Town for the remainder of the month, telling what stories we think a lost girl may choose to believe in. I hope to see you there.

[[ If your character would like to share a story for Julia (or another NPC), see here for player plot info! ]]

[jin guangyao prefers to limit his engagement with the network, but occasionally needs must when the devil drives, or however that idiom goes. anyway here he is.]

Greetings. I am called Jin Guangyao.

[k off to a solid start, where u headed next]

I have come to understand that lockjoint is a seasonal malady that any of us may experience, though using one's unique blood powers may increase the likelihood of developing the condition. If I am interpreting the recommendations described in The Sleeper Condition correctly, while there is no cure for lockjoint, keeping warm nevertheless reduces the severity of mild to moderate symptoms.

As a cultivator, I am capable of creating paper talismans which, when activated by spiritual power, can generate warmth for a limited period of time. I have already had success modifying these talismans so that a Sleeper's blood capabilities should be a sufficient replacement for a cultivator's qi when activating the talismans. However, to be effective, a talisman's runes must be written either in cinnabar or blood. I am reluctant to make extensive use of the latter resource as, even if the risk posed by extensive bloodletting for this purpose was not high, blood is not an unlimited resource.

[because if you let blood from someone long enough, they'll run out of blood and die! hah hah! a little joke. anyway,]

I am willing to create a substantial number of these warming talismans for use by the residents of Trench in exchange for assistance sourcing cinnabar, or a functional alternative, in sufficient quantities to make the work sustainable. If you are willing to provide support, please respond to this post so that we may discuss the specifics in more detail.

[She’s been here for over a week now. Time to get the lay of the land. The video opens up to a particularly tall blonde woman with a golden skeletal arm and a smirk. She's here to cause problems on purpose.]

Greetings, hello, salutations. My name is Ianthe Naberius. I’m new in town, twenty two, a princess of Ida, unfortunately single and dreadfully bored!

Now, I come to you today, not only to introduce myself, but to ask something of all of you.

Who do you hate most in Trench and why? I’m trying to meet people, network, but it’s so hard and overwhelmingly positive! So consider this an open invitation. Warn me about that dangerous scoundrel who kicked your puppy, seethe about how much you despise me for whatever reason, tell me about your parasocial hateful fixation on one of the local divinity. It can be a minor slight you want to complain about, a friend of yours who owes you two perfectly intact human skulls, or it can be an actual danger to this lovely little community of ours.

Now, before you try to say “this is childish and stupid!” You’re absolutely right, but it is a necessary part of self care to allow oneself to be an absolute cunt once in a while. [Or all the time, if your name is Ianthe.] So let’s not make any grand claims to being above something like this, mm?

Feel free to use the anonymity feature. Or the privacy feature, I guess, if you’re shy or worried about being fileted like a fish.

[He still doesn't trust people, not here. Not anywhere, really. But he has to know. In a place this weird, he has to know.]

I'm just wondering... who here is not human? You don't need to tell me who you are if you don't want to, but I just want to get a sense for how many people who are not human are here.

I can't be the only one.

And a second question: is it safe for those who are not human here? I mean, I am definitely not like one of those beast things and I have no plans of attacking people. But human-dominated places tend to be somewhat unsafe for us.

And if you are some kind of mad scientist type reading this? Fuck off. We don't need people like you on our asses.

[Is that enough of a difference from his usual typing? He'll have to be careful about capitalization and punctuation so it sounds different from him, but...]

--ecord!

[the omni obeys, but it's the unacknowledged omen that's the real mvp: the little rat has begun recording even before the words are out, and she's chosen video, her sleeper's username, and because she's very fast (and also immortal) she can book it with little difficulty. her eyes flick upward: mike runs just ahead of her, as if she's ushering him toward one thing and away from the other. she's zig zagging now, under his feet and coming out barely ahead.

it's nothing but a rising, humming roar, any words shouted over it incomprehensible as the view through the omen's eyes bends around a corner - and another. another.

another.

the roaring is both steady and staticky through the broadcast the suggestion of itself filling in the gaps in the noise - a dreadful ouroboros of a run that somehow ends with the appearance of an elevator, doors open wide to consume as mike dives inside, head down and eyes fixed on the button panel. a forceful push of one button that can't be seen until the camera tilts and the rat's in and up and up again - sitting on his shoulder.

DOOR CLOSE is where the finger's jabbed and holding, chest heaving but no sound that can rise above the roar of the thing that gives chase. the omen's eyes do rise just as the door closes, and she does what her sleeper will not: she looks at it.




j̵̢̡̨̡̘̻̤̱̹̟̗̝̻͖̠̞͚͔̰̼͇͚͎̭̺͔̰̱̘͈̺͇̹̲͍̘̖̭͔̼̄̈́̐̇̉͛̄̏́̅͂̆̍͋̀̆͌̈́̈̔͆͒̓̈̀̃͒̓̿͠͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅ ̴͓̲͓̝͕́́͒̋͊͑͝ự̸̲̣͙̺̪̼́̃̏͆̆͒͋̈͋̿͋͒͐̑́͆̋̽̆̔̚̕͘ ̶̧̨̧̛̛̥͚̯͈͓̭̹̙̝̺͚̹̺̺̬̹̻͔͚̱̮̭͙͍̼͕̙̭͇̬͈̙͎͉͌̂̊̇̑͊̀̎̅̄͆̊̈́̎͛̆͗̀̍̚͘̕͘̚͘͜͠͝͝͠s̷̨̨̩̼͓̲̥̠͖̼͓̳͍͙͖͓̝͉̜̭̗̠̳̻̟̫̞̘̖͚̯̹͕̘̗͓͍͚̙͖̣͍̦̟͐̂̍̇̽́̾́̂̍͂͐̏̓͛̔̑̋͒͛̃̾̇̚͝ ̵̢̧̢̲̥̦͈͖͙̯̩͚͉̜̞̤̠̙͕̠̫̊̃͌̎̇͝ṯ̴̡̨̛̘̞͔̙̹̘̪̥͇̹̳͕͎͙̹̮̝̗̤͙̥̥̠̬̞̗̔͂́͒́͗͂͐̉̌̇̾̔̋̏̑̈́̈́́̀̄̈́̀̆̀̂͂̽̀̔̂̕͘͘͜͜͝͝͠͝ ̶̛̛͙̂́͌̅̀͊͛͊́͐̉̿̅̾̔̎́̇̋͆̊̈́͑̂̓͘͘̕͘͝͝͠͝ ̵̨̨̧̱̪͎̫̯̰̫̱̜̙̪̪̻̬͔̠̤͕̟̠̟̖̘̳̟͈͖͎̜̠̯̹̥̖̄̇͋͛͆̓͆͛̓́̍̇̄͌̀̈́̔͑͌͂̾͒̋̇̈́̿͆͒̂̓͐̓̕͘͜͜͠͠ͅ ̷̢̡̧̢̢̛͖̮̠͓̞͔̥͈̺̟͇͚̮̫̹͙̺̲̬̬͑͋́̀̑̊́̓̂͛̈́̔͊́̎͒̂͆̾͋͂̓̄̉̆́̈̋̽̂͗͋̚̕͜͝͝ ̵̧̧̨̢̭͇͖̺̰̲̗͚̞̪͇͔̼͕̞̤̞͚̱̺̙̖͓͉̝̼̖̙̖͚͕̦͓̞̦̭̯̪̞̞̹̺̅̈͐̇͑̐̌̅͋̆̐̔̂̽̊̅͛̍̿̇̈́̚̕͘͜͝͝͝͠ͅͅd̷̨̢̛̛̛̦̗̝̘̙̩̰̫̙̥̰̥͔̳̳̘̠̊̈́̏̿̍̃̿̓͗͂͋͒̊̈̈͂̈́̌́̚̕̚͘̕̕͠͠ ̴̛̛͈̣̣͉͐̉̌͒͐̂̓̊̃̌̀̍̀̽́̓͗͆̌͛̃̕͘͠͝͝͝͠r̵͕̣̆͋͗͒̄̓̎̏͗͆͌̏̋̚̕ ̷̨̡̧̡̨̨̡̡̧̨̛̮̱͖̞̳͎̜̝̤̲͍̥̟̭̥̜͓̠̥͙̼̲̹̟̹̙̲̤̘̱͔̝͍͌́̀̄͑͂̈́̓̾́̋̋̀͗̈́̑̎̿̋͋͒͋̐̓͛̎̿̏̐̂̅̌͑͊̄͊̌́̈̽͘̚̚͜͝ͅͅͅͅȩ̵̢̨̡̧̢͚̗̘͚̩̣͇͎̺̲̮̰̤̜̠̪͓̳̮̠̗͈͖̟̙̣̿̽̅̈̑̽̀̎͆̀̈̈́́̂͌̋̋͜͠ ̶̧̡̡̨̡̡̦̼̫̣̥̙̣͉̰̗̲̬͔̰̝̭͖̼̥̼͉̞͉̂̀̍̀͐̽̓̈́̏̎̃̔̃̒͂̎̋̌͂̒̈̑̽̕̕͜͝a̷̧̮̺̗̜̲̭̗̤͔̎̅̈̏͒̉͗͊̔̏̀̾̚ͅ ̸̨̡̮̤̩͖͔̝͇͉̩̜͙̫͙̯̭͍̭̰͍̘͇̼͕͍̱͇̠̮̼̥͍̩̦̹̼͍̘̪̄͐̄̓̃̒̍͌̈̒̽̋͂͌̆̅́̊̓̐͗̎̌́͐̈́́̚͜͜͝͠͠ͅͅḑ̶̢̢̡̟͚̙̳͎̪̤̭̩̙̟̳͉͓͖̥̥͇̜̤̼̲̖̜͚̗̏̀̔͑͆̚ ̷̢̧̧̡̳̼͍̪̮̮̟̝̯̯͙̹̬͙͕̦͓̤̣̘͚̜̺̙̰̬̹̙͔͓̼̰͍̙͖̱̱̮̌̓͛͂̽̍͝͝͠ͅ ̵̛͈͖̞̳̞̠̗̗̼͈̱͗̈́̈́͆͒̔̐̑̈́̒̓̓͊͂̓̔̀̔̏̾͆̐̄̽̔͌̑̉̃͛͒̑̒̀̕͘͘͝͝͝a̴̧̡̰͎̫̬̙̥̖͎̯͇̖̩̲̻̰̟͖̜̖͉̓̒̊̄̉̈̇͌͋̽̐̑͑͌̂͌̎͗͊̊̈̾̓͑́̊̇̊̒̉̀̂̃̈́͗͛̍͑̊͘̚͝͠͠n̴̨͋́͗̎̏̌͑̓̾́̾́̊̐́̍͌̿̔͑̈́̏̂̈͘̕͝͝͝͝͠d̸̞͈̩̭͎̞̺̤̱̩̭̥̪̭͐̋̓͛͗́͐͜ ̶̨̨̨̧̛̛̛͇̹̥̲̗͉͕͕̩̤͕̭̭̩̥̬͇̻͍̼̞̪̲̩̩̱͔̮̺̞͓̼̠͖̓͑̀̄̇̆̉͋̾̒̔̅̀̀̓̎̎̂͌͛͗́͆͌̒͐̿͋̂̈̓͐͂̑͂̋̇̔̕͘͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅ ̸̨̢̨̛̭̰̱̲̼̮̘̻̱̺̫͙͉̘̦̞̹̖̤̯̫͓̯̰̱̦̜̱̞̗͍̻͈̙̟̗̫̼̇̊̿̀͐͗̿̏̃̉̏̎̍̊̈́̐̎̐̾̊͒͛̓̆̐̃̊̎͘̕͜͠͝͝͠ͅf̸̛̛̝̰̥͇̠̟̱̼̤̤̣̪͙̯̣̹͖̱͕̰̗̝̟̤̓̌́́̀̃̈́̏̒̄́͋͒̊̔̊̌̓͐͑̃̊͛͐̕̕͜͝͝͝ ̴̢̡̨̧̘̫͓̪͍͈̲̭̩͖̝̳͔̭͓̹̦͕͍̺̪̻̣͖̞̹̙͙̲̬̯̗͎̖̬̱͎̞̫͉̯̠̙̉̋͛̆̆͛̓̊̒̏̀̓̄̈́̀͐̈́͛͊͛͜ͅe̵̢̛͎̤͔͔̱͕̦̺͖͔͖̬͙͔͖̻̰̺̟̖̝͛͂̈́͑̌́̔̆̀̏̊́͆͊͛̈́͋̎̃̑̃̈́̒̽̏͑͝͝ ̵̛͉̭̬̽̆͆͐͐̀̈́́͌̇͐͑̋͑̔̅͑̀͆͐̒͑̈́͌̓́̃͒̅̐̈́̋̔̍͑̓͗̚̚͘͘͝͝a̸̛̰̭̲̦̥̲͉̠͈̒̏̆̑̉̃͂̽͑̀̽́͛̀͑̀͒̽̌͛̈̈́͒͂̌̀͋͆͌̆͑͌̈̊̓͑̆͊̐̽͗͒̈́̏͘͝͝͝ ̴̢̢̡̨̢̧̛̪͚͙̙͉̫̜̹̹͎͙͇̜̤̺̥͚̟̻̃̌͂͆͊͒̀̄̀̅͌̿̃̊͂͑̓̂̍̔̂̃̾̀̒͑͛̋̌͑̈́̅̕̕̕͜͝͠ͅͅŗ̴̢̨̛͉͇͎̱̜̩̮͙͈̥͓̣͍̥̘͉̠̥̠̦̼̭͔̳̩̫̟̳͓̤̺̲͖͙̾̎͆̾̋̿̊̾̑͑͊̔̈́͊̓̿̇́̽̃̍̒̏͌͒͂̏́̋̍̂͊͗̀̔̓̋̈́̓͘̕͘͘͜͜͝͠ͅ ̶̧̨̨̡̡̢̡̻̖̩̦̦̗̯͓̜̭͇͔͚̘̝̼̭̺̲͇̠̞͓̻̺̝͇̲͚̫̝̮̒̉͗͐͒̍͋̉̓͌͆̀̅̄͆̒͗͋̃̆͌̿̏͑̊̄̾͒̑̚̕͘͜͜͝͝͝ ̷̡̨̢̧̡̡͉̤̲̘̥̰̯̤̰̺̺͓̥̟̣͙̱͔̤͕̙̙͌͛̀̀͊̊́̈́̌̑̓͆̏̎͘͘͠ḩ̷̨̨̡̞̗̩̙͔̰̤̲̗̱͓̱͖͔̙̙̣̠̟̫̰̺̈͂̓̄̾͐͋̑̓́͂̋̓̒́͌̆̑̏́͛̔̓̅̽̂̈́̈́͘̚̕̕͜ ̵̧̨̟͙̰͔̳̮̬̪̱̝̠̟̬͕̯͔̤͈͉̥̦̙̺͇̻̳̾̅́͌̈́͋̿͜͠͠ͅȩ̸̛̦̰̖̻̲͚̩̗̯̖̜͍̼̠͎͈̦͕̖͇̦̩̞͈̤͎̺͎̭̪͖͋̂̾̎͋̏̇̈́̓̄̑͊̾͋͂̈̈͂̈́͂̊͋̽͘̚̚̚͘͜͜͝ ̸̡̢̨̛̛͔͉̦͎͓̤̥͔̖̪͈̲̯̪̞̬͖̤͙͓̦̠̙͖̏̒͌̽̽̃̀́̂́͗̒̊͠͝͝ͅr̸̙̙͔͕͍̤̼̜̺̩͍̭͚̬̤̘͍͓̤̹̿̔̊̉̃̍̋͐͋͆̄͌̌͆̏̔̌̓͒̈́̈̊̏̐̽͂̐̈́̿͂̃͌̌̒̈́̚̚̚͠ͅͅͅ ̶̡̘̝̻́̋̈́̔̔̾̂̓̀̀̂̆́̽̎̅̇͗́̌̔͂́̈́͆̓͋͠͠e̷̡̧̛͇̭̠̼̥̹̾͒̕




static and blackness and a series of sharp bangs - three - enough to shake the elevator and the makeshift omen camera - and a cutting in and out of view.


.̵̢̛̜̻̝͈̭̪͔̗̳́̒̋̓̒͊͘.̵͕̠̦̮͂́̏́͒͝.̴͍̱͍̎͋̇̒̽̓̈́̈́͆͋͐̊͌̇̚͝͝ ̴̧̛̯͔͙̰̭̺͎̄̓̏̔͋̾̀͌̆̅̒̋̐̓̀̈͘͝ͅ




.̵̡̧̢̨̬͉͉̪̫̱͎̮̎̈́̀̽́̎͋̀̏̀̏̎̋̀̐̇̽͠͝.̴̧̫͙̬̳͕̻̫̺͋͗͋̈́̋̿̾̂̈́̆͘͘͠ͅ.̴̢̧̛͉̙̗͔͕͉̬̞̭̫͙̦̻̤̦͕͚̋͋̿̌̆͆̇̈́̍̒̃̓̌͒͗̔̕̕͠͠ͅ.̸̡̢̬͎͈̟̥̠̹̖͔̼̼͔͙͔̘͔̻̺͚̒̈̿̎̓͜͝ͅ.̶̣̗̮̺̰̻͍̥̬͚͕̯́̓̈́͛͒͠.̸͉̹͕̲̦͓̱͍̲͕̤͇̣͚̣̝̟͙͍͔̅̒̆̃̐̓̌̈́̈͌̓͊̑̒̌̃̓͝.̷̢̛̛̛͙͙̰͇̳͕̩̈͑̾͊̔̂̔̎̆́̽̆̂̿̔̇͋̊̆̒.̴̙͔͙̹͇̫̠̟͔̏̚.̷̡͔̫͕̓̈́̊͐̒̓̑̿͛̽͊͐̽̇̉̌͝͝ͅ.̷̡̢̳̰͖͓̲̮̮̠̱̖̙̬̙̙̓͑̀̏̃́̅̐̈́̒͊͐͒̑̒̽̀̽͝͠͝͝.̴̢̺̝̟͔̦͉̞̮̳̘̻̳́͛͛͂͂͌.̸̢̙̲̻͍̠͍̺͎͕̰͉͔̯̞͇̬̒̀̈́̽̑̔̓̐̀̎̍̀̀̇͌͛͋̕͜͠.̷̧̯͔̭̻̦̹̪̹̰̥̌͗̈͐͗͛̿͂̀͠͝.̶̢̦̱͓̮͈͕͕̬̜͈̭̦͈̾͊͑͐̓͌̔̉̽͒̄̄̑̾͆͑͊͗͝͠.̷̛̩̗̫̀̀͑̑͊͊̇̍͛̀̈̓̾̆̕̚





.̵̨͖̝̯̩̀̉̋̊̕.̵̜͉̎̍̈́̀̚͝.̶̤̰͖̣̩̎̇̔͠


a quick blip of a hall before it gives into static before smoothing out into darkness and small bits of roving light from the omen's eyes.

a slightly out of breath whisper, and it's shadows and shapes; and if you've been in these vents (or any vents) it might be familiar. it's cramped. it's taken a while for him to stop hyperventilating - now he's just ...winded.]

Didn't get the first bit, but that's ---ah, that's probably why I'm up here and able to get this. Whatever that was, it's not up here.

[he's moving through, letting out a long exhale and trying not to think about the last time he was in a vent. so far, so good, no rushing sounds, no clickety clacking, nothing following him but the rat. the rat's not rattled. not really.]

Not a clue how I got there, but there wasn't where I am now. The short version is 'I was leaving a bookstore, and then I wasn't. Ended up in enemy territory, and if not for the sudden appearance of an elevator, ...outlook not so good.

So. Live from the air ducts of what looks to be an empty hospital with bunch of locked doors and no staff, we have a man with no plan other than to try and get the fuck out of here. Hall was was useless. Seemed like a bit of a stretch [HA] to try this shit again, but why not---

Do you hear that?

[there are indeed voices up ahead - and the closer he moves, the closer the omen moves - the easier they are to hear. (though none of it's easy to listen to.)]

░ąçɾìƒìçҽʂ ░░░░ ҍҽ ʍąժҽ be ░

էհҽ ░░░░░░░░ ìʂ ժҽçąվìղց

ҍҽƒօɾҽ ìէ ցҽէʂ ░░░ ░░ ░░░░


[the slow, careful shuffle of movement and then a steady fast advance of the camera, and a quick pan down through the grate for a rats' eye view of a woman with a badly mutilated throat and two ...monstrous companions. to anyone that has seen them before, they are recognizable as zealots. none of them look correct, and the woman looks sharply up - lips and teeth in her throat moving to form words that are hard to decipher - even through the omen:

░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ I̵̡͊t̶̻̔ ̷̞̈́s̶̝̏ĕ̴̘ę̵̎m̷̬̒s̴͑ͅ ̷̩̄ẗ̷̖h̴̡͑e̷̱̍ ̶̺̅p̴̳͗r̶̭̔o̶̹͆b̸̲͂l̵̻̉e̶̬̕m̸͕̎ ̷̜͊ḩ̴͑a̵̱͘s̶̜͊ ̷͚̂░░░░░░░░░░░░.̵̫͘ ̴͕̈́W̸̹͌ḙ̵̐ ̴̧̛w̷͇͌i̷̼̊ļ̸͘l̸̠͠ ̸͇̔n̶̪͂e̵̜͝e̶͎͝d̵̝̒ ̶̱͋ẗ̸̹́o̶̦̽ ̴͚͑
░░░░░░░░░░░ ̷̀͜s̶̘̚e̶̖̕ċ̷̠u̶͈̍r̸̕ͅi̷̱̓t̸̰̅y̵̼̓░░░░ ░░░░░░░░ ░░░░

[she reaches up and out and grasps what seems to be the air itself - a shimmer and a flash of light, a rush of dark smoke and the sounds of grinding, screaming metal, or a screaming man as the video cuts.

moments later:]


This.

This is familiar.

I know this one, but it's not where I started, or where I was headed.


[video again, a quick pan of the area around the gate from a very low view. the rat will stand on her hind legs to get a better angle before cutting the recording and scurrying into the shadows, and finally back into her sleeper.]

[The video opens up on Adaine, stood in front of a board with a map on it. The map is of Trench, but it's old and worn and brown. Still, she has helpfully marked the part of interest with a red X, over a temple in the Trenchwood.]

I think it's been a rough couple of months for us. We've had local assholes stabbing the ocean, we've had the ocean being really mad about that and blaming all of Trench for it because she's kind of an asshole too, there were a lot of murders, houses burned down, uh, been tossed into alternate universes where everything sucks - [She's maybe regretting her choices to bring that all up.] Anyway. One positive thing is that we've established a lot of good things in the last six months or so too. The Sanctuary, the Outpost, now the Academy.

I - and a few others - have a similar venture in mind. An archive where we can research and compile information about Trench, so that even if people disappear into the ocean it's not, you know, lost forever. To start with however...

[She points at the map, tapping on the location in question and bringing the Omni closer.]

A while ago - back in April - there was an expedition into a temple called 'The Temple of the Forgotten Mother'. We didn't get far, barely cleared out the entrance before we had to leave. But I've done a bit of research and there's a giant labyrinth of dungeons beneath it, and beyond that, it was the domain of a cult older than Trench as we know it that worshipped Mother Superior. [And, because she's a dramatic bitch, she smirks for emphasis.] Which brings me to the point.

We're going to put the archives - our archives - The Sleeper's Archives, right on the top level of her system of dungeons. [Objectively an insane idea BUT, consider... it would also be cool as hell.]

So basically, all I need is people who are interested in helping with research, clearing the top level of monsters and traps and treasures and warding away any influence from the lower levels. We'll be going deeper, but it'll take some time, so for now I'm only asking for help with the top level. We need excavators, people who are good at bringing others back from corruption, fighters, architects, investigators, seers, healers... If you think you can help, just let me know and we'll figure something out.

I have a request.

Well, a lot of requests. Tiny requests, for lots of people. Not necessarily just tiny people, though — tiny, tall, whatever. That is to say...any people can help. If you're a people? And you're a help? I would greatly appreciate that.

[From off screen, a voice that sounds like Tuck can be heard stage-whispering: "Tell them WHY..." ]

—Oh, right.

[Vyng clears his throat and puts on a pair of tiny-rimmed glasses to make himself at least a little dignified, and he continues.]



. . . You see, Sleepers. There is an artifact of...uh, great personal importance to myself. A relic, if you will, that bears the name of my Druidic family.

But a local has taken stewardship over this relic o' mine. They have offered to relinquish this relic into my custody — but! For a price. Namely, this list of assorted items that I'm attaching at the end of my message.

[With a quiet "this one, right here", he literally places a piece of paper over the camera. "Too close?" Vyng pulls the paper back. He holds it there for awhile. If anybody looks, they can make out the following list:]

( DONATIONS NEEDED, PLEASE & THANK YOU )

[From behind the paper, Vyng asks:]

How long do I have to keep holding this?

[. . . ]

Is this good? I think it's good.

[Eventually, though, a digital copy is included at the tail of this message, with a tiny handwritten note at the bottom:]

⅁N⅄Λ - oxox ¡¡ǝɔuɐʌpɐ uı ⅄⊥
ＴＹ 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝒹𝓋𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 ♥
x0xo - 𝓥𝔂𝓷𝓰

[ The feed opens to show two men in the Archives. Martin is tall, and stout, with a friendly if not slightly nervous expression as though he might be a little camera shy. Beside him, Jon Sims looks like an underfed wraith of a man: he's gaunt and exhausted, but at least he holds himself at ease for the first time in months. Those who spend time in the Archives have likely seen him in passing, and it's a shock to see him smiling.

He clears his throat and leans forward to address the camera. The feed speckles into static with the movement, distorting briefly around his eyes. ]

Hello. My name is Jonathan Sims, and I am joined by Martin Blackwood.

Hello! [ Martin lifts a hand to give a small wave to the camera. ]

We were both residents of Deerington, though our memories of the experience are... incomplete.

So we're asking people to come forward with their memories - either Deerington, or Trench, or even at home. Anything weird or supernatural that might help us get a better understanding of what’s happening here - or what might happen, I guess. And how to deal with it? There's a lot to be learned from our own experiences. And - and sometimes it just helps to talk about it?

[ This all sounds well and good, but Jon looks uneasy, frowning down at the sheaf of papers in his hands. He clears his throat and continues, more steadily: ]

Additionally, I have a warning to issue. There have been instances of... unusual books and artifacts being found throughout Trench.

They will probably have a weird effect on you, or the people around you, if you read them, or mess with them or anything. You might even know as soon as you see one that there’s something kind of... off about them?

If you encounter anything which strikes you as [ there's a twist of exasperation at this gross oversimplification: ] cursed, please alert myself or Martin immediately.

We've seen these kinds of things at home before, so we have loads of experience dealing with them. We can help. Just let us know and we'll be right there.

[ Jon looks directly at the camera again, and for a moment visual distortion swallows the feed: there is a shivering bloom of static and an uncanny intensity to his eyes, as though he is truly seeing you, the viewer, from the other side of town. You can make out Martin's nervous smile, and then it clicks off. ]

(( Permissions and info if you'd like to provide a spooky memory! Statements given via the network will not invoke the consequences described. It's safe... for now. ))

Out of curiosity, about how much virgin blood do you think is required to break the mask curse?

For those who have been or were interested in attending Ninjutsu and Taijutsu training, I am resuming classes now that my mind has returned to normal. For anyone who interacted with me last month, I apologize for my ... rough behaviors. I assure you I am still teaching, no matter what I said previously.

[ There's a pause where he might leave it at that, but he sighs and decides to make two more announcements. ]

Also, I should have said this back in July, but things were... complicated. Haruno Sakura is now Uchiha Sakura. Please be sure to remember this when addressing her by her family name.

Lastly: ... Is there... any place around here with even slightly decent ramen?

[ It's that idiot's birthday and this is the only way to honor him, clearly. ]

[Maul's doing a little better than he has been the past few months. At least he's not all corrupted into insanity like he was for a couple of weeks in July or about to breakdown after his video in June. Sharp-eyed viewers will notice he's got a new piece of jewelry. On the ring finger of his left hand, there's a black, sparkly wedding band made of Darkblood. Yep, Maul got hitched. But who would be crazy enough to marry the Zabrak Sith Lord? A question one can ask if they're feeling especially brave.]

Everyone always thinks they're the hero in their own story. And it's easy to justify that you are no matter what you do because you're the main character in your mind. No one ever wants to admit they're just one of the side characters or even the villain. And how do you even know when you've become the bad guy? It's easy to say what actions you undertake are for the greater good or at least something that will get you what you want. You keep telling yourself that until you look around one day and see the only monster around you is yourself.

[He leans forward.]

I am very fond of stories. So I'll tell you a story about a villain from my world and you can tell me one about a hero or villain from yours in return.

Once upon a time, there was a young man who had darkness in his heart. He coveted power amongst all else and to that end he committed many monstrous acts to gain it. When he saw that his family stood in his way, he killed them all without thought. Over the years, he gained power but it was never enough. Always, he wanted more. Eventually, he realized that no matter how much power he possessed, he would lose it all when he died. And so he sought to gain immortality.

He eventually found a Sith Lord, very old and wise, who told him he had discovered the secret to living forever. "Become my apprentice, do everything that I command, and I will teach you my secret," he told the man. And so he did. Day after day, year after year, he obeyed the Sith Lord, committing many more atrocities in his quest to gain immortality.

He would often ask the Sith Lord, "Am I ready?"

The response was always the same. "Not yet."

After many years the man, no longer as young as he once was, began to grow impatient. He went to his master. "I have done all that you asked. Teach me what you promised."

The Sith Lord merely laughed in his face. "You will never be ready to learn."

The man felt rage rise up within him. "Why not?"

"Because only a Sith who has no fear can conquer death. But you? You will always fear dying no matter what you do and so you will never master the secret of immortality," the Sith Lord told him with contempt.

The Sith apprentice was furious. He felt he had been lied to and so he waited. His master never slept, for he had seen the future and knew he would die in his sleep, but his apprentice was cunning. Eventually, he got his master drunk, and the Sith Lord finally fell asleep. So the apprentice took up his lightsabers, stabbing his master in his hearts, and killing him. Only then did his anger abate and he realized he still did not know the secret to living forever.

He would spend the rest of his life seeking it out and never finding it until the day he died, always shackled by his fear instead of facing it head on and conquering it instead. He used the power he'd acquired to create a vast empire that stretched throughout the entire galaxy but still it was not enough. Always he was afraid of what was to come at the end of his life. And when he finally died, betrayed by his own apprentice as usually happens with Sith Lords, it was done so screaming in fear as he realized he had failed in his lifelong ambition.

[He pauses for a moment, examining his claws without looking up.]

That was a true story by the way. It is called the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise. Sith Lords often have a dramatic way of doing things, especially when it comes to teaching their apprentices.