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synodiporia_ooc2018-12-29 06:06 pm
powersthatbe) wrote in synodiporia_ooc2018-12-29 06:06 pm
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Test Drive #26
Welcome to the Synodiporia Test Drive Meme! Below the cuts there are two new prompts, and here are the prompts from previous test-drives, which you’re still welcome to use in this post. When you comment, be sure you specify what prompt you want to play with, and please put up your own threadstarter—it makes for a much more friendly environment than a forest of bare toplevels! OCs are especially welcome! Please take a quick look at our Directory & familiarize yourself with the concept and setting of the game before you jump in.
Our upcoming app round will run from January 1-8. Our next Jaunt will be Market of the Vanities, a political-ish thriller in a Purgatory still reeling from the Travelers’ last visit there. The accompanying walkabout, Brockengard, is a talking-animals adventure a la Redwall.
Prompt #66 is set in Liminal Space, reflecting a recent player-driven plot event.
Prompt #67 is a preview of events that may come to pass in the upcoming jaunt (or maybe not, who knows).
Prompt #66
Liminal Space is a flowered field under a clear sky - perfectly pleasant, if rimed with frost. It’s also a bowling alley. The lanes are made of flattened, lacquered holly; the balls and pins are flowers encased in ice; the ball returns are lined with pine garlands, and spit the balls out of lions’ heads. Knocked-over pins are reset by invisible machines.
Just behind the lanes is a figure-eight of more lacquered holly, lined with both doors to various Traveler-created rooms, and tables and chairs that look like stone but feel like vinyl and plastic to the touch.
And then there’s the shoe rental area.
Drawn upon the floor in white chalk is the outline of a fifteen-foot figure, who as far as can be told by the silhouette seems to be mostly a cloak with two pairs of limbs. At the foot of the outlined figure is a door. Imposing, gothic, dark walnut with wailing faces patterned in the wood grain, a sword, wand, trumpet, and crown are engraved on the panels. Crime scene tape decorates it in arcs and ruffles the way a string of fairy lights might usually, and the locking mechanism is a clock, with multiple ticking hands moving different directions and speed on ratchet-mounted dials that can be slid out or pressed in.
If any Traveler should touch the door and fail to open it, or step within the chalk outline, the sky overhead immediately darkens, as though a storm is imminent. Balls bowled down the lanes while the sky is darkened produce actual thunder; strikes call up lightning, sparking upward from the ground at a random point along the edge of the chalk outline. This lasts for a couple of minutes before the sky clears and the more peaceful mood reasserts itself.
Prompt #67
Every now and again in the Market of Tech Duinn, an angel or a demon oversteps their bounds where the Old Man of the Market can hear. Even in Purgatory, each is used to wielding supreme moral authority, and of course, they have the military power, while the inhabitants of Purgatory don’t.
The old man’s response is always the same. “By the power of Dhuosnos invested in Tech Duinn, by the Compact of Purgatory and the law of Desmesnes, I deprive you of the communion of the market and the fellowship of the hearth, I exclude you and all your brethren of the Tiers and Choirs of the Freedom of the Market, I deliver you into the Asphodel Meadows to wander unroofed and far from home, from this moment to the next verse of the Eschaton! So be it! So be it! So mote it be!”
With the tolling of a bell, the slamming shut of a book, and the dashing of a candle against the ground, wind carries his commands - for every angel or demon in the market, a page of parchment with letters writ upon it in fire flies to them, interposing between them and the center of the market, and pushing out steadily in a ring until every angel or demon is left beyond the outermost ring of tents, banished until the next day.
There’s something both ominous and comic about the way the pages herd them and pursue them from the middle of their conversations and transactions - but to the natives of the Market, half-fallen angels of the Sithen, ageless and magically undying once-human Immortali, or grey-fleshed lost souls of the Peregrines, there’s another meaning, and another mad scramble.
In that hubbub and commotion, it’s an absolute guarantee that at least some of the banished angels and demons dropped something valuable. Whether it be a burning sword, a forbidden text with teeth between its covers, a flower made of glass, a fruit of paradise, a vial of Sin or Virtue bottled for sale and spell, or any other rare and magical thing, it’s fair game, and the ragged opportunists of the Market miss very few chances to enrich themselves.
Afterwards, they might wander to the outskirts of the Market - to resume their conversations with angels and demons, maybe, or maybe to sell them back their own lost goods at a mark-up.
Our upcoming app round will run from January 1-8. Our next Jaunt will be Market of the Vanities, a political-ish thriller in a Purgatory still reeling from the Travelers’ last visit there. The accompanying walkabout, Brockengard, is a talking-animals adventure a la Redwall.
Prompt #66 is set in Liminal Space, reflecting a recent player-driven plot event.
Prompt #67 is a preview of events that may come to pass in the upcoming jaunt (or maybe not, who knows).
Prompt #66
Liminal Space is a flowered field under a clear sky - perfectly pleasant, if rimed with frost. It’s also a bowling alley. The lanes are made of flattened, lacquered holly; the balls and pins are flowers encased in ice; the ball returns are lined with pine garlands, and spit the balls out of lions’ heads. Knocked-over pins are reset by invisible machines.
Just behind the lanes is a figure-eight of more lacquered holly, lined with both doors to various Traveler-created rooms, and tables and chairs that look like stone but feel like vinyl and plastic to the touch.
And then there’s the shoe rental area.
Drawn upon the floor in white chalk is the outline of a fifteen-foot figure, who as far as can be told by the silhouette seems to be mostly a cloak with two pairs of limbs. At the foot of the outlined figure is a door. Imposing, gothic, dark walnut with wailing faces patterned in the wood grain, a sword, wand, trumpet, and crown are engraved on the panels. Crime scene tape decorates it in arcs and ruffles the way a string of fairy lights might usually, and the locking mechanism is a clock, with multiple ticking hands moving different directions and speed on ratchet-mounted dials that can be slid out or pressed in.
If any Traveler should touch the door and fail to open it, or step within the chalk outline, the sky overhead immediately darkens, as though a storm is imminent. Balls bowled down the lanes while the sky is darkened produce actual thunder; strikes call up lightning, sparking upward from the ground at a random point along the edge of the chalk outline. This lasts for a couple of minutes before the sky clears and the more peaceful mood reasserts itself.
Prompt #67
Every now and again in the Market of Tech Duinn, an angel or a demon oversteps their bounds where the Old Man of the Market can hear. Even in Purgatory, each is used to wielding supreme moral authority, and of course, they have the military power, while the inhabitants of Purgatory don’t.
The old man’s response is always the same. “By the power of Dhuosnos invested in Tech Duinn, by the Compact of Purgatory and the law of Desmesnes, I deprive you of the communion of the market and the fellowship of the hearth, I exclude you and all your brethren of the Tiers and Choirs of the Freedom of the Market, I deliver you into the Asphodel Meadows to wander unroofed and far from home, from this moment to the next verse of the Eschaton! So be it! So be it! So mote it be!”
With the tolling of a bell, the slamming shut of a book, and the dashing of a candle against the ground, wind carries his commands - for every angel or demon in the market, a page of parchment with letters writ upon it in fire flies to them, interposing between them and the center of the market, and pushing out steadily in a ring until every angel or demon is left beyond the outermost ring of tents, banished until the next day.
There’s something both ominous and comic about the way the pages herd them and pursue them from the middle of their conversations and transactions - but to the natives of the Market, half-fallen angels of the Sithen, ageless and magically undying once-human Immortali, or grey-fleshed lost souls of the Peregrines, there’s another meaning, and another mad scramble.
In that hubbub and commotion, it’s an absolute guarantee that at least some of the banished angels and demons dropped something valuable. Whether it be a burning sword, a forbidden text with teeth between its covers, a flower made of glass, a fruit of paradise, a vial of Sin or Virtue bottled for sale and spell, or any other rare and magical thing, it’s fair game, and the ragged opportunists of the Market miss very few chances to enrich themselves.
Afterwards, they might wander to the outskirts of the Market - to resume their conversations with angels and demons, maybe, or maybe to sell them back their own lost goods at a mark-up.
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Was this some sort of fake out or trick? And what exactly did she do?? He actually felt something there for a moment!! Unfortunately, he face was still hurting, and it was hard to exactly concentrate through that. "Hey, what the hell?!"
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"What is the meaning of this?" Ignis demands.
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She groans at Ignis’ voice, moving both hands to block her ears and to just breathe, any input seemingly too much just right this second.
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He's creating, firming up, and then using it by almost smashing it over Noct's head, except it goes into a shower of sparkles instead. Only weight matters here, so he can go straight for the "expensive" stuff. Especially since it's Noct.
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"I'll give you a hint, and this one's for free, not to tell someone from Hydaelyn that you can summon Garuda at your beck and call, Highness, when for all intents and purposes you look like you're from Hydaelyn. Nald's fucking balls," she reaches to pat her bruised ribs, slowly calling her white magic to the tips of her fingers and sending it forth, her grimace lessening as the magic slowly revitalizes the tissues there.
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"I don't even know what the fuck a Hydaelyn is! And how the hell do you know about my title?!" Did she like mind read him or something? Or was that wierd tug from earlier actually a thing to be concerned about.
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Ignis knows enough, mostly from asking questions of Felih, that he can put two and two together--the gods she knows are dangerous, and the ones they know of are allies. (The healing being similar to Felih's magic really only makes that easier to determine.) The question of how she knows Noct's title, however, makes him stay very close to his king--and he rests a hand on Noct's shoulder in a calming gesture.
He's letting the two of them talk for a moment, ready to intervene--and his eyes are squarely on Pinya. With his worry about Noct gone, his emotions slide away. Ignis is ready to act against her if she makes another move towards Noct, even though he's certain the fight is over.
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"I know your title, Noct, because it was shown to me. The Echo tends to relay information when emotions run high, and I cannot control when it happens. I-" she's sorry for his loss? She doesn't think he needs to know exactly how much was revealed just yet. "I apologise for the intrusion. To put you on equal footing, I am Piñara, Scion of the Seventh Dawn. But you'll learn that titles don't matter here for better or for worse," she stretches her side and arms, making sure that everything's back in place. She's going to have to go and find something or someone to fight now, too much anger resurfacing. This won't do.
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Because of the crystal. Because of him being king and every other stupid thing dumped on him by his bloodline. As for the Echo..."You mean you can just fucking look into my mind? You just SAW things?!"
Iggy's hand was holding him back, but he was still pissed.
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"Piñara is telling the truth," Ignis will use that name, thank you. "That particular process is involuntary; I've heard similar from another Warrior of Light." He looks to Piñara. "The gods of Eos, whom we were created in the image of, and their messengers share some names with the primals of Hydaelyn, but they protect Eos, and summoning them does not drain Eos of aether--it only drains Noct and not permanently."
A pause. "I can see how this misunderstanding happened...."
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“My entire job is finding Primals and killing them, and for you to have just come out with that? Regardless, it was a gross exaggeration on my part and for that, I apologise,” she manages. “That your Asrals share the same name and likeness is a coincidence that I don’t know I want to explore,” Though she knows it’ll be bugging her for approximately forever. This is the second such world to carry likeness.
“Which does beg the question, just how did you get that Garb? It’s too close to be anything but genuine. Those patterns are wide-spread in Eorzea, especially.”
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"Like I've been saying all day, a girl with cat ears somehow got into our world and gave it to me as a reward for beating Garuda. YOUR Garuda," Noct said, rather flatly. "I'm 'blessed' enough by the presence of the astrals, I don't need yours on top of that."
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Ignis is quiet again now that he's settled most of the confusion--although Noct needed that explanation more than Pinya did, it seems. He'll step in again if he needs to.
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"I am thankful that Garuda is the only one that made it across to your Realm, she at least is one of the less powerful Primals as of late. It must have been your link to the Astrals that kept you from being tempered. One who is already claimed by a God cannot be bound to another so easily." It's definitely not as simple as that, but oh well. She dusts herself off, looking at how Noct is having to be held back.
"You look like you want to talk about this with your fists, Sire," a grin blooms across her face. "That can be arranged should you wish. And, if your friend allows," she nods to Ignis.
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He couldn't really care less about this 'allegan' technology, as the whole god thing was kind of preoccupying him. "I'm sure I would've loved to fight your world's version of Ifrit, he's already a jackass in our world."
At least that's what all the legends say. Despite being chosen, he really didn't have much desire for either him or Luna to talk to the fire god.
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But he'll finally move his hand from Noct's shoulder, fairly certain that Noct won't burst into action without warning. He has some sensibilities. Sometimes Noct simply chooses not to use them.
Otherwise, he's letting this conversation simply continue.
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"As for your friends, they are under your protection are they not? You share with them your power, allow them to partake of your magic. That is a bond to yourself stronger than those that have been Tempered."
"And yeah, Ifrit's an Ass. Susano, though, he's pretty great. I feel bad when we have to put him down because he's a riot to fight," she grins, a little bit more manic than she intended to, but oh well.