citylogs | OPEN + catch-all for December

Entry tags:

OPEN + catch-all for December

WHO: (

featheradrift) & You!
WHAT: Open post & Catch all
WHERE: Various locations
WHEN: All of December (but the prompts happen early Dec)
WARNINGS: Mentions of child death in the exhibit prompt

i. the city's machinations

[ Understanding the city, the experiments and their kidnappers has always been at the forefront of the Wanderer's priorities. He's spent all of his free time exploring the entire city, trying to find information where he can. There's both so much and so little to cover—though the overall size of the city is smaller than Sumeru, it is far, far more packed with shops, facilities and apartments. Buildings extended into the sky, standing by their lonesome, but clustered together in groups. It's dizzying to look up and see the sky boxed in by the drab buildings. It's nothing like Sumeru at all.

But he knows patience, and he knows thoroughness. He was once a schemer in the shadows, and it's that part of him, the Balladeer, that demands to know all. Then there's the nameless drifter. That part of him is calmed by the purpose, of having a direction, instead of drifting aimlessly. So he diligently explores every nook and cranny, every shop and restaurant, trying to understand the scope of resources everyone was working with, and trying to familiarize himself with the city's strange architecture. He notes specialty stores unique places, stores with goods that are rare, anything that might be useful in the future, whether for his interactions with other inhabitants of the city, or to combat their kidnappers.

It's only once he has a solid understanding of the city as a whole that he decides to finally tackle the unique structures within the city. The buildings where experiments had taken place in the past. He's experienced the draw of the art installation, and the way it twists and turns and traps people, and he isn't keen to walk into such places unprepared. But now, he's prepared to handle anything that may come at him, so it's with only a small amount of trepidation that he steps into the Science Discovery Center.

Almost immediately, he ends up wandering into the office space of the Discovery Center, which is rife with documents and information about the building's day-to-day operations, but nothing particularly special. Not until he gets to the director's office, and his curiosity is piqued by how spotless it is.

Anyone will be able to walk in on the Wanderer making a mess of the office, pulling out files and trying to understand what he can of its contents. ]

ii. the past is a canvas for the future

[ Eventually, his investigation takes him to the museum, which closely reminds him of the art installation in its choice of exhibitions and display of items. But he's confirmed that the building hasn't twisted to prevent him from leaving, and it seems that it is otherwise benign, which he supposes is a blessing, if gods could even bless this city.

But it's a thought he has far too soon, as he walks into left wing of the museum, and he's immediately hit with his past all at once. Not every item on display was related to him, but... it's unmistakable, the ones that are. How could he not know his own past, one that he had forgotten and then painstakingly recovered and made his own once more, because it could not be erased, his sins. They would forever exist in the history of Teyvat, no matter how he tries to reverse them.

Anyone who steps into the exhibit will notice the Wanderer lingering in front of one of several displays, eyes distant, and even melancholic as he stares at the art piece.

a. A beautifully carved statue of a goddess. It's been positioned in such a way against the light of the exhibit that long shadows are cast across the goddess's face.

b. A bloodied nagamaki, with its half-melted pieces arranged in what can only be assumed to be an artistic way atop a platform.

c. A canvas depicting the burning of a Japanese-styled shack, and a child artistically depicted in the center of the flaming mass, burning along with the house.

d. A canvas covered almost entirely in red paint, rendered to look like blood. It's hard to see what the painting is depicting, but there are purple and black shadows, shattered swords and lightning somewhere in that mess. On top of it all is what seems to be a very stylized chess piece.

e. A large canvas depicting a lone blond warrior with a fairy by their side standing against the descent of a mad god.

f. A canvas depicting a towering blue tree, and a familiar drifter in front, dressed in purple and black fading away with a grin on his face.

g. A beautiful painting of a large celebration in a lush, foliage covered city, with a small child as the focal point. Unlike the other exhibits, which are cold and harsh, this one clearly exudes warmth and love. ]

iii. even a puppet tires of dancing

[ In the aftermath of the fairy tales, he hadn't the latitude to explore the newly opened media store. It had taken a while to process all the emotions that had been agitated by the scenarios, to process his own actions and reactions, and take stock of his relationship with those involved.

Though his body would never tire, need food or sleep, the same could not be said for his mind. He was soft, even through hundreds of years of pain and anger. His true nature had been twisted and warped by his experiences, but it could never be truly changed.

Summed up, this meant that he was tired. Tired in a way he has not felt in a long time, where his body felt sluggish, and his thoughts proceeded at the speed of a hydro slime inching its way across a field. He could admit that he wasn't functioning at full capacity, but he tried to continue on as if nothing was wrong, because he was a puppet, and puppets do not tire.

But he could welcome a moment of reprieve, so after visiting the media store and discovering its textbooks, he grabbed a few and proceed to find a cozy nook in the park of the First District. Though he was wary of the park's calming effects, it was something he sorely desired, and so he welcomed the blanket on his emotions. He could take this time to learn how advanced this world was in various fields of research.

Anyone who comes upon him will find the drifter seated on a bench with his head tilted down, the textbook loose in his hands, almost threatening to fall out of his lap. It seems that he's sleeping. ]

iv. wildcard

Feel free to throw up a wildcard starter or plot with me at

Tenkomi!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[So the flames were his, as she thought. He burned it all down, erasing the experience, erasing the evidence of the boy.

(And granting this unnamed boy a funeral pyre. Because humans in Proper Human History do not just crumble away into dust, do they?)

It isn't like she doesn't understand. Betrayal hurts so much. Loss, too, is so painful. Sometimes, it feels like it would be best to never gain anything ever again, just so there'd be no risk of losing it. And yet...]

That sounds... very lonely.

[To never trust a single soul, ever again... how lonesome.]

I wanted to burn with it all.

[ He hadn't been wanted by his mother. He had been betrayed by the people of Tatarasuna. And then, he'd lost his family. A naive puppet like him hadn't been able to bear with the pain. ]

But I couldn't.

[ Because he was made in the image of a god, and no god would be harmed by a mere flame. ]

It's a wretched existence, to be unable to die.

[ Twice now, he's tried, and twice, he's failed. Though he finds more peace with his life now than he ever did before, there will always be a part of him that wishes he did not exist. He doesn't think that part will ever go away. ]

[So that's how lonely it was. It was so lonely that he wished he just didn't exist at all. That he wished he could just disappear. Wipe himself from the slate of time and memory.

(It frightens her a little, just how much that resonates with her.)

But she doesn't say that. Instead, she smiles. There's nothing she can say to really help, she knows; he's been through his fair share of trials and suffering, and has come to terms in his own way.

But even so... she has to say, with all of the honesty she possesses:]

I know it's really selfish of me, but... I'm glad you weren't able to die.

I'm glad that because of that, we were able to meet here, in this place. I'm really glad we met!

[It's selfish, of course. Her gratitude at being able to meet him here is about her, not about his pain or what he's gone through. But still... even if he can never trust again, and even if he'd rather not be here... she's still grateful.]

[ Of course she would look at the bright side of things, wouldn't she? Normally, he would scoff at her and her optimism—did she know what a mess he made afterward? Deceived by Dottore, he would go on to destroy the Raiden Gokaiden and ruin so many lives. Then, he would try to become a god, and take the place of someone far more deserving of the seat of Archon. He is nothing of worth, and nothing could change that.

But he does not find her comment irritating, surprisingly. It doesn't claw at him, the idea that she likes his presence. He knows that, really, he hasn't been trying to push her away lately. He's been nice, and helpful to her, even.

Perhaps it's because he, too, appreciates her presence. It's an equal trade. He can live with that. ]

...you're not too annoying either.

[ Yeah, that's what he's going to say to Altria's sentiment. ]

[And at that, she beams. Not too annoying? She'd take that even if she couldn't see the sentiment that lies beneath. But because she can, she knows full well that he thinks higher of her than he'd say.

What more can she ask for, in that sense?

She's grateful.]

... Thank you for telling me about this. And about him.

[...]

I know... that you said he didn't have a name. Was he never given one?

[At all? By anyone?]

[ There's a smoldering in his chest, knowing that someone else now knew the story of him and the nameless child. It's not just the Traveler and Nahida who bear witness to his past now. ]

...no. I never wanted for one, and neither did he.

[ It had just been the two of them. Names weren't needed, for they would only ever call for the other. ]

[... Right.]

I see...

[For faeries, a name is a purpose, as she told him before. They are one and the same, and losing their name is one of the worst things that can happen to them.

But if they are the same, then... isn't it enough for her to simply call him "his family"?]

I see. Okay then. [That's what she'll do.] I'll just remember him as your family, then.

[ Unlike them, that nameless child is human. Just remembering him as the nameless puppet's family is more than enough. It's really all that matters in the end, now that he no longer lives. That he existed once, and someone knows. ]

It's enough.

[ That comes out small, smaller than normal. And the compulsion to stay here and speak further of the incident is gone too, so he steps away from the painting, drops his hand and turns to the rest of the exhibit. ]

Have you seen anything you recognize here?

[There's a flicker of her expression, maybe something a little like panic, before she manages to slap a strained smile over it.

She doesn't want to see it.

She hasn't found it, but she doesn't want to see it. She's not as brave as him. She doesn't want to see her past memories slapped onto a canvas for everyone to see. Didn't she just go through this--]

[She straightens and smiles, and laughs a little, even, if weakly.]

I haven't found anything like that yet. [She hasn't been looking.]

There are so many hallways of artwork, I think I was starting to get a little lost when I found you.

[ He sees the waver in her expression, the panic and the strained smile, and decides not to push it. Ignores the tiny vindictive part of him who cries that it's unfair he has to expose his own past to the world and she won't even reciprocate—he refuses to let the shards of his broken soul marr her.

There's still a compulsion to stay in the exhibit, to explain another part of his past to her. He knows what he must do, for them to leave. ]

Come.

[ There's something he can show to her, that he thinks she would like.

He leads her to a painting of a celebration in a lush city, a young girl the center of it all. It is a warm, beautiful painting, but especially heartwarming is the expression on the girl's face. It is pure elation, like she can't believe she's finally seeing this.

He doesn't say anything, letting Altria form an opinion without his input, but if she glances at the drifter, she'll find a rare soft expression on his face. ]

[He's so kind. Still, even now--always. When she's overwhelmed with panic by the idea of her past painted across the walls for everyone to see, he guides her away. He doesn't push, even though she was so nosy, even though she asked him so many questions about his own.

But even so, even knowing how selfish this is, she's relieved.

(She doesn't know she's not going to get out of this that easily, but it's fine. That's for later.)

Wanderer leads her to another painting, and she follows. The painting's tone is so different--the striking contrast of the red of the flames giving way to lush greens is only further emphasized by the happiness on the face of the girl. He said... he'd never trust again. That he didn't want any relationships like that ever again.

But this girl is so happy in his memories, and when she looks over at him... so is he, isn't he?

She's never seen that look on his face.]

... Who is she?

She's...

[ It's a loaded question. Who is she, to him? She's... his warden. She's his boss. She's someone he tried to kill. She's someone whose position he tried to steal. She should have killed him. She should have left him for dead. She had his life in her hands and she chose—

To spare him.

She's using him. But also, she's not. She cares for him, though he cannot fathom why. She does so much to try to help him, and every day, he finds himself in further debt to her. It's unfair. What he has cannot possibly match what she gives so freely.

She's— ]

...Lesser Lord Kusanali. The Archon of Sumeru. The God of Wisdom.

[Honestly, for once, she's grateful for the eyes she was born with. Faerie Britain is a land without gods, and she has only very recently begun to understand what one is--but the depth of the emotions that he holds behind those words tell her so much more than she could ever glean just from what he calls her.

The god of wisdom doesn't mean too much to someone who was born in a godless land.

But someone who can bring that sort of expression out of someone who had decided they were finished with trusting other people... that sort of person is someone special, she can't help but think.]

She must be pretty amazing! I've never heard you talk about anyone like that before...

So she must be one-of-a-kind! [and not even just because she's a god.]

[ Once again, she's far too perceptive for the klutz that she is. He hasn't said anything revealing, but she sees so easily the sentiment he carries for Nahida. It's almost disconcerting, but... It's fine. She looks more cheerful now, so his plan worked. That's what mattered. ]

She's— [ he cuts himself off. He was about to retort with a criticism like he usually does. But that's not really what he wants to say here. He reaches out to the painting again. ]

—never celebrated her birthday before.

[ And that's what this painting is. A wish that she have a most beautiful birthday celebration. Not a memory. A hope for the future. ]

[Ah... so that's what it is. That's why she looks so awed, so joyful. How wonderful, Altria things, to be acknowledged in such a way, after being dismissed and ignored for so long. How wonderful, to celebrate her birthday in such a way.]

... She looks so happy.

[... So if this has never happened, then...]

This is your wish for her, right?

[To celebrate her birthday. To be loved and acknowledged, treasured as she clearly deserves.

(A nameless boy, who was given a family by someone who also had no name.)

How selfless.]

Then... when you get back, you definitely have to make it the best birthday you possibly can!

[ It's strange, to be so open and honest. Vulnerable, a part of him screams, you'll be hurt. Stabbed in the back once more, you foolish little puppet, haven't you learned?

He ignores that. Let him be the fool for once. He chooses this knowingly. But he doesn't respond to Altria, only nodding in assent. Instead, what he says is: ]

You must have happy memories too.

[ He allows his gaze to flicker to the other paintings in the exhibit. She'll know what he means. That he hopes it's the happy ones on display, not the ones she fears. ]

[Her own gaze slowly slides down the hall as well. Probably, her paintings and pieces of art are that way, since she came from the other direction and didn't see anything.

Probably, if they just start walking that way, they'll find something.

But a happy memory? For her, that's like trying to find a needle in a haystack. She doesn't want to do this, and she doesn't want to disappoint him. She doesn't want to repay his honesty and openness with lies and silence of her own. As ever, all of the things she wants... just can't coexist.

She takes a deep breath, and starts to walk, trusting that he'll follow, trusting he'll know that's her answer.

The paintings don't all look bad. There are seemingly pleasant ones interspersed amongst ones that seem to clearly be nothing good.

But she passes them by with single-minded determination, as if afraid that by looking at them, even glancing at them, she'll be struck by the same candidness that he was with his.

The one she stops in front of may feel somewhat familiar, in the end. The painting depicts a homey, very lived in smithy, small--but every tool is well-maintained, and every piece within it is made with clear skill. This one gives her pause, and she finds she can't walk past it, even if she tried.]

Edited 2023-12-04 22:20 (UTC)

[ She walks forward with determination, but with fear as well. She's afraid to see what might be hers, and he doesn't fault her for it. Many of the paintings lining the walls are not pleasant ones. It's as if they've deliberately picked all the terrible memories to display, because that would be the most provocative. Since she doesn't look, he doesn't know what's hers, but he does not say a word, following along in silence.

The one she finally stops in front of is, from what he can tell, a natural painting of a smithy. There are no artistic choices colouring the sentiment one way or the other, but clearly, the place held meaning to her.

He waits for a moment, and then, knowing that she would be fighting the same compulsion he did, opts to speak up. ]

A forge... how nostalgic.

[She is. She's wrestling with the way that this place is trying to compel her to spill her guts. She's already decided she'll tell him, but the fact that it is trying to force her to do so is just making her want to dig her heels in out of spite.

Thankfully, he speaks first, while she's wrestling with herself, and she takes a deep breath in, and slowly lets it out.

Right. It's fine. Who cares what this place is doing. She's already decided for herself.]

Really?

[... She wants to know more about that, about him, but she can't ask right now. He's made a quiet request, and she's here to fulfill it.]

This is... Grandpa Smithy's forge. Well... that's what he wanted me to call him, anyway. His name was actually Ector.

He always told me to get out, and once he threw a hammer at my head, but...

[She kept coming back.

And--]

He taught me a lot. He always let me stay in the smithy with him, no matter what he said. And he let me watch while he made the most beautiful of things every day.

[ Her words bring back memories of his own. Good ones, that he rarely associates with Tatarasuna nowadays. But he still remembers the day he was taken in by Katsuragi, taught the basics of human life, and all the time he spent watching the smiths forge swords... He thinks he understands the fondness Altria must feel for this place. ]

You were happy then, weren't you?

[ Because he was happy then, too. He feels a connection to Altria—one he hasn't felt in a while. If she was happy then, then she would understand him. ]

[That, she doesn't even have to think about. That answer comes easily, immediately.]

Yes! Being with Grandpa Ector was the best. I wanted to stay with him forever in his forge, and be his apprentice, and forget about the outside world.

... I wanted to stay.

[And it was never, ever meant to be.]

[ This, he understands all too well. He'd wanted to stay too. But unlike him, it seemed she had been aware that it could not last. She seemed burdened by something great and heavy. A purpose, maybe. Her fate. ]

But there's always something, or someone out there who decides otherwise. It's unfair, isn't it.

[ They're the same, the two of them. They've never gotten what they wanted. ]

[She wants to stop there. She wants to spill her guts, too. She wants more validation, more of him saying exactly what she wants to hear, while she can tell that he means every single world.

It's unfair.

It's cruel. Why did it have to be her? Why did it have to be Ector? Why couldn't she have just stayed past her 16th year? Once she turned 17, she'd no longer be eligible to be the Child of Prophecy.

She knows it's the room, this place, compelling her--but his understanding is so sincere, too, that it breaks down that stubborn need to never look back. After all, how can she avoid looking back when it's right in front of her?]

... He was... once one of the Queen's guard. The faeries of my village were scared of him because of that. They were... honestly afraid. I was the only one he trusted, so...

["The Child of Prophecy should do this for us. If you really are the Child of Prophecy, then..."]

... They sent me to kill him.

[She stares at the painting, at the forge, and reaches out as if to touch--before she tugs her hand back. She really doesn't deserve to, after all.]

But I loved Grandpa Smithy's forge. [How could she ever kill him? Child of Prophecy or not. Even if they'd kill her for it in return, how could she do it?]

[ So this, too, ends in tragedy. No matter what happens next, it is not an ending she wanted, he can tell.

He closes his eyes to give her privacy, and to contain his own feelings. They are so similar, it hurts. The pain of his past—he's wished it on others before, but—he would have never wished it on her.

It's really not fair. It's not fair at all. ]

What did you do?

[ He knows she can't stop, so he prompts her to keep going. The only thing he can do is listen to her and witness her pain. ]

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CW: suicidal ideation

cw: suicidal ideation

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