(no subject)

[starfelled]

A mist settles in over the monastery.

Is it morning? Night? Who can say? Today, the day feels endless. The sun is nowhere to be seen — or had it been at all? Instead, a curious green glow engulfs Garreg Mach, like an eternal twilight settling in. Time seems to be paused almost, though the wildlife in and around the area continues to act as though nothing is wrong. As though this is perfectly normal. As though it is natural for the skies to be dark, with not a single star in sight, and for the sun to be forgotten in the mist that lingers. The paths are at least lit by small orbs of light, fireflies flitting about.

However, should one come into contact with one of those fireflies, a memory of the past will be projected for all in the close vicinity to see. Joyous occasions, tragic events — they don't seem to discern one way or another. Perhaps it would be best to watch your step for now, though.

Of course, after lingering for about a day, the strange ambience will fade into what appears to be a normal night at Garreg Mach. It's as if nothing had happened at all. Did it? Or was it all simply a shared hallucination?

[ ● MEMSHARE POST. Coming into contact with the fireflies will share a memory of your character's with those around them. You can top-level with a memory to start out or have people tag you and determine it then, whatever. I don't make the rules (except I do and I say yolo). Have fun with it!
● Open posts like this one are flipping to a two week schedule instead of a weekly one.
● Because of the above, the last bit is there for people who'd maybe like to play out aftermath threads later on but don't want to wait for a new post or make a new one.
● Settings have been slightly updated. ]

Comments

grimly tosses mine down as well, knowing i won... 😬😬😬

[outsideer]

[ At least once, who wouldn't want to watch a horse's memory? Claude truly cannot fathom someone having no interest whatsoever. Deprived of such, Marianne's relief proves an acceptable replacement.

And he'd suspected she would understand, smiling back. Though they hadn't been close before she left to join Teach's class, she'd changed classes relatively late in the year -- something Claude had attributed more to Hilda then himself. And they hadn't needed to share a house to have spoken at the stables, where Claude had observed her greater comfort with the beasts, particularly Dorte.

Dorte, who now makes himself known. As Marianne greets her old friend, Claude wonders, idly: could there be more than one Dorte? Is this the Dorte she'd known? Would she be able to discern otherwise?

Tactful as always, Claude's about to initiate that line of questioning, before allowing himself to be distracted by his impugned honor. Gathering from her response what the horse may or may not have said, Claude makes his assumption and frowns at him. ]

Hey now, Dorte, you never asked! I'll have you know, I did bring you something.

[ Reaching to his pocket, maintaining his pout of indignation. Foolish, really, both to be so distracted and to invite the attention of an animal covered in fireflies. Dorte moves, quick to lip the noa fruit out of his hand the moment it pops free of pocket, and the fireflies --

Huh, same memory. He forgets to be concerned about what it exposes for the first few seconds of it, instead taking mental note that the first test, this second encounter with a firefly, had produced the same result.

But as the boy's enthusiasm for the books at the stall begins to show in that broad smile, as the crowd thickens around him, as a man approaches in the bustle -- Claude remembers Marianne. Claude's eyes flick to her. She's certainly one of the least objectionable people, but "least objectionable" is a far, far cry from welcome. Gods, not much makes him self-conscious or awkward anymore, and he's got enough practice with self-control, but this. This.

Waving a hand, dismissive and hopefully attention-drawing, through the air. ]

This might be a long one. It's -- not that interesting.

[ Hard sell, with the fight breaking out in the memory. The boy's fury, the man's spat disdain. ]