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Entry tags:
- !event,
- archer: ray gillette,
- archer: sterling archer,
- attack on titan: erwin smith,
- attack on titan: levi ackerman,
- bbc dracula: agatha van helsing,
- dc comics: bruce wayne,
- dceu: diana prince,
- fate/grand order: kiara sessyoin,
- fate/grand order: leonardo da vinci,
- ffxiv: takame kesi,
- good omens: aziraphale,
- good omens: crowley,
- great library: christopher wolfe,
- jjba: okuyasu nijimura,
- kipo: kipo oak,
- marvel comics: miguel o'hara,
- original character: daylight vis lornlit,
- original character: vasiliy y ardankin,
- persona 4: shinjiro aragaki,
- supernatural: dean winchester,
- tangled: cassandra,
- tangled: rapunzel,
- tasm: peter parker,
- the gifted: lorna dane,
- the last of us: ellie,
- the untamed: huaisang nie,
- undertale: papyrus,
- undertale: sans,
- world of warcraft: anduin wrynn,
- world of warcraft: wrathion
DECEMBER 2020 EVENT - PART 1
CHAPTER ONE, PART 1: A HOLLY JOLLY HOLIDAY
Do you hear what I hear?
DECEMBER 5th | A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE | THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...
DECEMBER 5th
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Don’t you hate to be the last to know? Out of the windows of your brand new homes, you spot families trotting along in their happy, nuclear units. Stores and restaurants have closed early—on main street, where jingle bells hang from every door, the only souls to be seen are heading toward the town hall, where wreaths hang around the stone lions’ necks. A stage, awash in string lighting, has been erected with three chairs sitting empty behind a podium. Policemen with their smiles and baby-blues stand guard before it; they too are not allowed beyond the velvet ropes. Twenty feet tall—near to reaching the tip-top of the clock tower—a mass is hidden by black tarps. This is the most guarded of all, ringed by no less than twelve junior policemen standing vigil around the clock. At sundown, you start to see what’s to come. As the crowd swells, bundled in their coats and scarves, the ladies with silk scarves drawn around their perfectly coiffed hairstyles, three figures take to the stage: |
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Chief of Police, Dale Harding, who must constantly slip away and bend his ear to listen to one of his boys, giving orders with long sighs, firm words, and grumbles as he takes his seat again. Occasionally one sees a flash of silver moving from his lapel up to his lips, but surely that must only be his policeman’s badge that he kisses, because he loves his town so very, very much! The Happy Homes Association—or at least, their junior representative. Her bright and shining pin of office sits hidden behind the tremendous fruit basket poised upon her lap, where green and scarlet cellophane cannot quite hide the fruitcake inside the way it does her name. How does she keep her teeth so white and her lipstick so clean and red? Subscribe to their newsletter and read Cathy’s Cosmetic Can-Dos! column to find out! |
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Mayor Phillip Clarke—well, Phil to his friends. He takes his place at the podium, his top hat inky black, leather gloves oiled and bright, and draws all the town’s breathless attention. He taps the microphone. Once—the crowd inhales—twice—their eyes shine as they look up—three times— “Gooooood evening, Santa Rosita!” The crowd goes wild as Clarke bellows. Eventually, he raises both arms and gestures for them to quiet down. “I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out, especially on a school night!” Like the admonishing parent, he wags a knowing finger at several teens in the crowd. “Believe you me, on a night like this, I know how tempting it is to stay home and curl up on the couch with a good book. And,” he adds with a wink to a woman in the front of the crowd, “maybe some of Margie's famous hot chocolate.” Laughter ripples through the crowd. Again, Clarke patiently waits until they’re finished before continuing, “But that's exactly what makes our little town so special. No matter the time, every day of the week there's always someone out there who will sacrifice something for the better of the community. Be it the energy to get this terrific tree set up—” he gestures to the tree, “—the patience to string twenty yards of lights up—which, I might add, have been generously donated by our pals at Honeybees—or even just time.” Clarke’s tone turns solemn, but his face remains fixed in a winning smile. “Santa Rosita isn't just a town. It's a family. Each and every one of you out here tonight is a valued member. Even all you new faces out there!” He points to several newcomers in the crowd in what might almost be an accusatory manner if not for the smile on his face. “Don't think I can't see you! Tonight, you have become part of that family. Santa Rosita is your home now. It's through our traditions that we endure, and it's my sincerest wish that you, all of you, will join together with us and help us keep them alive for years to come.” The crowd applauds, everyone turning to face the new families. As Harding takes a swig from a flask he pulls out of his pocket and the HHA representative continues to beam at the audience with her too-white smile, Clarke fully turns to the tree and pumps his fist in the air, riling the crowd back up. “And now, without further ado, let's RING. IN. THE HOLIDAYS!” |
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As his words come to a close, at last the tarp is pulled away—revealing twenty feet of pure, polished, brilliant... ...aluminium christmas tree. Quick as the busy bees they are, the Happy Homes Association is there to announce that you can buy both table-sized and home-use duplicates for your own homes! The cost is $8 for the little ones and $18.50 for the big trees—get your wallets ready! As the crowd stampedes toward their own tiny and/or six-foot silver replicas, the three figures on the stage are hurried away. The HHA representative presents their gift basket to the Mayor. He kisses her on both cheeks, rubbing his belly in anticipation of the deliciousness to come, and hurries on. Chief Harding takes the rear, casting back a sour look, and before you have a chance to see if the three could answer any questions, the stage is empty again. ...well, get in line! You want those trees too, don’t you? |
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A MYSTERIOUS VILLAGE
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The days are getting colder and the entire town seems to be getting into the holiday spirit, between the tree lighting ceremony and the decorations your neighbors are putting up. But something seems to want you to get into the Christmas spirit as well—you haven’t done anything out of the ordinary, but when you open the door, you’re met by a burst of frigid air carrying the scents of gingerbread and peppermint on it. Stepping through the door, you are not in Santa Rosita any more. Well, technically, you are; you’re just down by Rose Garden Park, before the Old Growth starts. But it’s not where you thought you were going, and it doesn’t resemble the normal streets of suburbia now. You’ve stepped into a charming Christmas village, packed with all sorts of fun winter activities and sights to see! The ground is covered in pure white snow that never seems to melt into slush, and the sounds of high, sweet jingle bells fill the air as a team of reindeer haul a sleigh past. Maybe that’s Santa’s sleigh they’re pulling? |
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As you walk into the village, a red pole demands your attention, placed in such a way that no one can miss it. A letter is attached to it: The people were smiling; there was nary a frown! They entered my village, all brimming with cheer And knew that quite soon, old St. Nick would be here There's skating and snowmen and light shows galore There's even a place to make wreaths for your door! But somewhere inside there's a mailbox to find And Santa may bring you what's most on your mind… As the letter suggests, the village is full of hustle and bustle. Santa’s elves—Robbies decked out in red and green costumes with matching tights and jingle bell boots—are everywhere, making sure that there’s always plenty of holiday treats available for visitors to eat and drink. The nearby pond is iced over and the elf manning the ice skate exchange station seems to be able to guess your perfect size with a glance, while reindeer racing courses have been set up encircling the village. All of the buildings and many of the trees have been lined with lights, warm and bright, and there are stations set up where visitors can make garlands or wreaths to take back with them to the real world. The real world? Yes, of course—that boring place with work and school and vacuuming! Though the door you initially walked through may have turned into a station for making gingerbread houses, you can hoof it back to your home in Shadyside at any time. The public library is just that way, past the baseball diamond! Any time you open a door, however, you run a risk of finding that it leads back to the village, where the elves are waiting to ensure you enjoy your visit. You can try to close the door and open it again, but who knows if your luck has changed? The organizers of the village seem to be most insistent that you come and enjoy yourself—flyers are all around town, stuffed in your mailbox, and pinned on bulletin boards. Though some signs on lampposts seem as though they’ve been torn down in a huff, you still can spot them on Main Street: “Visit Santa Rosita’s Very Own Christmas Village!” And visit it you will. |
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While the elves are happy to welcome visitors to their village, they also have to work. Christmas toys don’t build themselves, you know! The elves will point out Santa’s Workshop to you, where you can buy freshly made candy canes, charming ornaments for your new aluminum Christmas trees (you did buy one from the Happy Homes Association, didn’t you?), and other sundries and stocking stuffers. There’s even a German-style bar in the back serving hot chocolate and mulled wine—non-alcoholic, of course; this is a family event. Just outside of the workshop’s entrance is a mailbox, its post swirled red and white and wrapped in garlands. A small desk sits next to the mailbox with a stack of stationery, envelopes pre-addressed to Santa Claus at the North Pole, and pens on top. At the top of the stationery, beside cutesy illustrations of hippos and children missing their front teeth, are the words, “What I want most for Christmas is…” Why not write Santa a letter? What have you got to lose? |
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THE MAYOR HAS INVITED YOU...
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...to the annual Christmas gala, beginning at 4:00 pm sharp at Santa Rosita’s stately town hall!
The invitation appears in your mailbox with just enough time for you to gather all your family and go shopping, because you certainly want to look your best. You simply must. The who’s who of the town will be there, all wearing their finest velvet dresses and shined black shoes. Be warned that the dress code will be strictly enforced by the Happy Home Association—only red and green allowed, or else it simply isn’t festive. Men in bright red or green suits - women sporting taffeta skirts in complementing shades - pinned corsages and matching handbags - no detail left untouched! You wouldn’t want to be caught standing out from the crowd, would you? In the Mayor’s presence? That might be a bad idea. |
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But the holidays do get the better of us sometimes, don’t they? The HHA understands, and if on the day of the party you have found yourself without a red or green garment, they have some loaners to wear. If you’ll simply follow Mrs. Jones down to the coat room, she can show you some options.
Tables are laid out with food and drink aplenty. Even the sandwich loaf has made its effort to match the decor, as red poinsettias and holly berries dot the windows (careful children—they’re poisonous) and rich green pines occupy every corner. Move outside of the room and you’ll find nothing more than locked and darkened offices, with the occasional policemen and night guards shaking their fingers at you to go back and enjoy the party. This is a night to be merry and drink some mocktails, not to go through the filing! Up by the fine wood paneling and brilliant metal tree stands the mayor himself. Looking dashing as Santa Claus, a cluster of parents flock nearby beaming as their child gets their photo taken with Mayor Clarke! That’s certainly going in the Christmas newsletter! Each of them has a little present—perfectly wrapped, just see Grandma’s Gift Wrapping Guide in this month’s HHA newsletter—to give to the Mayor for all his hard work this year. You didn’t think that stack of presents by Santa’s chair was for him to pass out, did you? |
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Between music sets (graciously played by the Frederick Loren High School marching band), the Mayor stands—the hall falls silent, all the little cups and plates still in jolly hands. He has a speech to give you all, you fine citizens, faces old and new: “Ho-ho-hi there, Santa Rosita! And how are we enjoying ourselves tonight? I see some of our new families were able to make it out tonight—is that Richard O’Reilly and the missus?” Using a hand to shade his eyes, Clarke squints into the throng of townspeople. “And Jim Astin with Lucy and little Susie! Wow. Isn’t that something?” In the back of the room, Chief Harding pours himself a glass of punch, takes a sip, then reaches into his suit jacket for his flask. |
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“Now, in my house,” Clarke continues, “we have a rule not to open any presents until Christmas Day, but with all the ones I've gotten tonight, it's just too darn tempting.” Reaching down, he takes a box from the pile of gifts at his feet. “I think this one's a tackle box, and I'm pretty sure this—” he reaches down for another smaller box, “—is that electric razor I’ve had my eye on.” He shakes the box, chuckling, as the rest of the crowd joins him. “But let's get serious for a moment.” Clarke’s expression turns thoughtful. “Although getting a truckload of Christmas presents is swell, do you want to know what the greatest gift you've given me is?” He pauses performatively, waiting for an answer from the crowd that never comes. “The greatest gift you've all given me... is letting me serve you.” In the back, Harding ditches the punch cup and just drinks straight from the flask. “I'm honored to be here with you all tonight,” Clarke continues proudly, “just I am honored to be able to wake up every morning, look in the mirror and tell myself that I... am your mayor. Which is why I want to give something back to you. How many of you have already visited Santa's little village?” There’s a round of cheering in the front of the audience from the many children in attendance with their parents. Clarke opens his arms wide. “My idea! I decided that if I can't bring Santa Rosita to the North Pole, I'm going to bring the North Pole to Santa Rosita. Enjoy yourselves! Saint Nick's got a lot of work to do before Christmas. So be good, don’t pout, and for goodness sake—have fun!” The clapping threatens to take down the garlands hung from chandeliers. ”A fine orator!” “Reminds me of the war, when we heard Churchill over the radio. Why, Clarke gives him a run for his money, ha ha ha!” A delightful HHA elf comes to replenish the pickle tree on the appetizer table, and the covers of Bing Crosby carry you away into the night. Remember to stay until 9:00 pm, when the Santa Rosita Children’s Choir will start caroling! |
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OOC INFO
Welcome to the first part of the event! You can use this entry to top-level for the event, but feel free to use the log and network communities as well.
A few things to keep in mind: Firstly, there is no return portal back into town once your character is teleported into the Christmas village. They will have to walk back on foot or get lucky and catch a ride from a helpful citizen.
Secondly, please be mindful of how your character interacts with the setting. While characters are welcome to explore the town and ask questions, Santa Rosita is still a happy little suburb in the 1960s, where appearances matter and acting too out of line from commonly accepted societal norms can come with their own unique consequences. We do not intend to punish players for their curiosity, but be aware that the townsfolk may not be so understanding of wanton disrespect for their ways!
And thirdly, the NPCs will not be available for interactions. At the party, Harding will leave early and Clarke will leave to handle other business. Santa does have a schedule to keep, after all.
Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.
Remember--Part 2 of this event is coming December 15th!
A few things to keep in mind: Firstly, there is no return portal back into town once your character is teleported into the Christmas village. They will have to walk back on foot or get lucky and catch a ride from a helpful citizen.
Secondly, please be mindful of how your character interacts with the setting. While characters are welcome to explore the town and ask questions, Santa Rosita is still a happy little suburb in the 1960s, where appearances matter and acting too out of line from commonly accepted societal norms can come with their own unique consequences. We do not intend to punish players for their curiosity, but be aware that the townsfolk may not be so understanding of wanton disrespect for their ways!
And thirdly, the NPCs will not be available for interactions. At the party, Harding will leave early and Clarke will leave to handle other business. Santa does have a schedule to keep, after all.
Any questions can go in our FAQ thread below. Try to check and see if your question has already been answered on the plotting thread first here.
Remember--Part 2 of this event is coming December 15th!
— waking up. (FIVE YEARS LATER SORRY)
in a sense.
waking up in a whole new bed, in a whole new (actual) house is — it's new. automatically, then, he finds himself asking for lyla.
(silence.) ]
—Lyla. [ again, more forcefully and—
and again, it's punctuated by silence — shocking great — although he thinks he can hear the faint sound of movement from another area of the house. quickly, he weighs up his options: investigate, stay where he is, or—
he eyes the window, just for a moment. climbing out briefly seems like his best course of action until, quite suddenly, he's aware of how abso-shocking-lutely blurry the photos on the wall next to the window are; and he realises, too, how totally unsensitive to light he is and—
right. sure. great. wonderful. no spider abilities.
(new option: possibly dream, possibly nightmare.)
grabbing some clothes from the wardrobe, and his glasses (thanks) — neatly placed next to a glass of water — from the bedside table, he mentally notes that the window option is still there for when he wants to dramatically throw himself out of it in a fit of pique.
(there was something about falling in dreams, right?)
on the landing, he pauses at the top of stairs — the photos are weird, okay — and that's not even touching on the decor, and he thinks, just for a moment, that his subconscious must be on some wild journey to be imagining—
(it reminds him, every so slightly, of one or two of the old twencen movies xina had made him watch, which just makes the knot in his stomach tighten a little more, like he can't decide if he's annoyed, angry, or worried.
or all three.)
—and then he hears a what the fuck from downstairs and whilst he doesn't exactly rush towards the voice, he moves a little quicker, through the lounge, into the kitchen — what the shock year is it supposed to be? — and—
it's the kid from the photos.
shock.
alright, miguel. be calm. be calming. be— ]
—Morning. [ that's maybe not it. ]
no subject
This is America, right? This newspaper's in English, and he can somehow understand it, so it has to be the work of a Stand. And now there's this guy-
No. It's the man from the pictures. The sicko who posed Okuyasu like a doll for his twisted need for family pictures. This guy is way too suspicious to ignore.
Okuyasu swivels on his heel, dropping the newspaper, and holds his fist tightly to the side.]
Who are you, you sick bastard?!
no subject
whilst some of those traits have lessened and tempered as he's become an adult — through recent necessity more than anything else — it doesn't mean that he's developed a new-found shine for relating to people; it means, too, that he can't quite help the flicker of distaste that crosses his features; doesn't quite get as far as attempting to disguise the eye-roll or the inhale of breath that precludes an irritated sigh that doesn't quite emerge. ]
—Miguel, [ he answers, tersely and pointedly, attention sliding from okuyasu's face to the balled-up fist at his side and back again; a breath of pause and he lifts a hand, in an action that's intended to be a degree of placating, before waving a touch dismissively. ]
Look, [ he half-starts, before abruptly stopping. look what? miguel's not about to entirely dismiss the idea that this is all some kind of dream, but he's also not entirely on-board with the concept of getting punched in his dream. should he just run with the idea of this being his house? the grocery list on the fridge is in his handwriting after all—. ] I didn't—, [ he gestures vaguely and loosely at okuyasu, more than happy for okuyasu to fill in any blanks himself — miguel's a degree of certain that if this isn't a dream, his blanks are going to be quite different to the kids'. ]
This isn't my house. [ is how he opts to inelegantly finish: if it's not an answer okuyasu is prepared to accept, that's fine, he can roll with it, pretend he was joking, something. it wouldn't be the first time. ]
no subject
[His older brother included. Plus all of those murderers he hears about on the news.]
I swear, if you did somethin' to Josuke or- [Something's off. He can't feel his spirit split into a ghostly form. Okuyasu dares to glance back, where The Hand has to be out by now. Calling it should be simple.
But the space behind him is empty.
Sure, if Miguel wasn't a Stand user, he wouldn't be able to see it and feel threatened, but that would've been the best way to make sure he wasn't lying. And now?
Okuyasu forgets about Miguel and swipes at the air.] Huh? It's supposed to come out by now! Wh...what did you do to my Stand?!
no subject
I'm in the photos— [ is what he starts to say, but then okuyasu says something about a josuke (what?) and then he swipes at the air, vainly, and as far as miguel can see, with utter futility and mild ineptitude. (was he trying to hit miguel?).
he visibly pauses, just for a second, stilling a touch in an attempt to process one, what okuyasu had tried to do; and two, how he should answer the question. what emerges as his first, immediate answer, then, is a short— ] —Uh. [ beat; a loose hand wave at okuyasu. ] You are standing. [ u alright pal. ] And ... whatever's supposed to come out, you can keep it.
Look, I just woke up here. [ it's not meant as a platitude so much as a vague 'this isn't what I was expecting either', although miguel's not convinced it's going to win okuyasu over. ] And if I was a smart criminal, [ he emphasises the words slowly, a little testily, ] I wouldn't be loitering in a house where I could be easily identified.
no subject
But now, he's pressing his fists against each other to totally focus on himself. Nothing is coming. No magic power. He's so screwed.
He faces Miguel again, this time with an expression of anger mixed with worry.]
I know I'm standin', I'm asking about my Stand! How do you explain me not bein' able to summon if it you don't have some kind of power to suppress, huh?
[He is definitely not winning Okuyasu's trust anytime soon, but it's better safe than sorry.]
no subject
he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, then: ]
I don't know. If it helps, I don't think you're completely— [ ridiculous? nah. probably not the best word. ] —wrong, but whatever your — 'Stand' is and whatever problems you're having with it, that's nothing to do with me. It sounds like something you should be asking a doctor about.
no subject
[Wait, if he's coming up with stupid advice, maybe he doesn't know what a Stand is?
Okuyasu relaxes his stance - only a little - and imagines what his brother would do in this situation. The answer immediately comes as "beat him up and possibly try to stab him," so he moves onto "what would Josuke do?"]
Okay, so maybe you're tellin' the truth. I still don't know where we are or if this newspaper is real or not.
no subject
well, the lack of lyla and the lack of anything spider-man related.
if it was a dream or a hallucination, he doesn't think he'd make up an angry japanese kid, it'd just be his mother, maybe with a side of xina for flavour. outside of that, he doesn't have any strict ideas or answers, nothing major beyond: "well, if the last two years of my life have taught me anything, it's that this is apparently just another day in the life of, not sure what that says for you."
he lifts a shoulder in a loose shrug; then, a flat suggestion— ] Time travel.
no subject
[He crosses his arms; that much is obvious. Okuyasu's knowledge of America covers New York, California, and Hawaii. He can agree that this doesn't look like any of the cities he's seen in movies.]
You're not from the 60's, huh. 1999?
[Because of course they're all from the same era. If this world is fake, then they all just have to get out and go back home.]
no subject
his knowledge — as much as it can be called that — of the twentieth century extends as far as xina's obsession with the period; and the minimal overview he'd received at school, given the lack of assured historical facts.
so there's a momentary pause followed by a— ] Looking forward to the millennium? [ was it exciting? wasn't the millennium bug a thing they worried about back then? ]
no subject
[First Mikitaka trying to fool them thinking he's a legit alien and now this guy?]
Where's your cybenetic enhancements, then? You even talk like a regular dude. [And now he's getting into Miguel's face, attempting to discern if he's lying simply by intimidating him.] It's not even close to New Year's, why would I already be excited for next year?
no subject
[ beat. ]
And I don't know, I thought the millennium was supposed to be a big deal, [ he adds with a shrug. it had been a vague attempt at conversation more than anything, and he hadn't really, truly be interested in the answer. ]
no subject
Well, yeah, its pretty cool, but it's summer. I'm pretty sure all the stores will have discounts and all these celebrations once the weather gets colder. [Also he he's been busy with readjusting to a normal life to actually think about those articles about computers. There's bills and serial killers to deal with.]
Why, did something happen in 2000?
no subject
sorry, pal. ]
Nah. [ beat. ] Just your average end-of-the-century fretting.
So, now we've got past the finger-pointing, what did you say your name was?
no subject
[Still sounds suspicious, but 2000 is a pretty important number. He'd have to see what the stores and temples are doing to celebrate.]
Fine. I'm Okuyasu Nijimura. Morioh, Japan.
[He's not happy with the only other person who can help, but they have to escape this place first.]
no subject
which is one way of saying: it doesn't help miguel. ]
Right. [ momentary pause; consideration; then— ] What's the last thing you remember? [ or: do they have anything in common? ]
no subject
[Unless someone was watching him from the shadows. It always starts like this: a normal day, suddenly thrown into chaos when a Stand user makes themselves known.]
You?