It smells damp, like greenery and grass. The moisture hangs in the air. It’s unusually tranquil, like the quiet before a storm. The plants, which have found their way into every exposed nook, explore broken stone structures of the ruins. There are It looks like a battle had long passed here, burned away and reclaimed. The clouds roll heavily, grey and stirring overhead, leaving everything without shadow.
There are trees with extending branches, broken pillars covered in moss, there are rose bushes (and if you look closely, they may be mingling with some lotuses) in the oddest of places between crumbled stone and enormous gnarled tree roots. Broken marble statues and stone walls reach through the greenery in feeble attempts to reclaim the wreckage. (Psst, inscriptions and carvings on the rubble is noticeable to the detail-oriented.)
The gentle rumble of thunder is in the distance, and the smell of ozone is in the air as a gentle welcome. This is a sacred place, made and remade over a millennia; you feel distinctly like you don’t belong here.
Among the occasional broken axe and fallen blade there’s a crater that holds a hammer. While everything else remains covered in plant life, the short-handled hammer is set head-down into the crater of broken stone. (There’s an inscription on it.) It’s not long before there’s a caw-caw and a bird bearing white and black markings comes to sit on the leather wrapped handle.
"Hello," he says, moving a pair of clawed bird feet down the hilt of the hammer. "Hello! Hello!" the words are abruptly followed by a flappy flap of the wings. "Don’t be stupid, you can’t stay here. This isn’t the place for you. You have to find your place. This is your mission, if you choose to accept it.
"The goal is important. Very important," the bird preens himself. "Put the pieces in motion. Complete the narrative. Win. That’s always been the goal."
There’s a single door to go through, and a bird looking at you as expectantly as a bird can, perched upon a hammer. The door is on an adjacent wall in the ruins, painted green and just a little off-center. The handle is a little short for anyone over standard shoulder-height. Atop it is a small window of stained glass in the fashion of a question mark.
It might be best to move on, there’s an anxiousness in the air.
[on one hand, wants to take a look around. on the other hand, following his gut has saved his life in the past. it's not that he thinks anything's going to try to kill him here, it's just--
that feeling of anxiousness is hard to shake.
gonna approach the bird and the hammer first, though, carefully so he doesn't scare it.]
[Ah, well, this seems more familiar than she'd like to think. The damned bird, all over again. There's something to be said for consistency, maybe: when he finds something he likes, it's hard to get him to let go.]
Your goal, perhaps. And what happens after?
[Even for living stories, the end is never really the end.]
[ this face as he gathers his bearings, wiping his face with his sleeve. first heart games, then LOKI's heart, and now a fucking talking bird.
this is such a great start. ]
An' what does he get from winning?
[ directed to the bird, though his eyes are also on the hammer. he's. not going to try to pick that up he knows what happened last time he tried to do that ]
It's like walking into everything fun. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, and there’s the scent of breakfast in the air. Eggs, pancakes and bacon waft into any willing nostrils. There's a sign neon sign on the glass that reads: "!notxorB ni eeffoc fo puc tseB" from where you’re standing. Outside is a vast desert, and in the distance there's a large, floating isle just above the horizon.
The floor is black and white, checkered, as if mimicking (badly) some retro-fifties style. Someone tried! At one of the far booths there is a baby duck quacking and settling on the table. The booths themselves are pastel blue, lining the walls, complete with mega cool metal trim. All of which have menus standing upright on the table.
Behind the spacious bar is a very wide man with a scraggly red beard wearing an apron. A small, feathered cap is upon his head which looks entirely too small for his body. He's singing jovially to himself as if no one else can hear him, the opening to the Friends television series. He doesn’t pause in his culinary pursuits and instead just bellows a hearty "hello" when the doorbell jingles.
Nestled in one of the booths in the corner there are two people. Some may recognize the dark-haired couple. The girl is casually sipping on a milkshake, as if the world around her hardly matters at all. She’s dressed in green, her hair tied up with small bones. Her magpie is perched neatly on her shoulder, only turning to stare unnervingly at whoever chooses to look. The boy is leaning into the corner of the booth, staring out the window as if he’s lost in thought. The magpie is held loosely in one of his arms, dozing. Did they even come here together? Well, they're the only two patrons in the diner.
The door with the framed question mark is still behind you.
[ no calm down Thorfinn there are more important things to deal with. tilts his head, more than a little confused by the floating words. (Glass? that's glass? you can use glass for that? THAT'S A WINDOW? YOU CAN PUT INK ON GIANT WINDOWS AND THE RAIN WILL NOT WASH IT AWAY??? he can't fucking read that though. how is he supposed to know it's backwards?) ]
[ immmmediately approaching the couple..... on his way, he takes a few steps only on the black checkers. then, only on the white. then he walks normally. ]
>Take a moment to read the backwards sign while the anger dies down. >Take another moment. >Such anger. >Much desire to smash things. >Where the hell is Broxton
An adventure in words lies before you! Well, kind of. Adventure in the form of books. So very many books. There’s the scent of musk and wood, and everywhere you look there’s shelves and shelves and towering shelves of books. Each shelf is placed at a different height and occasionally in a different kind of wood. Some are at awkward angles. The books themselves are as mismatched as the shelves. There are some old tomes with brightly colored novelty bookmarks, and there are other flimsy young adult novels with racey illustrations on the cover, pigeon-eared with their corners fanned out and curling. There are a few rolled scrolls here and there, some loose and others bound with cord. A general sense of unease lingers because of how much of a mess it all is, but an organized(?) one, or you feel like there's some sense to it. Some books shelved properly, others stacked on top of each other, barely standing. The library itself almost seems to go on forever, the shelves of books stacked up upon each other moving out, moving upward, at least forty high in almost physically impossible piles. It goes on so far that the shelves behind you and before you descend into shadow. The dimly lit lanterns and candles are trying, but there's only so many of them.
There are a few large, cushy looking chairs that you could sink into if you wanted to lose yourself in a book for a while. They're all ruby red supporting several mismatched patterns. Some are flannel, others made of jersey knit and old t-shirts, and others that made from the traditional leather. Settle for an interesting book? It’s quite comfy and warm here.
In the center of the chairs there is a wooden writing desk lit by candles.
There are a few moves you could make: The writing desk, the bowels of the library, or back out the door with the stained glass question mark.
… From the ceiling there’s the guttural caw of a magpie.
There’s are billows of smoke coiling into the air. The ring is burning. Aather is burning, and the scenery is indescribable, engulfed in flames. It could be the woods, it could be Camelot. Either way, it doesn’t matter because the heat is scorching and each breath you take is painful. The smoke is thick and flecks of ashen (paper—is it from paper?) tumble through the air with smoldering edges. They burn when they touch your skin. There’s ash beneath your feet, sticking to your clothing and your flesh. The heat is almost unbearable, desperate to consume everything around it. There’s a little voice in your head that tells you have to do something, you have to help.
In the dark sky where the smoke mingles with the clouds until the horizon has all but disappeared. There’s a harsh, but distant cry; four magpies circle above.
The door with the question mark is behind you, and fire is in front of you.
There’s a call from beyond the door, and as soon as it opens there’s the unified cries of an angry mob. The once tranquil garden has changed. Where it was once lush, green and quiet, it's now overrun by anger. The flowers that were once there are now trampled into the dirt, and the ruins are in a chaotic disarray of Asgardians and Personae, none of which can be placed. They seem blind to the door, as well as the sound of their own voices. Through the cries there are a few phrases that you can make out. "He released Surtur!" one says. "Lock him in the dungeons!" says another. "You should have left him dead!" someone shrieks. "It was his fault!" "Don't let him talk, he'll just lie!" it’s getting heated here. "God of lies!" "Thief!" "We trusted him and he betrayed us!" "He ruined our story!" "He ruined us!" Amid the crowd there’s a red-eyed pooch weaving through stamping feet and the forest of legs. Smoke is coming from the corner of his mouth. He keeps muttering "murder Loki, murder murder murder!"
There’s no Thor to protect anyone here, but there is a hammer still nestled in its crater. On top of it is a note.
You’re falling, and you can hear a voice. "Change or die," it says. "I would rather die than not change ..."
When you get up it’s like you’ve woken from a dream, and there's no one around you.
This is an odd room, isn’t it? A hidden, secret place. There are no walls, no doors, no windows. There’s curls of green-tinged flames coming from the floor, lifting and lazily coil around you, dispersed easily with a few waves of your hand. Someone has to set the ambiance, after all.
There's a golden pillar in front of you, the only anything in the room(?) Atop it there is a golden helmet, adorn with two curled horns. Luckily for you, your host doesn't seem to wish to keep you waiting.
A magpie flies and settles on the helm, flapping both wings in agitation.
There's a mutter of something about lies, but it gets lost in the darkness. Everything has closed inward around you. There's nothing to see in front of you, nothing behind you. There are no walls, no ceilings, and no floors, but the world feels like its pushing in around you, threatening to collapse. It's dark. It's cold. There’s no where to go. The door is gone. There's no escape.
This is extremity of what you’ve done. Satisfaction. Fear of satisfaction. There's no way out. Has the room gotten smaller? You can't move.
There's a voice in the darkness. It's someone you know.
[As if she should fear the cold. As if she should fear the dark. What are these things to the moment in which you feel yourself cease to be. To Hel with fear. Her life has never had an escape.]
I would take care who you accuse of some nebulous responsibility for an unnamed act.
The floor itself is checkerboard, the booth a pale blue. There’s the scent of eggs and bacon in the air, warm and comforting. A menu stands upright on the table. There are only two people here, one is a man with a winged helmet and a bright red cape. He's at the bar with a stein of mead munching on a huge plate of bacon.
Across from you in the booth is Loki.
"Phew! That was so close! Oh, yes. Hello." He's wearing his normal ruby-red hoodie, and leaning back in the booth. "Sorry. I had to save you from myself. It gets a little difficult in here sometimes." He points with a slice of bacon before putting it in his mouth.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
THE RUINGARDEN
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Ah - Find my place? I - Of course I will! But first, this place is...
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[on one hand, wants to take a look around. on the other hand, following his gut has saved his life in the past. it's not that he thinks anything's going to try to kill him here, it's just--
that feeling of anxiousness is hard to shake.
gonna approach the bird and the hammer first, though, carefully so he doesn't scare it.]
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Is completing the narrative always winning...?
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Your goal, perhaps. And what happens after?
[Even for living stories, the end is never really the end.]
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If you say my place is in the trash, I'm gonna eat you later.
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this is such a great start. ]
An' what does he get from winning?
[ directed to the bird, though his eyes are also on the hammer. he's. not going to try to pick that up he knows what happened last time he tried to do that ]
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>look at the hammer
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THE DINER
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Where am I?
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Hey?
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[ no calm down Thorfinn there are more important things to deal with. tilts his head, more than a little confused by the floating words. (Glass? that's glass? you can use glass for that? THAT'S A WINDOW? YOU CAN PUT INK ON GIANT WINDOWS AND THE RAIN WILL NOT WASH IT AWAY??? he can't fucking read that though. how is he supposed to know it's backwards?) ]
[ immmmediately approaching the couple..... on his way, he takes a few steps only on the black checkers. then, only on the white. then he walks normally. ]
[ why do they have birds though ]
Hey.
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Hey, I need some help.
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>Take another moment.
>Such anger.
>Much desire to smash things.
>Where the hell is Broxton
>Approach the dark haired couple.
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THE LIBRARY
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Do you have anything to say?
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THE RING
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[fire extinguishers?]
Can you ask the birds above what we need to do?
[she's getting down on the ground in order to avoid the smoke at the moment.]
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THE RUINGARDEN REMIX
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HIDDEN IN THE TEXT
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Hmph... Where the hell am I now?
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THIS IS YOUR FAULT
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I would take care who you accuse of some nebulous responsibility for an unnamed act.
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THE DINER REMIX
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Idiot!
[Kick him hard in the shins underneath the table.
Although given how hard Leah can kick, it's certainly not as strong as her full-blown wrath.]
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