agogelogs | all this energy calling me

all this energy calling me

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Welcome home, nerds.
WHEN? Outside time and space, in the aether between dimensions.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

TOUCH BASE;

backfill armed services echelon
COST re-appropriated vehicle 854A-5.2

read the base setting infopage

DEPARTING FRANCE

The order comes out the second day after the Tuileries is sacked:

PACK UP, GET READY TO MOVE OUT. WE'VE DONE ALL WE CAN HERE.

DEPLOYMENT: BASE. WE NEED TO RESTOCK. BE PREPARED FOR MORE TRANSFERS ON ARRIVAL.

STAY SAFE. TIME-STEP EXPECTED TO BEGIN WITHIN THE HOUR. FOR THOSE OF YOU NEW TO COST: FIND A SECLUDED SPOT, AND TRY NOT TO EAT ANYTHING BEFORE THE JUMP.

The Time-Step

The transfer begins, and it starts like a vibrating heat on the collar bone, not painful, not to start with. Just a hum of sensation. But the vibration spreads. Veteran COST soldiers often refer to this phenomena as 'the buzz'. The sensation builds, feeling not unlike standing near a great engine, or the wind rattling the branches of a great tree. There is long a moment of motion sickness, and one cannot always be sure if it is you that is shaking from the inside out, or the world that is shaking you from the outside in. It may just be better to close your eyes against the growing nausea as the world blurs out of focus. A star shines in the distance. You may hear the faint rustling of leaves. Some swear they hear voices in this moment, indistinct words echoing off nothingness. Some swear they feel a touch of the divine; the eyes of the eternal look down upon you. Ancient bones rattle just out of earshot, cold and brittle. Or maybe it's an illusion brought on by powerful technology grafted into your skin.

One thing is for sure: One moment you are here, and the next, you are not.

Nausea is commonly accompanied by this shift. One moment, you're in the cold of France. The next, you're in a temperature regulated hallway, looking not unlike a very poorly put together space station. Droids rush up and down the long hallway, fixing broken bits of machinery or just chattering with each other. Crows sit on high ledges, looking down, watching.

(For those of you who just apped in and didn't participate in the TDM, you'll appear alongside your comrades now, standing in this long hallway filled with droids and crows and men and women in clothing from 18th century France. Of course, you'll be wearing the minimal COST athletic issued underwear, and holding whatever one item you were allowed to bring. Surprise!)

At the end of the hall is a long table with heaps of used clothing on it. The sizes and styles vary, along with color and detail (AKA none look exactly like the linked pics, they're just a baseline, use your ~imagination~). One thing's for certain, all the clothing has been used before, with holes darned and worn edges. They're all clean, though, and each bears a single patch with the words 'KNOW YOUR RIGHTS, THE FUTURE IS UNWRITTEN' and 'COST sewn into the side.

They're not exactly high fashion, but they might be more comfortable than the late 18th century digs you're still wearing, if you showed up in France. Or, you know, the underwear.

Meet the Drill Sergeant

There is the echoing sound of hooves, and a strange creature emerges from a nearby room: a centaur. He smiles kindly, happy to see you've arrived. He has a significant limp in his back left leg, causing his hoof-beats to pitch an irregular rhythm as he walks slowly through the hall.

"Hello, all!" His voice is kind, but it's pitched to carry. "You may know me as Sergeant-- I am in technicality a drill sergeant. You may call me Chiron, if you wish, though I'm to understand some may know others with the same name." He laughs, amused. "In any case, welcome home. It is not much, but we have tried to make it hospitable for you in your time here. Your room assignments have been uploaded onto your BCEs, along with some technological upgrades we've been testing out. There are a few prototypes and experiments you may find in your rooms as well. Our agents are..." He looks up at the crows. "We are a curious people."

He looks over to the table stacked with clothing. "Please pick out what suits you, and make adjustments as needed. If you have any complaints, and wish to change your rooming situation, your username, anything of that nature, please send me a request. I am also known in some capacity as a trainer-"

One of the crows caws, and it sounds almost sarcastic.

Sergeant Chiron ignores it. "Hm. If you wish for me to make a training regiment for you, to better your skill in this organization, please let me know. But for now: I am to understand your last mission was... tumultuous. Please, rest and acclimate yourself to BASE."

He turns to leave, before stopping-- "And please be kind to the crows. They remember slights."

The crows' cawing sounds like laughter.

HOTSPOTS

There's been some technical difficulty since the prognosticators had their little meltdown. Coolant is in short supply, and some of the corridors of BASE are a little warmer than others. Pleasantly warm. Comfortably so, like walking through a sunbeam. In these hotspots, it feels comfortable and snug.

Characters walking through them will feel the urge to lie down and rest, maybe take a quick little nap.

Sleeping in these spots will cause unsettling or confusing dreams, but not nightmares. Dreams in these hotspots-- and sleeping in these hotspots will never be dreamless-- will be hard to remember upon waking, but they seemed very... strange. Almost as though you were intruding on something important but private.

Yet you can't quite remember it when you wake.

If you're clever and watchful, you'll notice the crows avoid these areas, so you can avoid them as well before you're seized by the urge to lie down and nap.

Particularly watchful characters may notice the hotspots are growing in size and number as the days wear on.

(More information about these and the forthcoming December plot will be coming in an infopost on the 12th, but if you have any questions now, feel free to ask here!)

read the base setting infopage

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

i.
[After the sun-blasted heat of Jerusalem, the sodden war-camps on the French front, and the crawling sprawl of pre-industrial Paris, Ashitaka had wondered many times if the overwhelming sense of culture shock would at some point wear off. Even the buzzing feeling of temporal displacement that occurred when COST set the device embedded at his collarbone to set them in another given point in space-time was beginning to feel at least like something he could prepare for, though not quite yet something he could weather without wear (the nausea still persisted for a few minutes before he could feel hale again). But leaving Earth itself for something so completely removed, an iron vessel in the middle of a sea of undetermined time, was something he was not prepared for. The hollow sound of metal beneath his feet as he walked about was deeply unsettling, as was the harsh, unnatural lighting, the strange patterns of heat and cold throughout.

At least in other lands and other times, he could feel the earth beneath his feet; it was a single constant he could depend on as everything around him shifted and changed. Ashitaka was not claustrophobic, but the constrained nature of every aspect of his ship began to wear on him. He tries to keep himself moving, memorizing the layout, trying to learn through observation.

Which leads him to following some of the dactyl droids around. He doesn't address them to give them orders, instead finding a small group of TechDact droids and following them for a short while through some corridors, watching as they repaired small leaks in pipes and planes and otherwise performed menial maintenance.

It's in a corridor leading to the main foyer that he comes to a realization, watching the small group of automatons finish with another repair before chirping at one another, scurrying to the next.] They are like the kodama... [The thought is so sudden he can't help but voice it, stunned into simply watching as the droids disappeared from sight.

Those ignorant of the forest, or merely superstitious of it, had been fearful of the helpful spirits, but they had merely been indicators and caretakers of a healthy forest. He feels as though it's somewhat reversed here, as this ship seemed to be held together purely by the hard work of the droids, but — the thought helps ease the feeling of alienation, allowing Ashitaka to see the ship as a living entity, a forest unto itself.]

ii.
[Finding that COST had seen it fit to get him his own sword had been a nice surprise, but the absence of his other preferred weapon had him wandering to the armory. He realizes that his own point in history had been a relatively early one; he had seen the very beginnings of firearms in the rifles that Eboshi had had the lepers under her protection creating, inventions which would allow any person regardless of strength or training to take the life of nearly any assailant. It took only a few minutes of consideration of what COST had at their disposal to see that those firearms had been remarkably primitive, and he is sobered by the evolution of such destructive weapons.

Soon he has to stop thinking about it. The last remaining impression of Nago's essence tangled with his soul pained him enough in memory of what those weapons had done to him, and he didn't even need that reminder to remember himself how it felt to be shot through the chest.

In the end he has found himself a bow, as familiar to the one he had left his village with as he could find, and is practicing shooting a round target down a fairly long range. His first few arrows went wide—something commented upon by a gathered peanut gallery of crows perched on rafters and shelves. He gives them an eye, briefly thinking them lucky he wouldn't use them as targets. He was out of practice, however, having not held a bow for nearly two months. He improves, however, eventually able to hit the target towards its center seemingly without too much issue.

A crow flies over to rest on top of the target, looking down at the arrows stuck in the surface and then looking up to him. He can barely hear its call over the distance.

Ashitaka lowers the bow, frowning.] Move, [he calls, unwilling to shoot with it in range.

The crow does not oblige, simply calling,] No! [back.

Ashitaka goes still, staring at the bird in shock.]

iii.
[He still owed funeral rights to Xici.

When he had arrived in Paris and agreed to work as a guard and keep an eye out for Regency spies, there had never seemed to be a proper time. That, and he was somewhat stumped on how to deliver them to the Watcher. Ashitaka was not an artistic young man. Art was the product of a society with some stability, and as the Emishi people had fallen into decline and began to struggle more and more for survival, he had never been allowed that luxury. As their prince, he had been most emblematic of that, fashioned as a warrior and hunter, someone who could lend them the aid they needed to continue to carve out a life for themselves. He was no longer that person, however, and he found himself devoid of most of the things the commander had said he could dedicate. He knew a few songs from his youth, but it didn't feel right to dedicate them, for they were songs of a people to which he no longer belonged. And he didn't dance. Well—not as one might typically think.

Which actually brought him to the thought of something that he could dedicate.

It's very late in the make-shift day-night cycle that they had established aboard the ship when Ashitaka walks into what stood to be their gym, his own sword buckled at his side. He makes for the small corner set aside for sparring. It's quiet and empty when he arrives; he wastes no time walking to the center of the empty area, drawing his sword and taking a deep breath.

When learning to fight, they had had to improvise. Many of the men of his people had grown old enough that training with swords was more dangerous than beneficial. There had always been few of them, and the thinning of their bloodline meant that there were fewer children to raise and train. In result, they had had to formulate ways for Ashitaka to train himself. One method he had found, along with his elders, was a practice which incorporated both swordplay and huge dependence upon one's surroundings. Learning and practicing a single routine that was the same each and every time would be a disservice—it called one to rely upon their inner memories, closing themselves off to what happened around them, which was the true lifeblood of combat.

This sequence had no choreography. It had to do with opening your senses and reacting towards what you noticed. The wind causing the trees to bend, a distant call of a bird, an insect passing nearby—anything that came to your notice was an enemy or attack to respond to.

To a typical outside observer, it might seem like some sort of practice or warm-up routine, a complicated series of strikes and blocks and movements with the sword which all seemed to fluidly move one to the next, but someone with keen eyes and a penchant for patterns might notice something about it. One of the lights around the room flickers and he turns towards it, all until a pipe hisses with a sudden bout of leaked steam, causing him to turn into that direction. Whether or not the crows notice or not, they are another common component to this, directing him several times.

It lasts a few minutes, as he was trained—then he slows to a halt, returning the sword into its sheath with a dry hiss of metal, lowering himself to kneel to the floor.] This is an elegy for Tamomarr Xici of Little Hama Street. [His words not necessarily loud but he makes sure they are clear. He is unused to gods invisible, always watching; he was assured that the one he speaks to now was, though he still finds it odd.] I hope that it is sufficient. [For it was all he, as a warrior with no name left to him, felt he could offer.]

iv. wildcard!
[Anything and everything else! Feel free to go wild with something we have previously discussed or anything else you might think up. If you want to contact me with questions or considerations or anything else, catch me at

novaphase or sharisper#7460 on Disco. (: ]

[With all said and done as far as gathering clothig and settling in went, Chiron took it upon himself to simply get to know the rest of the base. Quiet footsteps carried through corridors, and in truth, Chiron would probably be exploring these halls time and again. After all, being a Heroic Spirit meant he did not truly need to rest like a human would.

The automatons caught his eye, of course, but Chiron was much more interested in knowing the overall layout of the place first.

But when he saw Ashitaka watching the little things, Chiron stopped to take a better look. They were clever things, and in hearing an unknown word, there was curiosity.]

I can't say I've heard of kodama before.

Oh. [Ashitaka had been so wrapped up in observing the small robots and trying to figure them out, he hadn't realized that someone else was nearby. He straightens up quickly, turning to face the stranger with an expression that seemed partially apologetic. It was rude to ignore someone like that, after all, and he is usually more aware of his surroundings than that.

The kodama, though... The men from Irontown had even seemed confused and unconvinced from his explanations even when one of the creatures was right in front of him.

He tries, nonetheless.] They are forest spirits, where I am from. They live within healthy trees.

[He considers it for a moment and continues,] Though I suppose these are the ones keeping this place healthy.

[Chiron did not seem bothered by the ignoring at all. If anything, he was sympathetic to it, and was not about to begrudge someone caught up in their own wonder.]

Ah, I see. I've met plenty of nature spirits myself.

[He smiles, quite at each with the conversation and with watching the robots go.]

I suppose it'd be just as easy to label these creatures as aether spirits.

[He looks interested in that. Many that he had met here had been a little more - separate (perhaps the kindest way he could put it) from such matters. It's not as if it was something he wasn't familiar with; even in his own time people were adrift from spirits and gods of nature, not recognizing some and holding others as enemies and beasts to be conquered with fire and steel.

Ashitaka might not actively recognize it now, but this stranger seems to exude an aura markedly different from that mindset, something far more similar to what he had felt wandering in the land of gods.]

May I ask more about them? [Call him a little homesick - and by "home," simply something that wasn't metal and stone and civilization.

He considers that; he supposes it could be true, but something about it feels a little off. They weren't so much aspects of whatever was outside this vessel as they were for the vessel itself.] Or spirits of metal. [Pause.] If such things could have spirits.

ashitaka | ota!!!

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