sheep_game | hello (heart)gamers. im here w some special guest stars

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hello (heart)gamers. im here w some special guest stars

WHO: all who dare enter angie's literal mind palace. it's OPEN HOUSE! no invites needed!
WHERE: in front of miku's salad (and yours)
WHEN: evening 73.

[ in the middle of running a perfectly innocuous miniquest, Angel Devil falls down.
His clothes have twisted away into bone-white rags, leaving a body covered over with only thick swathes of red fur, and downy feathers. His long tail is curled into a tense arc, banded fur standing on end.

The air wavers like he’s a heat mirage, not a man. He’s boiling away with absolutely stupid amounts of arcane power… and, most frighteningly, he does not seem in control of the fact that it is there and being brought to bear. It’s impossible to get any closer to him.

When he speaks, it’s quite timid. ]

Oh.
Oops.
...Thought I had... a little more time.

[ (and in a blinding flash of light, there is the sound of something breaking.) ]

~KRRSHHK~

[any observers will see, strangely see-through and superimposed on the scene, some kind of vast tree, illusionary roots twisting over and around to frame a door. the door itself is wrought of opaque stained glass in blacks and whites and greys; a stylized rendition of Angie in that strangely ragged, feathered form, curled in on himself, eyes closed. Angie himself is nowhere to be seen. ]

instead, a shadow . . . steps into view from behind the door. for a moment it looks like nothing so much as a second genome – then it turns, gaining features and definition with the movement. The monkey tail separates into three plumes; a ponytail unfurls into wings that lift up from the sides of the head.

Teleute(?) is here, dressed in her customary black, but there is colour in her skin, and her hair and eyes are blue. she’s frowning.]

. . . well. This is the least I can do before I go, in exchange for the safe harbor.

[she lifts her head, nodding to any observers, and gestures at the door.]

You’ll want to head in there now if you don’t wish to lose your flockmate, I think. Even the false-death of this place won’t be much help to him, if his soul is left to finish pulling itself apart.

My sisters and I can maintain the way into and out of it for you, but we were not made to knit such wounds by ourselves. Have a care.

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[muffin bares his fangs, hisses, and cranks his Daffodil glow up to blazing]

[ the Mist is rebuffed with gusto. it's pressing on him, still, at the edges of his inner light, but can no longer swarm him, try to drag him down.

...yet, there is one lingering whisper of those many fractured voices. with the chorus quieted, it is able to make a clear request.

^{Show us...
Who you are...
Speak...
...the name of one you love.} ]

Edited 2024-04-15 01:39 (UTC)

Quetzal!

[ the air turns blessedly empty.

he doesn't need to keep pouring out all that sunshine, to ward away the grief.
thusly unburdened, the way is now clear:
though the darkness shrouds you from sight,
you are identified by who you adore.
the "truth" of who you are stays with you,
resting on your face...

Gained MASK OF LOVE.

...lucky for you, a mirror to your right with rows of bulbs along its frame lights up, if you want to take a look at what your heart has wrought.]

Edited 2024-04-15 02:01 (UTC)

[AHH THERE'S SOMETHING ON MY FACE—]

—oh! Is cute!

[ isn't it? a cute mask, for a cute gryphon.
it fits you well. handmade. hand-painted. smells like citrus and mint. feels, curiously, like it's been sanded, in parts, to make it fit easier, where it initially did not. ]

[pats his wooden cheeks and chirps thank you! before pressing onwards. he keeps the mask on.]

[ you leave the mirror behind. its lights remain a landmark, behind you, letting you know you're still forging ahead, until... ]

[ there's a different sign to guide you.
sounds of activity, objects being moved and re-arranged. there are people. or, at least, things with hands. ]

[ bonk. one of the forward-jutting horns of your mask hits wood.
feel it up, and you'll find a sliding panel. the sounds are coming from beyond it. ]

[chirp? chirp?

opens it]

[ you open the panel, and you find it lets you out backstage of a theatre. the indefinite murmur of a crowd waits beyond the closed curtains. but back here there is only raw potential, meaningless junk, and the tentative bones of stories to come.

and the tree roots, of course. mind that you don't trip. one of the stagehands just did, though the other one that was walking beside them keeps trudging on, completely ignoring the clumsy doll on the ground.]

[they only got good seats on very special occasions, but muffin's been to enough theatres that his first thought is "oh no i'm not supposed to be back here"]

—careful! Are you okay?

[but instead of hiding or sneaking, he hurries forward to help the stagehand up]

[ the stagehand that fell down is bizarrely light, for someone of that size.
they don't say a word, but once they're back on their feet, they carefully adjust their pointy hat back into place... and silently stare at Muffin.

either expecting something, or trying to figure something out.
that kind of pure, evaluating stare...
it's a little familiar. ]

Edited (icon) 2024-04-15 02:51 (UTC)

Have to watch step. Floor's bumpy, okay?

[ they look down, examine the tree root that had sent them to the floor... then give him a very grave nod, and set off on their way. busy, busy, busy.

...oh. there's something that's been left behind, glittering on the floor. it's very small...
Gained STOREROOM KEY. ]

Edited 2024-04-15 03:07 (UTC)

[GLITTERY?? picks it up with his toes like the bird he is]

Huh...

[goes looking for a locked door or, if one passes by sooner, another doll or Genome to ask directions from]

[ the dolls aren't able to speak, but they're good at pointing you in directions to try. the Genomes, meanwhile, can talk, but their answers are more like vacant, earnest riddles about the nature of life and death, that are MEANT to lead you in the right direction and simply don't.

fuckin' typical for angie's brain, honestly.

after you've asked around in circles, and tried the key in several locks, you're feeling frustrated! tired and confused! agitated with the situation! you-- ]

[ --are now asked to make a choice by a commanding, bass voice from nowhere: ]

~ which mask to wear? ~

MASK OF RESIGNATION
"Give up on finding it. This place is a maze, and you don't have time for this."

MASK OF REBELLION
"If this next door doesn't work, just smash your way in! At least that's progress!"

[ angie...

your soul is full of impatience. ]

Edited 2024-04-15 03:38 (UTC)

But I like my mask...

[and he shouldn't give up on the key. he should at least return it to the doll if he was going to do that, since it must be important, right? If he could tell them apart... And what kind of progress would smashing doors down be, that would be a mess... what kind of impression would that make on the crew!

but. there's one place he hasn't gone and that's an entranceway that can't be locked. muffin ducks for the curtains.]

[ You pop out past the curtains.

It's a full house out here! Every single seat is occupied by strange objects that look a bit like a nautilus, that you instinctively recognize as-- caskets? beds? places of rest and preservation for dead souls.

They are all waiting for the hosts to put on a good show. ]

Edited (bgm) 2024-04-15 04:31 (UTC)

[he stops short, staring at the waiting dead

he stands straight and lifts his chin, jutting his mask’s horns forward]

Has been change in tonight’s programming.

The originally scheduled performance will not be proceeding.

[ the phantom murmur of the crowd comes to a complete silence,
and strains of piano that have been playing, since he entered quetzal's soul, slowly peter out. ]

[muffin steps to front center stage and imagines how a real conductor would do this]

...In this world, Lady Death watches over the dead.
In mine, is Eouria, Nivias, and Huw that guide souls away.
In yours, you wait for an Angel.

[he bows, takes a step back, and straightens with his hands tucked into his sleeves]

[first a dove call to announce himself, throaty and soft, but loud in the hall's silence. then,]

All that could never be said,
All that could never be done,
Wait for us at last
Somewhere back of the sun;

And when they are ours in the end
Perhaps after all
The skies will not open for us
Nor heaven be there at our call.
After all that was never done.

[ in the wake of his performance
there is a profound stillness of the whole hall,

before-- ]

[ to the right of him, from the space behind the curtain,

One pair of hands clap.

They belong to a dark shade of Quetzal, his only spot of color an unsettling blue mask on his face, riddled with holes. ]

Dare I beg of you... encore, an encore!

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