station72 | [hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

Entry tags:

[hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - Naerstone House
WHEN: DAY :002 - :003
SUMMARY: New hosts hatch on the Station, are briefed, then make their way to Hyrypia to join the rest of the hosts… while they attend a very important history lesson.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :002

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP are are suddenly changed. --No. That's not right. You're you and there's no suddenly about it. It's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or surfacing up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and everything is because right there in your own head there's something both familiar and strange. You know intuitively that you've been unconscious for more than just a blink of the eye.

But here you are, a small miracle of the multiverse: lying in a small, faintly hexagonal chamber with a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. If you were injured during your escape, those injuries have been healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists even as you find the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment's rear wall.

But once the tube's disconnected? Things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. After the initial sensory overload, the mental buzz elongates: stretches out into a murmur like the sound of a party happening behind a nearby closed door.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. Maybe it's time for a change? Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone.In fact there are lots of you and none of them are the strangers they should be. Some even seems like people you've known for a very long time.They are as familiar as this place you've never been is.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room it's quiet and still, feeling for all the world like a hollow shell.

--Or it does until a voice separates itself from the white noise in your head:

BRIEFING
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD isn't really a voice at all. It's the warm tang of camaraderie, tinged with a flash of impatience like ticking hands on a clock face and a flicker of wonder: a falling star. It says:

( My, you're all very fresh aren't you? Unfortunately, the multiverse waits for no spring chicken. Once you've figured out which way's up, won't you all join us? )
Join 'us' where is the question. And yet, once you're ready to meet the owner of the voice in your mind, your footsteps simply lead you there naturally. Two strangers sit in a small circular briefing room - a tall being covered in short brown fur with a rigid demeanor, and a pale alien with yellow washed frills at her jaw and throat who is smiling cheerfully.

"Hey there, sunshine," says Rhan, her frills humming as she speaks. "Why don't you take a seat so we can get started?"

[ooc note: please see here for the catch-all briefing thread]

THE STATION
WITH A LITTLE UNDER 24 HOURS before it's time to make the trip to Hyrypia, this is as good an opportunity as you're going to get to familiarize yourself with Station 72 before you leave it. There's plenty to see, but a distinct lack of people to make conversation with. It's lonely and quiet and there's a sensation of dust gathering even where there is none. Maybe studying the briefing files on your databank and going over your mission kit is the most proactive distraction, but if not? Well there's plenty of places to get lost...

HYRYPIA - NAERSTONE HOUSE
DAY :003

MEETING
A SINGLE SHIP LANDS in a field the color of burnished gold, returning to the place it had until late the night before occupied. It's carefully inserted beside dozens of other spacecraft bearing more than faint similarities, though each has its own unique aesthetic. When the gangplank drops, the loud engines powering down, it reveals--

New hosts. Seven fresh faces - obscured as they are in layers of intricate fabric - are led down the gangplank by Rhan There to greet them is a number of other hosts - any who answered to the sweet crystalline ring of Collector’s voice in their heads hardly a half hour earlier, speaking with certainty born of truth:

( Rhan and Siva’co are returning. Shall we see what stories they have to tell? )

Despite the solidarity that both combined groups provide, there's a feeling of eyes here. A number of guards along the edge of the shuttle field are watching the reunion like hawks. Better perhaps to return to the apartments where they'll be able to speak in private and teach the new hosts what it is that has been learned since their arrival. --Or explore, for those who prefer not to rest. Naerstone House's grounds are vast and they are almost entirely open to the parties of the pilgrims to explore.

THE PERFORMANCE
AS THE SINGLE RED SUN of Hyrypia dips low on the horizon there is a long, low, mournful sound. A deep bell-- or a horn? Or maybe it's something else entirely, but the call is heard and answered as any nearby servants inform the guests of the house:

“There will be a performance of the First Journey in a quarter turn. All guests are invited to attend.”

There's no mystery as to where the event is occurring. A steady trail of guests and servants lead out past the Veranda into the central garden where a number of pillars have been mounted and a large tiered platform festooned with with numerous draped curtains and abstract representations of trees and mountains - a great stage - now sits. The stage is surrounded by numerous low settees and tables, piles of thick cushions and richly colored rugs around which guests can be found clustered, lounging while sipping thick, syrupy drinks.

Each table is illuminated only by a single glowing orb at its center. Otherwise, as the sun sets it pitches the garden into darkness as even the castle itself has been left unlit. There are no lights in distant windows or on Naerstone House's high walls; these small orbs and the glitter of stars in the black sky might very well be the only points of light in the whole universe.

The allotted time passes and the performance begins. A sun rises over the stage. It's a much larger, more intricate glowing orb and reveals a number of players dressed far more simply than the Hyrypians the hosts have met. They wear complex machine masks upon their faces that shutter into different expressions as their hands flitter across their faces: dramatic caricatures to accompany the droning sound of their singing voices as they unfold the tale at the center of the performance - the one which drives this pilgrimage and for the Nest's very presence in the universe at all. It's the story of lost Rabadoceans coming to a planet near barren intent on brutalizing them - about loss and hardship until finally a single player separates from the rest. The orb of the sun over the stage turns, it's mechanical face shifting and resetting to indicate the passage of time as the very central platform of the stage begins to turn so that this lone player might walk. And walk. And walk through deserts and scrub land, through dark woods and dark caves, against the wind and with it. Through it all, the orb over the stage slowly lowers until at last this lone player can take it in their hands.

It cracks like an egg and brilliance streams from it. Braziers catch fire in the darkness. The garden illuminates itself. Every light in Naerstone House comes to life.

With that, the silence of the crowd breaks. There is applause -- each culture in its own unique fashion -- and then there is a rise of chattering conversation as the guests are served several small dishes and talk about the show they’ve just seen - and whatever possible clues it might give to the pilgrimage they themselves would soon be undertaking.

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new hosts as well as the evening's performance. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find a more detailed overview of the host hatching process HERE and additional setting information about the Station HERE. Please be sure to review the MISSION: HYRYPIA ooc information. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( you know, sevilla, when you say things like that with absolute straight faced sincerity, you don't really leave a girl much choice other than to stubbornly plant her feet in the hallway, ignore the threat of discovery, the sanctity of the mission, and that oh so polite invitation inside, and say: )

You don't have my permission.

( all those survival instinct red flags are waving, but clarke's not itching to run just yet. that curiosity is mirrored on her end as well, bright and sharp and demanding to be sated despite what notions of danger are swirling in her stomach, and how many shivers are running up and down her spine. a little less stiff and defensive, ) And I didn't mean to disturb you, if you were trying to sleep.

[She ignores the point about permission, other than offering a small sigh out of her nose.]

I don't sleep, little one.

[But she is still sure that she recognises her face, squinting her glowing eyes as she tries to place it. Her name is fleeting, but it is there, in the tip of her tongue.]

Hm.

[She sifts through her memories, then through the ones Murphy had shared with her until--yes. The girl with the knife, the one who cut the noose free. The realization dawns on her face, and she starts to stand -- slowly, so she doesn't actually startle Clarke away. But she doesn't approach the door -- too much risk that she would be seen from the courtyard without her disguise.]

You know John Murphy. Is that right? Come, girl. We don't want anyone getting any ideas.

( call it — whatever strikes your fancy. curiosity, a blood-deep sense of loyalty to the original 101 she fell to earth with, a tenuous trust and friendship, or that concern that often has clarke readily running head first into questionable situations. or, you know, concern for the mission and the matters of casual subterfuge. but sevilla brings up murphy, it pings something in her chest, and clarke is taking a few tentative steps into the doorframe despite her better judgement. )

He's my friend. How do you know him? ( a beat, in which the defensiveness in that statement melts off her features, and clarke realizes that's a stupid question. everyone here seemed to know everyone, and it's almost fitting — bellamy falls in with someone who screams powerful royalty, lexa adopts dangerous little boys, and murphy is somehow attached to a tall woman with an inhuman voice, glowing eyes, and apparently a penchant for biting people. it makes all her own broodmates seem terrifyingly normal by comparison.

another beat, this one of hesitation before stepping just far enough inside the room to bring the door closed behind her. not all the way, there is still a good six inches of access to the hallway at her back — a suitable compromise when faced with danger on both fronts. and, belatedly unsettled by being lovingly crooned at (little one) in ghostly tenors: ) My name is Clarke.

[Clarke. Yes, now she remembers. Her reaction to hearing his name is somewhat comforting. After her incident with Bellamy, she's decided to be a bit more on guard with how she addresses her broodmate's "friends".

She lowers her hands once Clarke closes the door behind her.]

He is the last of my--broodmates.

[She has to chew off the word 'brother', a word she feels appropriate in this case, but also a word she knows will likely not mean the same thing to a breather, let alone a breather who knew nothing of Death Knight culture.

She offers one hand, still wrapped in leather and slightly cool to the touch.]

Seviilia. He thinks on you and your one-hundred often.

( ah, the 100. )

There were 101 of us, actually. ( bellamy stands out — the odd one out, the only person over the age of 18 to touch down initially. the only one who chose to. then there was atom, wells, charlotte... clarke's defenses consist of the same dirt they'd buried those dead in, and it shifts with the recall of their ghosts, a few faces slipping through the cracks before she can reign herself in. glance down at the proffered hand and think twice before giving over to formality.

they shake, and the cold, clammy shiver is poorly suppressed. )

Less now. We're close. ( intermittently, at least. they're bound together irrevocably, but clarke doubts murphy's sentiments are ever very affectionate in regards to her. )

[She pauses for a moment to digest what Clarke is said, her thoughts drifting to Bellamy. Yes, somehow that made sense now that she has some context for his relationship with her broodmate. In the time of this pause, she holds onto the other woman's hand -- it makes reading her easier.

But, before it becomes too uncomfortable, she releases her.]

As close as you can be. I understand.

[As much as she could, from sharing her mindscape with Murphy.]

We don't always get to choose our allies.

( it takes a little self restraint to resist wiping her gloved hand on the folds of her costume after the release each others fingers, if only to shake the clammy feeling running up her arm. clarke's expression is steadfast even if it can't be seen, posture rigid. her stomach twists a little tighter, though from hunger or thoughts of allies and enemies was anyones guess. )

Not here, at least. ( she's thinking of her broodmates in turn, all a constant tug in the back of her heart. wondering, for the first time, why their saviors had seen fit to slot her alongside imperfect strangers, instead of those she already depended on. and, predominantly because seviilia is here, when new questions and concerns arise, she gets the high honor of being asked them. )

Is there a reason there's only a handful in a brood? ( the word still feels odd on her tongue, a weird term to apply to herself. ) I don't see the point in being more connected to a few people than to everyone else.

You are mistaken, child.

[There is the sensation of a hand on her shoulder, though Seviilia's hands remain in her lap.]

Just because you are more closely connected to your broodmates does not mean we are not all connected. We all feel one another quite keenly -- just some more than others. If you were to break your arm right at this moment, I would feel it. But your broodmates would drop down in agony with you.

[To her actual question, the elf shrugs.]

I cannot be certain. That is a question for Cathaway. Though I suspect it must do with our hatch patterns, and how the symbiotes chose their Hosts. The majority of my brood had fallen to slumber before I awoke -- all but your friend.

( well damn. remind her to never break her arm.

so far, the past two days have consisted of new information piled on top of new information, and this new bone to chew — that the symbiotes chose their hosts — on top of the brain scan she'd leeched from murphy's memory only heighten the acute sense of dread curled in her stomach. the suspicion towards cathaway (whom she hasn't met yet) and the likes of rhan and siva'co (who'd left less than stellar first impressions during the mission debrief) mounting; it's instinct now, to expect all those with some manner of control and wisdom to end up the villain.

the weight on her shoulder, intent on being some shade of comforting but only serving to raise her hackles, is disregarded. shrugged off, like an animal trying to shake a fly. )

How long as Murphy been here? ( a pause. that was a question better saved for the man himself. a redirect, pointed and tossing all those misgivings for their situation onto seviilia herself. ) How long have you been here?

[She chuckles softly at Clarke's redirect -- wise, of course. Seviilia hadn't any real idea how long Murphy had been wandering about the station. Long enough to see the rest of their brood before they fell comatose, at least.]

The dead are rather poor timekeepers, I'm afraid.

[Aside from her spotted memory, an immortal simply had no need of it. But that was all a bit much, she thought. So few humans here were even able to grasp the walking dead, never mind their near-immortal state.]

No more than a few month, I'm sure. Why do you ask?

( clarke is one of those humans, but she's trying — trying really hard not to focus in on those ears, those glowing eyes; the cold sense of dread that seviilia's ethereal cadence strikes in her stomach, or edge back towards the door. she swallows rather dryly, decides not to think about it. they were all dead, weren't they? or should be, considering her last few moments in the city of light. if the enemy hadn't come for her, alie's foot soldiers probably would have.

the first question had been rooted in clarke's continued disbelief. i just saw him, she thinks, and is hit by another pang of disassociation. a few months, when murphy had been at her back a few seconds before she'd woken up in her pod. less than two days since. the discombobulation of time is dizzying. )

I want to know more about the other missions you've been on. Were they all like this?

Unclear. It has only been a day or so, after all. [Pause.] I believe.

[Poor timekeepers, and all.

However, she respects Clarke's concern. She doesn't imagine it to be unfounded. It hadn't taken long for Seviilia to understand that she was one of the few that was used to simply being carted from warzone to warzone with different expectations of what she would need to do. Oh, to be living.]

Our last mission was not strictly related to espionage. It was easier to blend. We did not need these ridiculous outfits. A competition was involved, rather than a pilgrimage.

A competition.

( the impression of a pulsating throng of people resurfaces, all excited and wrapped up in some sort of contest. it's a second hand memory, and haze; gleaned from murphy not a few hours ago, but overshadowed by the reveal of what the symbiote growing in their brains looked like. )

Did we win?

It wasn't much about winning. The last of it is a blurr...

[This fact, she seems less nonchalant about. Their hasty retreat from the waypoint is still thick on her tongue, the way Murphy had frantically clawed for her, begged her to believe him, shook from the fear that she might say and die for good and leave him behind alone.

It is not a pleasant memory. Not even for her, who fed on such things.]

You see, Murphy has a bit of a condition these days. He experiences severe mental and physical arrest when certain death approaches him.

( the conversation has, unsurprisingly, wound its back around to murphy. and that gives clarke pause. even with her features obscured by the thick veil which she stubbornly refuses to shed, there's the impression of her confusion: the tight press of her lips, the furrow of her brow. the slow. the pause before speaking, and the careful crafting of each word. )

He's always had good survival instincts.

( what she's mostly taking away from this is that at least one person almost died on the less. complicated. mission. )

If only the same could be said for the rest of the Nest.

[Seviilia watches Clarke in silence for a few seconds longer before mentally deciding that she will have yet another body to keep an eye on. Murphy was hard enough to keep happy -- no sense in squandering any connection to home he might have.]

It has been a pleasure Clarke, but I do not want to keep you from your rest. Perhaps we will speak more when there are less...distractions.

( there's a pause in their departure, rooted in clarke's desire to linger and pick at the details — no, tell me more. but up against the edge of unease that's been embodied in her posture and tone throughout the entire conversation, it's easier to quash her questions and reach behind herself for the door handle.

responses like likewise and i look forward to it would be half hearted and thin, and are thus not offered. clarke accepts this goodbye with a slight nod of her head, and a step backwards that stings more like a retreat than is necessary. )

Goodnight then, Seviilia.

( whatever hunger pains had driven her to traipse aimlessly around the apartments earlier had abated. clarke chews instead on the clipped sentiments that this entire waking world, this mission, doesn't seem like it will ever have less distractions. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

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