thisavrou_log | ( october event log pt. 2 )

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( october event log pt. 2 )

Who: Everyone
When: October 19th into the beginning of November.
Where: The Mini Colony of the Runoff & the Moira.
What: The Moira stops to resupply at the closest planet and things get weird.
Warnings: Physical transformations, phobias - please label if needed.

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Between the Perspectives
"but in your future, the you i see is exactly the person you always wanted to be."

Supplies have been loaded onto the ship, and the captains have encouraged all crew members to explore with the added notice that this will be the last planetary stop (hopefully) until the Moira reaches the Midway Hub. While seemingly uneventful on the Moira, the mini colony has been thrumming with adventure and has offered its visitors the opportunity to explore. To those who have indulged, some experienced great changes and others discovered enlightening information about the Ingress and the very ship some have called home for over a year.

Later in the month, the Lamaria hold the closing ceremony of the Desiderium Festival (which was noted on the prior event log) . The burgundy and lime colors of the celebration slowly fade into black and vermillion, and small fires are now in place for visitors to throw their written notes into. Everyone who participates will be blessed by one of the Lamaria (they will visit the ship as well), and the MID will be able to only translate bits and pieces of what this blessing means. "Experienced loss — every story is different — and saying goodbye — not to know — understanding lies in the mingling of holding on and letting go."

☄ TRANSFORMATION CENTRAL

For some, it might be due to a touch or a look. For others, it might not be any of those things at all, and something that just happens. Either way, shortly after the blessing occurs, you will find yourself changing. Your character’s body will slowly transform into the physical likeness of another being on the Mini Colony. The effects of this change may last as short as a day or as long as a week, but each come with their own stipulations—advantages and disadvantages. This is limited to one as the blessing itself only allows for “a little understanding”. Linked below are some of the possible transformations that your character can go through. Players can choose either one of the mod-supplied suggestions or choose the form of another already living on the Moira.

☄ THE FEAR MACHINE

Paranoia writes the checks, we're dangling here like a marionette. Here we go again, the world is coming to an end. Engage the fear machine and collect the dividends.

While the festival is beautiful, and some have found enlightenment and understanding here, there are those on the mini colony who don't enjoy the festivities. In a secluded room on the fifth floor in one of the buildings in the Science District, there is one such person who finds the religious festival to be a nuisance—one who should be stopped. Thinking that disrupting the blessings and celebration will somehow "get back" at the Lamaria for impeding their work (some of those who have transformed got into the building a few years ago and destroyed this person's property). Pettiness thrives, and they create something they dub The Fear Machine. Yet, while the science is sound, the technology itself is not.

In the middle of the mini colony, the machine is set off, and bolts of transparent energy erupt and spark out around it, stretching as far as the docked ships. Since the technology wasn't created properly to sustain the energy, it doesn't spread out evenly like they had hoped. Some are hit. Some are not. Those who are will develop a sudden and overwhelming phobia that will last well into the beginning of November. The machine might be turned off and left behind, but the obsessive fear has only just begun.

( ooc; For questions, go here. This log will run into the beginning of November; any threads here can be claimed for bonus activity the following activity check as well. )

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His eyes, eerily pale against the dark fur, are on her hand. There's no question she's still on guard-- he can read the tension of her posture, the way she's breathing, the smell of the air-- but she's not aggressive, so she must understand.

A few hesitant steps are followed by surer ones. He tosses his head, nostrils flaring slightly. He's halfway to her when the pieces fall into place and he nearly stumbles, remembering, suddenly and bewilderingly aware of his predicament. This isn't him-- isn't who he's supposed to be-- and Carol knows, but it's all right. She can tell. The shock of it is enough to leave him on autopilot, and he catches his balance with alien grace, closing the distance, his pupils dark pinpricks, his jaw parted, panting very slightly.

Would he be able to talk? He's not sure he dares to try, not when he can't predict what sound he'll make. It's worse than all the other strange things that have happened. He's himself; but he's someone else, too; equally far from home, even more alone.

He lowers his head to press his muzzle against her hand, slow and gentle, making deliberate eye contact.

For how closely she's watching -- painfully still, barely aware of her heart beating in her ears -- it takes far too long for her to be sure what, who, she's seeing. Until he presses against her hand she isn't sure; in hindsight, it's that same holding-your-breath hope she had before she knew Sophia was dead the whole time, but she's gotten better at shucking it in the years since. And she's seen poor Daryl trapped as not-himself too many times to fall into a comforting denial.

She never did master her overflowing emotions about the whole thing, however, so the best she can do is swallow hard against the dismayed little noise bubbling up and blink back the wetness in her eyes as her fingers curl around the muzzle Daryl shouldn't have, her thumb stroking gently.

"It's okay," she repeats, sounding at the very least more sure than before. "You always find me somehow, huh." In her head, that sounded lighter than it did aloud. Then she waits, still rubbing the soft fur with her thumb, grappling with something to say that isn't going to make things worse for him.

Again he huffs, the sound a little more voiced this time, unmistakably Daryl. Seems like he does always manage to find her in the end. Whether that's a good thing or not remains to be seen. Grounded by having a familiar presence beside him, he remembers everything-- remembers Teleios as surely as she does, which means he's thinking the same thing. Peter had told him it mostly meant anger issues and unwilling transformation-- suddenly he realizes how irritable he's been, how fragile his temper still is-- and it makes him want to laugh, bitterly. There's no easy out, no goddamn full moon, so what the hell is he supposed to do?

She's grieving-- he can tell, even if she's not letting the tears fall-- and he can't blame her for that. All he can do is tip his head and lick at her wrist comfortingly, and then feel utterly ridiculous for it.

"'m all right," he says softly, or tries to. It comes out wrong-- a low, rumbling, growling sort of language, decidedly canine. Who knows whether the MIDs can translate it, but maybe the sentiment carries either way.

The laugh that's so on-the-spot his makes her feel better, only to have that inhuman growling smash the illusion. She tries very hard not to let her disappointment show; it's the last thing he needs, and she does her best to smile as he affectionately licks her wrist. She's a good actress, though Daryl's always been able to see through whatever front she puts on, so it's a toss up as to whether she's successful.

The easiest way to divert attention from how rattled she is would be to hug him, but she's not so sure about that. Not only because getting up close and personal with how not-himself he is might make matters worse, but given what little she knows about werewolves she thinks it's best not to make any sudden movements that might make him feel trapped. Instead, she lifts the hand he just licked to rest near one of his ears, lightly scritching the soft fur.

"And I thought you needed a haircut before," she says, her tone lighter, hitting that note of teasing that has so much history between them. "Way to make a point."

It's a good act. He's good at seeing through her acts-- more importantly, though, she still smells sad.

If he lets himself think about this, he's going to lose his goddamn mind. The way the stories go you're supposed to turn back, right? (But, at the same time, he knows-- as surely as he knows himself-- that it isn't that simple. It's like being someone that might have been. He remembers the world he might have been from; the wild forests, the song of the wind, the brackish scent of alien swamps. Similarities aside, he isn't a werewolf, so who the hell knows if there's some way to fix this?)

She makes a joke, without giving any hint that she understands him. Fair enough. With another low, untranslatable grumble, he bows his head and takes another half-step closer, bumping up against her. Gentle headbutting, always appropriate, right?

Since Teleios, Carol has learned a lot about strange situations that seem unsolvable, though she got far too used to things resolving themselves after a few days. And here they are on a damn alien planet, so who knows what can be done, if anything? Waking up from a euphoric haze and finding out a full year had passed has unsurprisingly done little good for her confidence that things will wrap themselves up neatly.

It could, she grants, be a lot worse. At least he's alive, and seems to be mostly himself in spite of the obvious and dramatic changes. (She thinks back, though, to not long ago, how intense his moods were, and wants to kick herself for not realizing that it was more than a flight of fancy that had Daryl so wound up.) When he bows down to nudge her with his head, she smiles and relaxes a little, gently wrapping her arms around him.

"We'll figure this out. We always do." She has no earthly idea how, but that's not the point. What he needs is some hope and reassurance that she's not going anywhere without him, especially as deep into himself as he tends to sink when things go dramatically awry. It's like that other very unfortunate transformation that had them living in the woods for the better part of a week, even when there's nothing she can do there's still something she can do.

"Do you remember where this whole thing started? Can you take me there?" It's a longshot, but worth asking. (Assuming he understands more of her words than the general tone, which is a leap indeed, since she can't understand him.)

It helps that she's not shrinking away from him, at least. The strange mood swings left him paranoid, which made him run off on his own, but being alone hasn't been good for Daryl. He's always done better with his family around him, and his current situation just leaves him all the more uncomfortable without them.

With a grunt that hopefully reads as assent-- pity she doesn't seem to understand him-- he pulls away a little, with some regret. It's the first friendly contact he's had with anyone since he fled the ship; alone and disoriented in these strange streets, it's been so much harder to keep track of who he is.

It's got something to do with the festival, he thinks. Which means there won't be much to show her, but they can go. After a moment's thought, a pace away from her, he offers a hand. (Well, a paw, anyway.)

Either he understands, or knows her well enough to guess what she's asking of him. And if he still knows her, then he's still himself, so either way his offered hand (not a hand, but to her it's a hand, it's Daryl's hand, and she can't let herself think different) is good news. Carol reaches out to take it without the slightest hint of hesitation, offering a thin smile and purposefully ignoring how inhuman the hand is.

"You said you felt strange, a few days ago in your room. Was it like this?" A yes or no question, hopefully, should be easy enough to answer without actual words. And it'll give her some data on when this started, which could be useful. Helen taught her enough about non-humans and how they work, and between that and Peter's stories she's got a small, but passable collection of information to build from.

(She worries, belatedly, that he'll be upset that she's bringing that up, not wanting to issue a glancing blow to his confidence when he's like this. But it's probably worth a momentary cringe to get the information.)

The way he sees it, that isn't such a yes or no question, and he glances back at her with what he hopes is an obvious eye roll, grumbling a little, ears laid back on his head. He's got no doubt that was part of it, but the way he felt then wasn't like this at all. (Ironically, right now he feels more like himself than he has in a couple of days; he just doesn't look right, or move right, or possess the ability to speak and be understood.)

But she's looking for broad strokes, so after a pointed look, he nods-- slow and careful and exaggerated. They'll have to talk about it some other time, once he's fixed-- or once they find some way to communicate, if he can't be fixed. Which is an awful prospect that he's trying not to consider too much.

He keeps going after that, pausing here and there at a corner to swing his head from side to side and sniff the air. It's hard to remember which way he came, where he's been, but if he has to be an alien creature he might as well enjoy the perks.

She can't help but smile, genuinely this time, at the flattened ears. Certainly she would never want Daryl stuck like this, but it's nice to be able to tell his mood without relying on her best gut instinct. And it's sort of cute in the weirdest possible way, which of course she will never tell him.

"You know what I mean." Though she could have phrased it better, granted. "I'm just trying to figure out when it started." She pauses, another thought coming to mind unbidden. "Peter told me a little about how this kind of thing works, said his temper got the best of him sometimes. Are you...?"

The question is a hard one to finish, having been in those cells Peter and those like him had to get locked into once a month. Hopefully Daryl gets that she's asking how in control he is, and hopefully isn't too offended.

It's another difficult question. Even if she could understand his words, he's not sure he could explain it, not without feeling too foolish to go on. His temper-- he's always had a temper, she knows that better than most-- has been on a hair trigger, his wariness escalated to full-on paranoia. But the less alone he is, the more capable of seeing that he is, which means he's going to be able to hold back.

Probably. If anyone looks at his people the wrong way, if anyone bumps against Carol in the crowd... No, he'll be all right. He thinks.

About the best thing he can do to answer is a low wroo, pitched as reassuringly as he can muster. He pauses to turn to her again, bumping her shoulder with his nose.

Carol knows him more than well enough to understand that saying -- well, implying -- that she doesn't need to worry translates into yes, but I've got it. It's a reassuring answer, if only because he's aware of the problem, which means that if it comes up then she'll have an easier time talking him down. That's what they do, after all.

Still, part of her wishes she didn't ask. It can't be comforting to have to listen to her go on about all the ways he doesn't have control right now. So, after gently canting her head to lean against him after he bumps her shoulder, she decides against the other question she had and opts to pull out the old stand-by.

"We should work out a system for communicating. One lick for every letter down the alphabet. I'll make a list of anatomical locations and words that begin with z..."

Sex jokes, where would uncomfortable moments be without you?

The fortunate part of this is, he's always been in the habit of communicating primarily in monosyllables and vague grunts. So maybe things aren't so different, in some ways. It's an unnerving experience, but it helps that she's not freaking out-- it means he's a little less apt to lose focus.

The joke gets a sidelong glance and a good-natured grumble, like always, just a little more wordless. Ridiculous. (It's good, though, it helps.)

Before them, the street widens into a spacious plaza, and he pauses at the edge of a building, gesturing with one paw. Today there's little trace of the festival left; only blowing dust here and there, perhaps a few stray decorations. His nostrils flare as the breeze picks up, carrying a little of the scent of sweet ash, still.

What the festival had to do with this, he isn't sure, but it has to be something.

Stop. He didn't say it, but Carol heard it anyway. There's a rhythm to these things between them, and she won't have it disrupted by whatever this place decided to do to Daryl. Least of all because she's hoping to reverse it in short order, leave this as nothing but another strange blip that they'll laugh about-- or, actually, probably never speak of again. Close enough.

"Okay," she says, taking in the plaza in one slow scan, hoping something will pop out at her. When nothing especially does, she refuses to look discouraged. Then, suddenly, she realizes that what should stick out here is the person holding her hand. They just went through a crowd and nothing?

"Has anyone reacted like they're surprised to see you looking like that around here? Other than me, I mean," she tosses in, with a playful lilt to her tone. (This is also right about the time she realizes she should ask if he still has his weapons on him, or if they should go back to wherever he changed to look for them. Her clear thinking is returning, just slower than it should.)

Considering it, he tilts his head, then shakes it. Dismayed, alarmed (and not without justification-- half of the past day is a blur but he remembers a fair amount of snarling and snapping) but not surprised, really. They shouldn't be, either. He knows-- vaguely-- that what he is, it isn't that unheard of, if uncommon.

That's a bit trickier to communicate, though. He sniffs the air, hoping that maybe there are others of this species near enough to show her, but for the moment there's no luck.

Leading her closer to where the bonfires were, he pulls his paw free to pantomime writing something and tossing it. Which probably won't mean much, either.

Whatever he's trying to pantomime toward the area where there was recently a large fire, combined with his confirmation that no one around has been all that shocked to see a werewolf, or whatever, around here gives Carol a hunch that whatever happened to Daryl is either normal around here, or at least not unprecedented. Whatever their festival was about, she's picking up on the fact that the planets they visit like to include the Moira crew in their traditions, like it or not.

Now, she just has to figure out if it's reversible, or will last a whole damn year. But she's trying hard not to be too glass-half-empty just yet.

"You were here during whatever ceremony or whatever was happening, right?" She waits a second for confirmation before continuing. "Maybe we can ask around. If it was such a big event, someone must know whether these things -- must know the deal with all this." Of course he'll notice her verbal slip, but nothing to be done now. He has to know she's afraid of him being stuck like this, because he probably is too, but they've been through this before.

It's hard to be too afraid at the moment-- the prospect of not getting back to himself is damned unpleasant, but he's still coming to terms with the situation, wrestling with his awareness of what he is and what he ought to be. Enough, for now, to deal with trying to communicate his thoughts.

Putting these few pieces together helps, too-- for the first time he wonders if anyone else has been so afflicted. Unfortunately, licking aside, that's too complicated to ask her easily. Still, he makes the attempt, ears folding back with a low whine as he tries to figure out some way to indicate his meaning. After a moment he settles on reaching to tap her MID, making an unmistakably inquisitive though wordless sound.

When he points to the MID, she feels like a perfect idiot. One of those things she should have thought of, if she could get outside her own head enough to actually trust what the ship's commanders have offered. She uses the MID as little as possible. It's been rough since arriving, and rougher since that year spent in a mindless euphoric haze; if that's what trust earns her, she'd rather not.

(She also notices those ears again, and they're distractingly cute. She's not going to say that on pain of death.)

"You think this thing will help?" Lifting her wrist and glancing at it, she waits to see if it translates anything or whether Daryl plans on trying to type or something. "Never thought I'd miss those brain-to-brain conversations," she adds for good measure.

The idea of typing hasn't occurred to him, though obviously it should have. Stupid. Whether he can manage it with his hands as they are... Well, it's not quite what he had in mind, anyway, but it's something to look into when he's got a minute. For now, it seems impossible to take in. He feels worlds better, having a familiar presence by his side, but the open air unnerves him, the sights and sounds and scents of the city all a blur of potential threats.

Looking off into the distance at nothing in particular, he mutters to himself-- a series of low growls and whines that, if the MID catches it to translate, will end up being something about Timmy being stuck in a well.

He misses the bracelets, too.

Imagine her surprise when the MID actually works on, what seems to her, to be a chorus of raw, wordless emotion. Not only that, but he's being a smartass, and damn if that doesn't make her feel a little better.

"You realize I'm going to call you Lassie once or twice, once this is over," Carol says as she meets his eyes over her raised wrist, playful but with genuine relief. Whether she's serious about that remains to be decided; depends entirely on how traumatic this is for him once things are fixed. (Because, they're going to be fixed.)

"Good call. So, once more for the idiot who forgot she's carrying a translating device." Tell her everything, she means. What happened, how he is, what he thinks they should do.

The device doesn't do anything to translate the mock-irritated grunt at her fond thread-- he can't blame her when he's the one cracking the joke to begin with, after all. With a long huff of breath, he shakes his head a bit, trying to get things straight.

And then he does explain-- as much as he can. The festival, the blessing, the way it had left him off-balance; his hair-trigger temper, the way he'd fled the crowds and lost track of everything after becoming like this. It feels like it takes forever, even leaving out a fair amount. She doesn't need the gory details, he doesn't want to talk about how viciously he'd wanted a fight in the aftermath. Still, the important lines are drawn-- most of all, his certainty that whatever this is, it was the festival that started it.

The MID doesn't carry over all his syntax, but the cadence of his voice is familiar, in spite of the canine sounds.

At first, she has to admit that the utterly inhuman sounds disturb her more now that he's stringing them together. However, the more she hears, and reads the words on her screen, the more the voice seems right. The rhythm, the tone, the manner. He's still in there, and every little affirmation gives her more hope. (Not too much, of course, because they both know how very wrong the wrong kind of hope can go.)

When he's done, she nods. "Someone around here knows what happened and what to do about it, and I doubt you're the only one it happened to." The only one she cares about, at the moment, but after they fix him she's happy to share the secret with anyone else who needs it. "I should ask around. But first... did you bring weapons out with you? Supplies? Do we need to look for them?" She won't have his crossbow of throwing knives gone, when he gets back to himself.

It takes him a moment to sort through his memories, and then he swings his head from side to side, pulling away a little from her and pawing at the remnants of his uniform. Somehow or other he's still wearing his belt and the knife attached to it, tangled up in the shredded fabric.

Just that. He nods, tapping the hilt, not bothering to say it aloud. Even if she can read a translation, he'd rather get by without talking when he can... Which is probably a lot of the time, they've got a lot of practice.

Fixing her with a serious look, he tilts his head to the side. So, now what?

"All right," she says, nodding, without peeking at the translator. They often don't need words to communicate, and the more they're together she more she can grasp his mannerisms in that strange body. This also tells her that he left the ship in sort of a haste, his temper overruling all sense, because otherwise he would have been better armed.

"So," she continues, knowing he can tell she's hesitating, "I can go knock on some doors now, or if you'd rather get away from people first, we can go somewhere a little less crowded where you can wait."

Yeah, she's a little nervous about him waiting around here, especially if she's going to get into any less than friendly discussions and have some doors slammed in her face, knowing exactly how well that would go over. She's going to be asking people about what amounts to their religion, it's bound to ruffle some feathers; she's fine accepting whatever gets thrown at her, she just doesn't want Daryl and his werewolf-y temper doing anything he'd later regret.

It's a question that needs some thought. Lord knows he doesn't much like the crowds, but the prospect of finding some secluded spot to wait isn't very appealing when he'd be waiting alone. Since he fled the ship-- it's been, what, a day? Two? He's not sure-- that's been the problem.

Besides, on the off chance something goes wrong-- well, he might be relatively unarmed in terms of weapons, but suddenly that doesn't seem to matter much at all. He bends to nudge her shoulder. Go on. He's ready to follow.

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( october event log pt. 2 )

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