And It's Quiet, Now

You come from a world of noise. Full of color and vibrance and violence. It's a horrible place, but there is good in it. This is not that place. Your world is full. This place is empty. And it's quiet, now. [[What Are You?]]

In another world, you exist in strings. You thrive in bells. You resonate through brass, and flow across wood. You are sound to the core, every inch of you a song. There's a joyful ferocity to the majors and a thoughtful hum to the minors. A beat and a rhythm that's been struck since the beginning of time. The most beautiful and tragic songs have been breathed by your lungs. Here, you are a small, yet humble, god of music. ***** You find him on the airwaves. It's completely by chance. His radio is on, the volume turned low, and as you jump across his speakers you hear him sing. "A-rovin'! A-rovin'!" And you pause. You listen. He sings songs you haven't heard since you spent decades at sea, weaving amongst the ropes and sails of ships great and terrible. You smile, and hum along (though he can not hear). At some point there comes a time when every song is sung for the last time. You know these songs by heart, though there is no one left to sing them. You're glad that these still do. You follow him for years, turning up whenever a song is sung. It's silly, but nice. Eventually the short hair atop his head disappears. A body of strength and broad shoulders weakens to the passing days, his wide, gentle hands thinned, but no less kind. To you, it's like he ages between breaths. You're there on his final day. His skin marked by aged spots and his legs too frail to stand. He's in bed, trying to hum to a tune his own mind won't let him remember fully. And in the breaking of his weak voice, you realize this for what it is. This is the last time he will sing. And it is the last time this song will be sung. [[Listen->ColbyDie]] [[Sing->ColbyLive]]

In another world, you paint with needles and ink. People pay to come to your chair and carry your art on their skin. This time is no different. ***** She's an interesting thing. She's earthy clothes and short hair and pronounced bearing that straddle the line of androgyny, and you aren't sure what pronouns are appropriate until she tells you. Her name is Grae, she says, and there's a simmering sort of tense strength behind it, made all the more prominent by the scar under her eye. "What sort of tattoo are you wanting?" you ask. "This." She hands you sheet of paper with the concept drawn out, then reaches back to tap over her shoulder. "I'm thinking right about here." You look it over, colors and combinations blending in your head, and nod. "I can do that." It's a piece that takes multiple sessions. Grae ends up in your chair three times before it's finished. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes you talk. "Where did you get yours?" she asks. You glance at the shimmering flames of ink along your arms. "I did them." "They're impressive." She inhales sharply as you bring the needle back to her skin with fresh color. "Why flames?" "When I'm not doing this, I like to dance with fire." Her eyes widen, and you smirk. "It's not as dangerous as it sounds. I've been doing it my whole life." (You don't tell her the rest. How the flames took everything. How you grew up with heat blisters on your fingers and soles as your parents taught you to juggle on the coals and pound a weapon out of burning metal. How the ink on your legs half-cover the scars from the arson. If anything will kill you in this world, it will be fire. You'd rather wear the cause of your destruction than let its phantom haunt your mind.) She lets it go. You finish her tattoo. [[Ask.->GraeDie]] [[Don't Ask.->GraeLive]]

In another world, you harvest. They fear you, he who brings the scythe. The one that comes when contagion festers. Were it not for you, their lands would be plagued by disease and rot. Your presence should bring relief. It does not. Because salvation demands a price. ***** She approaches you with steps that match the bounce in her curls. Her eyes shine with her smile from a thin face. She's small, with tiny fingers that slip easily into others' when she's cold, which is often. She's so damnably young. "Are you the Harvest Man?" she asks. She hardly comes up to your midsection at this age. You smile, and sit to better match her. Your scythe isn't visible right now, but it isn't the only thing that gives away your identity. The tattered cloak and bandaged face help. "I am," you answer. She looks at you, and there's no fear in her. You spend the day making flower crowns. She giggles when you put it on. To her, you look old enough to be her big brother, maybe a young uncle. But any tale of the Harvest Man can attest your youth for the lie that it is. When the sun begins to set and the sky streaks pink and orange, she stands to leave. "Bye, Mr. Harvest Man," she says with a wave. "Let's make more crowns tomorrow, okay?" She turns away. Your scythe sprouts from the earth, a wicked thing of gnarled branches and gleaming metal. You know your purpose, though no one can hold you accountable for your actions. The blade waits. [[Do it.->LaurenDie]] [[Walk away.->LaurenLive]]

(//Our Lady of Dreams is fair indeed.//) In another world, you are a being of rest. Children know you as the Sand Man, and adults know you as a myth. Both are wrong. You are the Lady of Dreams. You bring them for all. Good, and bad. ***** She doesn't sleep often. It's the first thing you notice as you sweep a lilac thumb over the shadows beneath her eyes, leaving a shimmering trail of silver sand that melts and seeps into her skin. (//Offering both terror and pleasantry.//) She won't remember any dreams from this. She never does. This one isn't conducive to dreaming. The creature around your neck coos, and you stroke a finger across its crown. It's no real animal. Anything like it died out on this world long, long ago. (Back before you fell. Back when you were content to watch.) (//But do not test her patience.//) She's a painter, this one. You admire her work with a keen eye. She prefers watercolors. She'd do a serviceable portrait. With that thought in mind, you continue visiting her in person to deliver her sleep. And with each stroke of silver, you implant an image in her dreams that follows her to waking. Finally, one night, she falls asleep with lilac paint on her skin, and you are left the finished product. She gets most of it right, but the horns are wrong. (//For the mistress is fickle.//) You glance across the chair-slumped form of your unwitting painter, and consider your options. [[Leave it.->MolliDie]] [[Take it.->MolliLive]]

[[...]]

So. You've made it (link: "here.")[here. (Again? I'm not sure.)] Tell me, given the chance, did you ever undo your choices? Go back, and try again? [[Yes]] [[No]]

Must be nice, the ability to go back on a decision. Try another choice. Make up for mistakes. There are no //correct// choices, here. Which leave one option: Did you make the choices you believed were //right//? There is a difference. And it's //important.// [[Yes->Yes2]] [[No->No2]]

Oh? A purist, then. Accepting your decisions, for better or worse. There are no correct choices here. There are only the choices we believe are //right//. There is a difference. So. Do you you believe you made the //right// choices? [[Yes->Yes2]] [[No->No2]]

That's all anyone can ask of you. [[...->Who]]

No one asked you to, anyway. [[...->Who]]

But, perhaps you'd like another chance. Try once more. Or maybe, you'd simply like to take a look into someone else. So, I'll ask-- What Are You? [[Sound]] (if: (history:) contains "Yes2")[[[...->Ariel]]]

There is a world. It's a loud world. Full of grand and terrible things. By all means, it's a place of never ending noise. And yet it's quiet, now. [[...->End2]]

You are a [[Sound]] (if: (history:) contains "Sound")[You are a [[Flame]]] (if: (history:) contains "Flame")[You are a [[Stem]]] (if: (history:) contains "Stem")[You are a [[Dream]]] (if: (history:) contains "Dream")[But then again, it doesn't matter what you are. This is a place of transitions.It's possible you've been here before, and now it may be time to go. A familiar question: Are you scared? [[Yes->Yes3]] [[No->No3]]]

That's fine. I would be, as well. It's a frightening thing, the unknown. But we all must face it, even if not all will survive it the same. [[...->End]]

Perhaps you should be. But then, great things can come from (link: "bravery.")[bravery. Great, foolish, //lonely// things.] [[...->End]]

The world is a cycle. All things pass through here. Over and over and over. But they always, always forget. It's your turn now. [[Okay]] [[Wait]]

[[The world fades away.]]

Yes? [[Nevermind->Okay]] [[I have questions.]]

[[You wake up.]]

[[...->and you forget]]

I will answer one. [[Where is this?]] [[Why am I here?]] [[Who are you?->I am]]

A place of transitions. A thing of impermanence. Neither Heaven, nor Hell. Nothing so solid as Limbo or Purgatory. We are simply between. [[...->Answer]]

The same reason everyone comes here. To transition. To //learn//. You are no different. You will change, and shift, and distort into something wonderful and tragic. This is the nature of things. [[...->Answer]]

I? Does it matter who I am? [[It doesn't.]] [[It does.]]

It's time to go, now. Are you ready? [[Okay]]

Then let that be your answer. [[...->Answer]]

Then I am nothing. I am like this place. Impermanent and gone. Lines of code and text to make a voice that never has and never will ex[[i]]st. One day I, and the rest of this, will be gone, forgotten. In time you'll forget about me, too. [[...->Answer]]

You skim a finger along the edge of the painting. It's beautiful. (And wrong. There's a gentleness to it that you've never known. Is this how others would see you, if they could?) You gently take it in your hands, and with a flick, it's gone. Back to the sky, to the palace of sand and stone and bone you call your home. You turn to the girl. The inky bruises under her eyes are more prominent than before. Stooped in a chair like that, she's going to wake sore and restless. You ferry her to her bed. There's a small pouch at your hip, and you dip a single finger inside. It comes back dusted with bright gold sand. This is special sand. The last time you used it was to soothe the last of the old gods into his final rest. Yes, this will make a fine gift for the first to ever know your face. You smooth the sand beneath her eyes. The dark smudges fade, and her lips twitch into a smile. She dreams. It's a dream that will follow her into the waking world, and stay with her all her life. (//And her gifts are few.//) [[We rest.->What Are You?]]

You skim a finger along the edge. It's beautiful. But just as quickly as it came, your interest wanes. Why had you wanted a portrait in the first place? To experience a gaze other than your own? To see how others saw you, versus your own eyes--the //only// eyes that have truly seen you in millenia? You have that now, in color before you, and all at once it's just so...disappointing. You sigh, and leave it. The girl. The painting. The room. You don't come back for another seventy years to usher her into the final dream, and by then you've forgotten who she is. (//And time breeds apathy.//) [[We rest.->What Are You?]]

And you ask. "What is yours for?" She takes a moment to think as you cover the finished ink in a layer of plastic wrap, the bandage to a new wound. "It's personal," she finally answers, blunt to a fault. "I'd rather not talk about it much, but," her fingers stray to her shoulder, hovering but never reaching beyond to the plastic wrap, "it's so I never forget." For a moment your calves tingle, imaginary flames burning through red and gold ink. It's gone in a second. She leaves. You add another tattoo. Fire cradles your throat. [[The flames take us.->What Are You?]]

You don't ask. She leaves. You forget her. You run your shop well into your sixties, until your hands shake too much to hold the needle anymore. When the time comes, you set it on fire yourself. (Your tattoos, touched up over and over spanning decades, shimmer in the light. A reminder. A promise. You have always been the cause of your own destruction. And you always will be.) [[The flames take us.->What Are You?]]

She dies quickly under your scythe. A flick, a heavy swish, a half-finished breath, and her head rolls from her shoulders. The body slumps to a heap. The blossoming stem of blight she carried dies with her. Blood is wiped away with the edge of a cloak. The scythe returns to the earth. Her body left to rot. You move on. [[The cycle continues.->What Are You?]]

You let her go. Years later, she's young and beautiful in a town that's dying. The blossoming stem of blight that clung to her soul blooms into a plague that consumes all but her. She suffers for a time, shunned by those too afraid to be near as the plague takes and takes. Until finally it grows full, and the plague moves on to another. It takes a piece of her with it. She lives. Finds a new home. Experiences a full life. (But she is never whole.) You aren't sure if what you gave her all those years ago was mercy. [[The cycle continues.->What Are You?]]

You listen. It's off-tune, and he coughs half of the words. His voice isn't the pleasant boom of youth. It's become a subdued rasp. At some point there aren't words anymore. Just half-strung notes in a broken line. And you, being you, exist in every single one. His final sound is a peaceful thing, even as it leaves you to silence. [[A song carries.->What Are You?]]

You join him. You cover his voice with your own, bolster it back. You remember jumping to his speakers. You remember the relief and the warmth of his voice. You remember, and so you sing. And maybe, for the first time, he hears you, because there's volume to his sound and tears on his cheeks. When he does fall silent it's halfway through a verse. You finish the song alone. [[A song carries.->What Are You?]]

...you look as though you have something to say.(link: "What is it?")[What is it? (//You answer-- [[I'll miss you.]]//)]

Oh. (link: "...")[... I'll miss you, [[too->Answer]].]

(put: (prompt: "What's your name?") into $name) Hello, [[$name->But They Refused]].

[[...and you forget.->end cred]] //Goodbye, $name.//

Made by ASC. With thanks to my beloved Tarte Shoppe. I hope you enjoyed. [[Play Again->But They Refused]]