lesmodsalouette | Graveyard

Graveyard

The garden is still sprawling and green – despite having entirely lost all its riotous flowers and colors, along with any sign of wildlife or birdsong – though one thing stands out more than anything else: from Monday to Thursday, you can’t see the castle anymore. All that remains where it once stood (or perhaps, usually stands) is an incongruously large tree that towers over everything else and somehow looks larger and more imposing than the castle ever did. The tree’s branches are bare, without any hint of life nor leaf – however, on the weekends (that is to say, Friday through Sunday) a faint projection of the castle appears around it, cradling the only things that the denizens of this alternate garden can see in detail from the other side: the flurry of activity around the investigation, the circus-like dimension that holds the trial, and the mirrors and the grassy dimension that display the execution.

For those curious what the land of the living are up to, a mirage-like and upside-down reflection of the castle garden in its original arrangement can be spotted occasionally overlaying the sky. This strange illusion may sometimes show those in the garden on the other side, flitting in and out of view like stray clouds; but much like the weather, their appearance is mercurial – they cannot be reached and cannot be heard.

Water, Flower, Everywhere

The fountains remain active somehow, though their features seem to have eroded, obscuring the identities of the deities and the wings of the birds, cracking pottery down into nothing but worn shards and handles. At night, only maybe half the lights work (and here they are real candlelight, rather than magical), plunging most of the garden into crepuscular darkness. The trellis walkway looks quite overgrown (mysteriously, bamboo is taking over), entirely covering some statues and other features along its length, and it’s no longer walkable – a miniature canal runs the whole length underneath the arches, feeding into other new waterways around the garden that cut off footpaths seemingly at random. There are small footbridges here and there, but the lack of logic to the whole arrangement makes falling into one of the streams or canals a real hazard.

The waterways do all manage to converge at the pond by the pavilion – neither of which are all that soothing or classical anymore. The pond is only half-full, and entirely lacks water lilies or any dragonflies; its banks sit jagged above the dark waters, and perhaps that’s why the pavilion, too, is half collapsed down into it all. Gone are the curtains and ivies; only dead curling vines and half-collapsed columns are left, but there’s still someplace to sit if you put your mind to it.

Most of the flowerbeds sit fallow or overtaken by weeds – there’s signs here and there that someone might have tried to clear them out, but the bulk of the effort seems to have gone to the orchard by the gardener’s cottage. It might be more accurate to say cottages, given that there are a few of them dotted around that area for some reason. None of them are locked, but all of them have only minimal furnishings apart from the original; they’re also all provided with the full complement of gardener’s tools. Next to them, there are new saplings and half-grown flowering trees: some pear and apple, but also some not. There are new shoots in the kitchen orchard that have just barely taken root, the dirt recently turned.

Hedge Maze(?)

The other most eye-catching feature is what once was an ornamental hedge maze: instead of being a tame height here, it has seemingly grown wild and completely unchecked, towering above the rest of the garden almost like its own overgrown mountain. The hedge walls go up and up and up, making it entirely impossible to see the center or even how far it goes despite the fact that sections of the hedges have also died, reduced to the branches underneath, bristling with interlocked thorns.

Part of it had even spilled over into the garden itself, huge gnarled branches spreading out like burnt-blackened fingers all the way to the edge of the pond – wherever the branches touch, even the greenery is withered, and any statues look more ruined than those in the rest of the area. As of the end of Week 3, however, the branches have retracted entirely and the way into the hedge maze has opened even more. However, there is now a storm brewing over what might be the center or the general area of it. Getting close to the hedge maze or any of the hedge(?) branches is... unpleasant, though it doesn’t usually go beyond a buzz of wrongness and a slight headache.

GY 101 Main Nav

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[As the week goes on in the aged garden, the snow falls ever thicker and the cold deepens and deepens -- it's getting to be the heart of winter at this point, and Yamanbagiri has at some point dragged an extra stove over to the gardener's cottage from one of the others. It's slow going, but it's something. There are fires roaring in the stoves and the fireplace, toasting up the entire space with warm light. Extra pillows and blankets have been piled on the sofas. Yamanbagiri himself has put on an extra blanket over his cloak, flapping around like a ghost himself.

There's no ready-made food to be had, but there are some edible plants amongst the ones they have brought in, now that the cottages are basically makeshift greenhouses. What they do have is drinks, for some reason: hot chocolate, varieties of tea, and unlabeled bottles of wine that vary in age from just-bottled to who-knows-how-old.

This evening, you may happen upon Yamanbagiri on one of the sofas, contemplating one of the potted plant refugees. He's humming quietly, but stops once it's clear more people are around.]

... It's a good thing we didn't take these outside yet.

[He clears his throat.]

I think it went well. Communicating with the other side. We'll try again when there's a chance.

In the meantime... there's another way to strengthen that connection. You can tell a story or a memory about the object you used, or related to it.

The more people are listening, the better. So...

[Looks like he's here to gather people for storytime, though he's being rather lazy about it. Who wants to move that much in winter? Not even swords.]

[OOC: As with the previous task, Mission: Fireside Ghost Stories can be passed as long as you thread on the given task by Sunday and submit it here. No comment requirements, just go for it. Feel free to react to each other's stories or mingle.

Spectator PCs can share stories of their own, even if not related to an object (since they don't have one).]

Edited 2025-03-26 18:09 (UTC)

[ Stories and memories, Yamanbagiri had said before. Siffrin hasn't got many memories... not of the first time they might've held one, carved something clumsily and misshapen, softly asking it to take the form they'd wanted-- but

they do suppose they have more of the past decade, loose and blurry as the years had been. The small animals they'd carved for children. The figures of their family members. Idle work when their hands had needed it, restless from the lack of knowledge and difference in dialect that had left them fumbling, at times, in understanding.

...

Siffrin doesn't need a blanket, content with just their cloak, but their hat's been set aside politely while indoors. The draw of wanting to be around others is unmistakable.

(Maybe you are lonely. Just a little.) ]

... I like to carve things out of wood. [ Good starting point. ] When I traveled on my own, I'd give small gifts to the children of the people I stayed with. And with my family members... I gave Odile one that looked like her.

[ She'd really liked it, or so she'd said later on. It still warms Siffrin's heart, and they smile softly. ]

When you make something, you... put a piece of yourself into it. So when people look at what you made, they see a little of you too. It's... a mark on the world, a proof of your existence, to someone -- and as long as you remember something, it can't be erased. As long as they remember you, you won't fade away.

[ Missing workshop hours here. What Siffrin wouldn't give to leave some wooden animals around the place. ]

[Now that Yamanbagiri has a face, Siffrin can get the sense that he's more watchful than you'd think from a sword that just sort of stands or leans or lies there -- green eyes seem to be looking to follow the track of Siffrin's thoughts, though the willingness to sit in silence is the same.]

You like to do things with your hands? You move around a lot.

[That's probably from the point of view of a (nominally) inanimate object, though Siffrin does seem to be one of the more outdoorsy people compared to almost everyone except Tiamat.

This week, it stands out more, though things are more settled in right now. Snowed in, rather.]

... I think that must be how the smiths feel. Tsukumogami must be a reflection of that kind of thinking in humans. That's why we're here. [the we is weightier than the term he's given it, quietly circling the entire fireplace and whoever's come to sit in the light] I've tried my hand at crafts, but I'm not that good at it.

What was your favorite thing to carve?

Edited 2025-04-01 09:17 (UTC)

[ Haha... Yeah... He nods at that, certainly is one of the more actively out and about here. Despite the cold that keeps others in. ]

Animals. Birds, fish, rabbits... Bears. All kinds.

[ Whatever was asked, whatever they felt like leaving behind.

(You think of the buck you pressed into Yoru's hands, the birds you carved for Andrew. The ant you taught Sariel, the dragon for Blade.) ]

I think you're right, that it's the same thought. Crafts... have an, um, universal understanding, even if the mediums differ. Like the stars, and music. [ ... ] Also, practice makes a master.

[Tia wants to. This is a nice, cool winter.]

I needed a light source.

[That's it. Why else would she have used a lantern?]

It would've been better if it had been a real fire, though. Then I'd have known if a spirit managed to break through the boundary separating this dimension from the others.

[ Wow. Siffrin feels like they overperformed now. ]

You could?

[No, they were perfect. Tia is the underperformer. Boo her.]

I'm a spirit. And there's always a fire spirit who's listening in on my conversations.

[ Can't boo someone doing their best. ]

Are they a friend? Or just...

[ ...

A wave of his hand. ]

Around. Like butterflies.

[Friend?]

. . . Ragnar is Ragnar. She nags too much to be like a butterfly.

[ Okay.

A companion. ]

Mosquito.

[The sentiment is somewhat lost on her due to the flurry that's always bringing down the temperature where she's been residing. Having said that . . . ]

She's a dragon, like me.

[ Please. Siffrin has their work cut out for them.

That being said... they'll make a small gesture. "Go on" type. ]

Well... Yaman said we can strengthen our connections with memories and stories, so... What's she like?

[No one will call Yamanbagiri by his proper name, huh . . . ]

Like I said, she's always nagging. Because of her element, she's also short-tempered and volatile. But she's a dragon, so she's the heir to the Fire Throne.

[ A nickname is a sign of friendship.

And it's very, very long. ]

Is she also warm, comforting, and passionate? Are you heir to the Ice Throne?

[Comforting? Ragnar?

]

That's right. [The Ice Throne is . . . was . . . as good as hers. She'll figure the logistics out once this nightmarish dimension falls.]

But she's scorching, not hot. I guess you can say that she's passionate, too.

Week 3: Wednesday (Graveyard Task)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw familial death

no subject

no subject

no subject