etrayalogs | JANUARY MINGLE

Entry tags:

JANUARY MINGLE

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: January 17th - January 23rd
WHERE: Etraya
WHAT: The arrival of newcomers and some new construction!
NOTES\WARNINGS:

⏵ arrival ⏴
Welcome to Etraya!

Arrival goes as expected - characters awaken on hospital beds and are offered an explanation of their situation: that they have arrived in the city of Etraya, and they are their world's only hope. They are welcome to wander the hospital if they would like to - the upper floors are mostly empty, full of pristine hallways and numerous rooms filled with supplies, cots, and things one would expect from a relatively average 21st-century hospital.

A coat rack is situated by the doors leading out of the hospital, covered in warm clothing that fits the new arrivals just right - whether it's to their preferred style or not is something else entirely. Some of them appear normal enough. Others? Well. Looks like someone was trying to improve on last month's designs.

Outside the windows, the grass is covered in a couple of inches of loosely packed snow.

We hope you enjoy your stay.

⏵ passion for fashion ⏴

As the newcomers find themselves leaving the hospital as per their usual arrival, they will find that not too far from it is a small boutique. Newly added, just as they have been, though they lack the context to know this. Companion bots will encourage them to go in and meet the particularly unique bot inside, dressed to the nines in line with the fashion the boutique itself is offering. While small, it's clearly been decorated to emphasize the loose era and taste of the particular fashion it's advertising. The building itself is also petite, and made to feel more personal rather than a commercial experience. It has a single dressing room, and outside of it has an area with mirrors where one might take in their lovely visage from nearly all angles. There is a little waiting area with seating in the front, for those who are not being molded through Theobold's vision, or simply waiting for whoever is.

The tastes and aforementioned era of this little establishment is decidedly Victorian, with a bold splash of neon trimming, cog-like adornments, and other accessories that brighten up the otherwise neutral fabrics typically used in the style of dress. Theobold, as he has named himself and will not let anyone forget, has taken to a three-piece suit, a deep emerald in color, with a black vest, and matching black gloves.

He will take it upon himself to judge each person's attire (which he will unabashedly hate), then restyle them into something more along his tastes (even if it takes him a while, he will find something you don't ruin). There are, of course, many different combinations to pick from, all hearkening to a very loud style of dress that seems as much neon as it is punk or steam. One might even name it steampunk with a splash of neon. Neon Steampunk? Something like that.

An interesting combination to say the least, Theobold insists as much.

This is, of course, not simply limited to newcomers, though they will likely be exposed to this boutique more quickly than the others. Any who come near the general area of the hospital (thus the boutique) will find themselves being encouraged by the other bots to come inside, and they will likewise be judged and restyled to Theobold's tastes—which are as bright as they are bold. He really doesn't take no for an answer, though he can't truly stop anyone from leaving any more than a pushy grandmother fussing over her grandchild's clothes might.

He has obviously discovered his passion, why not indulge him?

⏵ trending or treading ⏴

After enjoying the privilege of being restyled by Theobold, he will also insist that you take the outfit for a spin around the city! See what people say, take note of how many looks you catch, how many eyes are on you. He wants to hear about it as well, clearly to validate his own artistry, and who can blame him? Does not every artist strive to hear a little bit of praise for their hard work? Do they not yearn for recognition from the public? Theobold may be a bot, but he is also an artist honing his craft! His boutique is not above critique, though he hopes the critique isn't too harsh...

Should one indulge him, telling about what others thought, he will gladly gift the outfit to the wearer. A humble act of his endless generosity! Or if they fancy another outfit of their own taste from his boutique, then that will suffice as well. Even if it breaks his heart that you don't like the outfit. No, no. It's fine, really. It's perfectly okay. Everyone has their tastes, and yours just happens to stab him in his mechanical heart.

He'll get over it. In time. Probably.

⏵ leaving tracks ⏴

Companion bots have taken to building train tracks, as well as what appears to be a train station, in the South Eastern island of Etraya. The area is, for the most part, blocked off from Etrayans. After all, it is a construction zone, and the companion bots are ever vigilant with safety. At least they try to be. However, if people wish to lend their aid in the construction, well, they won't necessarily stop them. However they will assure them that they are not in need of assistance, and might intermittently remind those especially helpful Etrayans of that fact.

Those who wish to simply watch the construction may do so, but nothing especially interesting is going on beyond the mystery of what this these tracks and the station might be for. Besides a train, of course. After all, since when has there been any mention of a train? Asking the companion bots about it will yield little results. They won't be able to give any further details besides the obvious: when this is done, it will be for a train. It seems even they might not know the full extent of what this entails, or maybe they cannot say.

Regardless the reason of their lack of explanation, it seems patience might be the key to the answer.

⏵ NOTES ⏴

Some may notice that in the area Gorgug's friend had gone exploring outside of the environmental bubble, there is a message written on a massive piece of fabric, which is tied to two large rebar poles. The message is in an alien language, but the earpiece will automatically translate it: DID YOU THINK YOU WERE THE ONLY ONES?

On the bottom of the fabric are four vertical lines. Every Friday, a vertical line becomes crossed through with a horizontal one.

For all questions relating to this log, please refer to the mod queries comment. All other questions can be directed to the FAQ.

⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Once a cigarette was taken, he tucked the pack away again and offered the end of his own cigarette to light the other man's. He had a lighter, but this seemed easier for the both of them.

"No, this place is intent on the mundane," he agreed, continuing to watch the work well beyond the circle of their conversation. "I would hardly consider rail lines more complicated than a whole building. The technology this place has seems to a higher advancement than a railway too."

It was something new. He might not have been here long, but even he could recognize this was out of place.

"Vander, by the way." Introductions and all that.

It sets Carver's teeth on edge to allow the distance to close like this, but he holds out the cigarette to allow the cherry to light, shielding it with a gloved hand. He takes a long drag, letting the burn settle into his lungs. It's been years since he's had a cigarette.

"Carver," he replies, watching Vander, watching the robots. "Begs the question of what they're planning to move."

He noted the tightness to the man's jaw, and he filed away the information even as he took his cigarette back and took a long drag from it. He exhaled smoke from his nostrils and continued to watch the seemingly normal construction operation.

"Begs the question what we're going to have to hijack from it," he remarked simply. "You move large quantities of something on trains. What could they possibly need to move?"

"People, probably."

He tilts his head back, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Only thing that really fits. They can bring in everything else. But people, mhmm. People get tricky."

"Shipping people to where?" And for what purpose goes unspoken as he tapped his cigarette ash off. "Or from where, I suppose. This place seems to have plenty of space."

This was a very open prison if it was one. "It does beg the question how many other little islands like this one there are beyond what we're aware of."

"That's the question."

Carver watches the cigarette smolder. Watches Vander, too. Big man's smart, is the thing.

"Everybody wakes up in the hospital, supposedly. Who's to say that's where we really start, though? And whatever the fuck else is beyond this."

Vander wasn't in the mood to be held an active hostage, nor was he willing to entertain being smuggled on a train like cargo. He had survived where most of those around him had not, and it wasn't simply because of his charming smile and wide shoulders.

"Is that a fact?" Perhaps this man had been here longer than himself and the cycle was more established for him. He saw reason to be suspicious. "Do we know if there is anything beyond the islands?"

Carver shrugs and drops the cigarette, grinding it out underneath his boot. "Haven't been here long enough to see otherwise. But sometimes we're just...somewhere else. Different worlds."

He snorts.

"Playing games to save our own. Supposedly."

"You've been through a mission yet?" He was expecting to experience his first this month, and he wanted to be as prepared as possible for it. That meant keeping a watchful eye, like this here oddity. "What do you mean different worlds?"

He dragged on his cigarette.

"Do you have a bunch of people you're saving?"

The truth is, a lot of this place is still fuzzy to Carver. The rules seem to blend into each other, contradicting in places. Or maybe he's too stubborn about the whole thing, unwilling to bend and retreating back to the old ways, how it would've gone back home.

His jaw works. But then, anger's not useful right now.

"Weird shit, mostly. Find pieces of a pearl by asking a bird. I heard about people getting kicked up to a space station."

He doesn't understand how it works and resents that fact deeply.

"No," he adds, to the second question. "But I have dead to bury."

The more that he was told about the missions of this place, the more bizarre they became. He had not been able to sort out how any of those mission objectives actually determined if a world was worthwhile being saved or destroyed.

"Space station?" Vander's tone indicated he had no idea what that was. Still, what he did know was that they had been stolen from their homes and could be moved anywhere on whimsey. "This place is strange. Nothing makes logical sense."

He turned his head to regard Carver for a long time. Why would they bring someone who had nothing to fight for? "That objective so important to you that it's worth saving your world for?"

Amen to that, he thinks bitterly. One more reason to think he’s in some sort of ironic Hell, throwing himself against a wall and failing yet again to learn his lesson. You gonna disappoint me again, son? Always, the commander’s voice whispers in his ear.

Carver’s fingers twitch. He refocuses.

“They deserve their rest,” he replies flatly, giving Vander a warning look. No one is allowed to disrespect his dead—no one. “The others can fucking burn.”

Edited 2025-01-19 16:29 (UTC)

Vander dropped the nub of his cigarette and dug his heel into it to put it out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two stake spikes and dropped them into the grass where he could retrieve them later. Why? Because they might be useful at best or he was stealing at worst.

He noted the noted the look, and he nodded his head to accept the words. "We put our dead in the water mostly. Not enough land for burial." He understood the importance of putting those close to their final rest.

He flexed his shoulders. "I'm going back to work. Care to join me?"

He eyes the spikes, but doesn't comment. It's smart to grab supplies when you can. Nobody ever knows when things will go wrong, what bits and scraps will mean the difference between dying badly and scraping through.

"Sure," Carver agrees. "Why the fuck not?"

Work is good. Work is pure. And they might just learn something useful in the meantime.

"Ah, I didn't think you had anything better to do. I know I sure don't," he remarked.

He was planning on sabotaging the tracks too, of course. He wanted to see if the companion bots would pick up on it and if he would be held accountable for the 'mistake'. He also planned on taking more supplies. Hell, if he could, he was going to walk off with a hammer that he could not hide on his person.

He began to walk back towards the construction site. A bot moved to tell him that this was an active construction site, and he simply pushed passed. He ignored the insisting comment when being told their assistance wasn't necessary.

"What's your special skill set, Carver? I assume you have one and it isn't laying track."

Edited (oops) 2025-01-19 17:44 (UTC)

That just gets a shrug.

"Idle hands," Carver replies, which is half an explanation. Idle hands fuck you up, the commander used to say. And God doesn't love the lazy. Better to stay busy, to learn what you can. Intelligence isn't delivered passively, it has to be taken. Sometimes it's a frustrating, exhausting endeavor, but so is survival. And he's strong enough to work in this place, has been eating full meals. No one's even tried to kill him recently - a miracle.

Or a warning. It settles uneasy in his gut.

He watches Vander, in the meantime. Big man moves like he knows how to do it. Not flashy or sharp, but deliberate the way good fighters are. "I was a doorkicker, before," he replies simply. "You?"

Well, it seemed that both of them had time to fill in the day, and at least there was someone out there who had the same idea that he had. Look at that, practically friends with each other. Vander would keep the man in mind for physical labor activities in the future that was for sure, especially since it seemed that the guy could hold his own with thankless tedious heavy labour.

"Bartender mostly," he replied as he picked up a hammer and moved down the line towards unfinished rails. He dropped the hammer and leaned down to look at a portion of rail and what needed to be completed further. "I expect doorkicker isn't a salesman." He could guess what it meant. "You bear the look of a survivor. That in and of itself is a skill I doubt few put much stock in."

Carver shadows Vander, who seems like he has a better sense of how the disparate pieces of track fit together. He'll do what needs to be done in terms of hammering spikes or carrying bits of iron or scraps, but he knows little about trains.

Orders, however, are easy. He was always good at doing what needs to be done.

"Soldier," he clarifies. "I do what I need to. You move like you know how to take a hit."

"Hand me that crowbar, would you?" He gestured to where there were tools and supplies set neatly leaned against wood rail sleepers. "This spike is not placed properly." It absolutely was, but it was time for a bit of disruption before he took them further down the track.

Vander was not afraid nor did he shy away from giving orders. He wasn't militant about it, but he liked things to be done and would never ask anyone to do something that he himself wouldn't also do.

"Yeah, we all do what we have to do," he agreed as he stood again. "I've put a lot of people on their backs, and yeah I've been put on my back a few times. Sometimes I've even been the reason a water burial is necessary in the first place." He looked at Carver. "Do you have a weapon of choice?"

A moment later, the crowbar is in Vander's hand. Carver's philosophy is simple when it comes to work. He takes responsibility for himself and the tasks assigned for him, and he works without complaining. God doesn't love the lazy, or the weak.

"You a gangster?"

It's asked blandly. There's not much difference between that and what Carver did as a mercenary, in the end.

Vander offered his hammer to Carver in exchange, even if there were plenty of hammers where that one came from. No, he liked that one. It was his, and he was sharing it with his new workmate.

He set the crowbar to the spike and with some elbow grease, he lifted it out of the sleeper. He paused at the question, the corner of his lips tugging. "Brawler with a touch of revolutionary thrown in," he said with a shrug. "But mostly a bartender."

He reset the spike differently where it would not have its the same rigidity. He gestured at Carver to beat it into place.

"So, weapon of choice?"

These gestures have weight to them. An offered cigarette, the exchange of information. The give and take of work. Carver eyes Vander a moment, calculating, but he takes the hammer and goes to work. He might not know much about trains, but he can recognize when an angle's been changed to certain effect.

Why not? He has no reason not to play this game out.

"Kukri knife." He gestures briefly to the blade sheathed openly at his side. "Or a gun. Those aren't so easy to get around here, though. What're you revolting against?"

Vander stepped aside so the risk of accidental injury from the hammer blow was minimal. Safety first or some such as per the companion bots that were busy with their own tasks. If this rail was so important, the dysfunction would be noted and corrected or it would take time to derail whatever they were planning.

"Hmm, effective and multipurpose," he replied at the knife. It was a good choice, the kind of blade those who lived hard would probably gravitate to. "Aren't they?" He didn't much like firearms for their history of oppression to his people in particular. "Our oppressors. The golden city of progress. It's a long sordid history like all revolutions I expect."

Carver keeps hammering, careful not to hit his own fingers. There’s no point in getting injured for nothing. He’s pretty sure that’s a sin.

“You winning?” he inquires mildly. Most revolutions fail, he knows. He’s had a hand in crushing a few.

"I was murdered by a co-conspirator I had a falling out with, so..." he trailed off, and while he didn't appear to be bothered by the it, beneath the surface of his calm, his temper sparked. "Years after my death, they did apparently find some success."

This whole people-across-timelines concept was confusing, but he also was willing to buy into it if it meant saving his world.

"Who knows, maybe I'll try my hand at revolution again here." An ideal thought that wasn't meant seriously. Not yet anyway.

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