etrayalogs | MISSION 011

Entry tags:

MISSION 011

WHO: Everyone.
WHEN: September 19th - October 3rd
WHERE: Etraya
WHAT: Mission 011
NOTES\WARNINGS: Psychological horror, hallucinations, paranoia, body horror, violence, death imagery, loss of autonomy, existential horror. Threads may have their own individual warnings.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Psychological horror, hallucinations, paranoia, body horror, violence, death imagery, loss of autonomy, existential horror.

❬ Ashen Veil ❭

Aurora had issued a warning: the nebula's particles were coming, whether or not they were wanted.
Through multiple conversations, she had made her limitations clear: she could let them know what was coming, but provide no assistance in finding the vent to end it, nor offer safe haven outside of the already established mechanisms for skipping missions. This was a puzzle they would have to solve regardless of how much they hated the idea of participating, and solving that puzzle means being an active participant: it mean searching through the particles to find the vent, physically closing off the thing allowing them inside their city.

Yet some allowances have been made: on September 18th, she gathers up all the animals she can convince to come along with her, ushering them into the same dome that those with mission passes will find themselves within. People are welcome to bring her their pets, too, to ensure they do not experience the same horrors they will - all will be kept safe and fed, cared for by the companion bots and Aurora herself until the vent is closed and the particles are fully filtered out. They are not participants, and she would hate to have them suffer through a mission when they can be protected elsewhere.

The night of the 18th goes by quietly, companion bots ushering animals out of the way while Aurora herself offers a hand clearing the way. And once they've all been herded in, the vent opens, allowing the nebula's particles to slowly begin making their way through Etraya's atmosphere.

It doesn't take long at all for the small bits of dust to accumulate in the protective barrier's atmosphere. Thick fog enshrouds everything, it makes it's way through the cracks in windows, the space under doors, through the very fabric that makes up every piece of Etraya. And with the spread of the Fog comes the horrors it brings.

Everything becomes hazy.

While Etraya is green, brimming with life and bright colors - the Fog dims everything. What was once light and beautiful now looks drained, color leeched out and left as nothing more than a husk of what it once was. Every flower and leaf appears to wilt in moments under the heavy weight of the Fog's touch. The air itself grows heavy, tasting of metal and rot, seeping into the lungs of those under it's influence like a slow suffocation. Sound itself dulls - footsteps echo strangely, or perhaps even sound duplicated, the steady taptaptap making it feel as if one is being followed. Then again, considering how difficult it is to see mere feet in front of them - perhaps they are.

Shapes stir in the haze. Some may be tricks of the eye: distortions among the thickened air, but others linger a little too long, watching with patience in a way that feels wrong. Eerie. A shadow may linger where no one should be, only to dissolve when approached. Or worse - it does not dissolve at all but turns as if it look at those who approach it.

Yet the Fog also remembers things it should not. It bends itself into shapes familiar to those within it, taking the outline of loved ones and enemies alike, whispering in voices that should not be present. But it's whispers, it's movements, are all wrong. There are cracks, clear distortions of what may have been a happy memory now turned menacing. Perhaps a friend appears to offer comfort, before their features distort and their comfort curdles into ill wishes.

And through all of this, the vent breathes unseen. The nebula's particles continue to seep their way into the city, digging deep into every possible surface, clawing it's way through skin to settle deep. There is no safe space left upon the surface of Etraya - as soon as the Fog has been given leave to spread, it has entered not only the atmosphere but those within it. It lingers behind eyes, under skin, whispering that it will never leave.

You belong here now, under its veil.

❬ broken symmetry ❭

The street below doesn't feel stable - it shifts and sways, shifts from stretching out into the Fog to folding in on itself, leaving those on it at unfamiliar crossroads. Yet one will find that they are not the only one who has arrived here: a stranger, or a friend, stands opposite, but something does not quite feel right: they look distorted, not quite as they should, but it's almost impossible to tell what has changed. And yet both individuals will feel the same pull: that this person in front of them isn't as they should be, and something needs to be done.

Perhaps their hair is too long and needs to be cut, and one feels the intense need to take out a pair of shears to trim. Perhaps it is their clothing, somehow wrong in how it hangs off them. Or perhaps it's something - a little more dire. The shape of their nose, the color of their eyes. Regardless, it needs to be fixed. Repaired.

Yet the one being judged may feel as if everything is completely normal, and the person opposing them just happens to be calling out the thing that causes them the most insecurity: the shape of their nose, the weight of their hair, their clothing. But the feeling of something wrong goes both ways.

Perhaps what is truly needed here isn't to change, but to accept.

❬ that which burrows ❭

Something pricks against the skin - sharp, fleeting, similar to a mosquito bite or perhaps a bee sting. But by the time one reacts, whatever it had been that had touched them has already slipped beneath the surface where no hand can reach. Yet it was no insect that had touched them, nor was it anything real in any sense one could understand.

It gnaws at the edge of thought, settling in one's gut and swelling into a panic. A worry that perhaps they had once dismissed, or perhaps had never stopped to truly be concerned over, blooms into something monstrous and all encompassing. It fills every corner of their mind, until breathing becomes near-impossible. Reason fractures, and the thought writhes, burrowing deeper, until there is nothing left.

Maybe they should have never been born. Maybe their existence is a blight upon those around them. Perhaps they truly are the disappointment their companions have assured them they are not. Maybe a mistake made eons ago resurfaces, until they are left sobbing with regrets and begging for forgiveness that has long-since been earned and yet they cannot accept it. Perhaps they are choking on regret, heart pounding as bile rises in their throat and nothing seems to successfully swallow back that sensation, the gut-feeling that their regrets were truly their fault.

For those familiar with panic attacks, many of the same techniques that help to manage can help push back the thought, but cannot circumvent it - physical contact being the most effective way to reduce cortisol, grounding the mind if only for a fleeting moment. Still, the presence remains, thrumming beneath the skin like a parasite of unease. One can muffle it, console it, distract it, but never banish it.

❬ hollowing road ❭

A narrow trail winds through the forestry of Etraya, murmuring to them that this is the way, this is where the vent lies.

If one follows, the Fog rewards each step with a loss. At first, it's nearly impossible to perceive what has been lost - perhaps it was a favorite color, a memory of where one had left a friend, or the taste of a favored meal. Small things, gone before one even notices their absence.

But as they continue down the path, they will find that the loss increases. Memories unravel like a thread being pulled from it's spool, leaving behind remnants from memories lost. Objects may become buried in the foliage behind them on the trail - a piece of fabric from a favored dress, a key that once opened the door to their childhood home, a picture of a family lost. Each pulses faintly with the echo of the memory they belong to, begging to be picked up and held close - or perhaps buried deep in the forest to never be found again.

Eventually, the truth will become impossible to ignore: those on the path will no longer remember why they came, nor what waits at the end. Turning around, they may find evidence of what was left behind in their wake, leaving them to gather the pieces that once made them whole. Each item will dissolve once pressed close to it's owners chest, sharing the memory itself with anyone who happens to be close enough to get a taste.

❬ MISSION NOTES ❭

📌 — The above prompts are just there to get you started. Feel free to play with the setting and concept beyond what we've suggested here!

📌 — For all questions relating to this mission, please refer to mission plotting. All other questions can be directed to the FAQ.

📌 — Custom scenario prompts can be threaded here or anywhere else, as you like. Mod-driven threads will be posted here.

🔵FULL NAVIGATION🔵

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

When no elaboration comes, Dion doesn't press. There is a reason, and in this instance, that will have to be enough. He turns his focus instead to escape, peering up at the narrow slot above them. Odds are he could jump easily enough, a dragoon's leg strength is very much a human ability, but—

Then the other speaks, pulling Dion back from his thoughts.

He very nearly turns toward them, accustomed to facing others when spoken to, but he aborts the movement quickly. "You...are not the first to pose that question," he replies after a moment spared to consider, brief as it is. "Then as now, I do not mind, if that will aid you."

Knife tries to be quick about it, at least, and not to the finest of details. Just enough to not be a nightmare to look at or feel like. They pull at their scalp to draw out yellow hair, dragging the heels of their hands down the middle of their face to mold the nose and then carry that movement along their face to shape the jawline. They let the rest of themself fill out gradually shoulders-down, looking at themself and realizing they need to get clothes on again.

The hustle sends discarded items skittering around the floor - a screwdriver, a scalpel, some bottlecaps, a key to a door in Earth-2, a planchette.

"This is--it's the poison, isn't it," Knife utters while fiddling with fasteners.

Dion glances down, observing certain familiar objects amongst the assortment. He doesn't comment upon them, but he does make note of it. It could mean anything or nothing, especially with the peculiar fog that has overtaken their surroundings, but a part of him can't entirely dismiss it.

"The bubble seems to be heavily affected... Though perhaps that is only our perception." Dion supposes it could be either or both. He has to wonder what the purpose of opening the vent even was, dangerous as it clearly is for all of them.

"It changes very little," says a man's voice, seemingly from above. "You are still what you are, and you must do what you are made to do."

Knife stills, expression blanking out for a beat, then slowly looks up at Dion, testing. Maybe they just imagined it, just themself alone. Maybe?

Dion was already looking at the narrow opening above. He squints harder at the voice that seems to come from somewhere beyond it, doubting anyone sits atop this cage taunting them.

"Another trick of the fog, most like..." He's told himself to doubt these things, familiar by now with how convincing the deception can be to his senses. The words reminded him of his father in a way, though it did not sound like his voice.

Fog. Poison. And...and everyone can just see and hear Knife's own mess? Why? What ever for?

"The work isn't done. Be good, now--"

"Shut up," Knife mutters, slumping against the wall behind them. They feel at the side of their face for the scar, still lightly there, the thing they can't ever seem to fully mold away. "It's not real if he's here." Dion.

"It doesn't change the work to be done--"

"Shut up."

"You won't leave until you--"

"SHUT UP!"

It's a peculiar thing, hearing his own voice speaking so differently from how he does. Dion tries not to dwell on it, but the curious nature of it impresses upon us all the same. "Rather insistent..." He thinks to say after a time, eyes still on the opening above them.

He's yet uncertain whether his companion remains uncomfortable being seen, even after asking to borrow his face. "In any case, 'tis only an obstacle to be overcome."

Dion is far from an optimist, but he doesn't intend to be bested by some bizarre trap.

"If I can't get out, you can, at least," Knife utters, the sullen tone fitting ill in Dion's voice. "You should do that. Do...do magic, or whatever. I can't. It--"

They hesitate, checking their other hand, feeling for something.

"It's like I never learned."

"Because you never left."

"Alas, none of us can at present," Dion replies with a shake of his head. Were his aether accessible to him, he'd have broken them free of this cage already. As it stands, they will simply have to be more creative about it. "Yet there are two of us. We shall manage."

Because they must. The fog will not cease until that vent is closed.

Knife lets out a loud exhale, as if that would be enough to evict the panic electrifying his bones. Sure, the body can reshape to something sturdier, but the insides are still as loose as liquid, all broiling with frustration and shame. Dion could not think a damn thing and still Knife will hold themself guilty for being some blight on his time.

Fucking--stop. They gulp, feeling emotion trying to bubble over and make things worse. Turning around, they kick some of the random shit out of their way and feel around the wall.

"Feel for a. A door. Something."

"You think there may be one?" Dion asks, yet he automatically turns his inspection to the nearest wall. It would help if he could further illuminate their surroundings, but what they have is what they'll have to make do with. He smooths a hand over the surface of the wall, plain as it appeaers to him.

Hidden passages are at least something with which he is familiar. If not that, perhaps something else they can make use of will not be readily apparent without closer examination.

"I don't know," they snap, frustrated, turning around with a snarl. "What, you, you want to just fucking stand here and rot? Starve? It's not fun!"

The sound of his own voice swearing at him stills Dion for a moment. How strange it is to hear such a thing. At the very least, that will be a memorable experience. "I've no intention of remaining trapped here, I merely sought clarification."

If nothing else, they may be able to knock their prison over and better access that narrow opening that way, if not damage the structure in the bargain...

Knife's still too stirred up and upset to chill out, so the furious doppelganger goes on.

"If this were really what it looks to be, then the door would only appear after one of us is dead. What-- want to try? See if the rules stick? Huh? DO IT, then." They slap at their own chest. "Make it happen!"

This time Dion stills, turning to look at his odd reflection. What this looks to be is evidently a terrible place, and a cruel thing to subject anyone to, but he sets his questions about the murder box aside.

"We know we are in Etraya, and we know the fog compromises us. Why should we assume this any more real than whatever else has come with the fog?" He asks, which evidently is a 'no thank you' to attacking his distressed double.

Edited 2025-09-25 22:17 (UTC)

It's not a great time to see reason (wis save 3 (2+1)). Being here is scary enough, but someone who knows them is seeing it, seeing a pathetic, miserable origin. The dots aren't fully connected, but the risk is there: Dion could know. Better to be dead then, for some reason.

So it goes on.

"You got any better fuckin' ideas, huh?! No?" He steps into Dion's space, reaching to grab him by the shirt collar for a rough shake, goading him to retaliate.

Dion lays hands on the other's wrists to still the shaking, but he's hardly aggressive in so doing. Little force is applied, his grip firm but not harsh. "We've only begun to seek a solution. Would you so readily sacrifice part of yourself, not knowing what it might be?"

He doesn't want to be the reason someone dies in this place. However ephemeral it might be, it comes at a price— one they cannot know until it has already been paid.

For a second, there's an unusual shifting under Dion's grip. It's like holding onto a snake, like there's muscles or...or something coiling under the skin that oughtn't. It seems to intensify in tandem with the way Knife themself quivers.

"I know what this is," they growl, "and it is not worth keeping."

It's a peculiar feeling. An uncanny one. Dion pushes the thought aside in favor of reasoning with his companion as best he's able. "What if you were to lose some essential part of yourself? Your ability to...borrow a face, or the memory of someone dear? Death shouldn't ever be your first recourse."

Whatever was exacted as a price for revival could prove a deeply regrettable, permanent loss.

"True enough," the voice above purrs. "You're nothing if you cannot change. A perfect, blank--"

Knife snarls loud enough to drown out the remaining statement, shoving at Dion and yanking their arms free to back away. There's not a lot of space to move to pace and cool off, so more's the frustration when they can't back away enough.

"I can't break stone," they point out, petulant.

Dion grants what space he can, ignoring the disembodied voice. Whatever it has to say, it contributes nothing to their efforts at escape. He looks once more to the opening of their little prison, speculating what options might be available to them.

If he could channel his aether, it would be so simple.

"I know not what the limits of your ability are," he says after a few long, pondering moments. "But were I to lift you, could you escape through that opening?"

"I can't squeeze that small," Knife replies, turning to face the wall, already kicking themself internally. Shoulda said I can't squeeze AT ALL.

"If it's not real. I shouldn't have to." That's the logic here, right? Is it just a matter of...of believing it? That should be easy. Probably. Dion shouldn't be here, so that means it's not real.

They sink down to a crouch, dragging their hands along stone that does feel abrasive and familiar. Smells the same. But it's...not. It's not.

"It's. Not real." Right? Unless Dion isn't.

"Yes. A trick of the fog, for the timing aligns just so," Dion reasons, remaining calm. One of them must, and clearly that is easier for him to achieve than present company. So long as it isn't real, they just have to push past their perception of it.

He supposes he'd done the same with the spectre of his father, in the midst of all of this.

"It may only be as material as we believe it to be."

How can Knife not believe in the Box? Not real here, but always a lingering presence, the formation of their very being. Deny that, deny themself. Sure, it may spit in the face of all the progress made since climbing out, but--

Okay, yeah, it does spit in the face of all that progress. Be fucking better, shit-ass stupid-ass worthless-ass piece of trash. If not Knife, then...whoever I need to be right now.

And maybe not Knife at all. Because Knife is who Echo brought to Etraya, right? It's who Aurora addressed at first. And if Echo wants Knife, he's not getting him this easily. Fuck that guy.

Knife - whoever they are right now; not-Dion - feels their fingers around the edges of one of the stones, then starts digging them further in, finding some give. They bite the inside of their cheek and tense up, needing to swallow back on apprehension before committing to burying their hands into the work despite the growing discomfort.

As the voice above reminds them that the right way to go about this is to finish the kill and drain the blood, Knife lets a fingernail or two flake off and scrape delicate flesh before they can get their digits around the other end of the stone and start pulling it out of place. It's not easy.

"Help. Me." The ask is quiet, teeth grit.

Dion doesn't need to be asked twice. He hastens to assist, gauntleted hands finding purchase on the stone his companion has already uprooted. Digging their way out may not have been his first consideration, but if it means an avenue to their freedom, then that is what he'll do.

He worries for the other's hands, but he assures himself that he can most likely mend that much— before recalling his aether is effectively corked in him for the duration of this mission. Still yet, he does know basic first aid, so at least he might be of some assistance once they're free of this trap.

"Others should be simpler with this one is out of the way," he suggests this as the stone is fully removed from its original place. "My hands are better protected, so I can contend with the others."

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cw a bit of finger injury

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