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etrayalogs2025-09-19 08:20 am
etrayamods) wrote in etrayalogs2025-09-19 08:20 am
Entry tags:
- !mission log,
- a certain magical index: accelerator,
- arcane: jayce talis,
- arcane: viktor,
- atla: toph beifong,
- batman wfa: jason todd,
- co e33: gustave,
- co e33: lune,
- co e33: maelle,
- dc comics: bruce wayne,
- dc comics: damian wayne,
- dc comics: dick grayson,
- dc comics: jonathan kent,
- final fantasy vii-r: vincent valentine,
- final fantasy x-2: paine,
- final fantasy xvi: cidolfus telamon,
- final fantasy xvi: dion lesage,
- final fantasy xvi: sleipnir harbard,
- marvel comics: sophie cuckoo,
- monster pulse: julie greathouse,
- person of interest: harold finch,
- person of interest: john reese,
- person of interest: sameen shaw,
- superman (2025): clark kent / superman,
- superman (2025): lois lane,
- the batman: bruce wayne,
- titans: jason todd,
- vox machina: vax'ildan vessar,
- xmcu: scott summers (teen),
- ✘ dimension 20: gorgug thistlespring,
- ✘ genshin impact: kaeya alberich,
- ✘ ice age: manny,
- ✘ kpop demon hunters: rumi
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
📌 — 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.
no subject
on the plus, it's not like adding any more smoke really matters given this dense-ass fog.
once they've poked their head out and looked about:] ...Shit.
no subject
and looks down to his copy. )
You've got your own face, don't you? Use it.
no subject
No. Not that one. Not here. [it's a principle thing.] I can pick...anything else. But not that.
[that said, they do rub a hand on their face, the masklike coloration washing off. they pinch at the bridge of their nose and pull a bit, elongating their features, then hastily sweep their palm over some hair, making it slicker, the color lightening. it's just a hodgepodge assortment of remembered features; with no mirror to work with nor an aim in mind, it's really a dice roll.]
no subject
it's enough for damian to latch onto it, given it sticks out as odd. )
It's your face, isn't it? What, are you afraid to be recognizable?
no subject
no subject
( he's hit something sensitive, damian recognizes that without issue. and he could leave it be, except why would he. )
Do you have an issue with your appearance?
no subject
while getting clothes on:] It's complicated and not about you, so forget it already! Go away!
no subject
it's tim's. damian is mimicking tim. )
If you're going to whine, at least do it in a more appropriate voice.
no subject
at the emphasized word, they yank some cords to cinch the jacket at the waist.] I'm asking you to mind your business. Hello? Your ear-thing busted?
no subject
( but he's already dropped the mimicry of tim's voice, opting instead on sticking to his own. )
This place made it about me when it dragged me in.
no subject
exasperated:] Okay, great! Then figure it out own your own. If it's your business now, I'll keep out of it. [they gesture an exaggerated have-at-it motion with their now-sleeved arm.]
no subject
It's complicated is not an answer. One's identity is a personal thing, but an important part of themselves regardless. Do you not want yours? Do you prefer to remain without clear borders dividing who you are from everyone else?
no subject
Knife gets up, tugging pants on that are way too big until they are not: they let their legs lengthen to suit. the less adjusting on-the-spot, the better, honestly.]
Can't you just say "sucks to be you" and be done?
no subject
( stop whining while sounding like him, he does not like it. it's very rude. )
We are all trapped here. Part of being trapped together is acknowledging one another.
no subject
[being a tool for other people to save their worlds or whatever. yeah, yeah, they know, they know--]
no subject
( mostly because it reminds damian a little of his own childhood, which gives him an extremely sour taste in the back of his mouth. )
We are not here to be used. We are here to prove ourselves. Ourselves, not whoever else's face we choose to borrow to be someone who isn't us.
no subject
well. dressed enough, even if they ain't got shoes. it's whatever; they just harden the skin on the flats of their feet to avoid extra discomfort. it'll do. they massage their throat, clear it, and pitch the vocals lower.]
So? [he squints one eye at Damian.]
no subject
I'm not explaining this to you if you do not already understand.
no subject
Knife exhales in a huff, allowing a beat of relief, to relax all the tense muscles they're wound up in. but only for a moment. one of the breaths that follows comes out in a wrung-out chuckle.
'Play' stupid. Yeah. Yeah... fury roils in their stomach. I hate this. I hate this I hate this I hate
methis I--they wobble a step backward, bumping rubble with the back of a heel and prompting a heavy stomp for their bearings. I'm gonna throw up.]
Heh. Hehah... Hahh... [they spit on the ground, the rubble, and turn to start wobbling into the fog, aimless, planless.]