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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
Thanks.
Antiseptic?
no subject
[she blinks.]
What?
no subject
... For cleaning?
no subject
This crap stinks, too! What a shit day to have a nose... [she hands it over, making a face.]
no subject
[He'll dab some on a clean cloth, cap the bottle, and then take a deep breath.]
This is going to hurt. But it'll be okay.
[That time it's more to himself than anything, as he presses the cloth to his wound and is suddenly hit with an intense stinging. Jayce pounds his fist on the chair's arm, biting his bottom lip and trying to focus on not yelling so he doesn't scare Antigone.]
no subject
instead:] Want me to? So you don't mess up? [she holds out an open hand.]
no subject
Don't scrub. And be careful with your claws.
[You know. The ones he just saw take out someone's eye.]
no subject
all the same, she dabs more on and repeats the gesture he was doing, tail twitching in tandem with whatever recoil he offers.]
no subject
That's- that's enough. Thank you.
no subject
while stepping around it to jump to the floor:] What-- [land.]--am I getting now, again?
no subject
[Something that's notably, not found in a regular first aid kit.]
I'll come with you.
[He doesn't think she'll be able to find one alone. No offense, Short-stack.]
no subject
while Jayce is strugglebussing to get back on his feet, she looks around, then double-takes.]
Oh, hey! Look!
[she scampers across the lobby and pulls at a wheelchair, giving a push and pull just to make sure it moves proper.] This'll be easier than limping around, yeah?
[she pushes it along his way.]
cw: ABLEISM OUT OF NOWHERE??
[It's an incredibly strong reaction he's having to just a wheelchair, teeth grit and whatever sudden amount of adrenaline he's getting from this motivates him to stand onto his own two feet with more urgency, as if the prove he's already doing better.
There's a lot Jayce can say about how he feels about Piltover, how he doesn't feel like he belongs there anymore, how much he's distanced himself from them- but there's parts of him that don't even realize how much he's internalized. For a city of Progress, where prosthetics are common and often beautifully decorated- it is a place of mostly stairs, with no mind paid to someone who might need wheelchair assistance. To almost all in Piltover- a wheelchair is for someone who can't improve. And that triggers a fear in Jayce he hasn't thought about before, for himself.]
I'm fine. I'll walk.
no subject
Puttin' weight's not gonna mess up all that nice work I just did, is it? [that's really as far as she's gonna push on it; he's a big boy, he can be smart or stupid on his own time. and if it winds up being a detriment to her? well.
she's not afraid to say told you so.
if she's alive to do it, anyway. Knife plans on staying alive.
she doesn't wait for an answer, just shrugging and circling the chair to mosey on down toward the main hall. having littler legs helps in this case; she won't get far unless he really putzes.]
no subject
[He makes an effort to move faster than he would when being careful, unsure if it's going to make things worse and hurt more. Hopefully just the latter, so he doesn't get a dreaded "I told you so."]
no subject
Jeez. Helping people is so...argh. Knife gnaws on that thought for all of a minute before walking into one of the examination rooms. Antigone's ears cock, recognizing the upholstery - and that there's a bunch of sharp implements around. it'll be nice to restock an--]
TSSHT--
[Antigone sucks in a loud, sharp breath, throwing herself out the room the moment her gaze glimpsed toward the fog-shrouded window and saw worse things there. skidding on linoleum, she has to scramble to get her back up against the wall and clap hands over her muzzle.
double-taking at Jayce puts her right back into the proper place and immediately hits her with wave of frustration and shame.
growling through her hands, she pries them free, slapping the wall behind her for want to hit herself.]
Even out the, the goddamn window it gets you. [Fuck. Fuck this!]