Play as one of the dearly departed, desperately determined to burst back out of their coffin. Can you summit all nine circles of your prison and breathe surface air once more?
The car swerves. The guillotine falls. The lightning strikes. The disease spreads. The building collapses.
The coffin lid slams shut.
There's nowhere left to go but down.
Welcome to Pandemonium.
Rise from Your Grave Can You Get Out of Death Alive?
The Abyss. Hades. The Spirit Realm. Duat. The Basement. The Underworld. Hel. And, indeed, Pandemonium. The period at the end of the life sentence. A thousand different names scattered over a thousand thousand different realities - each and every culture has its own preferred word for inevitability.
The first stage of death is denial. It begins in the living.
Yet, in a sort of sideways synonym way of looking at things, the living are right, thinking the way they do. There is, in fact, something after death. The problem is, while most of the living believe death to be an ending, and most of the rest believe it to be a new beginning, most of the living... well, they haven't died, yet. They don't have the necessary perspective to make those judgements.
There is a world of difference between merely existing and being alive. Only one of them is something you do on purpose.
Death, to the dead, is not an ending, nor is it a beginning. Death is the climax of the story. What happens down here is the falling action. All the long-lost spirits learn that, given time.
So death moves to anger, its second stage.
Even the nonbelievers believe, after a fashion, in the afterwards. There are names for this place, after all - no matter how inaccurate they are, these names must exist for a reason, right? Even if all one's presuppositions about the absence of a soul are incorrect, one understands the alternative: that the stories they've been told since they were very small must have been told because they were true. "If death is not an ending," most nonbelievers believe, "Then it must have a name I already know."
And even among the others, who profess no belief, and expect no belief, there is still an expectation: everyone will go to the same place, after they die. Or at least the same judgement, or -
No. A thousand, thousand realities, and you are alone - and you do not know where you are.
There are no flames, down below. There are, to be sure, yet there aren't any at all. Put it this way: there are flames, but there is no burning. There are the dead, but there are no ghosts. There is revelation, but there is no understanding. There are doors, but no gates, and gates, but no exits, and exits, but no doors. There are pitchforks, but there is no point.
There is pain, but no punishment.
And there are pleasures - eating and sleeping and loving and gardening and baking and driving monster trucks, just to name a handful - but there is no reward. Mostly, what is here is: More. Forever More. There is the life, minus the living, there are the pain and the pleasure, without the punishment, or the reward, and there is the realization that, just like life, death is arbitrary, both as an event, and in its continuance.
You're here for no reason, and you're stuck here. What else could there be, but anger?
Well, there might be a third stage. Call it "bargaining."
But every now and again, they at least manage to nap a little.
You awaken. Your alarm sees to that. You hadn't meant to leave it on last night, but that seems rather immaterial, in the moment. The day is shining through the window, after all, blinding bright and utterly insistent. Sunlight doesn't reach here, of course, down in the basement of reality, but that too is immaterial - it is day, regardless. There is light, regardless.
You are dead. You are alive, regardless. It is the job of your alarm and your futon and your basket-weave walls and the beam of light shining directly into your eyes to remind you of all that. That last one may be a coincidence. But, whatever - consider your memory jogged.
Regardless.
You don't think you're getting back to dreaming anytime soon, even if you've ended up undersleeping. One sigh, deep and heavy, is all you allow yourself before you sit u- oof - creak as you sit up from your bed. Literally, creak. Being made of soul-stuff usually feels like being made of body-stuff, but every so often...
You rub your eyes, and try and focus on the immediate moment. Come on, wake up, sleepyhead. Rise and shine, already. No use being dead tired.
Mrgrngl.
I've never been a morning person, anyway, you think, as you fall back to bed.
As you thought. No more sleep. "Mrgrngl," indeed.
But you're a bit more awake, now that you've had time to pout to yourself about being awake. Eventually, you manage to leverage yourself into standing up, eventually. After a while. Maybe a couple hours. Eventually.
From there, a quick trip to the shower leaves you feeling up-and-at-em... relatively speaking. When you say "not a morning person", you mean you're not a person, in the mornings. Dragging yourself back to selfhood usually involves either cold showers or purposefully itchy towels.
The fabric scratches and pulls as you dry yourself, and you grieve that today was apparently a "both" kind of day.
But you're mostly you again, as far as you can tell. Still, maybe you'd better check, while you've got the mirror to prove it.
According to the mirror, you are a:
[] Boy
[] Girl
[] Person
[] Boy, currently
Round about the age of:
[] Teenagedom. They say only the good die young. You think maybe you should've endeavored to be worse. [] Young Adulthood. Cut down in the prime of your life. Things were just getting started, when they came to an end. [] Middle Age. In your last days, all you could think about was death, what with all the shiny new aches and pains. Now you're dead, and all you can think about is living. [] Elderly. You were not, in fact, too young to die. Of course, that doesn't mean you particularly wanted to, now, does it?
And right now, you're...
[] Smiling. Once you're awake - and, yeah, it is a process sometimes - you're actually quite the cheerful sort. Optimistic, in a word. [] Frowning. You don't actually get less grumpy, when you're more awake. You're just more, ah, cognizant of what it is that's bothering you. [] Smirking. "Cocky" is a strong term. But then again, you leave a strong impact, so hey! - cock away! [] Staring. Or maybe "stalling" is a better term. You're the anxious sort, and that's all there is to say about that.
You sigh, the last dregs of dreaming, and run a hand through your hair. Still you, it looks like. Best to work under the assumption that will still be true in future days.
...but maybe not quite completely you, yet. You still have something left to do, this morning, after all.
You splash some water on your face, and get ready to go downstairs and deal with your landlady.
"Mornin', Gretel," you call down, ahead of your footsteps.
"Ru'Mon!" The voice that calls back is cheerful, like a smiley face drawn in a gravel road. Your landlady is in a happy mood - as she always is.
You check on her, at the bottom of the stairs, to see if anything's changed. Physically, no - obviously. Greta is still the same cyclops, and still has the same mottled green skin, gigantic scar over her lip, blonde hair, and the horn coming out of the middle of her forehead. Really, you don't have any reason to think she'd be otherwise. But in terms of what she's doing... well, still no. Still sitting, watching the morning news. Still got the weird pictures of... you think those are ships? Hung up on the wall. Still got that shoebox of dirt that apparently isn't for gardening, sitting in the windowsill.
Still your same old landlady, Gretel.
She takes getting used to, you muse, as you exit the stairwell, grabbing your jacket from the wall hook. The appearance isn't a big deal, of course, but the words... well. Apparently, her identity is so closely connected to the Cyclopean tongue that the multiversal ability of souls to speak a common language is nullified, when she talks. You still understand her meaning perfectly, even though the words themselves still sound like the foreign language they are, though, which is...you don't know how to finish the sentence! Not to mention the odd behavior, weird hobbies, the fact that you're technically paying her in order to stay in her house...
...you like Gretel, you think. You just don't really know how to act around her. She always puts you off-balance; you're never quite yourself.
"Mik'Er rellop! Hor'Tay benel mikow freng."
And worse yet, she's a morning person. Eugh.
The blender is waiting for you, like it always is. Like you always do, you put in two pinchfruit, two cups of milk, a scoop of Marvelous Powderous, a handful of bluesmells, and a dollop of "Honey". Like you always do, you try and not think too much about why "Honey" is both capitalized and in quotes.
Like always, you fail.
Like always, you blend them all together anyway. And like always, Gretel talks to you as you wait for full liquification:
"Keni'Mirrow belbel hifon?" she giggles. "Chezzer'Et mikow frim, rabbadar mieh."
"I wouldn't go that far," you mutter as you pour your "shake" into a glass. Still, despite yourself, you're smirking. "I mean, hey, it's not like the Angels are any prettier, right?"
She chortles, loud and hard, "Beez'Emel!" and it's almost enough to distract from the taste of pinchfruit and "Honey" shake on your tongue.
(It's not that it tastes bad, it's just that it... tastes. And keeps tasting. For hours. Often into lunch.)
"Just tellin' it like it is," you say, once you're absolutely certain you've swallowed your mouthful. It's, uh, hard to tell, sometimes.
"In other news," the TV says, grabbing both your attention. Like always. "The HypnoBros will be touring the Seventh and Eighth Circles, next month! After a meteoric rise from Circle Nine, the members of the HB - Ark'h'mel Crock'ire, Tokyo Dallas, Siv Del Tri, and Melvin - have been taking the lower levels of the land of the dead by storm! Their new single, Bumper Cars Downhill, has already hit Adamantine on-"
"Hrmph," Gretel grunts, and, ah. Of course. How could you have forgotten. She's also a boy band purist. "Kil'Grib mothim meb. Mot'Et Eager Graves iklow fevrev!"
Eager Graves is... old. Even in terms of time not ticking, Eager Graves is old. You mean, you guess you knew Gretel had been down here longer than you, but - anyway. "It's hard to really blame 'em." you say. "After all, we're all just tryin' to get to the top."
Some people, more than others.
"Wrek'Madar!"
Gretel's voice pulls you back to shore before you can really start drowning in the thought. "... just tellin' it like it is, then?"
"Wrek'Madar."
"Guess it'd be pretty stupid of me to gainsay the roof over my head, huh." It isn't a question. It's a poke.
And a pretty good joke, judging by the way Gretel waves you off, hiding her smile by turning away. "Mel'Elgon boreet mikow," she doesn't-chide you.
"Ah, and speaking of that creaky old roof up there..." you say, as though she hadn't said anything, downing the rest of your shake before you can change your mind and walking over to her. "Got this month's rent." You hold out the jangling cloth bag. Shake it once, like you always do. "Twelve Favors. And, uh, my continuous thanks."
Gretel takes the bag from you with a smile, like she does every month. Real big, pointy teeth and dimples and all. She never bothers counting it; just takes the bag, and trusts it's all there. It'd be the easiest thing in the Underworld to cheat her.
You can never quite bring yourself to.
"Got some business to run," you give a salute, like always, heading towards the door. "Might be a while. You good holdin' down the fort?"
"Krek'Milnmilnmiln!" You're pretty sure it's some kind of inside joke? But she gives a thumbs up and a laugh, so, eh, that's what's important.
"Glad to hear it," you say, opening up the door and stepping outside. "Be back later!"
Thunk-click.
The door is enchanted, and automatically locks behind you when you leave each morning. It's probably a metaphor.
So you think in the literal. The ground before you is a copper-red clay, as it is everywhere, in the Ninth Circle. There is a paler red path, more a marking of footsteps than a purposeful suggestion, winding from your doorstep to the road, where a bus stop waits for you to wait for a bus. The sky is the same copper red as the ground, so that if there were a single inch of horizon unspeckled by one strangely-shaped abode or another, you could not tell where one began and the other ended. Despite it being daylight, there is no sun.
But there are stars.
The sun is never there, and the moon, only every other night. But the stars are a constant; the nails that this place was hung upon at the beginning, some say. Each one is a slightly different color - just a shade, just a hue - so that the entire broad expanse of the sky is a single rainbow, an eternity long.
The stars are always there. They do not move.
You do not move.
The air and the sky never move, in this place. This is the weather, and it is the way it has always been. A cloudless sky, an inoffensive temperature. Flowers are hard-won in this place, though you never fear a storm.
You stand in the crisp morning air, wishing for a breeze you know will never come.
The houses are the same. Not same as in identical, but same as in uniform. Plenty of space in between each one, yet in every direction, eventually, you're surrounded. Traveling does nothing except change what buildings you can see. You implied it before, and you'll say it again: you haven't seen where the sky meets the ground, ever since you died.
There's nowhere to turn to.
So you close your eyes, and turn inwards.
You remember...
[] Instinct Running Wild - Your world was a world not conquered, but shared. That is not to say there was no such thing as competition- the air strikes with great winds and roaring thunders, and the land spouts magma and smoke, and the sea drives current through rock and raises waves as high as mountains, and mankind hunts. But they are all of the same planet, in the end. The sky gives rain, the ground gives crops, and the sea gives fish - and your tribe were stewards as well. Here and now, well, the internet is pretty handy to have, you'll admit. But your days of being in a tribe are long gone.+2 to Strength.
[] Starting Anew - It isn't just you - your world, too, has met an ending. Some sort of disaster. Armageddon came, and went, and a ruined world was left behind. But there were survivors, and there was a sudden realization that everyone on the planet had very nearly had it. And there was cooperation. And there was, from ash, a blooming. You are - were - a part of the first second generation, the first people to be born into stability on your world in over a century. Even now, there's still not quite hope... but there is an idea, and more pertinently, there is persistence. Maybe you, too, can come back from death.+2 to Constitution.
[] A World, Monochrome - You knew almost nothing about the world you left behind. Sure, compared to the average Joe, the world was at your fingertips, but in the grand scheme of things? You know better. You were an information-gathering specialist, after all - a covert ops, secret agent, undercover with an alias sort of person. You knew better than most just how much there was that you didn't know. How much you had to hide. Even choosing to remember where you came from is fighting against your own nature, at this point. Straining against the secrets you no longer need to keep. You... don't need to keep secrets anymore, right? +2 to Dexterity.
[] The Everyday Magical - Your world was a world of the arcane. It is as simple as that, in the same way that a witch's brew is as simple as a newt's eye, a warthog's snout, and a pinch of tumeric, boiled in goat's milk. Simple as a waggle of the hand and a few magic words. Simple as a prayer. That's magic: the deceptively complicated simplicity of being alive. And that was what you had known and lived and breathed, since you were a child. Swords and sorcery are too simple to encompass: you had a life, on the other side of the veil, and that life was magical.+2 to Wisdom.
[] Things Sufficiently Advanced - Yours was a world of stardust. Yours was a world of scientific endeavors. Yours was a world of technology, advancing impossibly quick. Yours was a world made of worlds, all strung together, glowing in unison, like a manmade constellation a universe long. Anywhere in the whole of creation, you could look up at the stars and know that you were home.You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss the ease and comfort your people's technology brought, but... you miss the wonder, more.+2 to Intelligence.
[] Capes and Cowls - Your world was one that was always looking to the skies. In every other way a world could be, perhaps the powerful and the exceptional lorded their gifts over others, but not where you come from. There, those with strength became protectors. Those with abilities became accountable. Those with power took responsibility. It wasn't everyone - maybe not even most people - but it was enough. People looked to the skies, after all. People believed in tomorrow. Only now, tomorrow's come, and here you are. It's hard not to look around and feel just a little bit hopeless. Still, you remember a splash of color, a cape, and a cowl... +2 to Charisma.
[] Write-In (Subject to approval. You will receive a +1 to any two of the aforementioned stats.)
... and because you remember - because you've reminded yourself - you take a deep breath.
Right. There's a reason for the alarm, and for the uncomfortable bedding, and the windowblinds cracked to the nonexistent dawn. There's a reason for the cold showers, and the itchy towels, and the shakes you can't shake the taste of. There's a reason for all of it, and the reason isn't that you're some kind of sinner, and this whole plane of reality was put in place to punish you for your crimes.
No. The reason for all of it is because you chose all of it. And you chose all of it to be the rock in your boot, the thorn in your side, to remind yourself, because...
[] You have to give her that toy she wanted. You promised that you would come back. You promised that you would be holding that toy in your hands when you did. You promised that everything would be okay. You're not going to make a liar of yourself. [] You have to find the truth about what happened. The afterlife tends to clarify most memories, but the events of that particular night are still fuzzy. How did it all happen? Why did it all happen? And did they really betray you? You have to know. [] You have to see what all is out there. You've always had a sense of wanderlust, and you don't believe you got through a tenth of what you wanted to see, before you passed. Once-in-a-lifetime events mean something different now that you're dead, after all. [] You have to fix your mistakes.You'd always thought there'd be time to make amends, to make up for, to make right. And you were right - but you still managed to squander all of it. You won't be so foolish the second time around. [] Write-In(Subject to approval. Must start with the words "You have to".)
Yeah. That's right. You may be staring down the barrel of a very long eternity, but there's no way you're going to let yourself forget what really matters. What you intend to do. What you have left to do.
Step, after step, after step, you stride out into the Underworld.
Your name is...
[] Write-In
... and you're going to get the hell out of Hell.
If at first you don't succeed...
Hello, all, and welcome to Rise from Your Grave, or as I like to call it: Hotel California: the Quest. I hope you have a wonderful time exploring the Land of the Dead with me.
For now, you'll be voting in plan format. I'll let you know when and if that changes. Vote will close in or before 24 hours from now, and the next update will come a variable amount of time after that.
Name: Robin Greene
Race: Mutated Human (cat ears, cat eyes)
Age at Death: 23 years old.
World: Clockwork, a world of brass and steam.
Traits: Cattiness is in My DNA.Following a tragic lab accident back in college, your DNA was spliced with that of a common housecat, giving you night vision, an extra pair of ears, and a certain exotic je ne sais quoi that made you quite the catch around campus. Apparently, this little oopsy got so twisted up with your self-identity, it carried over into your very soul! You're still waiting on the claws, though.
Techniques: An Arm and a Leg. Robin can sacrifice Score (this game's HP) to add d4s to any check that she knows in advance of, at a rate of 1 Score to 1 die. Sacrificing Score provided by armor, enchantments, etc., will cause that Score bonus to be permanently lowered by the amount sacrificed. However, Score sacrificed from Robin's "natural" Score does not reduce his maximum Score, and can be refilled as normal.
I've made a semi-original rules system for this quest. As you discover what the rules are, they'll be copied over here, into one complete aggregate.
Traits are qualities inherent to your character. Aptitudes, personal enhancements, personality quirks, and the like. They can be cited to give bonuses to difficult checks, with more relevant Traits providing bigger bonuses.
Techniques are special powers and abilities which your character has that most other characters do not. They provide special abilities with their own special rules to follow. Techniques can also be used to attempt checks you normally would not be able to.
Resources typically provide a bigger bonus than a Trait, and can sometimes be used to attempt checks you normally couldn't, like Techniques. However, unlike the other two, Resources are limited in time, space, or quantity. For example, a gun with limited ammo would be a resource, as would an ability to read minds that only works under a full moon. In exchange for their limitations, Resources usually provide larger bonuses than Traits, and are more broadly applicable than Techniques.
While Traits, Techniques, and Resources apply bonuses to checks, Perks apply permanent bonuses directly to your Stats, boosting all checks you make with that Stat for free. However, Perks are conditional things.
For those only reading the threadmarks, the first vote ended up in a tie. Twice. Somehow. So, in the end, I chose the plan that allowed for the most interesting wrinkles...
[] Plan A Touch of Class -[] Girl, currently
-[] Young Adulthood. Cut down in the prime of your life. Things were just getting started, when they came to an end. -[] Smirking. "Cocky" is a strong term. But then again, you leave a strong impact, so hey! - cock away! -[] Crystal and Brass - Yours was a world of wonder and innovation! Of taking the best of ethereal phenomena and natural philosophy and combining them into something greater than the sum of its parts! There is much you miss from your world, the hum of Ether through nearby mechanisms, the sounds of ticking clockwork and working people. But mostly you miss the vigor and wonder of it all. +1 Int and Wis
-[] You have to finish what you started - Yes, technically your thesis project malfunctioned and killed you, but the way it killed you was very educational, and what you now know would surely change the world for the better, once refined with some safer experiments. -[] Robin Greene
The gleam in your eyes is the sun, shone on brass, and all you can think of is flying.
Your world was Clockwork. That was its name, that was its industry, that's how it ran. That's how it flew. Prim and proper, in perfect straight lines, and flawlessly drawn circles - everything you knew was crystal geometries. The turning of the world was the turning of the gears, and the lifeblood you shared bloomed to steam. Brass veins.
You don't believe you could have been born anyworld else. Your soul was drawn to Clockwork too strongly, you see; you were too enamored with the spouting of steam. Just a touch of hot air, and – like a magic trick - the whole world took flight. Even had you been given the choice, you know you too well, and you'd never have been able to resist a peek backstage.
Your schooling was your backstage pass, then. When you left the nest, and spread your wings, you soared the skies of Lord Aquatail's Academy for the Curiosity of Youth, the most prestigious college your continent had to offer. You studied diligently, and made a name for yourself quickly, allowing no setback to overlong cloud your vision – not your lack of scholarships, nor the quirks of your upbringing, nor the eventual mutations the more volatile experiments would eventually introduce to you.
(Leaning against nothing, for the bus stop has nowhere to lean on, you reach up and scratch an itch behind your ears. The triangular pair atop your head, not the pair you were born with.)
You loved the work. And you were flawless at it! A wunderkind genius with an aptitude like no other! And not bad-looking, if you do say so yourself. (You do, and you're right.) Opportunities arranged themselves in front of you like sunflowers arrange before the sun, people desperately attempting to glimpse even a glimmer of brilliance, but -
- alas-
- you had bigger plans. You wanted that look around backstage, after all.
Other students chose… you'd call them "safe" thesis topics, were you in a mood for honesty. The use of Ether crystals in agriculture, or the history of fashion as it relates to scientific advancement, or what have you. But you, no, you wanted answers. You wanted a good, hard, long look at thermodynamics of boiling water, and why when steam bloomed from the process it let out such an excess of energy, far out of proportion with the energy that was put in.
You were advised not to, despite the fact that you were, well. You. The one and only you, magnificence incarnate, the transformer of daydreams into reality! The most volatile and promsing student they'd had in years, and yet, they told you: scholars have been studying this mystery for centuries, while you aren't even into your 23rd year! What makes you think-
- and then they couldn't even finish their sentence, because you had already chosen your thesis project, and there was no going back, now.
Cut the story short. The mystery that had stumped everybody since the beginning of science itself was nothing to you. You figured it out on the very first go!
You also, uh. Died. That was, ah, rather instrumental in putting the pieces together, as a matter of fact.
...
It is said, you've heard, that to save one person is the same as saving an entire world. That each person's own perspective is a world entirely their own.
You bled out. Your world bled with you.
You have trawled the corpse.
The mystery of steam is no mystery, here. Your world is unique, and you have always known that, long before you knew there were other worlds at all, but – there is no blooming, when water becomes vapor. There was something about steam, how it bloomed out from water, that just… isn't, down here. Isn't in any other world, so far as you can gather. Sure, heat water and you'll get steam just about anywhere you go, but you don't get that multiplicity of energy that you'd get, where you came from, anywhere else. Clockwork was, perhaps, the only world where such was possible.
There is no blooming. There is no "proper" brasswork. There are none of the tinctures which give natural and artificial crystals alike their strange glow. There isn't even a sun for you to fly too close to, anymore.
The solitary resource that "then" and "now" have in common is Ether. Soul-stuff.
It is, quite literally, everything you have.
Technique Gained: An Arm and a Leg. Robin can sacrifice Score (this game's HP) to add d4s to any check that she knows in advance of, at a rate of 1 Score to 1 die. Sacrificing Score provided by armor, enchantments, etc., will cause that Score bonus to be permanently lowered by the amount sacrificed. However, Score sacrificed from Robin's "natural" Score does not reduce his maximum Score, and can be refilled as normal.
...you know you're wallowing, but come on, you think you're entitled. The bus is late!
Urgh.
Y'know, back home, the Hummers? They were never late. Ran, heh, like clockwork. Hummers, or, Humming Copter, to use the full name. These great bronze birds, as wide as three houses and as long as a street. Things of clockwork, with a giant Ether crystal where the beak should be – that was why they hummed: the Ether crystals. That was how they were powered. Crystal and steam, and, from the driver, pedaling, which was magnified and multiplied, beating the great brass wings hundreds of times a second.
And so they'd fly.
You would sit in one's belly, with many other people. It wouldn't just be seats, though, no; they'd be booths, with privacy curtains. A beautiful table, with fine porcelain, so you might boil your own tea on the voyage. And music, gently, through the speakers.
And down, down, down down down below, there'd be the view of the world. Wide, wide windows, and the sun streaming through, and the whole grand city of Intervale was spread out like the pages of a book named Clockwork. There, right there, for the reading. Like there was nowhere you weren't allowed to go.
The Hummers sort of exemplify everything you miss, you realize. You've said as much before: the Underworld was not constructed as some sort of place of punishment.
But you'd never guess that from the state of its public transportation.
The bus remains late. It is always late. It has never once been on time - you've checked. It is loud, on approach, the brakes a horrific squeal, both inwardly and outwardly; that you've gotten used to the noise is not a mercy but an indictment. It is slow, compared to the Humming Copters, and often, compared to walking, and certainly, it cannot fly. All you can ever see from the windows is at ground level. Ground zero, perhaps.
This is the danger of reminding yourself of the world up above, especially when you have nothing else to do but wait around. It's not that you won't come back down from flying, it's-
...it's that you'll fall.
...you remember, when you were very young, you tugged on your mother's dress and told her that you wanted "to fly! Like Mr. Blick!" when you grew up. Your mother had smiled at the notion, and said it was a childish flight of fancy, and she grinned at her little joke, or else at you; you were the most adorable of scamps, after all. Still are!
But you had assured her that you weren't going to grow out of it. That was what you wanted out of life: to fly one of the Humming Copters. The passengers were immaterial, the fare was nothing, and the uniform was ~snazzy~ enough, but you wanted to test the limits of the sky. You'd drive the routes faithfully, you'd said, and then after you got off work, you'd take the Hummers out looking for adventures. Maybe even fight sky pirates!
Your mother had laughed. Again, you didn't blame her, again, the most adorable at mischief. But she told you that this – the dreaming - was something you'd grow out of. Adults were more worldly, she told you, more focused. More down-to-earth. They didn't have time to imagine taking government property on personal joyrides.
You, in turn, had gotten very reasonably upset at this, and not at all pouty, and you'd told her, nuh uh, I'll totally become a Hummer Pilot (you'd capitalized it in your head because it was Important), just you wait and see! You'd never give up on your aspirations! Cross your heart and hope to die, this sometimes boy would grow to fly!
Then, all at once, in the summertime, before either of you had the chance to prove your point, the Humming Copters went and got themselves automated. Mr. Blick and Robin Greene both suddenly found themselves out of a job.
...you wonder what happened to the poor old man, afterwards. He didn't end up down here; you know that much. Maybe he -
"Maybe ya wanna get on, 'stead of just standin' there?"
You blink.
It's not that you were startled, exactly, just now. Being "startled" is for children who have not learned to compose themselves, small prey animals, and supervillains who don't do a good job finishing off their nemesis. What you were was… away. You were away, and now you have been called back. You were made aware of the doorbell; that's the proper term.
You take stock. You did not jump in startlement, as you were not startled, so you're still in the same pose you were before. Standing straight, staring ahead, hand on chin, elbow in hand. All your extremities – two arms, two legs, four ears – seem to be there. You are surrounded by red ground, and that red ground is surrounded by buildings.
Surprisingly, there is a large metal vehicle in front of you. A bus, some might call it. The door is open, and the driver is, not quite staring at you, but certainly not blinking.
Ah, right, you remember. There had been a world around me, hadn't there?
...
"...do y'wanna get on, or-?"
"I'm thinking about it."
The door begins closing.
"I've thought about it!" you say, all smiles, sticking an arm – owie – between the door and its frame. "I would absolutely adore coming along for the ride."
"Glad ya could grace us with yer presence," the driver says, face neutral, opening the door.
"I was told there were prayers in need of answering," You say, as though you do not sense, in a sort of distant way, how very close you were to being dragged down several blocks by the arm. "So here I am! Your very own, one-of-a-kind, personal miracle."
"Get on, already?"
"Well, you can't rush perfection, can you?~" You do step in, but only after waggling your eyebrows. There is protocol to be followed, after all.
"Eh, maybe yer right." The door lightly thwaps you on the butt, as it shuts. You're positive – either driver or bus, somebody's the culprit – that it was purposeful. "Sure seems like I can rush you easy enough, tho'."
"A thousand pardons, my man of honor." You flash the driver an award-winning smile, which hopefully distracts from you rubbing your behind. "But I fear I must be untethering from reality, right before your very eyes. I could've sworn – taken it under oath! - that you had said something about me not being the afterworld-certified 100% bestest thing to ever happen to this bus stop, including the bus!" A light chuckle, a bend at the waist. "You wouldn't mind bringing me back to shore, would you, now, Joe?"
Joe Specklefur. A class act. A stand-up fellow. Though he takes no nonsense (no matter how often you might give it), he is a kind man of manners who anyone would be delighted to count among their inner circle.
He's also a mouse.
A literal mouse, gray with white spots, with big eyes and bigger ears. He's a bit overweight, and wears nothing but a bus driver's jacket and hat. Well, that and a pair of tiny spectacles that rests of the bridge of his muzzle, but they're honestly a bit hard to see, they're so small. You've, ah, never been quite sure how he reaches the wheel? Whenever the bus starts moving, some fancy tapestry of some sort rolls down between him and his passengers. Dead you may be, but you still feel somehow like peeking behind that particular curtain would be courting death.
"Bring ya back to..." He mouths the words, more than actually says them. "...y'know, lady, 'm startin' to get the idea ya like playin' with mice."
"Now, what on earth would make you think that?" you ask, picture perfect innocent curiosity.
Joe stares at you for a while. Eventually, his eyes drift upwards.
Your cat ears, poking out from the holes in the brim of your hat, twitch. Just once.
Joe's gaze slowly drops back to yours, where his eyes meet eyes the colors of brass, with pupils slit, catlike. And he stares. "Jus' a feelin'."
"How terribly taxonomist." You shake your head as you straighten. "I'm disappointed in you, Joe. I expect better from my public servants."
Trait Gained: Cattiness is in My DNA. Following a tragic lab accident back in college, your DNA was spliced with that of a common housecat, giving you night vision, an extra pair of ears, and a certain exotic je ne sais quoi that made you quite the catch around campus. Apparently, this little oopsy got so twisted up with your self-identity, it carried over into your very soul! You're still waiting on the claws, though.
He actually laughs. You count it as the first victory of today's many. "Where'd'ya even find all this energy, kid?"
"I drink my "Honey," and eat my vegetables."
A scoff. One which sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. "That was all it took, there'd be a lot more'a you 'miracles' around."
"Well, obviously, that's not all I do," you preen, settling back on one leg, positioning to prop the other on a nearby railing. "Proper exercise is also a key component of living well, and naturally, I set an alarm every morning to-"
"YO! GIRLIE!" somebody shouts from somewhere in the back of the bus, miles and miles away. "Sit yer ass down already! Some of us got places we gotta BE, ya know!"
You look, mild, into the cheap seats, for several seconds, before 'tsk, tsk, tsk'ing, hands on your hips, and turning back to the driver. "Some people," you lament, decidedly not moving to sit down. "No sense of theater."
"Y'know, statistic'ly speakin'," the mouse says, just as mild, "Somebody here's gotta have tomatoes they can throw at ya."
"I don't doubt it," you say, sighing, forlorn, hand to cheek, "But I'm sad to say I've just got no faith in my fellow hellions' aim. I'd have been hit more often, you'd think."
The voice in the back groans in frustration, and he isn't the only one. But you also hear multiple other people chuckling, so ha, ha, and ha. Suck on that.
Joe, victory number two, is among them: "A'ight, a'ight, curtains closed," he says, all stern, save the tiny smile on his tiny face. "Park it."
"Exit stage left, it is!" you chirp, peacock-bright, and wander out into your adoring public.
...which is to say, not at all into your adoring public, if you have anything to say about it, because if you're really lucky, once in a multicolored moon, you can sometimes find a seat on the bus that's fully vacated, but not swallowed up by the shrinking sides ye – THERE'S one!
You plop down as the bus begins moving, back against the window, top hat slipping over your eyes, and stretching, legs crossed over each other, to take over the whole seat. Cross your arms, too, behind your head, and – there it is. The absolute height of decadent, hedonistic luxury. Listen to that, you've even got yourself purring! It's almost a shame to leave it all for a sit-down on the roof about two and one half blocks from here.
Almost.
Let's see, now. Exercise. Diet. Alarms. Further back, a kick in the pants. What exactly were you pondering, before..?
Ah. Of course. The nature of public transportation. The Bus is terrible, and wonderful, and also your only friend, here in the cold arms of death.
...it's a shame there's no weather around here, because that would have been an exquisite place for thunder. Hrm. An artificial cloud storage platform, for strategic thunderclaps? Steam and cloud are apparently the same thing, after a fashion, and -
Anyway. The bus is awful. You may have only just remembered that about this place, but it's absolutely true. It's noisy, and terribly inefficient, and packed besides. Packed by nature: it's always the same size on the outside, but on the inside, it's enchanted to be just as big as it needs to be to fit everybody. It smells like cooking with too many spices (peppermint is not a spice, except on the bus, apparently), the chairs are made of a material so hard and unyielding they probably make politician's hearts out of it, and the driver never even allows you the dignity of paying for your trip! Every day when you get home, you resolve never to take the bus again, and then every morning after, you somehow completely forget every single promise regarding sardine cans on wheels that you've ever made to yourself until after you sit down again.
Then again, Joe never seems to remember that you're always going to try and climb out onto the roof for some fresh air, about two blocks into the trip, no matter how much he yells at you about it when you get off. So maybe buses just give people amnesia.
(You're gonna hurt yourself! the little rat always says, after you hop down, and you always find it hilarious, because, heh, come on. As if. No chance. Maybe some other hooligan with more adrenaline than sense might give themselves a second death, but you're far too principled for that. There's no way in hell you're going to do something to mar your flawless face.)
(...ignore, ah. The way you died.)
But then again, you think, as you reach behind you to unlock the window, the bus is wonderful. It's just wonderful in all the ways it wasn't designed for, is all! It's a great place for catnaps, one of the only places around that allows you to feel the wind in your hair, it allows you to show off your snark in public without major fear of reprisal, and most of all, it gives you a front-seat view of the one and only thing that actually changes, down here.
The others. All the restless spirits, flittering to and fro. Each one, whether they realize it or not, dragging tiny pieces of the worlds they came from behind them. Little magics, subtle shapes. Puzzle pieces lost in the couch cushions of death.
Fascinating.
What can you say? You're a people person, at heart. And at mind, well, you've always been a student. When your dreams of soaring the sky came crashing to the ground, after all, you dedicated yourself to the study of natural phenomena.
For all that this isn't your world, and these aren't your phenomena, they're phenomena, all the same. And you are an excellent study.
...but not today, you think. The darkness the inside of your hat allows is far too inviting, today.
You never work with your eyes open, after all. The teensy, fiddly bits of reality you build with are better pictured in your mind's eye, rather than squinted at beneath a lamplight. Even the bigger parts, it doesn't do to pay too much attention to their actual dimensions, you find; better to just know how things should be, and work from there.
You work from here. A screwdriver emerges from your pocket, and you position it between two fingers, letting your eyes fall gently shut. There's still a handful of stops to go before you're really expected at your rooftop reservation, after all.
And then, with a gentle breath, you begin to tinker.
Ether is here. Even if steam does not bloom like it should, even if brass isn't properly resilient, and even if certain things you grew up with don't exist down here, sometimes Ether is enough. Heck, sometimes its abundance allows for designs that simply… never would've worked, in the before now. So it is with the invention you're putting the screws to – the one you're currently wearing. So it is, with the final reminder of where you came from:
[] The Armoires. As water becomes steam, mass becomes energy, and soul becomes solid. Taking advantage of the fact that the entire Underworld is made of spirit, these oversized gauntlets can store inanimate objects as Ether patterns, keeping themselves the same "actual" weight (for carrying purposes) but gaining effective mass (for the purposes of punching good). +1 to Strength, free Perk involving increased inventory space and punching power.
[] Your Vestment. Usually, the steam given off by Clockwork designs is simple waste product - the natural result of the gathering of heat energy with water as a medium. Down here, though, the process that makes steam isn't nearly as powerful a resource. Perhaps the idea, then, is to turn the process on its head? This complicated piece of clothing boils on command various poultices - antidotes, anesthesias, adrenalines, and so on - and breathing the steam that's produced can have a wonderful variety of effects. +1 to Constitution, free Resource involving healing and stamina.
[] A Chronocelerator. The hands on this pocketwatch run frightfully fast: multiple hours pass in less than a second. Yet, funny thing: it keeps perfectly accurate time. Using this device allows you to "compress" time, giving you effective superhuman movement at any time (heh) you wish. On the surface, using one of these for even a few seconds would shorten your effective lifespan for years, but, ah, seeing as how you're alreadydead... +1 to Dexterity, free Trait involving increased speed and time dilation.
[] Crystal Chamelons. This set of jewelry passively projects its wearer's self-image over their actual self, turning confidence and self-esteem into actual, tangible alteration of appearance. Now, to a being who is only a soul, their self-image is what they look like, anyway, making a device like this useless to most people down here. However, with just a little bit of focus, a firm will, and a touch of tinkering, you've managed to create a modified version which allows you to look like anything you want, at any time. +1 to Charisma, free Technique involving disguises and deceptions.
These are an awful lot of new terms I've been throwing at you, this update. Let's take a moment to clarify a bit:
Traits are qualities inherent to your character. Aptitudes, personal enhancements, personality quirks, and the like. They can be cited to give bonuses to difficult checks, with more relevant Traits providing bigger bonuses. For instance, the above Trait Cattiness is in my DNA could be cited in order to give a bonus to checks to overhear quiet noises, see sudden movements, or flirt with certain people, just as a few examples.
Techniques are special powers and abilities which your character has that most other characters do not. They provide special abilities with their own special rules to follow. Techniques can also be used to attempt checks you normally would not be able to. For instance, the above Technique An Arm and a Leg would not only do what it directly tells you to do, but could also be used attempt to craft devices that use the soul as a power source, for example.
Resources typically provide a bigger bonus than a Trait, and can sometimes be used to attempt checks you normally couldn't, like Techniques. However, unlike the other two, Resources are limited in time, space, or quantity. For example, a gun with limited ammo would be a resource, as would an ability to read minds that only works under a full moon. In exchange for their limitations, Resources usually provide larger bonuses than Traits, and are more broadly applicable than Techniques.
While Traits, Techniques, and Resources apply bonuses to checks, Perks apply permanent bonuses directly to your Stats, boosting all checks you make with that Stat for free. However, Perks are conditional things - if, say, you were a living computer, you might have a Perk that provides a +4 bonus to Intelligence... but only so long as you had more than 75% of your battery power.
If you find these rules confusing, do not fret. Simply play along, and things will become clear in time. The general thrust is: Traits are inherent qualities, Techniques are special powers, Resources are things with limited uses, and Perks are conditional upgrades.
It's a thing a work in progress, straddling the line between working perfectly and falling apart. But it does work. Performs all its functions exactly the way you envisioned. It works, at the very minimum, and doesn't appear to have any serious side effects, in testing.
But it isn't perfect. And therefore, no matter how fashionable it looks on your frame, it isn't you.
But then again, who better than you, right? Who better to cast out this thing's flaws, soar to the skies, and summit the mountain, attaining the truth that your invention was always destined for. Or – put it another way. Who else could?
Perfection takes time, though. That isn't a major obstacle; you're nothing but time, nowadays. Still, it's a thing to ponder, and fiddle with, and endeavor towards, here in the darkness. You're sure you'll put it down soon, but in the moment, you've just about… got...
The smell of peppermint intensifies, overpowering all others, and you find yourself cracking an eye beneath your tipped-up top hat, to take a look.
There's a girl up at the front, which is unusual. People don't often get on, at these handful of stops. You usually take someone getting on as the signal for you making your great escape, as a matter of fact.
"Oh." She is silent, for a second. "Hello, mouse?"
"Name's Joe."
"Gotcha. Ha, ha. Um."
She's a very light blue, the young woman, but slightly off blue, as well? You're not certain that's the right term, but it's what enters your mind. She's got a janitor's uniform on, in a darker blue, almost black. Can't quite make out more details, at this distance.
Joe gathers information for you. "You got a name?" Teensy pause, from teensy paws. "S'alright if you don't."
"I, uh-just met you?" Points for originality, points deducted for awkwardability. "Sorry. Uhhhhhh how much. To ride?"
"...nah," says Joe, "Don't even worry 'bout it. Go 'head and siddown. 'S'free for everybody."
It is? Huh. And here you thought you were special. Go figure.
"Alright," the girl breathes, and bows. "Th-thank you."
And she must turn, and begin walking down the aisle, but you miss it, because you're busy rearranging yourself. You're finding yourself sitting up, setting your tools aside, and trying to get a better look. Trying to see what this girl's deal is.
The off-blue becomes obvious as she gets in closer – she's dusted in sugar. Head to toe. It could technically be another white powder, but you don't think that's the case, not with candy corn in her grimace and gumdrops for freckles. There are all kinds of sweets, as a matter of fact, spiraling up and down her arms like strange tattoos, and her fingernails are made of rock candy. Her hair is black licorice that curls up at the ends. And her eyes are...
...wide, and looking around, ceaselessly, paranoid. She looks… she looks like she doesn't know where she's at.
Like she isn't used to being surrounded.
Ah, it clicks, at long last. It's her first day dead.
That's always rough. And it must have been why Joe backed off, the way he did. There are lots of awful people, down here in the awful after, but all of them have been through the same thing – it's rare that even the worst of them will intrude on a person's private panic attack, once they figure out what's going on.
You think for a moment.
The bus is as crowded as ever, and the nature of its seating arrangements mean that the only open seats are those next to somebody. You don't know whoever this lady is all that well, but you get the sense that she's not the type to go sitting next to strangers, even in - especially in - this kind of situation. At least, not without them inviting her to.
...the seat next to you is empty.
You could, couldn't you?
[] Eh, one day without The Bumpy Ride won't kill ya. To use a figure of speech. You're sure you can teach this candywoman a thing or two. Besides, she seems like - heh - a sweet gal. (New friend, free skill. Skills are a bit like stats, but more specialized.)
[] The lack of sun. The stillness of the air. The endless horizon that's probably somewhere behind all the buildings. They call. You answer. Bus roof, here you come! (New locations to explore, continue the running gag with the bus driver.)
[] You were really on the verge of something, here, you think. And besides, you were comfortable. You sense you'll have to skip on the top deck to avoid further disrupting your concentration, but you think you can refine your work just that hair more… (Your chosen invention provides an extra +1 to your chosen stat. The bonus from your invention can raise a Stat above its Level One cap.)
[] You know what? You really didn't get enough sleep last night. Maybe you don't need any, but you sure as where you're sitting want some. Time to catch some more Zs. (Next update, you'll be buying your Stats. This option will provide a few bonus points to spend.)
Usually I'd allow for write-ins in a situation as open-ended as this, but we haven't gotten to the point where you've solidified your Stats, yet. I can't let you go off the rails until you've at least got the wheels under you, if you get my lack-of-drift.
If you couldn't tell I was making it up as I went before, we're already not using the plan format for this update. Just vote for what you want! And yes, you can vote for more than one thing, if you like. Voting will close in 24 hours, and I will break any ties.
Also also, feel free to give me constructive criticism, either now or as the quest continues. I am very rusty, and was not a perfect writer even before my year-long depressive spiral break. I welcome the opportunity to improve!
That's the TL;DR. Figured I'd better put it up front. For those of you who don't want to know the messy details, that's all there is to it. I'll see you in the next story, I hope. But, as for everyone else...
The first thing I want to say is that: I apologize. Sincerely and wholeheartedly so. Saying "I won't be continuing" when I've barely even started is a heck of a thing to do to you all, especially when everybody's been waiting patiently for the newest update.
But you all deserve the truth. And the truth is, I was 3,500 words into the next update, last night, and it hit me that I was just... spinning my wheels. As though on a bus going nowhere. Ha, ha.
This would normally be the moment where one boots out the update and rewrites it. But I think it's more than that; I think for reasons out of my control, Rise from Your Grave just isn't workable, the way I want it to be. Reasons outside my control... and reasons within it, too.
I went off half-cocked with this. I fully admit that. The sheer thought of writing again, after a year of going without, was intoxicating, and there was such vibrancy in the sudden realization that I could that I didn't check and see if I yet should. I didn't know what I wanted to do, or what I wanted the story to be, I went into this with the wrong attitude towards writing. I forgot important things, and didn't explain other important things well at all. A lot of you probably noticed that my GMing technique was sloppy, making multiple decisions without running them past you all first, and - those were all symptoms of a false start, I think. Symptoms of a lack of care.
That could've been recoverable, with heart-to-heart with my audience, some grit and determination and tender care, but this last month has been rough for ya gurl. I'd rather not go into details, but suffice to say that I am doing a different 40-hour-a-week job than originally intended, and this new job doesn't care when or how it schedules me for training! Combine the lack of sleep and the stress of multiple changes with the difficulty of getting back into writing after a year without, and -
I'm just gonna come out and say it. Rise from Your Grave lost a lot of luster for me, and it did so very quickly. I regret that's the truth, but it is. I simply do not want to write it anymore.
But the second thing I want to say is that the spirit of this story, however small, I intend to keep alive. The whole point of this endeavor was to rise out of hell, despite the odds arranged against us, and I don't intend to leave that by the wayside.
So! What happens now? Well, now I take a bit of a break again. Not a year, like the last break, but... I don't know how long. Probably a while? But closer to weeks than months, I think (I think). And then, after that long while, after I've had a chance to put together something that's a bit more fully baked, I'm going to try again.
When that day someday comes, I hope some of you will be willing to try again with me.
Thank you for having patience with me. This past month, this past year, and the weeks to come. I will do better about communicating, and better about thinking things through, in the future.
...and, ah, just so you all know?
I do intend on taking a break from original fiction. Buuuuuuut~ I may not be taking a break from fiction, period. After all, there's one particular Quest that I've been putting off working on for quite some time now...
