Event log: Buried Alive

[hadrielmods]

Who: Everyone participating in the event!
What: The event log for the Buried Alive event!
Where: All around the city
When: January 16th-January 19th
Warnings: Claustrophobia, starvation, premature burials, all that fun stuff.

On the morning of January 16th, half of the game's characters wake up to find that they are not where they were when they fell asleep. Instead, they're surrounded by a claustrophobic darkness, cheap satin cushioning, and an intense feeling of weight directly above them. Unfortunately, all of this adds up to the fact that your character has been buried alive.

Luckily, they'll have their phones, which can function as a source of light, communication, and hopeful distraction. They'll be able to talk to the other folks who are buried around the city, as well as their would-be rescuers. Thanks to Hope's timely post on the network, the rescuers know where everyone is, even if they're not sure who is buried where.

This is where organization, planning, and a little bit of luck come in! The aboveground characters will be supplied with shovels via the armory and are encouraged to go dig up their buried friends. Dig quickly though, because the air supply is pretty thin, and by the morning on January 19th, the characters who are not yet dug up will find that oxygen deprivation is a rather unfortunate way to die.

So, grab your communicator, grab your shovel, and get to work!

► This log covers January 16th-January 19th.
► Feel free to make your own logs, as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► Please remember to report any deaths to the Death page!

Comments

cullen rutherford, open.

[smited]

january 16 ( morning; network, open )

[ he knows something is wrong the second he opens his eyes to darkness. there's no warmth beside him, no sounds of the dog softly snuffling in his sleep the way he does. the fabric feels wrong against his skin--slicker, cooler. and when he tries to move, cullen finds his elbows and knees knock into hard wood.

fear, familiar and cold, spreads through him. he can feel something in his trouser pocket and, with some finagling, manages to pull his phone out. he fumbles with it, not really paying attention to what buttons he's pressing. the screen glows with light and cullen--well. he doesn't realize that he's now sending out an audio post.

for a moment, it's just his fast, raspy breathing. then it's a curse--damn it, damn it--and the ripping of fabric. cullen claws at the lid of the coffin, ignoring the way the wood splinters and lodges itself under his fingernails. he's too panicked to pay it much attention. all he can focus on is the way he trembles, the queasy feeling in his gut, the need to get out, out, out. he can't breathe. there's not enough air and he can't move how he needs to, keeps hitting his knees against the lid. the walls feel like they're pressing in on him and he can't, he can't--

the light on his phone goes out. the scrabbling stops when he rips off a fingernail. for a moment, there's no sound save his stuttered breathing as he tries to bring himself under control. (it's not working.) and then, quietly, haltingly, with his hands still pressed to the lid, he sings. ]

O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places...

january 19 ( evening; open )

[ when all is said and done, cullen is shaken. being trapped is... not a pleasant experience. the panic never left him while he was underground, though the intensity of it waxed and waned. every scrap of sleep he managed to catch was plagued with nightmares and memories of when he was trapped in fereldan's circle. there were moments where he woke and didn't know where he was. that is almost more frightening than fear's ability to trap them all.

he revisits his grave (and isn't that an odd thought) a day after he's unearthed. he stands at the edge of the hole, his mabari at his side, and stares into the prison. maybe it's a little strange to have wandered back here, but he needs to see. needs to cement it in his mind that it's over. he's not there anymore. he's not trapped. cullen has the ability to fight back if he's of a mind.

with a shaky sigh, cullen rubs his eyes and his rather prominent dark circles. it makes his bandaged fingers sting, but the pain isn't a bad thing. it lets him know he's not dreaming. at his side, pup whines. ]

Just a few more minutes. [ cullen rests a hand on the back of the dog's neck. ] Just--just a little longer.

video

[closerift]

[ Her heart almost stops when she hears the message. Cecily had just heard that there had been about half of their number buried underground and hasn't even left town when Cullen's voice (his singing) comes over the network. She'd been looking for hints as to who might be where, above or below, but the sound of his voice is telling enough. It sends a nasty chill deep into her bones, but then it rises in heat and flame, hot anger at Fear that threatens to spill out into the same kind of rage that had been inspired to them not long ago.

She tries to compose herself before sending a reply, but her hands are shaking. For his sake, in what she hopes is any kind of small comfort, she manages to turn on the video. ]

Cullen. [ There isn't time, there isn't time. Cecily takes a stunted breath, now moving quickly toward the armory, Pup at her heels. ] Don't worry, I- we're going to get you out. I will find you.

[ "You will come back," he'd said once, in the face of an impossible situation. If either of them deserved the favor of the Maker, it was him, faithful and good as he's always been. Spare him this trial.

But, it isn't a test of the Maker's, she knows. It's something more simple. She'll have to attend to that budding sense of vengeance later. ]

[smited]

[ it's verse three before cullen deems himself under control enough to fumble for his phone again. his hands shake almost violently as he presses the buttons that will let him reply. ]

Cecily. [ not inquisitor like he's always said around others. ] Tell me that's you and not-- [ not a trick. not a demon. not some hallucination brought about by his panic, or a twisted bit of 'help' from hope. that may snap the tenuous hold he has on himself. ]

Tell me something real. Please.

[closerift]

[ She skips the 'it's me' and immediately tends to his request. Calm and quiet. He needs to conserve air more than anything, and if she does all the talking, it may help with that. It's the very, very least she can do, though she's also hurtling toward the armory to retrieve a shovel, and then... what then? ]

When you took me to that lake, the one you love, in Ferelden, you talked about Mia and Branson. About growing up just near there, and how you went to the lake for some peace. I could see it so clearly, how much it meant for you to go back there. We should go again. Soon.

[ With any luck, the memory will provide some comfort. He has to know, first, that she is real and is really coming to find him. ]

You said there that you ought to have died at Kinlock, or Kirkwall, or at Haven, but you didn't. You'll live through this, too; I swear it.

[smited]

[ the reminder of his siblings sends a wave of shame crashing over him. he should be stronger than this. he shouldn't be this afraid--this terror-stricken, really. and yet he is. and people have seen it. maker, this is exactly why he didn't write to mia after kinloch. he's a fucking mess.

cullen takes a shaky breath and presses his hands to his eyes, ignoring the way blood smears across his skin. ]

I'm sorry. [ for so much, but especially for burdening her with this. ]

[closerift]

[ Until the explosion at the Conclave, her life wasn't one that she liked, but it also wasn't dangerous. Only within the past year or so has it taken that particular turn, forcing her to face, often literally, some of her biggest fears. Fears she didn't know she had, pangs of panic and terror that had never existed in that very real sense. It's much the same in these caves, and she's the portrait of someone scared to death in the way she moves and acts, her mind in overdrive to try and find a way to save these people before they run out of time.

... But he's different and his life has been less kind. She's only heard stories of Ferelden's Circle Tower during the Blight, of how those at Kinloch had faced abominations, torture, the threat of eradicating the Tower completely. Kirkwall had been a different sort of monster, one that tore apart an entire city as templars and mages wrestled for control. The place was a hot bed for horror stories and ended in a massive explosion that, until the Conclave, struck the realization into the hearts of many that they lived in a divided world. A world already in war before they could declare it officially.

And Cullen has lived through it all and then had stepped forward to aid the Inquisition. The Inquisition, a tiny and laughable force with no one at its head, no funds, no allies. Through all that, he managed to stay strong and keep his faith.

He deserves the same from her, now. She can't afford to lose her head. ]

Hush. You need to save your air. If you like, you can send me written messages, but don't speak unless you have to.

[ You will see this through, too. ]

video

[whichend]

[ There's quiet breathing on the other end, quick and frightened at first, but as Cullen sings, it slows to match the beat.

A few moments after he stops, a little girl's voice rasps. ]

Sing it again. Please.

[smited]

[ he does. he goes all the way to the beginning of transfigurations 12 and sings it slow like they did in the chantry in denerim. his voice gets a little steadier with each line. it's different, singing for someone more than just himself. ]

There's more to the Chant. Or--I could sing something else, if you like.

[ something a little less desperate, perhaps. ]

[whichend]

Sing whatever makes you unafraid.

[ The steady, harmonic voice is comfort enough. Arya doesn't know the songs of his world, but she can tell that he is scared, and she wants the song to comfort him as much as it does her. ]

I am listening.

[smited]

[ the chant is what makes him unafraid. it has always brought him comfort in the darkest of times. so he takes up trials 1 next. it takes a little while to get through, and by the time he's finished, he's breathing easier, no longer trembling quite as much.

he pauses, swallows a few times in an effort to rewet his throat, then switches to something different. something a little more upbeat. ]

Oh, the Storm Coast may yet claim these bones,
But I'll sail until they do.
So tell the girls I'm coming home,
With coin enough for two...

[ cullen pauses. clears his throat. ]

Do they have songs like that where you're from? Songs from sailors and farmers that travel farther than they do?

[whichend]

The songs I know are the songs of the North.

[ Those songs do not belong to her, not anymore, but she has not forgotten them. Northern songs are meant to be sung soft and slow, like a snowfall that comes in the night. Northern songs sound like ice, Arya thinks, if ice made a sound.

Arya begins to hum, her voice high if a little sad. She sings him The Winter Maid, which she used to hear as a lullaby a long, long time ago. ]

16th; audio

[hotspurred]

[Henry doesn't interrupt the singing; he listens until the end. To find refuge in prayer -- it is an instinct he can understand. His voice is tense when he finally speaks, but otherwise measured, as he opts to forcibly suppress his own panic at being buried alive.]

...A hymn? I have not heard that one before.

[smited]

It is the Chant of Light.

[ cullen pauses and swallows hard. conversation is good, it keeps him from slipping into memories or panic. but it's--hard. to realize that his fear has been broadcast to strangers. ]

I don't think anyone outside of Thedas would have heard it before now.

[hotspurred]

'Tis true that I know not your Thedas.

[There is a reflective reverence in his next words, softer than his normal tone, that marks them as lines from a prayer. He is not particularly devout, certainly not by the standards of his time, but he still finds comfort there.]

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

[It is that similarity which bade him to speak in the first place.]

Even so, it appears that some balms transcend all barriers.

[smited]

[ it's comforting, in a way, to know that faith is something that is similar between worlds. and it gives him something to ask about. something to distract himself with. ]

Is there more to that prayer?

[hotspurred]

A little. Its length is short. Yet...

[Well, he can judge for himself. For his part, Henry closes his eyes against the darkness and presses his hands together to pray in earnest.]

Our Father that art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come to, be thy will done as in heaven and in earth; give to us this day our bread over other substance; and forgive to us our debts, as we forgive to our debtors; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

audio

[unitas]

Does singing that make you feel better? [ There's a hoarseness to the edge of her voice, as if she's spent some time screaming, but mostly it's a curious bitterness. Singing to a god doesn't do anyone any good. ]

audio

[smited]

[ it's a moment before he replies, voice gone raspy with emotion and use both. ]

Yes. It always has.

audio

[unitas]

[ the dark, cruel part of her wants to ask him why, but the want is gone as quickly as it had arrived. ]

Would you sing more? [ maybe it'll help her, too. ] I... I wouldn't mind listening.

[smited]

[ he doesn't give her a reply, not exactly. instead, he launches into trials 1. it's not a happy part of the chant, not really, but singing and reciting it has always reminded him of his faith, of the reasons why he keeps on hoping even when the world grows so very dark.

by the time he finishes, his voice is going a little raspy and his throat is dry. ]

I think that's all I can do for right now.

[unitas]

[ Sharon listens, her eyes closed tight so she can't see the darkness around her. His voice is warm, and kind; strong, even trapped. She finds herself lost in the chant, not so much in the words themselves, but just the sound of it.

When he finishes, she finds herself a little disappointed it had to end. ]

Thank you. [ She whispers it, a genuine gratefulness behind her words. ] It... It kind of reminded me of the things my mother would sing to me when I was little. [ Both Dahlia, and Rose would sing to her, though the hymns they sang were different the sound was similar. ]

I wish I had something I could offer in return. [ Something that could help him like his voice helped her. ]

voice

[sparkler]

[It is very clear that Cullen is only just hanging on. Dorian could try to offer comfort, but that isn't something he's particularly good at, and he thinks it would be odd, coming from him. So he settles on gentle, familiar teasing instead. That's more his style, and hopefully Cullen won't take it the wrong way.

Maybe it'll even be a comfort, in its small way, while they search for him.]

I was just thinking we ought to find a new bard. This ought to count as an audition.

[smited]

[ he wouldn't know what to do with comfort. this whole thing is humiliating enough as it is, and reassuring words would likely only make that worse. the teasing is better. it even makes him laugh a little, though it's got an edge to it. ]

I don't think I'd be any good singing in taverns. All I know is the Chant and Fereldan songs.

[ he'd sing andraste's mabari and lose all respect. ]

[sparkler]

You'd do excellently in Fereldan taverns, then. Ladies would swoon and throw their unmentionables.

[It's a bit of a relief - more than a bit - to hear Cullen play along. It means he's not so far gone, yet, that he can still find a bit of humor in things. Dorian tucks his phone into a pocket, volume high, as he continues what he was doing. Digging, of course.]

Learn a few Orlesian songs and you'd be set for life.

[smited]

[ despite the fear that still has its claws sunk deep into him, cullen scoffs and rolls his eyes like he would if he weren't trapped. ]

I'll learn Orlesian songs the day they stop thinking of Fereldans as barbarians.

[ and maybe not even then. there's a lot of bad blood between those two countries and cullen, though he keeps it fairly quiet sometimes, is rather proud of being a dog lord. ]