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Post by Dunwik on Aug 3, 2023 1:40:14 GMT
TURN OVERVIEW: JULY 1921
West's turn:
He is going to blow a ton of his money making the Predator, but it's about Lengan sea monsters, and the monster wins. This film will cause him destitution and be poorly received in Dunwik, but a cult classic in Tholish Leng. He is also throwing out all his drugs and sending rambling letters to Florin and Priscilla. These letters will demand he be instated as Emperor of Dunwik and repeatedly slander Arthur.
Daansaan's turn:
He is going to go mad with envy and try to make his name gigantic by any and all means possible. In a harebrained scheme to gain money he will be a comfort boy to old widows and steal whatever he can take, while simultaneously promulgating his name and image by any means he possibly can, playing off his negotiations with Arthur in a theological light to attempt this nonsense.
For the moment:
WEST is written by DUNWIK
Daansaan is written by WTC
The next turn will be: OCTOBER, 1921.
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Post by Dunwik on Aug 8, 2023 1:20:01 GMT
JULY 15th, 1921
Henry "Curio" West recoiled in horror as the telephone that he had long since smashed to pieces rang again. He remained slumped against the wall, knowing the voices would carry clear and far, not just from the damned conduit, but from around him, within him, the walls and the floors. The walls and floors! So despoiled, carved away, besotted and rancorous as they were, filth piled to the ceiling! What was a man, but an animal, and what was an animal but a filthy, insensate thing!? Henry shuddered and stroked his arm, cognizant that his flesh was withering away, his nostrils almost eternally bleeding, his veins punctured wrecks.
"Henry, Henry, Henry!"
The voices, the voices, damn the voices, damn the Lengans, the voices, damn damn damn the voices. Why the voices? Henry clamped his hands over his ears, only magnifying the sound.
"Pick up the phone! Pick up the phone or you'll be all alone! Pick up the phone, pick up the phone, pick it pick it pick it pick it-"
Henry grabbed the mangled Bakelite wreck of the phone's speaker and smashed it against the wall again, sending another piece of dark material flying out. Perhaps it bled, perhaps he bled, perhaps God bled, blood, somehow, blood, hate! They were in his skin, weren't they!? The Lengan gods!
"What! What!? What!? Thing! Evil!" Henry shouted, "what! I did my work! They don't listen! They don't..."
"Pick it up, pick it up."
"Make them see! Make them see!"
"They must see! They must see!"
"They won't see anymore!" Henry stomped his foot through the floor, "they won't! When they thought it was fake, when I thought it was fake, they saw! Now, now they don't - they don't: they can't! They can't see!"
The voices laughed and Henry's heart quivered more than beat in his wheezing, emaciated chest. Were his hands bloody? Yes! Was it his blood? Blood... filth, that was a man, wasn't it? That was he and he was man and man was animal and God was above and beneath and all around and why were the voices so loud!?
Henry realized he was screaming, he must've been. His throat hurt, his eyes watered, his neck quivered, the entirety of him spasming and twitching as though he were a puppet wielded by a maniac. That was - that was him, that was! It must have been! What horrific amalgamates of flesh man had become!
"How do I make them see? How do I show them!?" Henry screamed into the telephone, the broken telephone, the telephone that didn't work but must work and always worked.
"They see, they see, they must see, they must see! They must see! They must see! They must see!"
And so went the walls and the floors and the boarded-up windows and the mailbox full of rotting paper and the gun in West's hands and the cigarettes covering the floor and the torn-up picture of Babitch on the floor because FUCK him! Fuck all of him! Arthurite piece of shit, all of them, damn! Fuck! Fuck them! He didn't know what he was doing, only West knew, West knew everything: that's why Babitch wanted him dead and gone and buried so that he, Babitch, could pretend like everything was fine and that Dunwik wasn't going to die by her own hand in a hundred and eighty years like the voices told him!
"How!? How do I make them see!?"
"They're blind! They're blind!"
"You're blind! You're blind!"
"Murderer!"
"Coward!"
"I hate you! I hate you!"
"Come back to your mother, Henry. Deep in the ground! Come! Come back to mommy!"
"They're blind because- because- because-" Henry stammered, "because they use their eyes to see!"
"Yes! Yes!"
"No! No!"
Ia! Lo! Behold! That was the nature of man, was it not!? To see without seeing, to feel without knowing, blind and insensate. Curio stared upon his decrepit home, the rotten floorboards, no! The jagged teeth of the ancient one - Dead Yet Dreaming, Porothinaukan. Nafth'al-atchu, k'rozmu, Ur'valbra, dep'alanak! In his home neath Urvalbaara, the dead lie Dreaming, yet to awake. Yeah. Curio stood and forced the pain to a side. There was work to be done, much work to be done. He sat back down to his desk and seized his typewriter with manic energy. Focus! Focus!
TO FLORIN VON MARCUM.
YOUR COUNTRY LIES IN GREAT PERIL. YOUR PEOPLE STAND ON THE PRECIPICE OF DEATH. YOUR NATION SHALL BURN, SHOULD YOU NOT HEED MY INSTRUCTIONS. THE WORLD STANDS NOW ON THE BRINK OF UTTER RUIN. MAN, STRAINING AS HE DOES AGAINST THE BOUNDS OF HIS IGNORANCE, STUMBLES INTO THINGS BET LEFT UNKNOWN. THE TIME SHALL COME, FLORIN, WHEN YOU WITNESS HORRORS BEYOND YOUR COMPREHENSION, FORGED BY THE HANDS OF MEN. IT IS OUR FATE TO BE CONSUMED BY AMBITION. IT IS OUR FATE TO DIE BY OUR OWN HANDS.
LISTEN TO ME. THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY OUT. THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO SAVE YOUR PEOPLE AND COUNTRY. PRISCILLA - THE BIRD - DAMN THAT BIRD. SHE IS THE CONDUIT. SHE IS THE GATE. SHE IS THE KEY. SHE IS THE ORIGIN OF THE END. FROM HER COMES FORTH QUESTIONS, THOSE WITH ANSWERS THAT KILL. ARTHUR KNEW NOTHING. NONE OF THEM, NONE OF DUNWIK UNDERSTANDS, NOR SHALL THEY. WHEN THE HAND IS ABOUT THEIR THROATS, THEY SHALL TAKE THE CHOKE AS A CARESS.
IT WILL BREAK THEM. IT WILL BREAK YOU. DARKNESS, DARKNESS ALL AROUND, ALL I SEE IS THE END. CEASE YOUR WANDERING, CEASE YOUR SEEKING: YOU CANNOT ENDURE IT. TAKE YOUR ARMIES INSTEAD. BURN PLACIDIA TO THE GROUND. BURN OSTREA TO THE GROUND. BURN SOTHOTH TO THE GROUND. BURN DRUSSKIA TO THE GROUND. KILL. KILL EVERYONE! ALL OF THEM! OTHERWISE, THE WORLD SHALL PERISH AT THE HANDS OF MEN.
ALL THE GODS OF MEN AND MORE CANNOT SURVIVE WHAT IS TO COME. KILL PRISCILLA. BURN ALL YOUR UNIVERSITIES. SEAL YOURSELF FROM THE WORLD. TEAR OUT YOUR EYES! YOU MUST NOT SEE! YOU MUST NOT SEE IT, FLORIN! NOBODY CAN SURVIVE!
THERE IS MUCH WORK TO BE DONE. MANKIND MUST REVERT, COWER IN THE DARK. FOR THE LIGHT SHALL SEAR US TO THE BONE.
-HENRY CURIO WEST
Done. How the letter would be sent was irrelevant. There was work to be done. Much work to be done. It was time to Dream again, one last time. The crews were readied, his mad mind, fraying apart at the seams, already feverishly working in advance of his latest revelation. Cast aside the hedonism, to cast aside the light, to cast aside his life. His final revelation, it all was so clear to him. So, darkly clear. They must see! See or die!
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Post by Dunwik on Aug 17, 2023 1:53:17 GMT
Copied from the Discord Thread
JULY, 1921.
Reading the paper, Daansaan ground his teeth together till they bled. New battleships! New cadets! New ideas! Everything is just fucking hunky dory now that ol' Daansaan is gone. Nevermind he was the one who was sailing the flagship in moderal. Nevermind HE was the one who sank Tusk. NEVERMIND HE WAS THE ONE WHO WON THE WAR IN LENG!
"Dear! My arthritis is acting up, could you heat up the tub?" His ghost of a wife's request roused him from his train of thoughts. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he sighed at what he saw. Where once was the proud young batchelor all the ladies crooned at, there's now only the husk of a man. His eyes bloodshot from a late evening of drinking, his face is covered in a unkempt mop of hair, and features are sunken in. It feels like he aged 20 years after being removed from his post. Hell, he feels a creaking in his bones as he gets up to slave away for his wife.
***
Cleaned up for the first time in two years and wrapped in his finest silks, Daansaan sits in the back of a carriage bound for Hendrick's estate. Well, the estate that formerly belonged to Hendrick. After all, his mentor was dead a long time, but his widow was still kicking. She was more than happy to invite over to discuss her old husband, and if one thing leads to another... well a dead man can hardly complain if his wife receives a little comfort.
Arriving at the house he was escorted to lady Andrea for tea by a less than impressed looking servant. Enter the room, she warmly greeted him and in return he gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. While he could feel the servant's irritation behind him, he played it no mind. After all, you need a little bait to catch a proper fish.
His suave introduction clearly got to the old bag of bones as she became bashful, "Ah Daansaan, it's good to see you but that's a bit much..." While a lesser man might take pause at such a statement, Daansaan knew that the old cat was just playing hard to get.
The two sat down for tea and cakes and the crone went on about hendrik for a good while. In the meantime, Daansaan took a look at the room he was in. The first thing that was clear was the place was nice. Opus Anglicanum adorned the walls on fine silk banners and the room's furnishings occasionally contained bits of gold and silver. He was certain- "... don't you think so, Mr Daansaan?" Daansaan paused for a moment as his thoughts were rudely interrupted. Seeing he had to keep up appearances, he nodded, "Of course, of course." That seemed to placate the old hag as she rambled on after that.
A little later, Daansaan excused himself to the gentleman's room. The troublesome servant escorted him the entire time, watching him like a hawk. The only time he had alone was in the bathroom proper where he helped himself to a silver flower vase, sliding it down his sleeve.
Returning to the crone, he sat through more of her babling before she finally said it was getting late. Giving a goodbye kiss that the sly ol' fox dodged, Daansaan headed off back home.
***
Daansaan just didn't get it. Every single request for an interview or statement he sent to the press was rejected. Oh sure they all had their polite excuses about how 'their pages are too full with the war in Rashad', but he knew they just didn't want anything to do with a supposed 'has been'. At the very least, Daansaan had his drink.
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