f2020 | SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

All fourteen Gates simultaneously reverse polarity. For the next seven days, and only these seven days, any imPort stepping through a Gate will arrive safely in the Porter building: the only place on this fractured planet that can safely contain the energy of the imPort community in its entirety.

SO IT BEGINS
THE SYNOD

THE

DEATH

TRAIN

While the Gates are the simplest form of transportation, those making the journey to the Synod from the White Tower have the option of travelling by train, if they wish. Despite the playfully grim moniker, there haven't been any recorded fatalities on board the Death Train in many years. Or ever, really. Raw, untamed entropy doesn't do anything as simple as kill.

For that delightful reason, passengers will be reminded at frequent intervals not to attempt to leave the train once it enters the active zone of the Porter's defenses, or to do anything that could jeopardise the integrity of its shielding.

The journey is relatively comfortable and takes approximately two and a half hours. A limited menu of pastries and alcohol is available from the buffet car. The smallest tables seat two.

As the train passes through the entropy-saturated wasteland of the Deathdome, the view from the heavily tinted windows of each of the train's four-person cars is impossible to comprehend: every atom of the landscape is in a constant state of flux, scattered in endless possibilities across the multiverse.

WELCOME CARPET

Inside, you get the impression of three towers; no view from outside is possible. You're totally sealed inside for the week, by the same Fate-built tech that shields this place from the ravages of cosmic radiation— the train station is built into the structure, entrance tunnel hermetically sealed.

You're greeted by welcome robots, primitive little things full endless enthusiasm and covered in dents. What they lack in intelligence they make up for in persistence and durability. Each and every ImPort is assigned their own personal robutler.

Though they tend to hinder more than help.

Boop boop boop boop. They provide you with a complimentary swag bag. Inside is one (1) t-shirt, one (1) top of the line tablet (pre-loaded with this year's Agenda and a simple game app that looks suspiciously like 2048), a stress ball, personalised souvenir pen and eraser (but no pencil), and of course, a lanyard keycard for accessing the comfortably adequate accommodations provided for all attendees.

Given the week-long Synod, your room itself is a decent suite, furnished with dark colors, redolent with a smell you can't quite place. You may find yourself assigned an unexpected roommate, which may feel awkward considering you'll find arrayed on the beds, a half-dozen complimentary tickets to the spa, restaurants and the power gym, with its preternaturally durable equipment.

Robutlers constantly remind: do not attempt to leave the Porter facility or do anything to jeopardise the integrity of its shielding.

CONVENTION

Talks and panels take place in the convention area, which feels like a miniature city within the Porter's defenses, a hive with padded audience seats, wide stages, and complete with holographic audiovisual equipment that's curiously compatible with presentation software from every city.

Here, ImPorts will present and debate various topics regarded as major concerns for all. [OOCly, players are invited to suggest topics! Scroll down; they will be added below.]

This is also something of an expo, where cities practically demonstrate— or show off their good works. From the latest hovertechnology models to demonstrations of healing powers, playful duels in the forcefield-enclosed stages to magical books that temporarily transfer skills on touch, this is the place to pretend you're showing off your cards... while playing the most important ones close to your chest.

PANELS AND DEBATES

PRESENTERS

TOPIC

Joseph Kavinsky vs [N/PC]

White Tower ImPort Overpopulation and Dimensional Instability

Tony Stark and other technopaths

How Technology Will Save Us

Joshua Foley

The Mysteries and Intricacies of ImPort Physiology

Count Dooku and volunteers

ImPort Factions Must Align Against the Shared 'Resistance' Threat

Jin Bubaigawara (x3)

The Twin Cities are NOT Dimensionally Unstable No Matter What You Heard

Kang

Bridging Old and New: Maintaining Infrastructure with Limited Modern Resources

EVENING

EVENTS

Every night of the Synod, ImPorts gather to dine in a grand hall with a ballroom party. Each dinner is hosted by one ImPort city, gruntwork complete with robutlers-- which guarantees food safety, and complete with multiple cuisine options, cultural decor, and entertainment.

Given the range of cities represented, food options vary from greasy burgers to six courses of seafood and blue venison, and rarefied vegan fare.

When ImPorts aren't here eating, they're most often talking. Ergo, it's not uncommon for low-key drama to break out, but this year, the majority of Synod days seem to be passing uneventfully.

Fortunately, speeches are reserved for daytime. After dinner, it's time to dance.

The last song of the night is always obscure music no one can quite remember the words or melody to afterward. It's a slow dance song meant for two or more partners; the ballroom grows dark and the world seems to fade away. Or rather, it just fades back into one's hotel room.

THE BLACKOUT

On Monday, September 21st, shortly before the Gates are due to resume ordinary function and allow attendees to leave, the Porter building suffers a power cut.

Abruptly, all the lights cut out. Music stops. Your faithful robutler freezes in place, unresponsive— though its internal systems appear to be running, the centralised command hub that it relies on has fallen silent.

Though the robutlers are out of comission, technology-minded ImPorts and their tech drones hasten to reassure that systems analyses are underway. Within a few hours, repairs begin, the estimated time being two days.

In the meantime, thanks to the diversity of powers on hand, there is enough food and water. Candles start to circulate. It might even be a little romantic, if it weren't for the chaos outside. Characters might find themselves trapped in an elevator for a few hours, or compelled to seek comfort from one another.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

CONVENTION FLOOR
With the uptick in imPort activity both new and old, Cecelia finds herself with little choice but to make herself known -- just as much to those who knew rumor of her as to those who might make the mistake of trying to seek her out. She has to stop the bottleneck somehow!

She moves about the convention with an air of haughty disinterest by the way she carries herself, wearing a mask of disinterest and distaste as she goes, her ears far too keen to avoid the voices of even quiet conversations in her midst.

The exhibition area itself is a grating cacophony, and any approaching her here will find her patience quite thin and her answers clipped with just the barest edges of courtesy. No longer does she freeze up and go numb in vast crowds as she did as a girl, but Cecelia still has no stomach for multitudes; best place to approach her here is to find her seated along a wall, her coloring a bit paler than usual and a sheen of sweat along her brow. Her eyes are ever scanning for the sight of her residents who desired to come, as she cannot afford to find them hurt -- or worse, swayed to another faction, revealing her secrets.

SUITE/HALLWAYS
Cecelia does not sleep, and even if she could, she would find no repose in this place. Putting aside the disturbing aura that this barricaded place has, the walls may as well not exist when it comes to sound, and she cannot stomach being such an unintentional eavesdropper on some of the sorts invited here.

Eugh.

Skirting around one of those obnoxious robots, she makes slow laps around an area of dining that is mostly closed for the late hour, save for some bars and all-night sorts. Where the lighting is too dark or intentionally moody, small orbs of light flicker and follow her as if she were some specter guiding spirits along somewhere unknown.

Eye contact during these hours may be eerie; her gaze is sharp and quietly combative, as if challenging you to approach at your own risk. It is softer to those who seem to exude magic...most of the time. And to those openly sporting cybernetics or lots of technology, her nose will crinkle slightly with disgust.

EVENINGS
Her eyes search for the familiar leaders of various factions, of course, because settings like these offer many openings to see signs of weakness or change -- things contrary to the hearsay she gets second- and third-hand. This is the kind of panel she was more prepared for: Growing up, she knew the dance of lukewarm pleasantries and the quiet duels that can come from strangers meeting and seeking tidbits of information to use or abuse.

Here she dresses in her finest, gleaming in flowing silks that compliment her dappled skin and fiery hair, not to show some secret opulence hidden in the Vale, but to make it clear she is taking this synod seriously -- that she'll play some of this game to ensure her land's safety.

Dance? Yes. She knows waltz steps, and her eyes are still fairly keen in the dimming ballroom; she'll not have a fast one pulled on her tonight, but she may find a partner or two of intrigue.

It... may not be best for him to approach her. This is something David knows. It isn't his job to investigate the possibilities of Olin Vale for Krakoa. It isn't him that has been asked to suss out whether it's true, to see their leader, to talk. No, that isn't even his aim. David's just a man with issues sleeping, wandering around carefully, eyes darting everywhere. And who, strangely enough, cameras seem to turn away from even has he approaches. But there's no cybernetics on him. He's even abandoned his glasses for the evening stroll, knowing they aren't needed as readily here.

No, tonight he's just a tired man, known well as a leader of the isolationist nation of Krakoa, just looking for a little stroll because this place always feels so... cramped.

"Good evening to you," he greets the woman as he sees her in the hall, offering a brief and very polite nod. "Wonderful place here, isn't it?"

A touch of sarcasm in his voice? Completely.

She's not that paranoid (yet) as to turn or bristle at the sound of every set of feet drawing near, but she doesn't particularly like it. Of course, she'd rather not be here at all, but that's not saying much either, is it?

When the voice calls a greeting, she turns away from the window and looks his way, weariness giving way to alertness as she scans his features. Based on what she read...

"David Alleyne."

The name is more familiar in sound than it ever was in voice, and she feels the grating of memory in the back of her mind -- something she dismisses for now, as pleasantries must be undertaken.

"You may wish to amend your tone," she advises, her own lofty and flat, "for you know not who may be listening in.

"That is, if you care at all of that matter."

Oh dear, someone was a touch too serious for her own sake. But David keeps a pleasant smile on his face, soft and kind. Always, he reminds himself, be soft and kind and pleasant to strangers at a Synod.

"You have me at a disadvantage, but I suppose knowledge of Krakoa and our leadership far outpace our own well trod paths. However I think no one will bear me ill will in the observation. When one lives on a tropical island of surf and sun and greenery, with open-air home plans, the Porter building becomes... uncomfortably cramped. Already I miss the easy evenings and palm trees and sweet air. Though I suppose few factions love it nearly so much as we do."

Of course, Olin Vale probably values it more than they, but again, the Vale has always been so little beyond a rumor, a whisper, an idea.

Right... Krakoa deigns to be a little piece of paradise -- an Eden without Eden's ambition. Their wants aren't that far off from her own, just...more open about wanting to find that peace as a community, rather than Cecelia finding one blossoming up from under her despite her best efforts.

It had been suggested to her before to maybe extend an olive branch to them, but she certainly hasn't been convinced it's worth the effort.

"Few factions find themselves with the time to yearn for beach breezes," she points out, an eyebrow arching. "What with all the planning and management that need be done for their status quo."

Cecelia Ardenbury | Olin Vale (leader) | OTA

Hallways

no subject

no subject

no subject

Halls

no subject

no subject

no subject

evening

no subject

no subject

no subject

Hallways

Re: Hallways

no subject

EVENINGS

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Evenings

no subject

no subject