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f20202020-09-15 12:53 am
- allison hargreeves ⧓ krakoa,
- anders ⧒ the white tower,
- beckett mariner ⧓ twin cities,
- cecelia ardenbury ⧓ olin vale,
- count dooku ⧓ the white tower,
- david alleyne ⧓ krakoa,
- declan lynch ⧓ sanctum aurorae,
- finn onaru ⧒ the white tower,
- fuu hououji ⧓ eden,
- jin bubaigawara ⧒ twin cities,
- jonathan walsh ⧓ northwestern imperium,
- kang ⧓ seekers of the new dawn,
- kylo ren ⧓ sanctum aurorae,
- lucina ⋈ ␣,
- luther hargreeves ⧓ krakoa,
- midnighter ⧒ the white tower,
- number five hargreeves ⧓ krakoa,
- padmé amidala ⧓ luminary,
- pepper potts ⋈ the white tower,
- rey ⧓ the white tower,
- ronan lynch ⧓ sanctum aurorae,
- rude ⧒ olin vale,
- stephen strange ⧓ the white tower,
- tony stark ⧓ the white tower,
- wei wuxian ⧓ house of m,
- wen ning ⋈ house of m,
- xue yang ⧓ sanctum aurorae
SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.
THE SYNOD
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.
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
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.
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.
Rey | The White Tower | OTA
[ Being a parliamentarian before the Synod is busy work, and Rey is clearly very occupied with something. She wears a somber expression tinged with displeasure. Strangely, despite cloistering herself in a four person car to work, she is accompanied by Kylo Ren and his escort when she leaves to go get a snack on the bakery cart.
The First Lady will indulge citizens of the White Tower with a moment but something is very clearly annoying her.
Obligatory outfit ]
II. Party
[ Rey is a practiced party go-er at this point, although she is more likely to be rubbing elbows or slipping into dark corners with her allies to talk about some "urgent business."
She can be asked for a dance, but acceptance is not necessarily a given. Her dress is lovely as always, but seems to behave more like animated jewels around her skin rather than embellished fabric. ]
III. Wildcard
[ PM me if you'd like to set up a different starter for your character! Also check out the first reply as time progresses. ]
Rey does a murder - closed
On the third night of the Synod, Rey wore a beautiful gown made of animated liquid gold. Ostentatious but within the style of the White Tower certainly. Nothing seemed too out of character as she offered polite smiles and shallow conversation at dinner and the party after.
As the night ended, she made sure to find her husband and with surprising affection, she slipped an arm around the High Chancellor and pressed a kiss to his cheek, "You look exhausted. Come to bed."
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Anyone out to kill him was gonna fucking work for it.
Granted, they were solid efforts. Without a retinue of healers at his disposal, he'd be in bad shape, but he made it to the Synod, the living thorn in his wife's side. For three days, he's played his role perfectly, waiting for the hammer to fall, and makes no attempt to be particularly inconspicuous after leaving Pepper's side, returning to the main floor as the evening draws to a close. Rey's appearance at his side- pretty-deadly incarnate in gold, at odds with his grey three piece -feels almost like relief, the passing of some long-awaited tension.
Stark brushes his mouth to her temple and lets her lead him to his fate. "Is it that time already?"
no subject
Distantly, she thinks that even now it's not entirely an act. She had never stopped caring for him, and she knows that he cares deeply for the empire they built together. But their paths had forked-- at first slowly, and then all at once. It's just such a shame his utility has run out. Maybe it's merciful in a way to spare him in having to choose between flourishing power and their empire. And, of course, maintaining the unity of the White Tower in the process rather than allowing any discourse to continue further. This was for their people, he had to understand that of course.
"Ten years," she offers almost absentmindedly, wistfully. "I had never imagined this is what we would build."
no subject
"It's remarkable," he agrees, thoughtful, "Starting from scratch the way we did. I never wanted to be a politician." A late confession, Stark supposes, wry even now. "We always have made a great team."
no subject
Still, her laugh lacks the warmth that it once contained.
"We were never satisfied. Always hungry to keep moving forward. Eager to keep going," she comments, as the numbers ding higher and higher. They pushed each other in a way that she couldn't have imagined another partner might have. Together they grew this garden, carefully tending it and now it had bloomed into something truly magnificent.
But all gardens require... pruning.
"Just don't tell me you regret it," she jokes as the doors slide open.
no subject
"Well," he hedges, feigning indecision while he slips his hand of hers to glide a gentle path to the center of her back, benign, after you, darling, "No. Promise me, you won't regret this either."
no subject
And it's not an exaggeration. She had been more naive than certain the first time she tried to fetch Kylo from the grasps of a dark master. Her doubts only grew when she asked him to stay at the White Tower. Now, though, she was wrenching control of her own destiny.
She leads him to sit on the edge of the suites bed. Gently brushing the side of his face, she presses a command into his mind, "Disable your droids."
no subject
Stark takes a seat, unbuttoning his jacket as just a force of well-ingrained habit, and sits himself higher as Rey's directive takes hold. It's immediate, an infiltration that feels... really, like he had the idea himself the whole time.
Both Legion droids flanking the door slouch almost imperceptibly, in a cascade of system errors that turn to hard shutdowns, his influence withdrawn like hands receding from a marionette's strings.
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She steps away from him, lifting the droids with the Force to at least give the appearance that they were responsive to an attack on Stark before she rips a gauntlet from one.
Weighing it in her hand, she turns back to him, "These were a real marvel. Barnes never stood a chance."
the mourning widow - open
no subject
For now.
Stopping in front of her, he bows slightly at the waist. Again, it just felt like the right theatrical move.]
I'm sorry about your husband. Long live the new High Chancellor.
[Is that how they talked? Again, it felt right. He's winging this, here.]
no subject
Rey nods her head in solemn but sincere thanks. The bow is a bit formal, but the circumstances possibly warrant it. ]
Thank you. While the circumstances of my ascension are less than auspicious, I am hopeful I can serve my people as well as he did.
[ Or better, but... not the time. ]
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I don't doubt that you will. You would not have been married were you not equals.
[Again, more winging it. He has no idea how political marriages (Were they policial marriages? Did they actually like each other? He sure as hell doesn't know!) worked.]
no subject
"My condolences on your loss, and congratulations on your ascension."
It was a vote, but Padmé had found the move as a predictable point in the loss of her husband. Even as it stirred thoughts and comparison, a parallel that was unacceptable to consider in the point of her Dragon. Still, it was an appearance to make, and it wasn't a falsehood with she chose to speak to the woman with the curious, intense, and unavoidably noticeable, bond with her grandson.
no subject
"I can only hope to continue to prosperity and security that my husband strove to promote for the White Tower," of course, even in times of sorrow, there has to be a little bit of political posturing. "It is just such a shame that whoever committed the act would cast such a shadow over this time that's supposed to be a peaceful gathering for all factions."