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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.
Beckett Mariner | Resistance / Twin Cities | OTA
[Mariner is busy staring out of the windows, a martini in her hand. Ugh. She wasn't looking forward to the lesson in temporal mechanics, but she can't seem to stop watching the show out of the windows: a thousand parallel possibilities erasing and creating themselves endlessly all around the train.
She takes a big gulp of the martini as she watches the Vulcans land and then get slaughtered by a bunch of grubby 20th century humans, a horrible distortion of actual history.]
Ugh. Hey, everyone, let's watch your history tear itself apart and stitch itself together again while riding the Death Train! Yeah, fun, that's not weird and sinister at all, right?
[she's mainly talking to herself, but she's not bothering to keep her voice down much.]
Dinner and Dancing
[One thing humanity retained in its march to the stars? An irresistible attraction to free food. And when you're a human who got chucked from the final frontier back into volatile Earth history, that instinct goes SEE? I TOLD YOU, THE FAMINE WAS TOMORROW, NOW GO STUFF YOURSELF WITH TINY BROWNIES.
But Mariner isn't just here to do that (although she is doing that). She's busy watching, putting her eyes on the new faces and where they're from, and on some old faces and what they might be up to. You can tell she's marked you out as Interesting because she's nudging you with an elbow, a drink in one hand and a little plastic plate in the other.]
Hey, have you tried the pigs inna blanket yet? I'm pretty sure they're my favorite Ancient Earth food, so glad the regular people are still making them.
no subject
No. I have not tried the... [He pauses as though saying the name requires an effort of will. When he says it, he pronounces it like the sentence of an execution.] Pigs in a blanket.
[He holds up his own plate, which is not paper but fine porcelain painted with blue geometric patterns. It holds sliced mini-baguettes topped with something purple and blobby.]
I prefer the neo-caviar. We genetically engineered the fish that produces it, right here in the White Tower.
[The creature exists to do nothing but lay as many eggs as possible while requiring as little care as possible. Dooku considers it a triumph of imPort ingenuity.]
no subject
Really? Too bad, it's good stuff. Gotta love the traditional historical Earth foods.
[She does show willing though and pops one of the little bread bits in her mouth. Weird colored food isn't a barrier for someone who grew up in space.]
Wow, not bad! You know, for fish eggs. You guys in the White Tower have really been stepping up your game to make something like this.
no subject
Our advancements are constantly in motion. Every year our abilities expand.
[He sweeps his free arm outward to encompass the wealth and glamour around them.]
This is just a taste of what we shall be able to create, in time.
[Once they are the only faction. Once their rivals have been removed.]
no subject
[she can't... really help herself. Dooku is so desperate to take himself seriously, and that's basically inciting Newton's Third Law of Motion, Beckett Mariner Edition.
still she's trying to do it in a useful way.]
You're real busy, huh? I keep hearing rumor after rumor after rumor and I'm pretty sure I told the guy who was going on about rainbow caviar that he was full of it but you know, obviously I shouldn't jump to conclusions.
no subject
[Count Dooku rarely puns. Except, it seems, by accident. There's an awkward, confused moment before he puts on a half-smile for her so he can pretend he meant to do that.]
My work is never-ending, it is true. Preparations for my Panel this year demanded much of my energy, as do assorted diplomatic functions. But I wouldn't have it any other way. The results will be well worth the effort.
no subject
Hey, how bout a little preview of coming attractions? White Tower's priorities for the coming year, why it's the best ever, and all that.
no subject
Indeed I do, and your interest is much appreciated. In brief, I can tell you that the White Tower has many plans for the future...
[Mariner has chosen death. To sum up a great deal of evil monologuing that is about to ensue, Dooku describes to her that the White Tower has many grand new technological advancements to unveil, that they hope that many new imPorts join them for their power and prosperity, that they aspire for better diplomatic relations with the other factions, and that he is certain that this year will be the one where they finally defeat the Resistance for good.
Pretty standard, really. By the time he's done, Dooku needs to take a drink to re-moisten his mouth.]
Ah. Of course, that is only the 'preview,' as you called it. You will see the full picture as the Synod goes on.
no subject
I'm still getting used to Earth foods, which ones are pigs inna blanket?
no subject
It's historical. Traditional American sports holiday food, back when--well there still is an America here. So, you know, nowadays.
no subject
[Since she's only ever seen the factions. It doesn't really count anymore.]
They look like something they'd serve on Corellia.
no subject
[She shuts one eye to inspect a hot dog like she's a jeweler with a diamond.]
Corellia, huh? What kind of place is that?
no subject
[And oh boy that's a complicated history]
Corellia itself though, it's famous for its shipyards. And fried foods.
no subject
[She grins.]
Sounds like my kinda place. [she'd ask about drinks but you know, kid.] Shipyards, fried food--sounds like it must be a real lively place. It must've been kind of a shock to wind up on a planet that's so--singular.
[It was for Mariner, after all.]
no subject
[Anakin could work with it]
It's been years since I've been there. I live on the galactic capital and go to school on a moon that's mostly jungle.
[That's the very short version. She's used to a lot of variety.]
Just one planet is weird.