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.

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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."

Hey, they might not be paradise, but they're trying. And unlike the Vale, they open their doors.

"Perhaps, and I cannot say our way is better. But our way is seeking to provide peace and stability for the young among us. Our status quo is every birthday had on the island. Our management is healing the traumas and pains that our native worlds inflict on young minds. Or planning is on how to find peace and fulfillment."

Granted anyone who had seen the way the Krakoan official delegation had clad themselves this year, they might well wonder what truly was going on. And he knew there were always those that distrusted them because of the fact that many of their number were formerly of White Tower alignment.

"Cherish it, for as long as the world sees fit for it to last."

Her tone has a tinge of coldness, despite her mild delivery. The rest she delivers while turning her head away from him.

"Some may as well find themselves fulfilled in this realm."

"A somber mood indeed Miss..."

He lets the word linger, a soft invitation for her name. Not that he truly expects she will give it. The woman is... intense.

"I hope we will as well. I just want kids to have a safer life growing up than I did."

"Ardenbury," she offers, looking back at him, her expression still impassably neutral. Not easy for her: She was always too honest in her tells growing up, and it took a long time to really emulate the severity of an elvish poker face.

Intense? Yeah. But necessary; she can't be too open here.

"And I'm sure I need not impress the point that you'll need more than hope to ensure that."

"Hope is a blanket held up against the force of a storm," David agrees, more than he can even say. But to explain that he intends to do more could be overheard.

"Miss Ardenbury, is it too forward to ask where you're from?"

Her expression hardens a bit at that.

"It is more peculiar than forward," she admits, speaking slowly. He could just be playing ignorant to be more amenable. "Seeing as I was invited as a spokesperson for a faction, I imagined I wasn't as unknown as I wished.

"I come from the Vale. And if the others who speak for their lands know less than you, then I'll consider this whole production a success."

Edited 2020-09-18 01:02 (UTC)

"I don't remember every face and name, and if you will forgive me, the Vale has, until so very recently, been a rumor. To the point that me and mine weren't even certain whether it would be possible to speak to someone from there."

HE offers a deep bow, and a look of regret was sketched over his face.

"I'm sorry. Things have been... busy for me lately. My mind is not as sharp as it should be. I suppose my heart yearns for home, but each of us has duties we must attend to that bring us here, do we not? Cares that must be taken."

Statements with double meaning. They were here for the sake of their people, to protect them. That was their duty. But care, caution had to be ever at hand. There were, as she said, observers everywhere.

"If I might ask a question of you, Miss Ardenbury, beyond of course asking if I might?"

Cecelia's eyes never leave him, watching him as perhaps a hawk may in spying a rival in her territory. The tells of deceit are very nuanced, and they vary by species and expertise; she'll never be a master at sniffing out bluffs, but her eyes and ears are sharp, searching for telling tics or a too-fast flutter of a heartbeat.

Despite her efforts to remain truly neutral, the tenseness of her posture gives away her heightened defenses. Even so, she keeps her hands still and folded in front of her, resisting the urge to close up more by crossing her arms or turning away.

"You may," she says. "But I cannot promise an answer."

"Questions are plentiful in this world. Answers are rare and more precious for it."

He tilts his head as he considers her, considers the careful construction for politics and yet with hope to convey the meaning that Krakoa wanted to talk. Wanted allies. And would not obligate her or her people to it, for they were even more isolationist than even Krakoa.

"I love gardening," he prefaces the question, hoping she would take the metaphor and run with it. It was, he thought, the best way to frame Krakoa's situation. "Especially roses. But sadly a rose bush has come into my position that was bred to lack thorns. Its buds are beautiful, with such potential for fragrance and color as I could ever want. But you see, there are no thorns. And there are those who come in the night to my bush and snip off the buds before they can unfurl, eager to take them to decorate their own spaces. Do you have any suggestion for how I might better care for my roses, so that I can truly see them bloom?"

Then he smiles, because of course he has to give her an out. A choice to step away from the conversation, to not meet the metaphor. But to turn even that into a message. Fuck, he hates politics.

"But here I am, assuming you are a gardener like myself. Which could be wildly wrong. Perhaps I shall bring my problem to Rimuru. They are so good with such things that require slow and gentle care."

And there, the question posed. Krakoa the bush. White Tower, their origin, that made sure they had no thorns. The youth they shelter the buds that might be taken away before they have the chance to bloom. What are they to do when protection was inherently denied? The clear answer? Seek the wisdom of another gardener, another leader. As for Rimuru... well perhaps it was a gentle suggestion that she perhaps seek out his fellow to speak, if the mood should move her.

Has he mentioned to anyone how much he hates the double talk of politics? No? That sucks.

In the midst of his metaphor, Cecelia's eyelids droop a bit and an eyebrow arches, accenting her expression with awareness and a dry kind of amusement. He speaks the way she finds many silver tongues in fantasy romances do...just way fewer shades of purple.

"Your problem doesn't require a gardener," she replies, tilting her head. "It requires a high wall and a watchman. Supplement the thorns."

After a beat, she unfolds her hands, planting them on her hips, some of the tension eased as she gets to talk about something she actually is keen on.

"Making a flashy to-do about your garden to the rest of the world is great for show, but you attract all sorts of pilferers and busybodies. Walls also attract gawkers and those who can't leave well enough alone, but that's what your watchman is for."

The Vale's name does mean secret in elvish for a reason.

More direct than he'd expecting, and it earns a surprised chuckle from him. Surprised, and pleased. Oh dear, he likes the sharpness of her mind. And the bluntness. No wonder this woman had done so well at hiding her people for so long. No beating around the bush, so to speak.

"Sometimes people feel that they're entitled to the beauty of your hard work, and I've found walls easily torn down. But perhaps you are right."

The problem was that Krakoa didn't want to be walled off the same way. They wanted to be a refuge. And he supposed that was why it was complicated. Factions that were aggressive would see anything they did as potentially aggressive.

"Still, I wonder if a wall and watchman won't just provoke more aggressive attempts. Perhaps even someone getting past it and digging the whole thing up just out of spite."

"Oh, it will," she assures, her chin lifting a bit higher. "But that doesn't mean you simply leave your treasures to be taken freely. If they mean to take from your grove, make sure they wind up leaving with a few less fingers or toes as recompense; it's the best bit of justice one can manage in such a state."

Yep, this is a woman he could stand for. In another world. In another situation. The problem is there were children, and David didn't want them to be warriors. And of course there was the constant problem with imPorts: when they hit critical mass and it affected the world around them.

WHich was a river David had been working for years to prepare for. Though he wasn't quite certain if he had found the answer just yet.

"Your techniques will give me something to think on. Thank you for that. It's always nice to have the view of another specialist."

Her mouth pulls in the makings of a smirk she doesn't quite follow through with. Instead, she nods and turns her head away, glancing down the length of the hall that's become her walking track of sorts.

"Is that all you wished to seek out in this place?" she wonders. "Gardening tips?"

"Tips, yes," David agrees. "Though if you were to hope for a... trading of other things, you might wish to seek out my colleague Rimuru. Their company is very intriguing."

And Rim is probably better able to provide a quiet conversation to pitch what Krakoa might want to offer Olin Vale. Which was mostly only potential trade and an agreement to support each other if White Tower or another faction like them got too aggressive.

Which he knew she might laugh at. Theirs were more isolationist nations in some ways. They didn't want conflict. But Krakoa was sadly forced to prepare for it.

"Unless you know a way to grow a gate in land untouched by imPorts. But everyone wants to figure that skill out."

While looking away from him, Cecelia frowns. He keeps mentioning that name as if he were elbowing her to do act on it. But why? She's not here for intriguing company -- even less anything that gets her too tied up in other people's affairs.

Her expression is milder when she looks back his way, even faintly amused at his suggestion of that matter with the gates.

"If I knew that, I guarantee you we wouldn't be conversing right now. I'd be quite far and away from all of this nonsense."

"Wouldn't we all," David agrees, sounding so very, very tired for a moment.

Young, and broken, and tired. There is the greatest Fear of Krakoa. Not even the whole 'people will come after them for offering refuge to the kids. It's the 'one day we'll be too big, and how do we stop that?'

"Surely you came here with more than mere hope for something as fantastical as that," she presses, her tone flattening a bit with displeasure. She can't say she's gone to this event before, but she assumed most came with preset expectations.

"Of course," David says. But... much of what they needed to do was back room. And even then they needed to hope it worked out right. Which he was worried it wasn't.

He'd made so many mistakes, and he needs to fix them the best he could.

Of course.

Cecelia's gaze flickers away, back to the window.

"Luck to you, then, David. Someone may as well benefit from all of this."

"Thank you. I shall need all I can find. And peace to you, and all of the Vale. I wish you the best in staying out of the weeds."

Politics. He really doesn't recommend it, even if he wants to make use of it.

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SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2020: THE SYNOD IS CONVENING.

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