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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.
no subject
He raises a hand and starts raising fingers as he runs through a well-rehearsed, frequently recounted list of The Truth According to the White Tower.
"Firstly, it is clearly unjust to blame imPorts for our mere presence on this planet," he begins, voice swelling with indignation. "None of us asked to be stolen here by the Porter, after all. Only mindless fear and sheer hatred would lead the Resistance to attack us for random events that are not of our choosing." Another finger rises. "Secondly, it should never be forgotten that the damage to this world escalated after an oppressive government chose to provoke conflict with the imPorts. Their reckless behaviour set in motion the Deathdome and destabilized this world."
He moves on to the third finger before anyone can think too closely about just who it was who moved on the Porter in the first place.
"Finally, and I must stress this point strongly, my friends: the benefits imPorts have brought to this world are incalculable." He lowers his hand for a moment, then sweeps it outward in a dismissive gesture, as though he were flinging away rubbish. "How can we be a 'problem' for our native friends when our technology has created such advances in robotics, genetics, and medicine? When our magic can heal the injured and predict the future? When our powers can eliminate any enemy who might threaten those under our care?"
Dooku's voice darkens on this last point. It is not an accident.
"This world has seen many tragedies, it's true," he continues, softening his words as he comes to the end. "But in blaming and attacking imPorts, the Resistance is going down a path of deceit and madness. They must be opposed."
how is your icon so perfect
The single consonant reverberates out into the auditorium space. It's so quiet in here that the single, speculative sound seems to last forever. The audience is rapt-- or at least, for the skeptics out there undoubtedly plotting to murder the both of them. Dooku's speech, his eloquence, his performance of rage and sorrow. It's downright Shakespearean, for those of us who know that man.
Kavinsky's merely staring at the old man at length, his poofy lips pursed, as if in deep thought.
The next moment, he turns to the crowd. Lifts his shoulders up in a neat little shrug, an expression of caricatured helplessness on his face. "Count Dooku," he says, right on cue. "The way us kids do it, this would be the time for a mic-drop. Eh? What do you guys think? I mean, unless you're advocating for the vigilante punishment of even the youngest child Porting in--"
And like that, Kavinsky isn't even the first to begin applauding. It starts in a smatter, goes rolling through, gaining crashing momentum.
Someone on LJ twelve years ago really nailed the framing of one ROTS shot
He will get Kavinsky, for convincing him to do this before the event. One day, he will find a way to make the boy regret swaying him to compromising his dignity in this manner.
But for now, and for the sake of truly driving the point home...
Count Dooku extends the arm that holds the microphone out to his side, lets it hang there a moment to build anticipation in the crowd, and then lets the mic drop to the ground with an audible clunk that echoes through the space.
The applause becomes cheering. Right on cue.
[ooc: I had to.]