asgardchrysalis | EVENT LOG: (UN)SAFETY MEASURES

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: (UN)SAFETY MEASURES

Who: ANYONE leaving Asgard to build an outpost
What: the (Un)Safety Measures event
When: January 14 - 22
Where: three days north of Asgard's kingdom
Warnings: claustrophobia

❧ january 14-16: departure.

On January 14, the gods summon everyone to the castle ground to announce that Asgard is moving out to face the newest threat on the horizon. what seems like the whole of Asgard prepares and departs the kingdom. From the youngest to the oldest of the able and willing, all hands are needed as this mission serves two highly critical purposes: to defeat the current threat and to build outposts that can be used as midway safe houses on missions like these.

Similar to the last time Asgard embarked on such a journey, a long train of wagons guided by the eight-legged horses and several of the gods passes through the thicc barrier of the forest into what appears to be a blinding light for any that remain in the city. As the caravan breaks through the treeline, that brightness barely fades as a blistering sun gleams off of what appears to be a solid landscape of pure ice. An odd chill travels from the top of your head to your toes as Honir calls out "Hold onto your limbs!" in a strangely cheerful warning to match the unusual warmth that envelops you afterwards.

Over the course of the next three days, the caravan travels northward through the strange landscape of Yggdrasil in winter. It seems like ice and snow rise and fall at whim, clear skies turning into a swarming blizzard from one stretch of land to another. It's like it can't quite decide what type of winter it would like to be, and the caravan is left to navigate and make camp through this fitful weather. On January 16, the caravan halts as the gods declare this to be the safest point between the kingdom and where the Qliphoth is growing. Construction of the outpost will begin here in the morning, as those moving on to destroy the wretched tree prepare to confront the demons of another world.

❧ january 17-18: setting up camp.

On the morning of January 17, everyone sets upon their separate tasks as those prepared for combat continue onward to travel. All of the wagons and most of the horses are left behind at the budding settlement - the terrain ahead is far too treacherous to risk losing them along the way. But all thoughts of demons and infernal trees seem distant compared to the pressing immediacy of the task at hand.

The gods weren’t wrong: This is likely the safest point between Asgard and whatever mayhem is occurring farther north. Tucked safely out of the elements in shallow valley between two small mountains, the outpost benefits strongly from the sun peeking out over the ridge as it balms the chilly sting of the wind with a diffuse sort of warmth. It’s a warmth that Wanderers will need as they set to work constructing a fallback point for the unimaginable things that those who continued might endure. There’s a job for everyone, big or small, from building temporary housing to assembling defenses to taking stock of all the medical supplies they’ve brought along for the trip.

Honir, meanwhile, has chosen to stay and protect the outpost. Though he doesn’t seem to actively dwell on it, those who knew him before the Battle of Wights can likely tell that he was humbled considerably by his experience. It more than suits the needs of the moment, as he and any willing volunteers scout the immediate area outside of the mountainous inlet to make sure that the outpost is safe.

Alas, even Honir doesn’t think to account for threats from below.

❧ january 19: hidden intentions.

( ! ) content warnings: claustrophobia

On the morning of January 18, your characters will wake up to discover that some of you are missing. Surely they were there when you went to sleep, but an odd number of Wanderers and native Asgardians alike seem to have vanished in the night. Searching the encampment and the surrounding area turns up nothing of use, awkwardly delaying construction between the need to finish this project within a few days and the absence of those that came to build it. A scant few more disappear suddenly throughout the day without anyone seeing or hearing anything more than a vague crunching sound and then silence.

As it turns out, answers come with the still of the night: Those who find themselves awake near the edges of camp hear a faint but unmistakable shouting, coming from beneath their very feet. Characters that have disappeared up to this point are buried underground beneath a thick layer of solid earth and stone. More people begin disappearing, this time in plain sight as stone shifts and pulls them into the dirt. Screams fill the campground as people try to save their friends or find the source of the chaos… Not to mention the shouts of alarm as those who try to dig too violently find the ground itself throwing things back at them, betraying this as the work of some sort of subterraneal creature.

But even as that chaos erupts around them, most of the Wanderers seem to vie for a peaceful resolution (based on the comments on January’s event post), and in fact, some go so far as to attempt to calm those reacting violently.

At first, it doesn’t seem to matter.

But then, the earth starts to shift. Those who have yet to be unearthed seem to be spat back out onto the surface, gently and with what could almost be considered deference. And then comes a gnomelike figure, about the size of a football with stone-brown skin and hair down to his feet, crawling up from a hole that didn’t seem to exist before he had need of it.

“I believe an apology is in order,” he says, twisting at a corner of his beard. “It has been quite an age since the Steinnbregðr have seen humans in these parts, and with such magics.”

“We just wanted to take a look atcha,” comes a younger voice not far behind him. It’s now that you see a number of other figures peering up out a dozen more inexplicable holes in the earth, though these new arrivals keep themselves hidden from the nose up. The girl who spoke had popped up a bit in her excitement, but she too ducks back into her hole under scrutiny, tacking on a - “Gorbit says you brought gods.”

The others all murmur with quiet agreement, some nodding, others looking nervous. They, too, just wanted to look at these humans. To learn.

“We made you fear for your lives and your kin, yet none of you harmed us,” the first gnome continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. He looks from Wanderer to Wanderer, from face to face, and even in his generous age his eyes glow with an almost childlike intrigue. “Do you think it possible that we might... try again? From the start, with quite a bit less borrowing of your people.”

The Steinnbregðr people have extended an olive branch. If rejected, they’ll disappear back into their holes, nary to be seen again. If accepted, they’ll answer Wanderers’ questions, share their knowledge of local resources, and assist in assembling the outpost to the best of their ability… All the while taking every opportunity to observe the Wanderers with wide inquisitive eyes, or even tug at clothing to ask a burning question about the Wanderers, the gods, Asgard, or humans as a general concept.

(Though we won’t be outright NPCing the Steinnbregðr, there will be a top-level in which we’ll gladly summarize or handwave interactions with your characters, answering questions and perhaps even forming a budding CR.)

❧ january 20-22: return.

With the Qliphoth destroyed and the outpost established as best it can be, the caravan makes its way back to Asgard on January 20. While the load is a bit lighter for the supplies it took to build and battle their way back home, some carry new burdens and memories of the strange happenings that took place here. The magic the gods warned of has shown its powerful capacity to overwrite the landscape of Yggdrasil, and new creatures in the world are becoming increasingly aware of the Wanderers' presence.

All along the three day journey back to the kingdom, the gods and the natives can't help but discuss and speculate what this means for the future. A nervous energy travels back to the city with them in spite of their victories, the vast and mercurial landscape of Yggdrasil providing a frigid reminder of their isolation at the heart of it. Asgard may come to contend with the fact that they are safer within their kingdom and the veil of obscurity - and the fact that the veil has been lifted, leaving an open window for them to see out into the dangers of the world, and for the world to look back at them.

[ OOC NOTES: This is the event log for the (Un)Safety Measures event! Your characters are in the process of building an outpost to serve as safe housing for ventures beyond the kingdom when a clan of rock gnomes begins "stealing" characters underground for observation. Because the majority of you elected to proceed with caution instead of aggression, you were able to entreat with the gnomes to understand their presence and motivations, and enough of you actively sought to make peace with them that they have become tentative allies to Asgard for the time being. If you want to discuss interactions or ask questions about the gnomes, you can do so in this thread below. If you have any other questions or concerns, please feel free to hit us up on the mod contact page! Enjoy! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Crowley shuffles to press closer, to tuck himself under Aziraphale's arm and into his side with a heavy, put-upon sigh.

"Is it?" he says, sounding not at all convinced. "Sounds like a recipe for being cold and wet together if you ask more. Much better here."

Much better being warm and dry and, well, held gently and covered in blankets. Crowley has priorities. He looks up at Aziraphale, twitches a faint smile. "Company is pretty good here, too."

Alright, alright, yes it could be good elsewhere but he's just saying. No need to get up and move, everything is nicer where they are!

There isn't much of a chance of Aziraphale trying to go anywhere when he has Crowley nicely folded against his side. Doubly so when Crowley was looking at him like that, expression soft and warmed around the edges. Aziraphale smiles back effortlessly, gentle and affectionate.

"On that much, I believe we can agree," he tells him simply, lightly patting Crowley's shoulder as if he needed confirmation that he was referring to him. Then he tugs at one of the outermost blankets, just enough to make a show of it. "But don't you think it's a waste to spend the entire season wrapped up in blankets?"

"No," Crowley says, "pretty sure I don't. Could maybe be persuaded to share if you're jealous, though."

He turns his head, leaning against Aziraphale's shoulder, and waggles his eyebrows temptingly.

"Tempt you into my blanket lair?"

Not that it's much of a lair, and not that they were all his blankets to begin with. They are now, though, and he has the power to share that warmth.

Edited (typo) 2020-02-07 18:54 (UTC)

There's a quiet scoff at that, amused both by Crowley's choice of words and his very transparent suggestion. "Jealous?" he repeats as if the notion was nonsense. It is, but it is the fun sort of nonsense.

A considering look crosses Aziraphale's face, glancing down at Crowley and his tiny mountain of blankets with some measure of interest. It does sound enjoyable.

"Although," he starts as he tugs on the outermost blanket again, "I do suppose I might need to see what evil lurks in this lair of yours."

Who knows what could be in there?

"It's a very evil lair," Crowley says, quite seriously. "Stupendously evil. Don't know if you've got the stomach for it, angel. You might be overcome. Enough to make your wing tips turn grey."

Which does make it, based on that, very evil indeed as blanket lairs go. Still..

"Course, that might mean you're obligated to inspect it."

Angelic duty and all that.

Well, now, if it's a matter of duty then how could Aziraphale possibly refuse? He might not be a servant of Heaven anymore, but he just couldn't let a wily demon go unchecked right in front of him. It would be disgraceful.

"Oh, yes. I don't believe there's any way around it then," Aziraphale agrees solemnly. A hand finds its way to Crowley's shoulder, gently pushing him away from his side so that Aziraphale might have room to sneak underneath the blanket pile with said wily demon. Pulling at the edges of the blankets, he wraps one end around his own shoulders.

"I'll just have to persevere. For the Greater Good, I'll have you know," he explains. He'll simply have to take the risk of discoloured wings.

Crowley moves easily, opens his arms to spread the blanket for Aziraphale and then wraps him into them. It isn't a timid, awkward embrace this time -- this is a full body hold full of affection. This is Crowley drawing Aziraphale as close to himself as he can, holding him tight and soaking warmth and love into him.

"Now I have you in my wicked clutches," he murmurs, adjusting the blanket around them both. "You'll never escape, angel, you're doomed."

Underneath the blankets, Aziraphale readily returns the gesture by encircling Crowley in his arms. It's a good, solid hold that helps encourage Crowley ever closer without any shyness. Practice has made it easier and Crowley's receptiveness even more so.

"Are you so sure of that?" he asks, giving Crowley a quick, little squeeze. "Perhaps, you're in mine. My radiant embrace."

Then, he smiles. "And it's too late to run. I've already conquered your lair."

His radiant embrace.

Crowley rolls his eyes a little, but settles comfortably all the same. It is noticeably warmer now, having Aziraphale wrapped up in the blankets with him. Wouldn't want to make him withdraw.

"I am feeling pretty conquered," he admits, because Aziraphale likes to win on occasion and Crowley likes him to be happy. What's a little conquering between friends, after all? It's a very comfortable defeat he's enjoying.

It's important for there to be a balance. For things not to lean more one way than another. That's the way it was. Aziraphale considers this to be a little more balancing considering that Crowley tends to be one to initiate anything, which Aziraphale is certainly working on, but he's just not quite there yet.

"Oh, yes. As you should," he says, proudly as he leans towards Crowley to gently rest his head against his.

A comfortable amount of time passes just like that, huddled against one another underneath Crowley's excess of blankets. For a brief while, they're simply able to each the company of one another, but eventually there's chatter in the distance about the whole affair with demon hunting. It's just anyone would expect: everyone is worried about the safety of those who went out and concerned about the threat of demons.

It's quite concerning indeed, but Aziraphale finds he's less worried about that and more bothered about the fact that some of the other Wanderers here made their living in demon hunting. He already got the gist that there were some obvious differences in their experiences with demons and what they were, but it didn't mean that he didn't find himself any less worried about it.

"I never knew demon hunting was a valid occupation." Quietly said. More to Crowley than anyone else around them.

"Mmmm. I mean I've heard about them, but never met any so..."

How do you even describe them?

"Enthusiastic," he settles on. The witchfinder army was one thing, this was on a different level. These guys seemed to have personal experience with fighting some forms of demons, and since they're still alive presumably they've been successful. Seems like they enjoy it too. Crowley squirms to draw back a bit, so he can study the concern in Aziraphale's features.

"Seem like they've got a sense of humour, at least, and a sense of... nuance about it all."

You know, not just blindly killing anything labelled a demon. Probably. ... Hopefully.

The unease on Aziraphale's face is readily apparent, he's obviously disquieted by the knowledge of having demon hunters around in the city. Distantly, he's also worried about the idea that they come from a place where demon hunters are any kind of a necessity. What sort of place was that? What sort of demons even? Where was Heaven?

Demonic issues, when handled by humans, were always the duty of the priests as far as Aziraphale has ever encountered. There wasn't enough demand or need for anything further than that—not that the priests were even generally effective.

"Do they have a sense of nuance?" he wonders. Those who are encouraged to live their lives hunting supernatural menaces usually didn't even know the definition of nuance. Bitterly, he thinks that the witchfinder army were a good example of this.

"That sort of thing is how I got discorporated. And my shop burnt."

Oh.

... Wait --

Crowley frowns, trying to puzzle this out. That sort of thing? Demon hunting? Why would anyone be demon hunting in Aziraphale's book shop. Unless... they were looking for him? Somehow thought Aziraphale was demonic for being associated with him? The confusion plays out openly on his face, followed by a widening of his eyes, followed by concern.

"It was demon hunters?" he prompts, "were they looking for me?"

What demon hunter was even smart enough to figure that out?

The truth behind Aziraphale's discorporation was not that a dedicated group of demon hunters had stormed his shop following the smell of evil or otherwise having tailed Crowley, but that one bumbling idiot had stumbled into the bookstore at the literal worst moment. Really, it was more of Aziraphale's fault than anything. He had been so flustered from whatever it was that Shadwell saw and his need to keep him from killing himself on the circle on the shop's floor that he failed to pay any attention to where he was walking.

Nevertheless, it didn't inspire positive feelings towards Shadwell after that whole mess. He really should have taken the time to listen to him.

"No, no. Nothing like that," he remarks. He's not willing to go in depth about what had happened, but he refused to let Crowley think that he had taken a blow intended for him instead. There was never anything so sinister. "I don't know what was being looked for then, but I don't believe it was you. It was more of. . . an unfortunate coincidence," he offers, lifting a hand to press his palm against Crowley's cheek reassuringly.

"However—" he keeps on. His frown deepens. "I am not sure how anyone could make the mistake of confusing me for a demon."

That's a relief.

Crowley lets out a slow breath, studying Aziraphale's features as he frowns. The palm on his cheek is nice, a gentle thing, and after a moment a teasing smile flicks back up on Crowley's lips.

"Well," he says, "you've done a few temptations in your time."

Not quite pure as snow, Aziraphale, there's something deep down that can pull off demonic things in that angelic heart.

A few is quite the understatement. Aziraphale has performed countless temptations over a great number of years and on occasion has even found them a little fun. Just a little. Barely any sort of noticeable amount. Certainly nothing he'd laugh over with Crowley during a meet-up involving a generous amount of wine.

Definitely not.

"That doesn't matter," Aziraphale tells him primly. "It was for the overall Greater Good." Said as if that absolves him entirely. He had warmed up to Crowley's idea regarding the Arrangement because he had been, in fact, fully correct. Aziraphale just hadn't wanted to give it any acknowledgement. Not for a while, at least. They were going to happen anywhere and there was to be a balance, so why not share the workload?

"I don't even smell Evil," he adds. As an angel, an ethereal being, he only smells of Goodness.

He assumes that you'd track a demon through the smell. If you were human.

There's a lot of things Crowley could say to that, things to do with what evil smells like and if it's relevant or not.

As it is, he's distracted by how close Aziraphale is. By the hand still on his face.

"No," he says gently, "you smell great, angel. Positively divine."

Just in case that bit was, actually, important for some reason. The smell part.

That part, as it turns out, was rather important to Aziraphale. If it was going to be based upon smells then he certainly didn't want to smell like something he wasn't. Actually, he would simply rather smell like his own choosing! He did have a rather nice cologne back home that he had enjoyed.

"Oh, thank you. That does make me feel better," he says with an obviously relieved smile. His thumb rubs against Crowley's cheek for a brief moment before he eventually pulls his hand away.

It doesn't occur to him that the both of them probably don't smell like anything anymore.

"But you said something about them supposedly knowing nuance? The demon hunters?"

Right. Right.

"Yeah," Crowley says absently, trying to move his mind on from the gentle touch Aziraphale had offered him. "Said they were related to demons, distantly, and only killed the ones they didn't like or something."

So, you know. Not anyone who happens to be one or partly related to one. Which is better than the alternative, if not wholly the best solution.

Was that supposed to be comforting? It really wasn't. If anything, that only dictates that their deciding factor for who was deserving to live or die was based on something flimsy such as likeability. Demons were famously unlikable. It was virtually in the job description and Aziraphale could very confidently say that he hasn't ever met a demon that he had liked, with the grand and obvious exception of Crowley who was undeserving of being lumped in with the rest of the denizens of Hell.

"Related to demons? Is there such a thing?" he muses, his expression falling once again. "How ludicrous."

But then, Aziraphale does have more questions about this.

"What else do you know about them?"

"Mmmm? Well, some of them have a sense of humour. Not all of them. Apparently know some demon that runs a bar or something. Bit weird, really, one of them told me this story about some flaming demon who wanted to become king of the underworld. Never heard anyone use that title before. Actually, that was the other thing -- the one I'm stuck with said he was related to a high demon. All a bit medieval if you ask me."

High demon is such a weird title. Who even calls themselves that? High demon. All very weird. Then again, he's never heard of weird demon infested trees either. You learn something new every day, he supposes.

It's remarkable how this manages to get stranger the more that he hears Crowley talk about it. A part of him is convinced that he's simply making it up for the sake of a story, but Aziraphale cannot say that he hasn't heard other strange and outlandish things from the other individuals here.

It's just. . . Didn't they have any shame? To say things like this so freely.

"It sounds to me a bit like those strange overzealous cultists," he remarks. There have always been a select few who chose to glorify demons and Lucifer's so-called teachings, but it had really picked up for a period. Or maybe a couple times? Sometimes things like that blur together. "You know the ones. They did all of the—well, you know." He makes a vague gesture with his hand, flipping over his palm, as if that would help Crowley identify what he was talking about.

"Talking about nonsense like high demons."

"Some of them might be more fun if they were high."

Crowley shuffles in the blanket lair, coaxing Aziraphale into wrapping his arms about him again instead of flapping one hand around. None of that, they're meant to be staying warm. No opening up the blankets.

"Anyway, did think it sounded a bit culty. Any time someone talks about who they're related to it makes me think of bloodline nonsense. You know, ancient bloodline, descended of some random person."

Plenty of cults dedicated to weird leaders who are convinced they're the scion of some ancient and powerful line that traces itself back to something nonsensical. Humans really are very odd like that.

There's always a certain level of danger associated with individuals who have this sort of mentality. It's a hard lesson that Aziraphale has had to learn over the years, but learn it he did. While Crowley might be saying something to imply they only selectively kill demons, Aziraphale isn't able to dismiss it.

"Wouldn't a high rank be a detriment on this occasion?" he asks, a little distractedly as he shifts beside Crowley. He moves to pull his arms around Crowley again, tugging him close and hopefully keeping out any errant cold air.

Important to keep the lair protected.

Also important to have something to tie to these people. Names, ideally. He glances over at Crowley. "Did you happen to get their names or anything?"

"Names? Err..."

Crowley isn't brilliant with human names. He looks a little bit guilty, tries very hard to remember since Aziraphale wants to know.

"The one from the Njord house just goes by a letter or something. Like, X."

Is that meant to be cool now? Crowley isn't sure. Or maybe it's a secret spy movie thing, like M and Q? Anyway, he's probably X. Sounds about right.

"One of the bigger ones is called... Dont or something."

Is that right? It doesn't entirely feel right but he's going with it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject