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| Midnight | |
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| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 290505 |
Midnight is a Sunless Skies Story Event.
Story description[]
The hour of deepest regrets. The Midnight Plant wraps its vines around you, its sharp thorns working deeper into your sleeping flesh. They lick at your mind. Taste your memory. Savour your pain. On distant vines, old griefs birth fresh flowers.
Trigger conditions[]
Location: Achyls
Area: Limbo
Frequency: Always (100%)
Interactions[]
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes | |||||
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| Think of the monks below
Are they trapped here? Why would Midnight do that?
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This is no prison
They are free. They may leave if they wish. They simply choose a life without suffering or remorse. As a chef puts a part of himself into every meal, so do they imbue the leaves they tend with their deepest regret. Midnight fills the void with its song.
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| Think about Midnight's Favour
Why would a plant sell its leaves like this?
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There is value in pain
Midnight knows it intimately. They have been adversaries. Comrades. Master and apprentice. It is not clear which one is which, just that it flourishes in the plant's purple leaves. Not the pain of torment. The empathy of pain. Distilled. Shared. Offering the Liberation only the night can grow. Favour for those who might grow from it. Midnight's song to those who remain trapped in a cage of their own making.
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| Think on the word 'Liberation'
Something is concealed behind that word.
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The Liberation of Night
A crusade for others to proselytise. But would it not be unethical for Midnight to watch a man burn when it might so easily extinguish the flames? And what are the Judgements, if not damned to burn brighter and longer than any in the carrying out of their Laws? The pain of a sun is a mighty engine.
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| Think about what it is offering
What brought you here in the first place?
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The echo of a kindred soul, perhaps
Midnight has seen much. You will see much more. There will be pain, but in the tongues of old, pain can be merely another word for 'alive'. The vines wrapped tight around your wrist have stretched across more worlds than most can count. They have seen that there are some that the universe breaks upon its anvil, and others on whom even the stars themselves may be shattered. For those, it has a different song. It is one that Midnight might whisper into your ear in a place far from here, once you have fully seen what you are in the dark.
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| Think about letting go of the vine
Even in your dream, you feel its grip weaken. You are waking up.
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Tomorrow's dawn
Midnight's grip tightens around your mind. So few have heard its song. So many fewer have tasted its Favour. It was not always so small. Its vines stretched across the stars themselves. They yearn to do so again. But the universe is slow, and people are so unpredictable. Should its disciples spread its call throughout the stars once more?
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Answer yes
Midnight should encourage the Bohemians to spread its tea.
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Midnight's presence fades along with the light, your answer still hanging in the air. For a moment, you fall into nothing. Then there is a sharp pain. And another one, in your ribs. You open your eyes to find yourself lying outside the monastery gates, a pair of Ringbreaker Urchins prodding you with brooms. "Huh. Told you they was alive. Owe me a chocolate ration, you do."
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| Answer no
If people want what Midnight offers, they should come to it.
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Midnight's presence fades along with the light, your answer still hanging in the air. For a moment, you fall into nothing. Then there is a sharp pain. And another one, in your ribs. You open your eyes to find yourself lying outside the monastery gates, a pair of Ringbreaker Urchins prodding you with brooms. "Huh. Told you they was alive. Owe me a chocolate ration, you do."
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| A third option
Midnight is nothing but a smooth-talking emotional vampire. It must burn.
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You snap out of the dream. Midnight's vines are wrapped around you, their thorns pricking your skin and drawing blood. Not too much. Enough to taste.
The air is damp. Your tinderbox takes several attempts to spark. The Midnight Plant whips at you with its vines, thorns lashing your flesh. But it cannot stop you. Once lit, the fire is unstoppable. It burns wet and indigo, the smell of tea and charcoal. It spreads through the vines and into the tea fields, where the monks burn as they flail blindly with their watering cans and try to stamp the flames out with their bare feet. Others flee, watching their home burn until the flames finally die out, and the marsh is free to reclaim the stones.
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Links[]
Links In[]
Links Out[]
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