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| The Beach, in the Off Season | |
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| Category | Story Event |
| Type | Story |
| Data ID | 287724 |
The Beach, in the Off Season is a Sunless Skies Story Event.
Story description[]
Worlebury-juxta-Mare is shattered beams and broken stone, and the beach is a stretch of filth clotted in stinking clumps. Even here, there is work to be done. You could assist.
Trigger conditions[]
Area: Limbo
Frequency: Always (100%)
Interactions[]
| Actions | Requirements | Effects | Notes |
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| You are forced to leave
The locals have had enough of you scavenging for their scraps.
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It is easier to leave the Off Season than it is to enter. You are led to impressive cathedral doors, ornate slabs of polished wood that are twice as tall as a normal man. They appear to be adhering to nothing at all.
The locals scowl at you, arms crossed, a horseshoe of shabbily-dressed bodies preventing escape. "Don't take our damn jobs. There's not enough to go around." Their single-minded labour is not out of pride for the pristine side of Worlebury, but out of desperate necessity.
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Game note: You have exhausted these opportunities for now.
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| Go visit the cult
The Bedraggled Parson issued you an invitation. No reason to be rude.
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The Church of They Who Must Grieve
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| Make things deeply unpleasant for the cult
Best to drive the cult mad with a death of a thousand proverbial cuts. The approach is well-documented in some of the Ministry of Public Decency's favourite handbooks.
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Failed event |
Game note: You can fulfil the Bureau's request here, or on the Off Season. You will only lose your Ministry Approved Literature if you fail. |
What had you been expecting? Weakness? The cultists are not daunted by your bargain-bin antics, your sub-standard endeavours to cleave them from their cause. If anything, they seem more resolved, more assured in the propaganda embedded in their ribs.
On the bright side, the cult treats you with enviable civility. One cluster of tendril-haired believers even offers you tea.
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| Successful event | |||
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You are relentless with your sabotage and ruthlessly creative. Shoes are hidden, sandals mauled; you drip salt into their tea and coffee grounds into their pies, too much even for those with more exotic palates. You destroy their pamphlets, warn them against each other, provoke marital arguments with the glee of a sadistic two-year-old.
It is a thankless task but someone must do it. And oh, you do it so well.
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| Make things deeply unpleasant for the cult
Best to drive the cult mad with a death of a thousand proverbial cuts. The approach is well-documented in some of the Ministry of Public Decency's favourite handbooks.
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You are relentless with your sabotage and ruthlessly creative. Shoes are hidden, sandals mauled; you drip salt into their tea and coffee grounds into their pies, too much even for those with more exotic palates. You destroy their pamphlets, leave shattered plates on the floor, warn them against each other, provoke marital arguments with the glee of a sadistic two-year-old.
It is a thankless task but someone must do it. And oh, you do it so well.
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Game note: Return to the Bureau of Entertainments in Worlebury-juxta-Mare to report to the Toymaker. Game note: You can fulfil the Bureau's request here, or on the Off Season.
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| Divest the donkeys of their eggs
The donkeys here aren't enthroned in faeces but they require attention nonetheless.
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Failed event | |
The donkeys, due to an error in their genetics, will lay eggs without cessation. Unfortunately, they will not detach from the donkeys' underbellies and it is the task of those working in the Off Season to remove them.
You work for hours, flensing eggs from the growling, sulphur-eyed quadrupeds. At some point, your hand slips. Your blade digs down. You pierce a handful of jellied eggs and their denizens dribble across your body, curls of milk-pale flesh and staring, sightless eyes. The smell is eye-watering.
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| Successful event | |||
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The donkeys are infertile, a flint-eyed woman reassures you. None of these eggs will ever reach fruition; the zygotes strangle themselves in the sac. But they do need to be flensed from the donkeys. Otherwise, there's the risk of rot and worse.
You spend a few hours with a knife, gingerly paring the eggs from the underside of their bellies. They come apart in clusters, soft and milky-grey, their inhabitants silvery and still.
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| Back to the Off Season
The Off Season is grime and a glazing of filth on every surface, the reek of manure and a steeping of piss in the air. But it's better than its beach.
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The Off Season
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Links[]
Links In[]
The Off Season, The Church of They Who Must Grieve, In the End
Links Out[]
The Church of They Who Must Grieve, The Off Season
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