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Betrayal 3: WILD CITY
[ You spill out of the elevator onto a Balcony—the elevator is gone when you look back.
It thrusts, unsupported, over the city like a pier over dark water, a wide promenade with no railing to keep you on the path. Shadow couples dangle their feet freely over the edge, holding hands. It would be so easy to step off, become part of the dance of the night sky stars and exist in the neon air freely for a bit before the ground calls you back for a reckoning. Or so it seems: those who attempt to jump or fly will find the hotel has done some unseen security here. You will fall and land straight back on the balcony where you leapt from, in an undignified heap, as injured as you should be from the height you fell. The freedom the balcony offers is only illusion, illusory as the rest of the freedom your “vacation” offers you. Even though you can roam this hotel freely, you’re still locked in.
And once again, everyone you can see out there with a hand to hold, with someone to be by their side when they need it… and what do you have? You remember—seeing them walk by like that, beneath umbrellas, in twos and threes and mores, while you huddled in the alleyway under a scrap of cardboard, with no one to give you any regard. You remember the fire burning in your heart—what you would do for anyone to hold onto, for a face to turn your way and not look immediately away—
It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.
...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"
A bag of candy, sweet enough to make your teeth hurt, sits on a table.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Bag of Candy). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone who doesn't love you enough). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is an exit to the South. ]
It thrusts, unsupported, over the city like a pier over dark water, a wide promenade with no railing to keep you on the path. Shadow couples dangle their feet freely over the edge, holding hands. It would be so easy to step off, become part of the dance of the night sky stars and exist in the neon air freely for a bit before the ground calls you back for a reckoning. Or so it seems: those who attempt to jump or fly will find the hotel has done some unseen security here. You will fall and land straight back on the balcony where you leapt from, in an undignified heap, as injured as you should be from the height you fell. The freedom the balcony offers is only illusion, illusory as the rest of the freedom your “vacation” offers you. Even though you can roam this hotel freely, you’re still locked in.
And once again, everyone you can see out there with a hand to hold, with someone to be by their side when they need it… and what do you have? You remember—seeing them walk by like that, beneath umbrellas, in twos and threes and mores, while you huddled in the alleyway under a scrap of cardboard, with no one to give you any regard. You remember the fire burning in your heart—what you would do for anyone to hold onto, for a face to turn your way and not look immediately away—
It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.
...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"
A bag of candy, sweet enough to make your teeth hurt, sits on a table.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Bag of Candy). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone who doesn't love you enough). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is an exit to the South. ]
Re: SESSION 4 DISCUSSION
Re: SESSION 4 DISCUSSION
give hunny your demon candy ]
Please!
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If Challah looks over at you like she'd like to share, please indulge her.
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It is. ...Although, the tenseness from our seniors isn't something that's gone missed.
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You and Challah, I would say. I fully trust Silver and Talon's strengths, and Rye is resilient. While Challah seems as if physical tasks would be less of an issue for her, I'd like to protect her from getting upset, if possible.
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[ Attaching right to his arm then, and is going to go try to rope Challah into this now. ]
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Re: SESSION 4 DISCUSSION
If there's one for each, it might be part of the play.
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Re: SESSION 4 DISCUSSION
You don't like sweets? Really? What do you like?
Re: SESSION 4 DISCUSSION
Well ... You see ...
Re: SESSION 4 DISCUSSION
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I'm sorry...... nothing at all?
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Nothing at all. I have my full sense of scent, however tasting--
...Ah, this is hardly the time. Shall we move on, and discuss this later?
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Alright... let's go, then.