Dolus snaps awake mid-groove — dreams still thumpin’, room still jammin’. No door. No exit. Just wild funk and magical madness. He struts, beak gleamin’, eyes like twin spotlights — unblinking, unforgiving, always schemin’. Feathers flare like suspicion incarnate. Pupils scan for the con behind the curtain.
Walls? Lava lamps the size of trees, pulsing neon ooze. Ceiling? Disco sky — constellations shaped like breakdancers. Floor? Soul-record tiles, etched with arcane grooves. A Spellcaster’s dancefloor — part jukebox, part spellbook. Jellyfish bob to the beat, glowing rhythm. A vending machine spits mood-shifting shades. Dolus moonwalks past a robotic crab. It offers a smoothie — tastes like victory and bad decisions.
“Well damn, baby… this got flavor. Got my junk, my jive, even Crackjaw’s boots hangin’ like holy relics. Smells like the Infinite Jam — but too clean. Too curated.
Yo… where’s the exit?”
No answer. But he sees it — the workshop beneath the wonder. Benches float in rhythm, cluttered with groove-tech.Tools spin mid-air. Blueprints pulse neon. A Forge thumps molten metal into enchanted shapes. He Duets with a singing chandelier.
He laughs— not sharp, not guarded. Just joy.
“Yo… maybe this is the Jam.” Groove realm — where sound bends truth and style makes spells.
He pops a finger. The room answers with a chord so sweet it tingles. Beat hits harder. Lights swirl. Bassline grabs his bones. He dances. Dolus Avis, conman and mimic, forgets the hustle — just for a moment — and becomes the music.
Rye will try to sit up and check herself first for any abnormalities. Using a mirror in the room if available. If she seems okay, she'll look for her belongings, and after that will see what's going on with the walls/lack of doors.
The first thing Nail feels is a gentle breeze rustling a meadow of wildflowers on its way to a forested headland. They can smell sage and the sea. Waves crash against rocks in the background.
They stretch and sigh. “Aylurin, we must get back soon. It’s a fair hike from The Farmeadows to the headwaters of the River Andulith.” Nail’s brow then wrinkles. “Wait, where am I? This is a memory,” they mutter. Rising on their elbow, it does appear they are in The Farmeadow on Evermeet Island but Aylurin is not there. Fey lights dance in the corners of their vision and what appeared as vast distance now swells and fades when one looks too directly.
Nail rises, their fey senses heightened and begins to explore this familiar, but false, place. It’s obviously enchanted but they wonder if there’s a way out.
Bartok regains consciousness. The last thing he recalls was enjoying a cup of tea, in a comfortable over-stuffed chair, next to a fire, reading a book about the differences between the traditional songs of the Ona-Flaga and Fligga-Flaga Aaracockra barbarian tribes of the southern continent. With a startle, he realizes all at once…the tea is on the end table with the book next to the chair, the fire is red glowing coals…and something seems off. A look around and everything appears pretty normal, but it isn’t. Sure, all of his favorite familiar things are there. The layout looks pretty close, but off just enough. His roll-top writing desk with the hoop back chair, the shelves of books, the Knick-knacks of trinkets on the walls, the framed drawings of maps and of ruins…all there, but not quite correct. It is when he is looking at the wall that he notices it. The windows are shuttered. He gets up and goes over to open one of them…just a wall behind it. He moves to the round yellow door with the knob in the middle…same stone wall behind it. He pushes slightly on it…solid. Resigned for the moment, he goes back to his chair and sits. Picks up his tea and takes a sip. He considers his situation and attempts to recall all he has learned from past studies that might apply to this current predicament. “My, this tea is tasty.” He thinks to himself before saying out loud, “Wonder if anyone would care to join me for some?”
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Dolus Avis Narration.
Dolus snaps awake mid-groove — dreams still thumpin’, room still jammin’. No door. No exit. Just wild funk and magical madness. He struts, beak gleamin’, eyes like twin spotlights — unblinking, unforgiving, always schemin’. Feathers flare like suspicion incarnate. Pupils scan for the con behind the curtain.
Walls? Lava lamps the size of trees, pulsing neon ooze. Ceiling? Disco sky — constellations shaped like breakdancers. Floor? Soul-record tiles, etched with arcane grooves. A Spellcaster’s dancefloor — part jukebox, part spellbook. Jellyfish bob to the beat, glowing rhythm. A vending machine spits mood-shifting shades. Dolus moonwalks past a robotic crab. It offers a smoothie — tastes like victory and bad decisions.
“Well damn, baby… this got flavor. Got my junk, my jive, even Crackjaw’s boots hangin’ like holy relics. Smells like the Infinite Jam — but too clean. Too curated.
Yo… where’s the exit?”
No answer. But he sees it — the workshop beneath the wonder. Benches float in rhythm, cluttered with groove-tech.Tools spin mid-air. Blueprints pulse neon. A Forge thumps molten metal into enchanted shapes. He Duets with a singing chandelier.
He laughs— not sharp, not guarded. Just joy.
“Yo… maybe this is the Jam.” Groove realm — where sound bends truth and style makes spells.
He pops a finger. The room answers with a chord so sweet it tingles. Beat hits harder. Lights swirl. Bassline grabs his bones. He dances. Dolus Avis, conman and mimic, forgets the hustle — just for a moment — and becomes the music.
Rye will try to sit up and check herself first for any abnormalities. Using a mirror in the room if available. If she seems okay, she'll look for her belongings, and after that will see what's going on with the walls/lack of doors.
The first thing Nail feels is a gentle breeze rustling a meadow of wildflowers on its way to a forested headland. They can smell sage and the sea. Waves crash against rocks in the background.
They stretch and sigh. “Aylurin, we must get back soon. It’s a fair hike from The Farmeadows to the headwaters of the River Andulith.” Nail’s brow then wrinkles. “Wait, where am I? This is a memory,” they mutter. Rising on their elbow, it does appear they are in The Farmeadow on Evermeet Island but Aylurin is not there. Fey lights dance in the corners of their vision and what appeared as vast distance now swells and fades when one looks too directly.
Nail rises, their fey senses heightened and begins to explore this familiar, but false, place. It’s obviously enchanted but they wonder if there’s a way out.
OOC:
Arcana=19
Investigation=21
Bartok regains consciousness. The last thing he recalls was enjoying a cup of tea, in a comfortable over-stuffed chair, next to a fire, reading a book about the differences between the traditional songs of the Ona-Flaga and Fligga-Flaga Aaracockra barbarian tribes of the southern continent. With a startle, he realizes all at once…the tea is on the end table with the book next to the chair, the fire is red glowing coals…and something seems off.
A look around and everything appears pretty normal, but it isn’t. Sure, all of his favorite familiar things are there. The layout looks pretty close, but off just enough. His roll-top writing desk with the hoop back chair, the shelves of books, the Knick-knacks of trinkets on the walls, the framed drawings of maps and of ruins…all there, but not quite correct.
It is when he is looking at the wall that he notices it. The windows are shuttered. He gets up and goes over to open one of them…just a wall behind it. He moves to the round yellow door with the knob in the middle…same stone wall behind it. He pushes slightly on it…solid.
Resigned for the moment, he goes back to his chair and sits. Picks up his tea and takes a sip. He considers his situation and attempts to recall all he has learned from past studies that might apply to this current predicament.
“My, this tea is tasty.” He thinks to himself before saying out loud, “Wonder if anyone would care to join me for some?”