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Chapter 01: A Hollow Christmas Carol
Nov. 12th, 2018 05:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keeperoftalesA Hollow Christmas Carol—
After a little over a week has passed after the Story Eater's attack, the Aspects would receive a "letter" within their journals from the Storyteller. It was a missive alerting them of a Draft forged from two stories destroyed not too long ago and related to the current seasonal holidays: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and A Christmas Carol. The Storyteller knew not of what such a story would be, only that the elements would be mixed, the characters unique. If they so wished, the Aspects could visit the Grand Library to look up the stories to learn a little of what the stories were originally about, perhaps glean something to work with later. But due to the nature of the Draft, it was hard to say what they would actually need. It was also to be the first attempt at restoring a story, so everything was all experimental. Hopefully all would go well, but...just in case something should go awry they had the Storyteller's vow that they would be pulled back into the Index intact.
Once everyone prepared, the Storyteller summoned them to a place at the edge of the world. The remains of what looked like a road made of white pages and ink crumbled into the Void, but in the distance they could see a torn cover of a book floating. This would be the Draft the Storyteller spoke of. Engulfed in a stream of white runic characters and glyphs, the Aspects floated along an invisible path connecting the Index to the Draft. Should they look around, only the darkness of the Void greeted them, small fragments of paper and ink occasionally drifting by before swallowed into the abyss, disappearing into it as if pulled in by some other force. As they traveled, the Storyteller's voice hummed around them.
As the group drew nearer to the broken Draft, the "cover" opened, torn pages fluttering in a windless Void. Images flashed before them through pages singed and grayed. Ghostly horses. Pumpkin heads. Bouncing presents. A gingerbread sleigh. Broken tombstones. Holly ivy and wreathes. Eventually the pages stopped at the beginning, a hole burning in the center. It was through this hole that they hurtled through before disappearing in another bright, dizzying flash of light, words forming around them.
When the Aspects came to, they would find themselves scattered from each other, lost in a strange land devoid of life and color. Some would find themselves in open fields, the sound of a river rushing nearby. Others would be at the entrance of a dark forest, an eerie mist seeping through and the sound of hooves thundering past. And others still would be placed within a small village, its buildings cracked and crumbling, human-like shadows—blots—slowly drifting through. These shadows only spared them the smallest of glances before continuing on their business—whatever business that would be.
What kind of story could possibly be told in this dreary world?
Once everyone prepared, the Storyteller summoned them to a place at the edge of the world. The remains of what looked like a road made of white pages and ink crumbled into the Void, but in the distance they could see a torn cover of a book floating. This would be the Draft the Storyteller spoke of. Engulfed in a stream of white runic characters and glyphs, the Aspects floated along an invisible path connecting the Index to the Draft. Should they look around, only the darkness of the Void greeted them, small fragments of paper and ink occasionally drifting by before swallowed into the abyss, disappearing into it as if pulled in by some other force. As they traveled, the Storyteller's voice hummed around them.| To restore the story, some of you will need to find and gather pieces that help recreate portions of the world itself. Buildings, land, sometimes even people. We will not know what you will need until you arrive, so keep your journals close. Others will be tasked to play out the roles of key character figures. On this we have no control—the world itself will choose and the journals will provide the information needed. But we assume that it matters not who performs the role so long that it is performed. Just beware the Story Eater's minions and take care—you are all but fragments of your own soul. We do not know what would become of you should you face mortal harm. |
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As the group drew nearer to the broken Draft, the "cover" opened, torn pages fluttering in a windless Void. Images flashed before them through pages singed and grayed. Ghostly horses. Pumpkin heads. Bouncing presents. A gingerbread sleigh. Broken tombstones. Holly ivy and wreathes. Eventually the pages stopped at the beginning, a hole burning in the center. It was through this hole that they hurtled through before disappearing in another bright, dizzying flash of light, words forming around them.
Nestled deep in a valley rested the small settlement of Lowry Town. To this town the young, aspiring teacher Ebegeeser Ichaschrooge was sent. As he was more well-educated than the local townsfolk, Ebegeeser thought himself deserving a better lifestyle and wealth than the poor circumstances he had now, staying from house to house or living in barnlofts.
So he set his eyes on the beautiful Beltrina von Cratchit, daughter of the richest man in town. However, she was already engaged to the local "hero," Bromfred, a strong but arrogant man. Not to be deterred, Ebegeeser began to devise a plan to steal Beltrina's heart on Christmas Day, by whatever means necessary.
On Christmas Eve, three ghosts would visit Ebegeeser to warn him of the folly and danger of his plans. First would be the Horseman of Christmas Past to bring Ebegeeser back through time to try and remind him of the man he used to be before his heart filled with greed, ambition, and jealousy.
And that is where our story begins...
When the Aspects came to, they would find themselves scattered from each other, lost in a strange land devoid of life and color. Some would find themselves in open fields, the sound of a river rushing nearby. Others would be at the entrance of a dark forest, an eerie mist seeping through and the sound of hooves thundering past. And others still would be placed within a small village, its buildings cracked and crumbling, human-like shadows—blots—slowly drifting through. These shadows only spared them the smallest of glances before continuing on their business—whatever business that would be.What kind of story could possibly be told in this dreary world?
