Ten Candles -- Dreaming Spires Scenario
Nov. 28th, 2021 11:32 amThis one is for the game ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jasmine_r_s and I are planning to play on Monday night. She loves and has a great affinity for Oxford.
I know "dreaming spires" is a huge cliche, but its image of unreality fits in with the game.
* * * * * *
Oxford is Arnold’s city of dreaming spires, with its stone buildings the colour of parchment, of beeswax and tea; and it has been like a dream, to walk these streets, to drink in this history.
Ten days ago, the world went dark. A golden autumnal sunrise began to spot with blue-black as though ink were leaking into a page. The ink spread and covered the sky completely. You were plunged into absolute darkness – except that sometimes a shiver seems to run through that lightless sky, and for a moment a dull gleam shows, as on the side of a fish lit by a flash of phosphorescence in the deepest oceanic dark.
The ancient and irregular power grids of Oxford have failed, and the few insufficient generators are working overtime and running out of fuel. Students from around the world are stranded among the spires. At first, some classes continued by candlelight, as though everyone were travelling backwards in time together.
Five days ago, They came, and people began to disappear. Where a few dim lamps have been set out in the street, their shadows, cut loose of the owners, sometimes linger for a moment too long.
You don’t know anything about Them, except that they fear light.
Improvised barricades have gone up everywhere.
You happened to be on a tour of the Bodleian library when They arrived, so that’s where you’ve remained, locked in with nothing to eat but the cafe's dwindling provisions -- mostly endless checkerboard slices of Battenberg cake.
At first the librarians were strict, but lately they’ve let you wander. And that’s how you found it, tucked into a chained volume of Paradise Lost: a set of notes in the distinctively precise yet gently flamboyant script of C S Lewis. They are written in a cipher, but you think you have decoded it.
From reading through Lewis’ notes, you believe that he knew of Them, and that the Inklings, piecing together Their story, took measures against Them. If you understand the notes correctly, somewhere in Oxford, almost a hundred years ago, Lewis and his friends hid a means of opposing Them.
jasmine_r_s and I are planning to play on Monday night. She loves and has a great affinity for Oxford.I know "dreaming spires" is a huge cliche, but its image of unreality fits in with the game.
* * * * * *
Oxford is Arnold’s city of dreaming spires, with its stone buildings the colour of parchment, of beeswax and tea; and it has been like a dream, to walk these streets, to drink in this history.
Ten days ago, the world went dark. A golden autumnal sunrise began to spot with blue-black as though ink were leaking into a page. The ink spread and covered the sky completely. You were plunged into absolute darkness – except that sometimes a shiver seems to run through that lightless sky, and for a moment a dull gleam shows, as on the side of a fish lit by a flash of phosphorescence in the deepest oceanic dark.
The ancient and irregular power grids of Oxford have failed, and the few insufficient generators are working overtime and running out of fuel. Students from around the world are stranded among the spires. At first, some classes continued by candlelight, as though everyone were travelling backwards in time together.
Five days ago, They came, and people began to disappear. Where a few dim lamps have been set out in the street, their shadows, cut loose of the owners, sometimes linger for a moment too long.
You don’t know anything about Them, except that they fear light.
Improvised barricades have gone up everywhere.
You happened to be on a tour of the Bodleian library when They arrived, so that’s where you’ve remained, locked in with nothing to eat but the cafe's dwindling provisions -- mostly endless checkerboard slices of Battenberg cake.
At first the librarians were strict, but lately they’ve let you wander. And that’s how you found it, tucked into a chained volume of Paradise Lost: a set of notes in the distinctively precise yet gently flamboyant script of C S Lewis. They are written in a cipher, but you think you have decoded it.
From reading through Lewis’ notes, you believe that he knew of Them, and that the Inklings, piecing together Their story, took measures against Them. If you understand the notes correctly, somewhere in Oxford, almost a hundred years ago, Lewis and his friends hid a means of opposing Them.
