Pareidolia OOC & Meme Community

The month ahead...

The nightly fog retreats as the old month dies, but the pervasive chill remains. As the new moon waxes, the periodic flurries of snow intensify, enshrouding the trees and buildings with a glittering layer of snow.

Winter has come to Zoar at last.

Post any happenings on the appropriate header below. Letting everyone know what your character is doing gets you bonus points!

There will be no IC event post. Please post prompt logs in pareidolialogs with your top levels. Use the following form to post your plotting comment below. Fill out as much or as little of it as you like.

Player: Pronouns: Contact: Character Name: CR Preferences: Permissions: General Plans: Event Plans: Anything Else:

Snow is everywhere this month, accumulating in soft, powdery piles. It crunches beneath your feet as you traverse the town, your footprints leaving a record of your travels wherever you go. Anyone with a keen eye will have an easy time seeing what the rest of the town is up to this month—at least, until the next snowfall comes to wipe the record clean.

Not all of the footprints are human, however. Tracks from rabbits, squirrels, foxes, and deer wind through the woods and bisect the paths, and the local crows leave their own impressions on roofs and branches. Despite the abundance of tracks, you never see any animals yourself, no matter how hard you might be looking. They leave no sign but their footprints, haunting the town like mocking ghosts.

Strangest of all are the prints that appear around the cabins overnight: bird tracks, anisodactyl, with long, thin toes and a tread about the size of a human foot. Sometimes the tracks appear by a single cabin; sometimes, they encircle two or more. Other times, the tracks go into the gathering hall, or lead down into the sanctuary cellar and back out.

Regardless of where the tracks appear, they always terminate in the same place: they lead up past the treehouse cabin and vanish into the fog. Should you try to follow them in, you find yourself lost far longer than usual — and wherever you re-emerge, a single, taunting black feather waits for you atop the snow.

Though the fog has returned to its usual boundaries, some inconveniences remain. During the night, just as you hover on the edge of sleep, you hear feet skitter across your cabin floor or the same eerie giggles you heard last month among the fog. The mocking creatures are still too quick to catch or injure, always vanishing the moment you turn to look. No traps you set ever catch them, and they cast no shadows in the light. Though they never directly harm you, the very idea of them is maddening, a nightly itch you’re never able to scratch.

Then come the thefts.

Some mornings, you awaken groggily to find some personal item of yours gone: a tool, a piece of clothing, some half-eaten, hoarded snack. Other days, you find something that isn’t yours, some similarly pilfered item belonging to someone else. The more you try to secure your possessions, the quicker they are to disappear — and the more the creatures giggle at you from the walls.

Perhaps you return the items they bring to you. Perhaps you don’t. But if you want your own stolen items back, you’ll have to find out — and possibly talk to — whoever has them first.

Nor are the mysterious creatures the only source of pranks this month. As the snowfall continues, caches of dense, perfectly packed snowballs begin to appear: tucked along the side wall of the gathering hall, behind a tree near the sanctuary, in the lee of boulders or stumps along the paths. The piles are never obvious, but they are noticeable, always stashed near well-travelled areas as if enticing you — begging you — to put them to use. A little snow never hurt anyone, they seem to beckon. Why not have a little fun for once?

You still remember fun, right?

Perhaps you give in to temptation. Perhaps you’re too mature to stoop so low. Perhaps you’re the sort of person who only retaliates if provoked. In any case, it would be wise to keep your guard up — or risk getting a cold, soggy softball down your neck.

navigation. locations. application. rules. faq.

Though some wake in the mud reeling from a nightmare, for most, arrival comes differently.

You are disoriented. Your thoughts lag behind, distant as a fading dream. You don't remember why you began to haul yourself upward, but you're moving relentlessly, hand over hand, certain that stopping is not an option. Sound echoes oppressively: your heavy breath, the water dripping from the walls, the slick metal rungs of an endless ladder creaking under your weight.

You reach the top and push open the metal hatch door. Finally, the darkness relents, and you pull yourself up onto the cold, muddy earth of an alley between two dilapidated cabins.

Your senses begin to return to you as you lie aching in the gloomy twilight. You're in the clothes you were wearing last, but nothing else from home. Your pockets are empty; any jewelry or trinkets or notes are lost. Instead, a new, unfamiliar iron key hangs from twine around your neck. At your feet, the door to the hatch remains ajar. Beyond the opening is dark as pitch. A roiling fog spills through the opening, curling into the air to thicken the mist already clinging to the ground.

A crow watches from a perch nearby, cocking its head at you before it spreads its wings and vanishes in the dense tree line.

Welcome to Pareidolia.

Should you crawl back through the metal hatch, you find yourself somewhere else entirely. You step into a large, circular clearing full of wildflowers. Here, the chill is not so biting, and the flurries of snow melt to cool rain as they meet skin or earth. Sealed glass jars hang from the trees that line the edges, contents murky. Getting too close to them sends a visceral wave of revulsion washing over you until you're driven back. At the center of the grove, a well-worn ring of dirt is home to a large, roaring bonfire. It burns hot and bright and hungry, releasing a thick black smoke that curls upward to join the clouds.

On a nearby stump, a stack of papers flutter under the flat rock that pins them down. A tin cup holds a dozen charcoal pencils, ends cracked and worn soft. On the rock, in a sure, blocked hand, is written: FEED IT YOUR HEART.

Whatever wishes or secrets or regrets you mark the paper with, the fire consumes your offering. Most offerings it takes it greedily, paper instantly burning so bright and hot its white ashes catch in rising smoke that curls upward to briefly form a face, a gesture, a whisper of a voice.

Feed it a deep secret or a painful regret, and the paper burns slowly. Its edges curl in, slow and deliberate, as if the fire has found something to savor. Sometimes it leaves something behind in the ash, strange and small and unpredictable: a warm pebble, a oiled twist of wire, an unmarked coin. Nothing it gives you seems useful, yet everything seems hard to throw away.

Sickle waits at the edge of the clearing. She doesn't speak or approach. She only stands and watches what you feed the fire.

At the center of town rests a creaking building larger than the rest. With its cracked windows and crumbling chimneys, the community center is a inviting respite from the chill outdoors. The building's double doors push into a large, open room littered with tables and cots and chairs. Odd decorations are hung about the walls and ceiling, and bookshelves are cluttered with candles and games and anything but books.

At the far end of the room, a large fireplace crackles, warming the hall. Two iron pots simmer above the fire, filling the room with the mouth-watering smell of fresh stew. The curved handles of ladles peek over the rim of the pots. Bowls are stacked haphazardly on the ledge of the fireplace.

Have you always been so hungry? When was the last time you ate something? You can't remember.

One stew is thick and savory, filled with meat and vegetables. It's rich and filling, and once you've eaten it, lies can no longer pass your lips. No magic compels you, no urge to spill your secrets overcomes you, but all the same — any lie you speak dies in your throat before it can shape on your tongue.

The other stew is unique to everyone who tries it. The smell is strange: familiar and nostalgic in a way that tugs just behind your ribs. Maybe that makes you need to try it. Maybe it curdles your stomach and turns you away. For those who eat it, each bite tastes like something you didn't expect to miss. Some find the warmth and joy of a meal eaten outside with youthful laughter and sticky fingers; the soothing comfort of something made just for you. Others find a final dinner shared in silence; the aftertaste of a night racked with sobs.

The fire crackles. Little bubbles pop as the stew simmers and never seems to run out. Chairs scrape softly. Bowls and irons and little metal spoons clink as they're filled and empties.

There's plenty of room at the table.

The month ahead...

A new moon shines over Zoar, bathing the garden in cold, pale light. The next time you visit it, you find only elongated, finger-like fungi poking up from the ground. Were there ever real body parts growing there, or only a trick of the light? Did you look closely? Are you sure?

Post any happenings on the appropriate header below. Letting everyone know what your character is doing gets you bonus points!

There will be no IC event post. Please post prompt logs in pareidolialogs with your top levels. Use the following form to post your plotting comment below. Fill out as much or as little of it as you like.

Player: Pronouns: Contact: Character Name: CR Preferences: Permissions: General Plans: Event Plans: Anything Else:

As the twilight dwindles and the dark settles in, the mist lingering in the ravines pours into town like a great flood. It is heavy and white and wet, weighing down anyone who lingers too long and soaking their clothes to their skin. Even the cabins can’t keep it out entirely; the mist slithers in through cracks and crevices, extinguishing any fires and chilling the residents to the bone. It fills the town to the very canopies of the surrounding trees, settling over the area like a funeral shroud.

Then it all recedes. At daybreak, the mist drains away again, as silent as it came. The air becomes less heavy, the temperature rises, and the town is visible again. You can’t tell where the mist disappeared to or why it chose to flood the town now. You only know, with great relief, that it’s gone.

Until the next nightfall, at least.

Only the high places are spared from the mist: Ash’s cabin, the sanctuary, and the mountain path and hot springs beyond. Those who take shelter in any of those places by sundown will experience a normal, peaceful night—assuming they trust whoever else tries to shelter there, too.

Anyone who tries to investigate the new weather pattern will find more dangers than the darkness and the chill. As the nightly mist shrouds the town, unseen creatures begin to move as well. They don’t leave the mist or enter any buildings. They merely wander, waiting for whoever might be brave or reckless enough to venture out of doors.

At first, they’re barely audible: a distant skitter, the snap of a twig, an eerie giggle like a child’s. The further you venture from safety, the closer and more frequent the sounds become—not one creature alone, but dozens, gathering to watch you grope and stumble through the dark. Press on even further, and they begin to interfere.

Perhaps they steal whatever items you may be carrying, making off with them too fast for you to catch. Perhaps they sneak into your path to trip you, giggling at you as you topple to the dirt. If you try to follow the noises, they only lead you somewhere more dangerous: the bank of the stream, the edge of a cliff, a hole that would snap your ankle to step in. At best, you’ll wind up far from where you meant to go, shivering at how close you came to disaster. More likely, you’ll wind up trapped or badly injured, helpless until someone finds you—if anyone comes for you at all.

Venture close enough to the usual boundary of the fog, however, and you may hear something even more menacing: a strange, sharp sound, like ice skates gliding over the earth. Turn back, and the figure won’t harm you. Press on, and the figure will stab you into compliance, then drag you away from the boundary it guards and leave you alone to bleed. The fog can enter Zoar now. That doesn’t mean anyone can leave.

Spending time in the sanctuary this month offers far more than just a respite from the fog. Behind the building, stones streaked with thick, black, burn-like marks have been haphazardly torn away to reveal a hidden cellar, its wooden doors flapping forlornly in the wind. Beneath the creaky trapdoors, a flight of slick, stone steps lead down to a frigid abattoir much larger than the narrow entryway would suggest.

The floor is sloped and uneven, highest in the center and lowest along the walls. At the highest point of the cellar, directly below the apse of the sanctuary above, sits a rectangular altar of solid, dark stone, its top surface and edges stained a rusty, unsettling brown. Around the base, drainage grooves in the floor lead away toward the walls, where slabs of cold, heavily salted meat hang from vicious metal hooks. The slabs vary in size and appearance, but all are stamped with the same 𐤊 symbol that was on the meat found in the kitchen two months back. Some appear to be from the same type of animal. Others...do not. Perhaps you shouldn't look too closely.

The good news is, the town is no longer at risk of starving. Right?

A wooden cabinet along the far wall holds an array of potential treasures: cleavers, saws, and a variety of knives, all well-sharpened and free of rust. Several smaller pieces of meat sit on shelves here, wrapped in old, faded paper. There may have been writing on the paper once, but it is far too blotted and bloodstained to make out. Only one stray piece of paper, torn and seemingly forgotten at the back of the cabinet, can be partially read:

21, 5436. The mist returned last night. I thought we would have more time. Hoped, maybe. We have somewhere to go this time. The kal is crowded, but it at least makes it warmer. Something is moving through the town. If you hear metal scraping on the stones, do not breathe. Do not look for it. Yosef says he saw it when Moshe was found. Sharp edges

In the last days of the month, any observant character might notice a new addition. This month, find a thin leather journal clutched in a hand in the garden. Like last time, a blocky hand fills the page, and thin, scrawling writings fills the margins with commentary.

The month ahead...

By the time the moon cycles, what warmth remains in Zoar is vanishing, little by little. As the sun takes longer to rise each morning, its brumal rays illuminate windows frosted over and roofs glazed in ice. Even indoors, every breath hangs suspended, and the Gathering Hall's hearth burns low and struggling. The forest has gone still. The animals have retreated too far to be reached; the birds have stopped singing. Only the crows are left, clustered still and silent in the trees.

Post any happenings on the appropriate header below. Letting everyone know what your character is doing gets you bonus points!

There will be no IC event post. Please post prompt logs in pareidolialogs with your top levels. Use the following form to post your plotting comment below. Fill out as much or as little of it as you like.

<b>Player:</b> <b>Pronouns:</b> <b>Contact:</b> <b>Character Name:</b> <b>CR Preferences:</b> <b>Permissions:</b> <b>General Plans:</b> <b>Event Plans:</b> <b>Anything Else:</b>

The first sunset brings a biting chill and a fog that seems to grow from the ground itself, swallowing paths and fences buildings and obscuring the world. And out of that fog steps... you.

Or someone wearing your skin.

Their resemblance curdles a horrible uncanny dread in your stomach. They move like you might remember moving in a dream. Their eyes are too dark and too glassy and catch more light than they should even in the dark and starless night. Their skin is too thick and sticks to them like a mask.

They say they know what you really are. What you could be, if you stopped holding yourself back. They tell you to allow yourself to truly be, you must kill someone, and they give you a name as lovingly as a gift.

You must do it, they say. You must grow stronger to survive the coming winter. You must become more than you are now.

If you refuse, they do not leave, and they do not give up. They follow you at night. They wait outside your door, talking without tiring, and the longer you refuse, the more you deny them what they want, the harder they try to persuade you. Within a week, they begin threatening to do it themselves — but if they do, they assure you, it will be no quick death. They'll make it hurt.

Nor is it an idle threat. Stall long enough, and maybe your intended victim shows up hurt — or dead — without you lifting a finger at all.

If a character kills their target(s), they gain a major skill or memory they should not yet have at their canon point, or a skill that they do not have in canon but that could be a reasonable progression of their abilities according to their world-building. For example: pre-canon Katara might gain the skill and understanding of her later healing abilities.

If a character dies because of this prompt, they gain a major, unpleasant memory that they should not have, but is related to them.

{Optional, but highly encouraged} Log any rewards gained due to this prompt on your AC toplevel:

<b>EVENT REWARD</b> <a href="">Murder</a> | Description of skill/memory <a href="">Death</a> | Description of memory

Outside the herbalary, the garden crops wilt in the cold, leaves curled and drooping as they wilt in the fading sunlight, their stalks going brittle as the food beneath the soil withers and rots.

By the second week, something new begins to grow.

At first, it's barely a shifting of the dirt: a single pale knuckle that breaks through the surface. Then comes another finger. Another nail. Suddenly, almost overnight, the dirt is crowded with a dozen sprouting hands, their fingernails broken and caked in dirt. Some are limp. Some reach for the sky like a plant yearning for sunlight. The hands are frost-bitten in the morning and slick with moisture in the high afternoon hours, and they twitch as the sun sets. The garden smells of sweat and blood, and the roots that anchor the hands to the ground are dark and pulsing veins.

In the farthest corner, one hand hangs low to the ground, clenched around a brown and faded sheet of folded parchment. Prying the page carefully out from its cold fingers reveals a page from a manifest log, damp and smeared and faded, but still legible:

as the fog and clouds were dispelled by the rising sun, we made land peeping above a narrow ledge of clouds. What land it is we know not, yet it appears verdant even at a distance; the cliffs of it are quite lofty, with no sign of a harbor. Some insist it will be the haven we all pray for, and I sorely wish I could agree, but I have my

In the stillness of the coming winter, the forest feels louder than it ever has. Gone are the sounds of nature and life. Instead, each day, Alex's dedication to culling the edges of the forest brings the thudding sound of blows striking wood and the slow, groaning falls of toppled trees.

It's in the course of that work that something new is uncovered: high above the ground, supported between two massive trees and nearly swallowed by the canopy, is a cabin. The trees have grown around it, inosculated branches cradling it and bark encroaching on the planks of its walls.

The way up takes time to find. Thick, twisted vines create something of a step-ladder up the sloping side of the tree.

The cabin is large, easily twice the size of any other in town, and recently inhabited. A cot is pushed against the far wall, piled with furs and blankets, and beside it, a thinner bedroll. A shelf is piled with strange novelty cups, feathers and buttons, bottle caps with faded writing underneath. Tiny, folded paper birds and foxes and turtles hang from string on the ceiling above an upended crate piled with books and dishes. The walls are scattered with scratched tally marks and pinned drawings.

The month ahead...

A new moon welcomes the month, and characters are becoming familiar with one another's bad habits. Palamedes can't stop touching anything suspicious in the name of science, Kaz appears to be trying to make an enemy of everyone stronger than him, and Riot followed his brief and mysterious visitor without question. All that, and only three dead!
She does not count. You know this. - ⚳

Post any happenings on the appropriate header below. Letting everyone know what your character is doing gets you bonus points!

There will be no IC event post. Please post prompt logs in pareidolialogs with your top levels. Use the following form to post your plotting comment below. Fill out as much or as little of it as you like.

Player: Pronouns: Contact: Character Name: CR Preferences: Permissions: General Plans: Event Plans: Anything Else:

The air has grown steadily colder, each day duller than the last. The drizzling rain has stopped, replaced by white flakes that drift steadily from the sky, dusting rooftops and melting in the muck of shallow footprints. The garden has produced enough meager rations under Ademnet’s careful direction to keep the hunger at bay. But just barely.

Something new has appeared in the kitchen: preserved meat, boneless and desiccated, heavily salted and hardened with age. The meat is odd and difficult to identify: too large for the hare or squirrels or birds that slip through the trees at the edge of town; too lean for the deer that pass through the grove. Each cut of meat has a small hole at one end and a symbol seared into the flesh. The same symbol appears on each.

A keg of rum sits on the ground beside it, the partial word R HAB stamped into the side in broken, barely legible letters. The barrel itself is ancient, swollen and warped, salt caked into every crevice of its woodgrain. Inside, the centuries and brine have aged the rum to something near malicious in its potency. The first sip sears your throat; the second warms your chest and dulls the edges of the world. To drink it is to let a fever burn through you. Drink more than a little, and you risk doing or saying something you ordinarily might not.

As the temperature drops, the starless nights grow longer. Even with a belly full of food and a chest warmed with rum, your sleep this month is restless, haunted by a single, recurring dream.

Every night, it begins the same. You find yourself facing down a long, dark hallway, with no choice but to walk forward. The stub of candle in your hand drips hot, painful wax onto your fingers, its light swallowed by the void of black ahead. Behind you, a malicious presence lurks, waiting for you to stumble. Perhaps the presence is something you recognize. Perhaps it isn’t. Either way, you know it wants to destroy you. It knows exactly how to make you hurt.

You cannot run.

You cannot turn around.

As you walk, the dirt under your feet begins to catch the candlelight. Something glistens there, almost colorless in the low light, and as you continue, the ground begins to soften. The marshy ground sucks at your feet, slowing you, trying to trip you up completely. Unseen voices begin to taunt you: mocking your fears, naming your failures, claiming this is the fate you deserve. The further you walk, the louder they get, and the more the tide of blood rises around you. The dream only ends when you inevitably drop your candle into the muck, freeing the presence to descend on you in the dark.

Some wake paralyzed and breathless, as if a weight were crushing their chest. Some wake screaming, blinded by their fear of impending death that does not come. Some find themselves with shaky hands and red-rimmed eyes, unable to sleep at all for fear of what will come for them behind closed eyes. However the dreams fall apart, no one wakes rested.

There is no way to defang the nightmare except for one: it only torments those who fall asleep alone. If another person is in the room with you when you sleep, the floor of your nightmare stays solid and the voices silent. If you allow the person to sleep close beside you, your candle casts enough light to see where you are, and the malevolent presence is absent. Touch banishes the dream entirely, and gives you both a dreamless sleep.

The stream that cuts through town has always run clear, its gentle babble an almost comforting backdrop to the eerie noises that come from deeper in the mist. But this month, the water runs red. Bathing in it will leave ruddy, foul-smelling residue on your skin, and drinking it will leave an unpleasant, metallic taste in your mouth. Perhaps you shouldn’t use it to water down that newfound rum.

If you choose to investigate the sudden change, the answer waits upstream. A mile past the sanctuary, a dead woman’s body sprawls across part of the creek, the bank around her a mess of slipping footprints and broken branches. Her skin is pale and even, pristine even around the gash where her throat has been carved open and the crushed ruin of her chest. No matter when in the month you find her, the wounds look fresh; her blood is wet and unclotted and warm. Her long, mousy hair is caught in the flow of the stream, discolored by the gory water.

Vines and lichen from the forest floor have crept over her muddy fingers, seeking to reclaim her — yet the crows that cluster in the surrounding trees make no move toward her. They do not descend in a mad frenzy. They simply perch there, ruffling their feathers, and watch her bleed.

Upstream of the corpse, the water is clear and pleasantly warm, steam begins to coil over the water’s surface. Only a few steps further, a cluster of three small, secluded hot springs comes into view. Each spring’s edges are rimmed with smooth, even stones, and the air around them is thick and damp, the warmth clinging like a second skin and seeping into the very marrow of your bones. The mist that coils on the surface of the water moves in patterns that seem meaningful, growing clearer the closer you get. Almost a face. Almost a memory. Almost, but never quite.

It’s easy to stare.

It’s so easy to stay.

Stare at the surface of a hot spring long enough, and you’ll see the hazy reflection of a dark-haired woman behind you, her expression impossible to read. If you turn to look for her, you find yourself alone, save for a lone crow tilting its head to study you before flying away for good.

Touch or step into the water, however, and a wave of languor washes over you, a strong temptation to close your eyes and fall asleep. Anyone who falls asleep in or beside a hot spring will have beautiful dreams — dreams of home, of hope, of family, of getting everything their heart desires — but they come at a terrible cost. The warm water slowly, steadily drags each sleeper under, until they wake up frantically choking on water... or don’t wake up at all.

navigation. locations. application. rules. faq.

You jolt awake, remnants of a nightmare slipping through your mind like water, the lingering shapes and voices blurring in the edges of your memory. You find yourself on cold, damp ground in a narrow alley between two dilapidated cabins. As your senses return to you and you push yourself upright, your muscles ache, stiff and painful as if you’ve been lying on the ground for far too long.

You’re in the clothes you were wearing last, but nothing else from home. Your pockets are empty; any jewelry or trinkets or notes are lost. A new, unfamiliar iron key is hanging from twine around your neck.

A faint fog clings to the ground, swirling gently around your feet, thickening to an impenetrable dark wall beyond the edges of the village. No one comes to welcome you, and there is nothing to indicate why you are here, where you should go, or where you can rest when night falls. A crow cocks its head from its thatch rooftop perch, eyes glinting. It watches you with unnerving curiosity as you orient yourself and wipe the mud from your cheek.

Welcome to Pareidolia.

What parts of town aren’t pressed in by sharp cliff edges are suffocated by the dense, surrounding forest of spruce and redwood. The cool air is heavy with the sounds of a home reclaimed: the faint creak of distant bridges; the drizzling of rain against the creek; the wind through the trees; animals calling out to one another. And in quiet moments, when you're outside and alone, you hear something else: your own voice urgently whispering your name.

It’s barely audible, a murmur in the wind brushing through your hair. But it happens over and over, shaky and desperate, calling you towards that forbidding treeline. If you follow that pull into the woods, the voice continues to call for you: too far to touch, yet always just out of reach. Your shoes catch in the dense, tangling underbrush and sink into the marshy ground. Thorns snag at your skin and clothing, and the fog weighs on you like lead. Time slips away, as it always does in the forest, leaving you with no idea how far or how long you've wandered.

By the time you have the presence of mind to turn back, it's too late. Thick vines have grown around you, coiling around your ankles and wrists to prevent your escape. Every attempt to struggle tangles you further in the plant life until you’re pinned completely, left to the mercy of whoever might be close enough to hear your cry for help.

As you wander the town, it's impossible to miss the weathered Gathering Hall at its heart, the light flickering in its broken, boarded windows promising a respite from the chilly wind. Inside, it’s warmer and brighter, though not by much. The fire struggles in the hearth, but it never goes out. The iron teapot on one crooked table offers little more than warmed water, but the cups warm your hands and the chairs support you as you rest.

The hall is littered with signs of use: used dishes, charcoal shavings, a cooking pot boiling water over the fire. On the wall to the left of the fireplace, a single, legible sign still requests assistance with organizing the garden. Around the sign, however, dozens of slips of yellowing paper, parchment, and faded newspaper clippings now hang, forming a haphazard sort of notice board.

At first glance, the aging papers appear ink-spattered and illegible, unworthy of further observation. Look closer, though, and the ink begins to run and bleed, melting together into large, dark blots. The longer you look, the harder you try to make sense of it, the clearer the inky shapes become: they depict something that haunts you. A fear. A memory. The face of someone you love.

Just as the image comes fully into focus, a sudden caw from the rooftop interrupts your thoughts. The papers become illegible once more, and you notice another person is watching you from nearby.

In the last days of the month, any observant character might notice a new addition gracing the pedestal. Opening it reveals the contents of a journal: a blocky hand fills the page; the thin, scrawling writing of another annotates the margins of the pages.

The month ahead...

A new moon waxes, and characters are getting to know one another, whether they like it or not. Kaz has been stealing anything he can get his hands on. Ms. Casey discovered sleep. Mirnatius has been failing to learn new magic. So far, no one has died — though that might just be because Klonoa hasn't made a long enough rope to delve into the mist yet. It's going well.

Post any happenings on the appropriate header below. Letting everyone know what your character is doing gets you bonus points!

There will be no IC event post. Please post prompt logs in pareidolialogs with your top levels. Use the following form to post your plotting comment below. Fill out as much or as little of it as you like.

Player: Pronouns: Contact: Character Name: CR Preferences: Permissions: General Plans: Event Plans: Anything Else:

Over your first few weeks here, you become more accustomed to your surroundings. Perhaps you develop routines, fumbling for some semblance of normalcy. Perhaps you don’t, drifting through town as your whims dictate, like a wisp of human fog. Either way, you adjust. What was once strange becomes almost familiar; you know the misty boundaries of your new home almost by heart.

Until they change.

Early one morning, as you begin your second month here, someone knocks on your cabin door. A familiar figure stands on your doorstep – someone you know, someone you trust, someone you miss terribly. They look exactly as you remember them, down to the last, heart-tugging detail. Before you can say anything, they beckon to you and whisper “Follow.” Then they walk away without looking back.

If you don’t follow them, they vanish into the mist, and you begin to wonder if they were truly there at all. But the next time you open your cabin door, there they are again, still smiling and beckoning you to come with them. They won’t let you touch them. They never answer your questions. Their script never changes at all. They simply return again and again, as many times as it takes, until you finally cave and follow their lead.

Once you do, the figure leads you to a narrow path into the eerie, fogbound woods – a path you’ve never seen, in a spot you would swear had been solid, impenetrable forest the day before. Step off the path at any point, and you find yourself walking back into town, dizzy and disoriented as if you’ve been lost for hours. Stay on the path, however, and you will come to a large, circular clearing full of wildflowers. The weather is warmer here, the sky more visible: dull blue by day, and ablaze with constellations by night. At the center of the glade, a well-worn ring of bare dirt surrounds what appears to be an unlit bonfire, the wood carefully arranged and stacked high. Sealed glass jars hang like fruit from the trees at the edges of the glade, their contents murky. If you get close enough to examine or touch them, a visceral wave of revulsion washes over you and drives you back.

The moment you set foot into the glade, the figure who guided you there steps into the trees and vanishes. A single crow swoops out of the woods and flies back toward town, leaving you alone with your new discovery – and with any other characters who may already be there, watching you and your seeming loved one arrive.

Aside from your trip to the newfound glade, going outside becomes far more risky. Every crow in town has turned against you this month, patrolling the cloudy skies in a dark, robotic mob. Buildings are safe, but set foot anywhere outdoors – except, mysteriously, the glade – and the swarm may descend on you without warning, enveloping you in a harsh cyclone of wings and noise. Look closely, and you will notice that every crow is missing its eyes. There are no sockets for them, even. Their faces are an unbroken mass of feathers, as if they had never had eyes at all.

The swarm moves in uncanny unison, as if guided by a single mind. The crows won't peck or claw you without provocation, but they'll happily chase you, block your way, or try to steal anything you happen to be carrying. Harm any of the crows, however, and the rest will immediately become ruthless, tearing at you with beak and claw until you either take refuge indoors or someone else steps in to drive them away. And if the mob does manage to steal from you, good luck getting those items back. The crows will immediately bank off into the forest, carrying their spoils out of your reach. Here’s hoping you didn’t need that for anything important…

Wherever the swarm appears, an astute observer may notice a single, normal crow perched quietly nearby. It never participates; it only watches, its dark eyes glinting as it does.

Not all of the newfound dangers are so acute. By the start of this month, the food supplies in the gathering hall are nearly exhausted. Luckily, the herbalary offers a solution. Amid the dry, rotting foliage in the garden, wilted green shoots mark the location of ripe potatoes under the soil. The tubers are small and discolored, with a strangely sweetish taste, but they’re edible. You have no choice but to eat them. Not if you want to survive.

If you know anything about agriculture – or can convince someone who knows to teach you how – you can dig up your meals for yourself. If not, you'll need to barter or get creative. Perhaps you can offer to cook or stand guard against the crows while others harvest. Perhaps you can make useful tools to speed the process. Perhaps you do nothing but hope someone else will take pity on you, or you wait to steal from others once they've done all the work. Will you work together, or hoard your own resources? Whatever you do, be sure to do it carefully. Lean times bring out the worst in everyone, and your fellow characters may not be the only ones feeling hunger.

The month looms ahead...

Welcome to the first Pareidolia event! Characters are just beginning to settle in, but there's no break to be had here. The nights are dark, the wind is cold, and the food sucks. Hope everyone who found themselves here is good at entertaining themselves.

Post any happenings on the appropriate header below. Letting everyone know what your character is doing gets you bonus points!

There will be no IC event post. Please post prompt logs in pareidolialogs with your top levels. Use the following form to post your plotting comment below. Fill out as much or as little of it as you like.

Player: Pronouns: Contact: Character Name: CR Preferences: Permissions: General Plans: Event Plans: Anything Else:

In the first few mornings of your time here, long before you feel settled in the crumbling cabin unlocked by your key, you find your dwelling has been defaced. You may notice it as the door thuds shut behind you. You may not notice it until you return, hours later, ready to collapse into your creaking mattress late into the night:

Across the door, right at your eye level, are words scrawled in dripping, bloody streaks. These words aren’t just crude insults: they are an accusation of specific, damning missteps in your life. It could be a single word stabbing at the heart of your guilt; a threat that someone knows a horrific sin you believed long buried; anything that sets your heart racing and your stomach curdling in mistrust.

Whatever it says, the words are true.

The blood never dries, and it clings fiercely to the wood grain, fighting against any attempts to remove it. Scrubbing it away takes effort, and the longer you struggle, the heavier the air in your lungs feels, the more grey mist at the ground seems to swirl and thicken around your shoes.

And when the words are finally gone, your relief lasts only as long as your next breath. The bloody message blooms from the cracks in the doors anew, seeping through the wood, replacing what you painstakingly removed with even more gut-wrenching detail.

If you climb the rocky path on the edge of the mountain, just past the cottages nestled there, you come to the sanctuary. It looms above you, the cracked doors inviting you inside.

The air hums faintly as you step inside. Dozens of silhouettes flicker into view, as if crossing the threshold has pulled a veil from your eyes. Most are unfamiliar, but if you look long enough, you will find a person or pair of people you know. They may sit or kneel among the pews or stand in pairs against the wall, their faces downcast or delighted or afraid. Their voices are inaudible, words caught on the edges of the uneasy breeze passing through the sanctuary - until you come close enough to listen.

Those you recognize are discussing you: your disappearance, your life. Their voices align with your memory of them: they are kind and sorrowful and miss you; they are cold and scornful and hope you never return; they are bitterly indifferent; they are lovingly desperate, praying to their god for your safe return. To them, you may have disappeared yesterday. You may have disappeared years ago. You may be presumed dead.

If you reach for them, your hands pass through a chilly mist that warps from the disturbance of your hand, and resettles when left alone. The figures cannot be interacted with. They do not know you are there. Anyone who enters the sanctuary with you, however, can see and hear them.

The silhouette of a girl lies on the altar, her dark curls unbound and splayed around her head like a pillow. Her wrists hang limply over the edges of the altar. She stares at the ceiling, each blink slow. Her eyes never quite open all the way, never close to release her to sleep.

Wherever you go this month, your reflections are wrong.

Every pane of cracked and dirty glass, every still puddle of water, every polished surface has become a gateway to the uncanny. Your reflection lingers even after you've moved on, its movements out of sync with yours. Your image stares back at you with eyes far too pale and too wide. From the corner of your eye, you may see its lips move, as if it were trying to tell you something: a warning, a message, a threat. No matter how hard it tries, or how hard you listen, there is no sound. Your reflection’s words elude you, like crows scattering at your approach.

No matter which reflections you look at – other people’s, your own – you feel an uneasy certainty that these reflections wish you ill. They watch you pass without sympathy, their faces exuding resentment or judgment or worse. If you touch any of them, no matter what surface they appear on, your body rebels on contact. You feel dizzy, unsteady, and weakened, filled with a deep, pervasive wrongness that lingers even after you pull back. Dark grease slicks your hands, thick and rancid, and you can see that you have left streaks of it behind. It blurs and obscures your reflection, spreading out from the point you touched.

<b>Name:</b> <b>Pronouns:</b> <b>Contact:</b> plurk/discord/PM? How can people reach out to chat or plot? <b>Typical Pacing:</b> <b>About:</b> Hobbies? Where you're from? Favorite blorbo? Favorite thing about the Pope's anime mascot? <b>Character Name:</b> <b>Canon:</b> <b>Character Age:</b> <b>Permissions:</b> <a href="">permissions</a> <b>General Info:</b> What's their personality like? <b>Cabin Location:</b> Main Village Area Cabin / Forest Edge Cabin / Mountain Cabin | Where is your character's cabin? Are they rooming alone? With anyone? Are they refusing to use their cabin and sleeping in a tree or the community center kitchen? Have they still not figured out that's what the key is for? Find out who your neighbors are! <b>Survival Skills:</b> So... how's your character feeling about living off the land? <b>Initial Thoughts/Plans:</b> What types of CR are you open to? What are you hoping to explore with your character in the game? <b>Anything else?</b> This is the traditional meme slot.

navigation. mod contact. rules. faq. taken.

navigation. locations. application. rules. faq.

You jolt awake, remnants of a nightmare slipping through your mind like water, the lingering shapes and voices blurring in the edges of your memory. You find yourself on cold, damp ground in a narrow alley between two dilapidated cabins. As your senses return to you and you push yourself upright, your muscles ache, stiff and painful as if you’ve been lying on the ground for far too long.

You’re in the clothes you were wearing last, but nothing else from home. Your pockets are empty; any jewelry or trinkets or notes are lost. A new, unfamiliar iron key is hanging from twine around your neck.

A faint fog clings to the ground, swirling gently around your feet, thickening to an impenetrable dark wall beyond the edges of the village. The cool air is heavy with the sounds of a home reclaimed: the faint creak of distant bridges; the drizzling of rain against the creek; the wind through the trees; animals calling out to one another.

No one comes to welcome you, and there is nothing to indicate why you are here, where you should go, or where you can rest when night falls. A crow cocks its head from its thatch rooftop perch, eyes glinting. It watches you with unnerving curiosity as you orient yourself and wipe the mud from your cheek.

Welcome to Pareidolia.

As you begin to wander the town, your path inevitably leads to the sprawling, weathered building at its heart. The moss-dappled sign above the double doors, painted in uneven and fading lettering, reads GATHERING HALL. The windows are a patchwork of broken glass and hammered boards, but the glow of light seeping through the cracks is strangely, undeniably inviting.

The bite of the mountain wind is immediately banished by the soft thud of the doors shutting behind you. Pass coat hooks and low, cluttered shelves as you wipe the mud from your shoes and approach the sagging sofas and blackened hearth. The fire crackles, casting long shadows that dance along the walls.

Mismatched chairs are set around numerous crooked tables, each set with a carefully lain tablecloth and stained cloth napkins. On the tables are meager arrangements of unappetizing food: slightly burnt bread, overripe fruit, bruised apples.

On the table closest to the fire rests a steaming iron teapot, stacked cups, and a book with a fraying spine reading The Language of Leaves. The pages are scrawled with illegible, frantic notes, lined so heavily in places it warps the paper. Its pages are bookmarked with ripped scraps of parchment and bent corners; they're covered with diagrams of varying formations of tea leaves: swirls, clusters, streaks, an endless array of shapes, each labeled with interpretations ranging from vaguely poetic to threatening and ominous.

You're not the only one who found this town's place for community gathering. Take a seat. Warm your hands around a cup of tea.

Trying to find your bearings may be more disorienting than stumbling into the gathering hall. Figures appear in your peripheral vision, but turning to catch them reveals only shadows too dark to be cast by the dim, clouded sky slipping past the cover of a building. Unfamiliar voices susurrate under the wind; air stirs behind you for no reason at all.

Your next exhale blooms in the cold air, and suddenly — there they are. Just ahead, in a place you could have sworn was empty, is a person from your past who couldn't possibly be here. Their presence pulls something primal from your core: a desperate yearning so intense it cracks open old wounds; a loathing so visceral your chest tightens with white-hot anger; a joy so bright it blinds. They seem impossibly sharp in detail: the fall of their hair, their uncanny gait, their clothes snapping in the merciless wind. They're just as you remember. If you look away or allow them out of your line of sight, they vanish, and you could spend hours wandering the streets, never to find them again.

But should you chase after them, rush towards them, take a single step of intent — everything narrows down to just that figure, the world around them a blur of unimportance. With every step closing the distance, your pulse floods in your ears as that emotion builds, splinters in your chest.

It's not until you get close enough to touch their shoulder or catch their hand, not until they turn at your call or your voice, not until you think you've caught them, that the vision shatters. Your mind clears, and relief or anger or mourning cracks your chest as you realize it was never who you thought you were chasing at all.

Cross the swinging bridge over the deep, mist-filled ravine to find the library. The dusty shelves of the library are densely crowded with stacks of rolled parchment and leather bound books, their edges and corners marred by tiny teeth and minuscule claws.

In the far corner of the library, a raised pedestal stands beneath a suspended oil lamp. The flame flickers and wavers gently behind the glass. On the pedestal is a book, its leather cover gleaming with intricate designs of twisting vines and unfamiliar symbols. Small, sharp studs protrude from the edges of the leather, breaking through the unnervingly organic curves of the binding. A small pointer rests on the lip of the pedestal, fastened to it by a thin gold chain.

Opening the book reveals neatly inked pages, but the lettering is of strange and unreadable design, and hurts the eye to look at too closely for too long, leaving your vision blurred and head throbbing. Nearly every line has been underlined in dull pencil, marked with endless nonsensical annotations of half-formed questions and cryptic warnings. Tucked between the final page and the back corner is a note on faded parchment, written in the same scrawled hand: WHO CAN BRING OUT CLEAN FROM UNCLEAN? A neater, blocked hand replies, THERE IS NOT ONE.

Touching the pages themselves sends a visceral sensation sliding up the nerves of your fingers, through your arm, and the library around anyone inside is replaced by a place in your memory. It trembles as the haze of vision settles into place.

You’re standing in a room you recognize: it’s the backdrop to an important moment in your life. A place where a touch was exchanged — physical or emotional, kind or unkind, something burned into your memory or something best forgotten. Only sharing the context of the memory, the context of what it means to you, aloud to your companion allows you to escape the vision and stand safely back in the library.

But should you choose to withhold what the place means to you, or if you lie? The scene before you becomes a grotesque, intensifying nightmare: the air thickens with fog and soot, impossible to breathe; the furniture rapidly degrades, the walls twisting and warping, the floors rotting and breaking under your feet; shadow creatures grab at your arms; bugs swarm from cracks in the walls; eyeless crows swarm, clawing at your skin and tearing at your hair.

Only confessing the significance of the room frees you and your companion – be stubborn enough, and your dream’s death leaves you gasping for breath on the library floor.