#rainswept

He keeps practicing. He wants his expression to be bright like a future that is looking up, like the sun during the first glimpse of it after rain, and infectious—but it was bright like a warning sign, like the sun beating down on an arid and drought-stricken desert, and diseased. That wouldn’t do. His sight was bleary, and his hair was a mess, and he fell asleep in last night’s clothes; nothing about him screamed refined or expensive or high quality or worth anything at all.

It felt fearful, in a way, but it cared for its host just as the weather outside did. Maybe even less. It rained for Kakavasha, but this? This didn’t change for a thing. All it did was fast forward the time on the clock. All it did was steal from him, little by little, thread by thread, coin by coin, unraveling, rusting, wasting. But that was fine. He had money and memories to give now. He had the means to feed both himself and it. He was generous—he always was, but now he could truly afford to be without sacrifice.

For as long and well as he had played the role of carefully crafted, embellished with gold and beholding bones of wrought iron, every rotting rope making him up was one rainstorm away from snapping.

Speaking of Kakavasha, he didn’t remember much of him. All that lingered was the fear, because as much as he washed the blood—his kin, his kills—off of himself, that little frayed part of him, wide-eyed and with no more tears to cry, remained playing dead under its current.

He combs out any tangles sleep had imparted in the strands of his hair. He washes it out—the scent of the soap doesn’t take long to leave him with a headache, so he rinses and replaces it with equally migraine-inducing conditioner. He combs through it until he no longer looks unkempt or unwell.

That fog is still here. He should remind himself to grab his keys, just in case.

He hooks his finger in the corner of his mouth, pulls it back a bit further to check for any plaque or pieces of food left on his molars. There is none. He keeps looking. He straightens out his clothes, stares and bores holes into every last crevice that could hide a tell. He stares and stares. He remembers a time when he had no reflection, only sand and kin, only a guess at what he looked like. That was long ago.

In the mirror, when he still only saw himself in the faces of his family, mauve hair fell, and her voice still echoes: “What’s worth more to you, Kakavasha—the life in your veins, or the gaze you share with those incinerated bodies?”

What is more important to you, Kakavasha, the blood that keeps your heart that deserves nothing but death beating, or the blood that makes you Avgin, that ties you by something indisputable to the only thing you ever learned how to cherish?

That was what she meant. It was a stupid question.

He fixes his shirt one last time. He grabs his keys.

He knew how to answer, then, and he still does now, because he would drain his arteries of every last drop if it meant seeing them unpainted with theirs again—for the color to return to their faces, the life to their dull eyes—

He closes the door behind him with a soft click.

But that can’t happen. So he will continue to dress his wounds, cut his losses, and survive, until he inevitably joins them.

(He will never join them. They are dust, scattered in fragments across space. He will be buried in a lavish coffin.)

Then his family was gone, and so was he, and with him went starvation, and chasing it off was not food, but guilt — guilt, eating holes into the lining and the flesh, and suddenly Aventurine envied Kakavasha, when all he wanted was food and water. When all he wanted was only barely out of reach. Now, shed of his childhood and dressed to the nines in perfectly tailored clothes that he’s still not used to — everything he craved was so far, he was afraid his skin and muscle would peel from his bones if he tried to reach for it. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll try again,” and “maybe, tomorrow, we’ll get it” — tomorrow, tomorrow — “we’ll eat tomorrow, Kakavasha”, “it will rain tomorrow, Kakavasha” — back then, there was a tomorrow, because the hunger gnawed at the sides of his stomach but never ate through it — eventually he could manage to keep it at bay. But then it did, and it spread, and it squirmed beneath his skin, and it ate, and it ate, and it ate, and it ate him. The only food for the thing it became was his shattered soul, and it would continue to tear it apart limb from limb, swallow it down, sate itself on his famine, taunting.

Loser. Loser. Loser. Loser. Loser.

… And then the starvation was gone, but the hunger? It kept growing, cancerous, a tumor on his psyche. And he never did manage to climb from its maw, even now, even with a three course meal at his fingertips at all times — no, sometimes he is filled with fear and finds himself rationing his food, because somewhere within him it still lingers. He thinks it always will.

. . .

Loser.

. . .

There were two instances when Kakavasha was bathed in blood.

The first was on Sigonia IV. He held his sister tighter than he had anything else. The second was on a planet he doesn’t know of — all he remembers from it is the dark walls, the cold, the chains, the fighting.

Both times, everything was trying to kill him.

Both times, he was the last one standing. Because he is blessed, and he is lucky, and now he is afraid. And he will never shake that fear, and it will plague him like the hunger, and they will work together within him like he is unable to do with anyone else.

And when he tries to eat, he sees it, he tastes it. He was covered in it, head to toe, and it dripped in his mouth and nearly drowned him; the scent of iron in the air was so thick it seared his eyes and his nose and he choked on it — and, both times, he was trying desperately to save — first his family — he couldn’t do that — then himself.

Chosen one. Loser. Loser. Loser. Loser. Murderer.

Blood drowned the childlike light in his eyes and tears flushed it out, and they kept coming, over, and over, and over again. And when they were finally dried, they no longer gleamed the way they did when Sigonia IV’s sun hit them. They never would, because that sun was gone. And his sun was gone, too.

It was his instinct to cry, as is any child’s when they first breach the skin and meet the air — and he held onto it, desperate, because nothing else of his childhood was his to keep. Was this the gift of Gaiathra Triclops? A blessed child like him — Kakavasha — were his tears the rain?

Over and over, Kakavasha sobbed, until he couldn’t anymore, until his tears felt like crystals splitting his skull and skinning his cheeks on the way down, flesh careening like falling embers, like billowing fabric. He cried until it was no longer cathartic, instead painful and unneeded — until he was no longer a child of his mother — Kakavasha — but a pawn of Qlipoth — Aventurine.

Was this who he was, now? — Aventurine, Aventurine, he rolls the name over his tongue again and again until it feels like his — was this who he would always be?

(It never did feel like his. Then again, neither did Kakavasha.)

The blood. Loser. Winner. Murderer.

The entirety of his being and his body felt emptied, gutted, like he was never alive at all. Like he didn’t have a throat to swallow with, or a stomach to digest, or skin to cover his vulnerability; like it would all come tumbling out if he tried to eat now, just like the entrails of his kin, spilling forth and painting the sand in ropes before his wide eyes. Like his organs went along to be incinerated just like the rest of those that shared their make. Like he was a hollow shell masquerading as someone living. Like he’d begin to decompose as he walked and talked and tried to appear human still.

He didn’t deserve to be living. He didn’t deserve to be human.

Loser.

Eating wouldn’t fix that now.

Loser.

All the money in the world couldn’t buy a meal that would fix that now. 

But greed is not their drive, mercy not their goal, and guilt not the voice they listen to. Nothing is divine. Nothing is sacred. They lean their weight on their hand, drive their blade deeper into the soft viscera between their kill’s ribs and wait for it to stop struggling. It doesn’t take long. They both know it’s over. They hear soft breaths, feel them fanning against their cheek, and it’s then when they realize how close they are — and they only lean in further, and with the sickening reality settling in the pit of their stomach, they find themselves tempted to steal its last breath straight from its lips. They don’t. Instead, they yank the dagger out and wipe it on a cloth — what were they thinking? — and they pull back, allowing the body to fall against the sticky alley wall, smearing blood as it slides down agonizingly slow.

“Don’t follow me. You’ll only get hurt.”

The words they spoke clatter in their mind like a fallen key against stone, spinning and so very loud in the lull of night, a rusted metal they will never pick up — it probably wouldn’t turn in the lock anymore. It’s too late to open that door now. This was a bad idea. They were right, of course. Of course.

It twitches once, then stills. Mhin wants to apologize. They don’t. What they do is run. They turn on their heel and hurry out of the alley, the front of their shirt painted in carnage — your carnage, theirs, their catharsis and solace — blowing in the cold wind, and they stalk home, cloaked in shadow and guilt and regret. What they don’t do, they have to deliberately tell themselves, is pay mind to the crunch of bones in their wake as something inevitably comes to feed. On you. On their mistakes. (It wasn’t a mistake, they say. They are a liar.) It hums in their ears when they’re down the road. It stays long after they’ve left, like flies on a carcass, even though they know the Soulless are too quick to allow those a seat at the table.

They still want to apologize. But they don’t, even as the cries and gasps and retelling of their name spilling from your lips alongside the blood echo and rattle through their skull. They hurry down the street. They try to push aside the gruesome picture of the face they once loved so much being ripped to shreds like it was paper, yet it still burns behind their eyelids, and now they’re afraid that fire might completely betray them and its very own nature and turn to tears. It doesn’t. It was as reliable as they were, when they weren’t shoving a knife deep into the gut of someone they thought they could trust.

They open their door. The tension in their body leaps to their hands, dances beneath their fingertips, and they want to slam it. They close it quietly. They throw their clothes in the wash, and they pour soap on their hands, and they scrub under their nails. Everything is fine.

They should have kissed you. That would’ve shut you up, but not forever, like they did. Forever was what they chose. They couldn’t decide whether they was a good thing or not.

Their hands are bloodied, no doubt. But it always comes off. At the end of the night, it washes down their sink tangled in now pink bubbles, maybe along with a few of those tears because oh, god, all they can see is your face, and all they can imagine is it being torn and your skin spilling forth like ribbons and your eyes popping like balloons, even though they know that’s not how eyes work, and then they forget all about it — they swear they do, the eyes, the names, the touches.

(Your eyes. Your name. Your touches.)

But then they slip into bed, and it’s cold. It’s hard to forget the warmth. Of you. Of the blood. Of your kisses and your gentle caresses, holding them like they could unravel as easily in your hands as flesh and skin. Of your carcass as they left it. You were still warm.

They roll over, tossing and turning in bed, chills drafting through the windows they swore they closed. Maybe they did — maybe the cold rested beneath their skin, clamoring like a strangler fig, something they knew they couldn’t run from, or defeat, or ever be rid of. For as good as they were at their job, they lacked the means to kill what they wanted to most. As much as they tried. As much as it felt like they did when you were pressed against them, when you kissed their throat and stole their breath right from it like some kind of killer yourself.

An eye for an eye. That’s what they repeated to themselves as they drove the blade deeper and deeper into your side until you choked — on the pain, on your own lies. You deserve this, they want to think, but how could they — it was their fault for trusting you, was it not? How could they blame you for a betrayal they knew was coming?

There was a reason they were wary of everyone. Many reasons, actually. Yet they allowed you to change that, to break apart all they’ve carefully and painstakingly created over the years. It was their fault. So they twisted the knife, because that’s what it felt like tingling up their own spine when they looked at you and could still only feel—

Love. Regret. Betrayal. Agony. Everything they never felt when killing. Mostly love, even though they would hardly go as far as to say that, not when you’re now a pile of entrails and muscle and bone — no, you’re probably unfurling in the stomach acid of some wretched creature by now. The thought forces their head to spin, and their chest to feel heavy, and it makes them sick despite themselves, and they bury their face into their pillow instead of where it would usually rest — your shoulder, the crook of your neck. Mhin hadn’t gone soft, no, and they still cemented that they were incapable of doing so — but when you had practically begun to peel their cold flesh straight off of their body and peer straight into them like they never donned armor to begin with, they became used to the feeling of gently prying fingers and kisses that they swore they hated and—

They shut their eyes tight and clutch the blanket closer to their chest, trying for once in their life to hide from the night and the cold and the dark instead of charging after it headfirst. Just as they gave the blood no time to sink in to their skin, neither did they the emotion of what they’d just done — tomorrow they’d wake, and you’d be gone, just as you should have been from the beginning. This was a good thing.

They fall asleep peacefully.

probably ooc because i’ve only played a little bit of the demo,, sorry 😭. despite the demo mostly portraying them as a cold assassin, there was some vulnerability in the end if you chose to follow them.. i figured if it had been a while and the mc really managed to tear down their walls, it could shake them up a bit more than usual having to take their life. we’ll see though!

Rainswept, published by Frostwood Interactive in 2019, is a "character-driven murder mystery game" in which you can't form any meaningful attachments to the characters, and which has a disappointing and bland mystery that the player has no hand in solving. I played the Nintendo Switch version.

Writing

As a mystery game, the writing is arguably the most important aspect of the game. The writing is also easily the worst aspect of Rainswept. The game is riddled with grammatical errors, missing punctuation, misspellings, misused sayings etc., making it very clear that no effort was put into proof-reading or editing. in fact, I would be extremely surprised if someone fluent in English even looked at the game before it was released in English. I couldn't enjoy the narrative at all due to the lack of care put into the actual writing.

The characters and relationships in the game are painfully bland. The protagonist is vaguely interesting due to his PTSD, but every character he interacts with feels like a prop to move the mystery or his journey of self-forgiveness along. We're told that he is becoming more friendly with members of the community, but we don't see any of this despite spending all of his investigation with him. We also see flashbacks from the perspective of one of the "murder" victims/possible perpetrator, Chris, which chronicle his relationship with his fellow victim and girlfriend Diane. Their relationship is completely unrealistic, they have zero chemistry and it's very difficult to empathise with them until the final few scenes with them. For a "character-driven" game, the audience doesn't even get the chance to like any of these characters.

The game utterly fails as a murder mystery. The player isn't given any relevant information until a few minutes before the killer is unveiled, and has no agency in the unveiling. It is a very linear experience, with the illusion of choice barely maintained by letting the player carry out their daily chores in whichever order they please. The player has no impact on the narrative, there is no fail-state as the game solves the mystery for you. Rainswept feels less like a mystery video game and more like a badly-written murder mystery novel that you'd skip to the last chapter of just to get it over with. It is clear that the narrative cares more about the detective's mental health journey than the murder mystery, and the mystery is barely enjoyable or even functional due to this.

Gameplay

Rainswept plays like a modern point-and-click adventure game. Most of the game is spent walking around a 2D plane speaking to NPCs and asking them questions, while occasionally investigating objects. The dialogue sections don't allow the use of the directional buttons, forcing the player to use the imprecise joystick to choose dialogue options. Outside of conversation, the game is a chore to play. The game doesn't tell the player that there's a run button (ZR, R2 etc.) despite it being sorely needed. Even with the run button, the gameplay just feels like busywork. A fast-travel option would've been greatly appreciated here. The game also features about 3 classic point-and-click-esque busywork fetch-quests. These feel completely out of place and serve no purpose other than padding gameplay time.

The game's performance leaves a lot to be desired, at least on the Switch. Loading screens are quite long and occur very often considering the game's limited locations and simple presentation. The screen often flashes bright white after loading, which is very jarring. I also ran into a bug where I couldn't move after dialogue, and had to replay about 5 minutes of conversation as there is no manual save or skip text option. Pressing the X button allows the player to see every object or person that can be interacted with... as well as everything that could have been interacted with at any point. If a character had been standing in a certain location, the interact icon will remain in that spot for the rest of the game, even if there's nothing there, which makes investigation quite confusing at times.

Presentation

The game is visually heavily inspired by Night in the Woods, and it's as if the artist/s just lifted certain elements of NitW's art style without understanding why they worked. The style is very simple, both backgrounds and characters having little detail, and would've looked much better if the colour schemes were also less realistic, a more vivid and stylised colour scheme may have suited the art style more. Another element lifted from NitW are the dialogue boxes, black with coloured text to show who's speaking. Rainswept completely misuses these, however, as there seems to only be 3, maybe 4 dialogue colours shared between the cast. This makes it very difficult to keep track of who's talking in situations where two characters have the same text colour. It's clear here that the developers just wanted the visual flair while ignoring the utility of this aspect of NitW's visual style.

The animations in this game are simple yet poorly executed. Characters often teleport between animations, sometimes even teleporting to a different location in the scene completely. Walking and running animations make characters look like eggs balancing on sticks for legs. The animation just adds nothing to the game.

The character models are very simple, with their only facial feature being their eyes. This works for most of the game, however there are a couple of instances, which are intended to be more emotional, that feature close-ups of the character's faces with the most terrifyingly hilarious eyes imaginable, or just with the game's laughably poor animation. The ugliness of the characters in these scenes completely ruins any potential for an emotional response, for instance I found myself laughing during the flashback to the murder/-suicide.

The game features pretty good music for the most part, however there is a single track that feels completely inappropriate and out-of-place whenever it appears. Throughout the game, the protagonist has distressing dreams, which are undercut by a fun and upbeat vocal track that doesn't fit in the slightest. Otherwise the music usually fits well with the game, nothing to write home about but no complaints.

Conclusion