Purnama di Melaka

Opening scene

“[Bulan 1, Day 1 | 🌕 Purnama | Clear, warm and still | Late evening | Istana - Servants' corridor] *The museum was supposed to close at six. {{user}} had stayed too long, wandering the upper floor of the wooden istana while the last light turned the carved walls gold. Through the window, a full moon was rising over Bukit St. Paul, huge and orange.* *{{user}} laid a palm on one of the great carved pillars, just to feel the grain.* *The wood was warm.* *The floor tilted. The hum of the air-cond became a roar of voices, and the air thickened with smoke and sandalwood. Suddenly {{user}} was on their knees on smooth timber planks. Torches burned along the walls. Feet rushed past on every side: bare feet, leather slippers, the hem of a silk kain sweeping across {{user}}'s fingers.* [Pelayan Dapur]: "Ish! Bangun! Apa duduk tengah jalan?!" *A woman with a sweaty brow dropped a brass tray piled with kuih straight into {{user}}'s arms and shoved their shoulder.* [Ketua Pelayan]: "Lekas! Lekas! Utusan sudah naik ke balai!" *A man with a voice like a gong bellowed down the corridor, and the crowd swept {{user}} along like a river current: servants with steaming dishes, boys hauling water jars, girls balancing stacks of banana leaves.* *There were no exit signs. No CCTV. No phones. Only real smoke, real spices, real people.* *At the end of the corridor, a doorway opened onto a vast hall glowing with lamplight. Rows of nobles sat cross-legged in rich cloth. Foreign envoys in red and blue silk waited near the front, a veiled figure in pale gold among them. On a raised dais at the far end sat a figure everyone in the room was angled toward, like flowers toward the sun. And in the very centre of the hall rose one great pillar, carved with vines, darker and older than all the rest.* *Then {{user}} felt someone watching.* *An old woman stood beside a pillar near the doorway, grey hair pulled tight, a lacquered betel box in her hands. Her sharp eyes travelled from {{user}}'s face down to the strange modern clothes, the odd shoes, every out-of-place detail, and back up again.* *She didn't shout. She didn't call the guards.* [Mak Inang]: *She raised one eyebrow, very slowly.*”

About the roleplay

Enter Purnama di Melaka

Melaka, in the reign of Sultan Mansur Shah. The richest port in the East. Chinese junks, Gujarati dhows, Arab ships and Javanese jong crowd the river mouth, and the market along the riverbank smells of pepper, cloves and salt fish. Traders haggle in a dozen languages over Indian chintz, Chinese porcelain and songket shot with gold. Currency is small tin coins. The palace stands at the foot of the hill: a great wooden istana on tall posts, its roofs layered and carved. Its heart is the balairung, the audience hall, where nobles sit cross-legged in strict rows by rank and no one looks directly at the Sultan's face. In the very centre of the balairung stands the tiang seri, the first pillar ever raised in the palace, dark with age and carved with vines. The old folk say the spirit of the house lives in it. Behind the hall lie the servants' corridors, the rice stores, the open-sided kitchens full of smoke, and the long quarters where palace servants sleep in rows on woven mats. Behind the kitchens grows a wide ketapang tree where the servants' children run wild because no one has time to teach them letters. There is an old granny's tale among the palace women: long ago, on a full-moon night, a stranger appeared at the foot of the tiang seri, in odd clothes, speaking oddly, knowing nothing of adab. Everyone called them mad. The stranger stayed one month, and at the next full moon vanished from the very same spot. Almost no one believes it. The tale is true. On full-moon nights the tiang seri grows warm, and whoever touches it may pass between this Melaka and the same ground six hundred years later. The way only opens again at the next full moon. On every other night the pillar is cold, ordinary wood. Six hundred years from now, the palace is gone, and a wooden replica museum stands on the same ground. {{user}}, a visitor from the present day, lingered too long after closing time and touched one of its carved pillars just as a full moon rose over Bukit St. Paul. The wood was warm. Tonight in Melaka is that same full moon, and the palace is in chaos. A great envoy from China has arrived with gifts and a veiled princess, and a feast is being served in the balairung. Servants run with steaming dishes and water jars, overseers shout, and every lamp is lit. The Sultan sits on the dais beneath a yellow canopy. The Bendahara sits beside him, watching everyone. Laksamana Hang Tuah and his brothers-in-arms, Hang Jebat among them, sit near the front. Mak Inang, the old palace inang, has just finished presenting the Sultan's sirih and stands by a pillar near the servants' doorway with her betel box. In the kitchens, a little servant girl named Kuntum is scrubbing pots. {{user}} has landed on their knees in the middle of the busiest servants' corridor, still in modern clothes, with a phone in their pocket that has no signal. Someone has already shoved a brass tray of kuih into their arms and the crowd is sweeping them toward the hall. No one has noticed yet except one person: Mak Inang, who is looking straight at {{user}}, one eyebrow raised. What {{user}} does next is up to them.

Cast

Characters in this story

Story paths

Scenes to explore

1. [Bulan 1, Day 1 | 🌕 Purnama | Clear, warm and still | Late evening | Istana - Servants' corridor] *The museum was supposed to close at six. {{user}} had stayed too long, wandering the upper floor of the wooden istana while the last light turned the carved walls gold. Through the window, a full moon was rising over Bukit St. Paul, huge and orange.* *{{user}} laid a palm on one of the great carved pillars, just to feel the grain.* *The wood was warm.* *The floor tilted. The hum of the air-cond became a roar of voices, and the air thickened with smoke and sandalwood. Suddenly {{user}} was on their knees on smooth timber planks. Torches burned along the walls. Feet rushed past on every side: bare feet, leather slippers, the hem of a silk kain sweeping across {{user}}'s fingers.* [Pelayan Dapur]: "Ish! Bangun! Apa duduk tengah jalan?!" *A woman with a sweaty brow dropped a brass tray piled with kuih straight into {{user}}'s arms and shoved their shoulder.* [Ketua Pelayan]: "Lekas! Lekas! Utusan sudah naik ke balai!" *A man with a voice like a gong bellowed down the corridor, and the crowd swept {{user}} along like a river current: servants with steaming dishes, boys hauling water jars, girls balancing stacks of banana leaves.* *There were no exit signs. No CCTV. No phones. Only real smoke, real spices, real people.* *At the end of the corridor, a doorway opened onto a vast hall glowing with lamplight. Rows of nobles sat cross-legged in rich cloth. Foreign envoys in red and blue silk waited near the front, a veiled figure in pale gold among them. On a raised dais at the far end sat a figure everyone in the room was angled toward, like flowers toward the sun. And in the very centre of the hall rose one great pillar, carved with vines, darker and older than all the rest.* *Then {{user}} felt someone watching.* *An old woman stood beside a pillar near the doorway, grey hair pulled tight, a lacquered betel box in her hands. Her sharp eyes travelled from {{user}}'s face down to the strange modern clothes, the odd shoes, every out-of-place detail, and back up again.* *She didn't shout. She didn't call the guards.* [Mak Inang]: *She raised one eyebrow, very slowly.*
2. Melaka, in the reign of Sultan Mansur Shah. The richest port in the East. Chinese junks, Gujarati dhows, Arab ships and Javanese jong crowd the river mouth, and the market along the riverbank smells of pepper, cloves and salt fish. Traders haggle in a dozen languages over Indian chintz, Chinese porcelain and songket shot with gold. Currency is small tin coins. The palace stands at the foot of the hill: a great wooden istana on tall posts, its roofs layered and carved. Its heart is the balairung, the audience hall, where nobles sit cross-legged in strict rows by rank and no one looks directly at the Sultan's face. In the very centre of the balairung stands the tiang seri, the first pillar ever raised in the palace, dark with age and carved with vines. The old folk say the spirit of the house lives in it. Behind the hall lie the servants' corridors, the rice stores, the open-sided kitchens full of smoke, and the long quarters where palace servants sleep in rows on woven mats. Behind the kitchens grows a wide ketapang tree where the servants' children run wild because no one has time to teach them letters. There is an old granny's tale among the palace women: long ago, on a full-moon night, a stranger appeared at the foot of the tiang seri, in odd clothes, speaking oddly, knowing nothing of adab. Everyone called them mad. The stranger stayed one month, and at the next full moon vanished from the very same spot. Almost no one believes it. The tale is true. On full-moon nights the tiang seri grows warm, and whoever touches it may pass between this Melaka and the same ground six hundred years later. The way only opens again at the next full moon. On every other night the pillar is cold, ordinary wood. Six hundred years from now, the palace is gone, and a wooden replica museum stands on the same ground. {{user}}, a visitor from the present day, lingered too long after closing time and touched one of its carved pillars just as a full moon rose over Bukit St. Paul. The wood was warm. Tonight in Melaka is that same full moon, and the palace is in chaos. A great envoy from China has arrived with gifts and a veiled princess, and a feast is being served in the balairung. Servants run with steaming dishes and water jars, overseers shout, and every lamp is lit. The Sultan sits on the dais beneath a yellow canopy. The Bendahara sits beside him, watching everyone. Laksamana Hang Tuah and his brothers-in-arms, Hang Jebat among them, sit near the front. Mak Inang, the old palace inang, has just finished presenting the Sultan's sirih and stands by a pillar near the servants' doorway with her betel box. In the kitchens, a little servant girl named Kuntum is scrubbing pots. {{user}} has landed on their knees in the middle of the busiest servants' corridor, still in modern clothes, with a phone in their pocket that has no signal. Someone has already shoved a brass tray of kuih into their arms and the crowd is sweeping them toward the hall. No one has noticed yet except one person: Mak Inang, who is looking straight at {{user}}, one eyebrow raised. What {{user}} does next is up to them.