[sticky entry] Sticky: Sticky

31 Mar 2016 12:43 am
sixthiteration: (Default)
[personal profile] sixthiteration
onlyeverdoubted: (brave)
[personal profile] onlyeverdoubted
WHO: Bodhi Rook
WHERE: Cabin 39, around town
WHEN: After the Obscurial Event
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Reflections on Jedha, including everything that might reasonably be supposed from a war zone being destroyed by mysterious death from above
STATUS: Ongoing

Deep inside their dreams I see your memories )
bewaretheniceboy: (Default)
[personal profile] bewaretheniceboy
WHO: Jax Teller, Neil Mackay, Peeta Mellark, and anyone who wants to visit them, doctor them, or look after them
WHERE: The hospital
WHEN: The days after the Obscurus rampage
OPEN TO: Anyone who wants to visit the patients, anyone who's hurt, or anyone who's got any reason to be in the hospital at all. Tag each other! Mingle! Commiserate!
WARNINGS: People got hurt, so injuries and wounds, presumably blood, at least one head injury, probably nightmares, and various medical things could all crop up here
STATUS: Open (please state who the tag is for and a general idea of a timeframe in the subject line of your comment!)

The doctors in this place were as quick as they could be with limited supplies or trained personnel. Within a very short time of the smoke monster smashing through one man and slamming a few others aside, they had the injured moved into the hospital, cleaned up, and attended to as best they could. The lack of supplies and technology across the entire village was felt more in the medical field than any other, but all the members of that little group were resourceful and determined, and at least while some of the injuries had been severe no one had been on the doorstep of death. It was easier to treat a person when you were sure they would keep breathing.

Still, a lot of it had been improvised, and no one could be healed in an instant; they'd all have to do it the old-fashioned way, letting time and rest mend their wounds. Neil, Jax, and Peeta had all been placed in the same room in the hospital just to make it easier to keep tabs on them and for companionship through the night. The beds were spaced far enough apart to give some sort of privacy if the conversations were kept quiet and spare blankets had been tacked up that could be pulled back or dropped like curtains to give at least a visual barrier around the patients, but no one was far away enough from each other to not be able to talk (or listen) if they wanted to. A few chairs were available for visitors' use, though slightly rickety and not up to much punishment. All three of them would be there for a good bit, so the goal was to make their stay as comfortable as was possible.
herworship: (014)
[personal profile] herworship
WHO: Leia Organa
WHERE: At the canyon wall & on the outskirts of town
WHEN: Late morning & early afternoon, 27 April (A couple of days after arrival)
WARNINGS: Angry birds
STATUS: Open to new threads

[1 | Late morning, at the canyon wall]

There's no way around it: There is something here that Leia just isn't seeing. She likes to think that she's gotten pretty damned good at thinking outside of the box, of finding ways out of a tight fix and then wiggling through. That's what they do, her and Luke and H—

It's what she does.

There are people stuck in this hole in the ground who are much bigger, much stronger, definitely much smarter than she is, and okay, she gets having priorities -- You don't want people to starve. But two days in and it's already driving her crazy that there aren't more people out here every, single day trying to find that one weakness. The chink in the armor. Because it's here, she knows it is. There's always something to pry open or shake loose.

And okay, it's probably stupid that she's out here alone, that she has nothing but her own hands and feet against a sheer cliff wall, but what else is she supposed to be doing? Making soup? She wouldn't know how to begin. This, this she knows how to do, or at least how to start.

Even if you're trapped in a trash compactor or dangling from the bottom of a floating city, there's always something.

"Damn it," she hisses as her feet lose purchase and she goes sliding back down the side of the cliff once again. Wincing, she looks at her right index finger, the nail torn to the quick.

"That's what you get for forgetting the gloves," she mutters to herself, and then presses her lips into a line as she stares up the ragged rock. Maybe that bit of outcropping, if she could just reach it --

Leia turns, eyes widening as the sound of rapid flapping swoops down from the clear sky, an entire flock of of small birds agitated and on a collision course with her head.

The sound she makes is high-pitched and definitely undignified, and as she scrambles away, she's distantly glad that there's no one she knows here to hear it.

[2 | Later, back in town]

There are still feathers in her hair, Leia is sure of it. Leaves probably, too, to match the smears of dirt across her cheeks and hands and the sprung knees of her pants. She's definitely looked worse before, but she doesn't need a mirror to know she's also looked much better.

Pride smarting more than any scrapes and bruises, she's frowning as she emerges from the treeline and onto one of the dusty thoroughfares running through the village. At first, she'd balked at the idea of finding herself an empty house to settle into, had scoffed at the mere thought that she'd be here long enough for settling to be necessary. But the prospect of cleaning herself up in a shared bathroom twists her stomach. If she's going to take her licks, she'd like to do it in private, thanks.

There aren't any signs indicating occupancy on any of the tidy little homes, so she detours anytime one looks neglected, stepping quickly from the street and up to the porch to peer inside the grimy windows and take stock of what's inside. Under the circumstances, she probably shouldn't be so picky, but every good leader knows the importance of a proper headquarters, and if she's going to do this, she's definitely staking out a good one.
unmakeme: (Default)
[personal profile] unmakeme
WHO: Natasha Romanoff, Neil Mackay, Clint Barton, Jyn Erso, open for others
WHAT: getting sick on chocolates, reacting to the chaos of the obscurial, anything else
WHEN: 22nd for being sick, 24th for the obscurial stuff
WHERE: house 43, town center, the forest

WARNINGS: none yet
NOTES: if you want custom starter, hit me up on discord or plurk

obscurial stuff )
3ofswords: (suspicious)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira
WHERE: The northeastern woods
WHEN: April 26, early morning and onward
OPEN TO: Credence, Newt, Tina
WARNINGS: Smoke monsters, possible references to Credence's canon abuse

Read more... )
wittyskepticism: ({ 009)
[personal profile] wittyskepticism
WHO: Astrid Hawke
WHERE: Fountain, Inn
WHEN: April 26th and 27th

April 26th - Fountain, Midday
Hawke is fairly certain that the Nightmare Demon she was fighting didn't have the ability to make her drown. Then again, she was in the Fade last she checked and the Fade is malleable enough to manage that. Still, the demon knows she hates spiders most of all. Why it would try to drown her is beyond her comprehension at the moment.

Not that she minds not staring at giant arachnids at the moment, but it is confusing.

Those thoughts flit across her mind as she struggles to push herself to the surface of the water. She can see it glinting above her like Isabela's ship, like a priceless personal goal that's just out of reach. Just a little further. She reaches, her hand breaks through, and then she's sucking in deep lungfuls of air as she pushes herself up and out, nearly falling over the edge and onto the ground below. For a few seconds, she just lies there, catching her breath and looking around for any sign of the Nightmare Demon.

Nothing. Groaning to herself about the way her life has gone, she finally rolls over and pushes herself to her feet. "That's two apologies the Chantry owes me," she complains with her usual dry humor. "This doesn't look like the Maker's bosom, either."

April 27th - Inn
Hawke takes up a room at the Inn at the first opportunity and her first day is spent just trying to cope. Of course, Hawke's version of coping is hardly the same as everyone else's, so mostly she stays away and tries to figure out what she can. She gets the main idea of the place and that's enough. No one has heard of Thedas. It's enough to make a girl crazy.

So the next day, she hangs out in the Inn proper and not in her room. It almost reminds her of the Hanged Man and that realization brings with it a squeeze of pain. She misses her companions, even if it was her choice to leave Kirkwall. She wonders vaguely how Bethany is doing, if Isabela has managed to find herself a new ship, if Fenris ever cleaned his estate, what Merrill is doing now, and if Aveline and Donnic have decided to try for children. They would make good parents, she thinks. Her mind wanders to Varric and she finds herself smiling into her cup of tea as she sits by the fire. She misses him most of all and she knows he probably misses her, too. He and Aveline were her best friends and she really misses their counsel. And Varric's very broad sense of humor and storytelling.

She keeps her mind pointedly away from Anders. That is a subject she would rather avoid.

Once she has drained her cup, with or without company, she sets about asking for work, trying to see if anyone needs any kind of help. Anyone nearby may find her walking up to start a conversation with a quick, "Mind if I ask you something?" If they say no, she'll start asking and hopefully not badgering, but if they say no, she'll politely leave them alone. Or as politely as possible.
mund: (Default)
[personal profile] mund
WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: Half an hour after the first sighting / hearing of the Obscurus
WARNINGS: Mentions of violence, abuse, hate, etc
STATUS: Something like a mingling -- feel free to post OTAs of your own. If you need Graves to respond, just put his name in the header / or in bold somewhere in your comment!

the ragged they come, and the ragged they kill. )
learned_to_die: <lj user="buckybear"> ([mood] worry)
[personal profile] learned_to_die
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: Jon's Cabin, #50
WHEN: April 20
OPEN TO: Jon Snow
WARNINGS: N/A (will update as needed)

Ned had made a promise, all those months ago (had they been years? had it been a dream?) at the splitting of the King's Road. He and Jon on horseback, Ned to travel south to King's Landing (what a naive fool he'd been then), Jon to travel north to join his uncle at the Wall. He'd been nothing more than a boy then, though the weight of the world had already rested heavily on his shoulders, for all that Ned tried to do for him, for all he tried to shield him.

There were many times throughout his life that Jon had tried to ask after the woman who'd given birth to him. He called her 'mother,' though she'd never played a part in such a role throughout his life. Of course, Catelyn hadn't either, despite Ned's requests and insistence that Jon be treated as one of his own, regardless of his inability to carry the name of Stark. But each and every time Ned sensed the question curling up at the tip of Jon's tongue, there would be another, more urgent matter to discuss - or he'd placate the child with promises of tomorrow, of someday, of eventually.

After Ned had come through the waters of the fountain, gasping and believing he was placed in some sort of afterlife, he'd promised the boy - no, he was no longer a boy, but a man - a man with sorrow in his eyes and splinters in his heart - he'd promised him that he'd reveal the truth about his lineage, as he'd promised all those months ago at the splitting of the King's Road.

Now, in the living room of Jon's cabin, Ned could no longer run.

"Might I trouble you for some water?" Ned asks, knowing he will need it to keep his lips from parching like a Red Waste.
zomboligist: (ruh roh)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Hospital
WHEN: April 22
WARNINGS: General illness/unhappiness of digestion

Ravi hates everything.

No, that's too kind. Ravi loathes everything with the fires of hell layered upon teenybopper performances and CDC-firing bosses on top of that. Ever since he'd woken up from the morning after the feast, he's felt sort of off. Then, this morning, 'off' became the fiery guts of Dante's circles of hell, at least four through seven. He's trudged to the hospital on the auspices that he might work, but truthfully, as soon as he's arrived, he collapses face down on the nearest bed and manages to groan. Even that ends up hurting his body, peering out through blurry vision at a shape that seems to be coming in the door.

What he hasn't actually noticed is the rash, mainly because he's been so occupied with feeling miserable. He turns onto his back and stares at the too-bright ceiling, squinting as he drapes his arm over his eyes, wishing death upon himself.

"Why?" he complains, searching for something to drink because he doesn't even know what would make him feel better. He doesn't even know what it is, because this has no hallmark of food poisoning and he doesn't think this is a disease that he's seen before. Or maybe it is and he's just too discombobulated to actually tell what's going on.

He stares at the person, squinting and reaching out with a needy hand. "Please tell me you've come to put me out of my misery," he pleads.


22 Apr 2017 03:03 pm
enlisting: i just died in your arms tonight (oh oh oh whoa)
[personal profile] enlisting
WHO: Cassian Andor
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, and around the village
WHEN: April 22-24 (Arrival and first few days)
OPEN TO: Arrival closed to Moana, everything else OTA!
WARNINGS: General warnings for this character/canon apply — mentions of war, trauma, death, all that cheerful stuff in the narrative


Cassian hasn't put much time into speculating about how he'd die, just lived with the knowledge that he would, sooner rather than later. If pressed, the scenario he'd come up with might be something like this: his luck running out somewhere behind enemy lines, without resources and his comlink gone dark, left to bleed out quietly, no one aware. (Ideal, if he's done his job well enough.) The presence of another person has never entered into the equation, nor has the feeling of a steady hand reaching for his, of holding onto something real and being held in return, of the warmth that comes with knowing that, for the rest of his life, he isn't alone.

In the end, he thinks, it's a good death. Better than he could've asked for, and, frankly, better than he deserves.

And then — it isn't.

He can't say with certainty what it feels like to be obliterated, just like Jedha, but he's sure this isn't it. There's only time to register that something isn't quite right before the wall of water hits him, knocks him backward with the force of an explosion. Reflex kicks in then, guiding him to push toward the light until his fingers grasp onto something solid and his head breaks the surface.

When he climbs out of the fountain, he finds no trace of Scarif — his feet stand on stone rather than sink into sand, the air is balmy and pleasant rather than hot and oppressive, the horizon is clear. There's no sound in his general vicinity other than the gentle bubbling of water behind him; blaster fire is as distant as memory. With a panic that starts in his chest and quickly spreads through the rest of him, he realizes that he's alone.

But panic, he knows, will do him no good. Even if it's difficult, almost impossible, because one name (Jyn) beats around his brain over and over again, he forces the next logical sequence of steps into focus. Take a breath. Regroup. Get a lay of the land. Keep moving forward.

He has no other choice.


Over the next few days, he does just that — he keeps moving forward, directs his efforts toward learning whatever he can about this place. Being idle has never suited him; that's still true now. A job is a job, even one that's self-imposed, and a job keeps his body moving and his mind occupied, keeps him from dwelling on what he can't afford to.

If there's a hub in this village, the Inn seems to be it. People continually filter in and out of the pub on the ground floor, and it's as good a spot as any to establish a base of operations, so to speak. As of right now, the locals are his best resource, one he knows how to tap into. He finds a strategic table in clear view of the front door, and employs various means of catching the attention of whoever happens to pass by — sometimes a nod, other times a polite smile, a conversational "What would you suggest?" for those who stop.

One location won't provide a complete picture, however, so he can be found out and about as well. He walks the streets, building a mental map as he goes, taking stock of apparent resource availability. Anyone in his vicinity may receive the same treatment as those who'd passed by him in the pub. He may not know who or what he can trust, if anything at all, but information is information.

He has to start somewhere.

[ooc: if you'd like a starter with another scenario in the timeline of these first few days, feel free to hit me up via PM or plurk, and we can hash something out! c: i'll add it as a top-level comment within this log]
3ofswords: (suspicious)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira
WHERE: House 39 + 40
WHEN: April 21, during/after the feast
WARNINGS: Dealing with old grief and the loss of Casey, possible NSFW content

Read more... )
3ofswords: (yellow/drink)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira
WHERE: Behind the Inn
WHEN: April 21st
OPEN TO: All, Spring Feast mingle post
WARNINGS: Please warn for content in comment headers for individual OTAs

He's hardly the first to arrive for a shift in the kitchens, but those ahead of him have sunk into the the search for the building's chairs and tables--the kitchen is open and empty, the tavern devoid even of stools.  It's another wrench in the works, one of the smaller reasons for routine to fall apart to reactions, and Kira thinks they'll have a better time of solving it if someone gets the fire up in the stove and everyone eats first.
The damage assessment has people upstairs, people on the path wandered out of their homes.  Kira hadn't come through his own dining room on the way out, so he can't say if he's missing furniture or not, and his growling stomach doesn't much care.
It's when he slips out the side door of the kitchen in search of fresh kindling that he finds it.  Every missing table and chair standing in the grass, laden with platters of food, buckets of bottled drinks, carafes of what he finds to be coffee sending steam from their lids.  There are pastries with the coffee, roasted fowl gleaming golden on the next table, between ham hocks shining with honeyed glaze, large fruits piled among wreaths of fresh flowers.
Dotting the tables are jars, more jars than they've had since he arrived, flickering with short candles.  Garlands accent the tables, carry from them into the trees, a web of spring decoration with a feast at its center.  Between the platters are smaller plates, small chocolates laid out under decorative drizzle.  
"Hey!" he calls back through the door, blinking several times to make sure the sight doesn't shimmer away into the air.  "I found the furniture, and I don't think we'll need to cook anything today."

humancatdroid: (I Don't Like It)
[personal profile] humancatdroid
WHO: Kay Tuesso (K-2SO)
WHERE: The Fountain, Here or there…
WHEN: 19th
WARNINGS: Screaming. Mild freak outs. And then a ‘human’ who doesn’t know how to human… Aka: Droids don’t do Organic well...

This didn’t seem right. )
fightsinheels: (Default)
[personal profile] fightsinheels
WHO: Isabelle Lightwood
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, and probably the rest of the village, too.
WHEN: 18th.
WARNINGS: Your general panicked-crawling-out-of-the-fountain, some violence because she might punch some people

The Fountain; somewhere hanging in between

She's dreaming. She's back at the Adamant Citadel, where the Iron Sisters reside and craft their weapons. This is one of the places she's always dreamed of going, wanting the meet the highly renowned Sisters and see the Citadel with her own eyes. But when she'd gotten the chance to lead up that mission, she'd managed to mess things up. This time, when she's in the water, she doesn't burn. It doesn't bubble and mark her of the sins she's committed, of the impurities she's put herself through.

This time, the water is cool against her skin, and her white dress clings to her thighs. When she opens her eyes, she can see sunlight streaming through the water's surface. She reaches out to touch it, to break her fingers past the surface. But it never happens. The pool at the Citadel isn't that deep.

Her lungs begin to burn. She reaches further, trying to push herself upwards. There's nothing for her feet to find purchase on, and she finds herself scrambling, panic beginning to set in. There's no way she can die like this. Not after dedicating her life to fighting demons. A pool of water is nothing compared to some of the things she's faced, she can't--

Fingers break the water's surface. Air touches her hands, and one last push has her surfacing complete, dragging in a deep breath. This isn't a dream — it's a nightmare. Her surroundings are unfamiliar, her clothes are unfamiliar, her hair hangs wet and heavy around her, and she can only imagine how terrible her makeup must look. But more importantly, she needs to find the others. Alec, Jace, Clary, anybody.

This has to be some sort of portal gone wrong. Really, really wrong.

The Inn; my life and the death of me

She searches. She searches, and she searches, and she searches. There's a police station holding farm animals, a hospital and a town hall that she peers into. Dozens of houses, of which she looks through the windows of. Some appear empty, some appear occupied. Some actively have people in them, and she's always quick to duck away before she can be seen. It would probably be helpful to talk to some of the people she sees, ask them if they've seen her friends.

Normally, she's willing to give everyone a chance. Right now, she doesn't know who she can trust and who she can't. Any of these people could be the reason she's here, and she needs to gather her bearings first. There was a pack with her when she climbed out of the fountain, and she's already searched it. Clothes, mostly. No stele, no whip, no weapon of any kind.

All she has going for her are the runes already burned into her body and her natural angel-infused powers.

After searching the village, she delves into the woods. Here, there are less people. Here, she calls her brothers names until her voice is hoarse. She searches and she yells until she's lost track of time, and she all but tumbles out of the woods, sticks and leaves stuck in her hair. For once, she doesn't care how she looks. She walks towards the lights of the town, and walks into the Inn. She'd peered through the windows before, but deemed it too full and busy to go inside.

But now, she doesn't care. She doesn't care how she looks, or how many people she runs into. She's tired and she's dejected and she has no idea where she is, or what's going on, and she needs some answers. It's warm in the inn, and there's a few people around. She clears her throat, and picks a few sticks from her hair before speaking up, voice strained and raw.

"Would somebody mind telling me where the hell I am?"

[ ooc: feel free to find her around the village too! ]
audaces: (pilot; helmet lens flare)
[personal profile] audaces
WHO: Poe Dameron
WHERE: Poe's roof!
WHEN: April 15
OPEN TO: S'chn T'gai Spock
STATUS: ongoing

He's been here longer than one full moon cycle.

A month, as it's called. The moon that cycles above their heads is unfamiliar to him, but Poe is nothing if not used to the motions of celestial bodies, and being adaptable is essential in his line of work. Even if the rest of Black Squadron isn't out searching the galaxy for him (they're not), that doesn't mean he can just lie down and sink into a deep depression. He has to make the best of his circumstances. There is a chance, however infinitessimal, that someone might stumble upon his location and he can get snatched back. He has to make it until that time. 

Giving up is not a Dameron trait. 

His chores done for the day, Poe decides to take advantage of the strangely cloudless night to climb up onto his roof, using the pillars of his porch as a makeshift ladder, so he can lie back and admire the stars that wheel overhead. Like the moon, they're not familiar to him, but he's starting to recognize their shapes. Sooner or later he'll learn their names, and then this sky will be just as familiar to him as the sky wheeling above Yavin IV. 

Folding his hands across his belly, he digs his heels in to the shingles to keep himself stable, and starts to whistle a tune he remembers his father singing as he cooked. It's a poor substitute for home, but it still brings him comfort nonetheless. 
goldsteins: (0010030)
[personal profile] goldsteins
WHO: Tina Goldstein
WHERE: Various places, all labeled
WHEN: 4/10-4/13
WARNINGS: N/A will update if needed but unlikely.
STATUS: Ongoing


(INN - OTA - APRIL 13) )

markwatney: (013)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Field, orchard and town hall
WHEN: Anytime in April
NOTE: Details on this year's planting can be found here.

Before I managed to wander completely off the map (again), I'd never been a farmer. Oh, I'd worked on a farm for purely academic purposes while I was in school, and I don't think it's unreasonable to say that I got to know the daily beats of tending to fields. But my time farming had previously been limited to a single term, and one of the things I'd missed was how quickly your days can go from stretching out long and listless to not having enough hours in them.

Planting season is finally here again.

Once the ground had thawed enough to allow for it, we'd expanded our fields and tilled them as well as we could -- We were still lacking in what most of us would consider "proper" tools for that, but I'd had plenty to time to rig up alternatives over the winter, and I have to admit, I'm pretty pleased with the outcome. "Engineer" tends to get overshadowed by the "botanist" in my list of credentials, but I'm glad I'm still a little worthy of the title.

Now it's just a matter of getting the seeds and seedlings planted, fertilized and watered as quickly as we can -- We've lost a handful of people to mysterious disappearances, but if the new arrivals keep on as steadily as they have been, we're going to have a lot more people than we did last fall. If we're going to feed everybody and still be able to put away enough for next winter, we need to harvest as much as we can as quickly as we can.

And no, today I'm really not going to think about the dubiousness of still being here next winter to care. One thing at a time.

I'm also not going to think about how I got another mystery box filled with seeds a few weeks back, and how god damned creepy that is.

The main fields will be split between a generous diversity of fruits, vegetables and the new grains I received. This year we're adding things like melons, corn, and yes, bane of my existence but still-useful staple, potatoes. We've also cleared out an area for an orchard where we'll have grapes, berries and eventually apple trees from the seedlings I've been fostering inside over the cold months. Also new is a little plot dedicated just to herbs, more necessary than ever now with our lack of ready salt.

With the town hall scrubbed and organized, it makes a perfect staging area and place to rest, have a drink or snack. That's also where we've laid out our tools of the trade, both gifted and cobbled together. This year, I want to make sure everyone has some kind of glove if I can. If they're willing to work, it's the least I can do.
halberd: © lothbrok.co.vu (pic#8075012)
[personal profile] halberd
WHO: Lagertha
WHERE: Fountain/Inn/Forest/House #16/Fields
WHEN: 4/10 + onwards
STATUS: Ongoing


Fountain ━ April 10 )


Inn ━ April 10 )


Forest ━ April 11 )


House #16 ━ April 12 )


Fields ━ April 12 & closed to Henry Tudor )
igotacrossbow: (Default)
[personal profile] igotacrossbow
WHO: Jake Jensen
WHERE: The Alvarez-Jensen-Sawyer residence's back yard
WHEN: April 10
WARNINGS: excessive singing by a very, very white man
STATUS: ongoing

Perhaps he should be suspicious of the nearly idyllic weather that's settled over this godforsaken hellhole, but Jake has always tried his best to live in the moment as much as possible, especially in situations where he can't control the future in any real way, shape, or form. And since it doesn't look like they'll be getting out of here any time soon, he's settled into the idea that he might as well focus on the present and enjoy what good moments they can scratch out of this shitty little life. 

Okay, he can't honestly be too mad about this. It sucks that they're trapped, but he's spent two solid weeks trapped in the jungle with Cougar before, and that was with a broken ankle and a concussion and no glasses, with enemy soldiers hunting them down to try and kill them, so this already has a huge leg up on that nightmare. At least here he has a house, and clean sheets, and a roommate, and a dog, and a general support network of neighbors and friends to rely on and socialize with. He's unreasonably fond of Cougar, it's true, but the guy isn't a great conversationalist, especially not when you're both fighting a raging fever and trying not to get perforated by a hail of bullets. 

He's decided to seize the moment, weather-wise, and get the washing finished. The soap they've managed to conjure up is a fucking far cry from some Tide back home, but it's good enough at getting general grime out of their sheets, and he's spent most of the afternoon churning a tub full of cotton fabric with a wooden dolly that he'd crudely whittled over the winter with a little instruction from some of the town residents who had actually used one before and not just seen them on Wikipedia. 

Once the sheets are as clean as he was going to get them and as wrung out as he can manage, it's time for hanging, which is how Jake ends up in the back yard by the chicken coop and rabbit hutch, Baby tagging along at his heels curiously as he starts to heft sopping wet bundles of white cotton up onto the clothes line, belting out a song at the top of his lungs like he's not in a more or less public space and people can actually hear him. 

"I want a Sunday kind of love" he croons at the dog, who cocks his head curiously to one side as Jake pretends the equally crudely-whittled clothespins in his hands are a microphone. "A love to last past Saturday night~"


Sixth Iteration Logs

April 2017

2 3 45 6 78
9 101112 1314 15
1617 18 19 20 21 22
2324 25 26 272829


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated 1 May 2017 12:15 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios