learned_to_die: <lj user="buckybear"> ([look] ill/wounded)
[personal profile] learned_to_die
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: The Stark Family Cabin
WHEN: August 15 and onward
OPEN TO: OTA; feel free to jump in at any point during his halluciations.
WARNINGS: None; will updated as needed

It had started with redness of the skin, first on Ned's hands. It spread like blood-red ink across the paper of his skin, up his arm towards his shoulder, down his back, around his torso. It made decades'-old battles scars scarlet and renewed, the pain of touch excruciating, as though the wounds had only just been made. And then, the heat. At first, he thought it a continued byproduct of the summer temperatures, but it was the absence of perspiration that had drawn his brows together in confusion and realization: he had gotten ill.

Half a fortnight later, having spent the majority of the time bed-ridden and unable to leave the confines of his room, the visions had started.

He’d first seen his siblings’ faces: Brandon, Benjen, Lyanna. He imagined Brandon’s death, simultaneously feeling the constriction of his airways as Brandon tried to rescue their father, and wakes to a coughing fit while gasping for air. Benjen he imagined in black, half-human and half-crow, taking to the skies and soaring back to The Wall. Lyanna, he had seen bloodied and ghostly pale, her trembling hands leaving crimson paintings against his skin with every touch, while the rage and pain and impending loss stormed within him.

Second, Robert’s face - glossy-eyed and slender, the way he’d been when they’d grown alongside each other under the care of Jon Arryn. He imagined them wandering the grounds of the Eyrie, practicing their fighting with one another, Robert daring him to draw closer and closer to the Moon Door. His half of these fabricated conversations are audible to anyone near enough - even through the closed door of his chambers. None of it makes any sense, especially out of context, though it’d be easy enough for someone familiar enough to surmise that Robert was on his mind.

Next, he’d seen visions of Catelyn at their wedding; the hatred and betrayal in her face when he’d revealed to her that he had returned from war with a dark-haired babe in tow, a newly born Robb still in her arms, which she clutched tighter to her breast; the way she’d peer up at him as they lay under their furs and in each other’s arms with only the soft glow of the fire as their audience; when he’d last seen her, outside of Littlefinger’s brothel in King’s Landing, the blue scarf wrapped over her fiery crown. He reaches for her, when he imagines her with him, hands and fingers fumbling in the air for a woman who no longer exists.

Then, he’d seen each of his children at varying stages of their lives, from birth to the last he’d seen of them: Robb at Winterfell, when Ned had left for King’s Landing; Sansa when he’d knelt at the steps of the Great Sept, silently praying for her rescue; Arya when he’d spotted her in the crowd, crouching by Baelor the Blessed, doing the only thing he could to keep her safe by signaling Yoren to take her into his custody; Bran, unconscious in his bed, unsure if he’d ever open his eyes again; Rickon in the yard at Winterfell, too young to understand the weight of the world and his father’s departure beyond a glaring absence; and, though not a child of his own creation, Jon at the crossroads to King’s Landing and The Wall, promising to tell him about his mother upon their next meeting. These memories are strong enough to make a weakened, unwell Ned weep, crying out for the family from which he’d been taken, his feverish mind no longer remembering he has four of them still with him, whether by fate or by the blessings of the Old Gods.

He floats in and out of consciousness, back and forth between the world of Westeros he’d left behind and the world of the village - his second chance - though he cannot seem to convince himself that the latter exists. He wonders if he’s returned to the Children of the Forest, to the Old Gods themselves, to the Weirwood back in the Godswood of Winterfell. All the while, the skin affected by the rash blisters and reddens, leaving smears of blood on the linens underneath - though, if there is one light in the darkness, the intensity of his hallucinations seems to negate the pain from the rash, and he seems blissfully unaware of the sores.
catchallthecats: (It's alright if you do it's fine)
[personal profile] catchallthecats
WHO: Arya
WHERE: The fountain, around town
WHEN: 7/23, mid-afternoon to evening

The Fountain
At least this time it wasn’t freezing out.

That didn’t stop Arya from cursing a blue streak as she was spluttering and grabbing onto the edge of the fountain to heave herself out, water splattering across the stonework as she pushed herself back to sit for the moment, taking stock of herself. Once she was convinced she was in one piece she moved to her feet, stopping only to lean back into the fountain to fish out the pack bobbing on the water’s surface.

She gave the bag a shake that sent water flying in fat droplets before slinging it over a shoulder by the strap. As she walked, she was dividing her attention for the moment between squeezing water out of her hair and scanning the area for familiar faces.

House #28

She didn’t bother knocking, just pushing the front door open to walk in. Either her family still lived here and all was well, or someone else did and things would get awkward quickly. But if that was the case, Arya honestly didn’t care. The only thing that made her being yanked to this strange place again was that so much of her family was there, especially those that they’d never see again back in Westeros. She simply didn’t know what she’d do if they’d gone since then.

“Is anyone here?”


20 Jul 2017 06:55 pm
learntthehardway: (106)
[personal profile] learntthehardway
WHO: Diana Prince and OPEN
WHERE: Fountain, Inn.
WHEN: Evening of July 20th and on
OPEN TO: Open to everyone
WARNINGS: N/A will update if needed

f o u n t a i n

    She felt as though she were floating, coolness surrounding her, caressing her skin. Slowly, she opened her eyes and jerked back realizing that she was emerged in water. She floundered for a moment, trying to figure out just how she got there but decided that getting to the surface was more important at the moment. Normally she loved swimming, but she couldn't think of how she'd ended up in.

    What stated at first as uncertain movements, turned into calm strokes as she pushed herself up towards the light dancing across the water's surface. She'd always been a sure swimmer, able to swim long distances, hold her breath for long periods of time. But now she found that her lungs were beginning to burn before she even got to the surface. She doesn't understand but as she shot up out of the water, she was gasping for breath.

    Diana was still gasping as she pushed her way over to the edge of the fountain she found herself in. She looked around and her eyebrows drew together and she realized that her surroundings are completely foreign to her. She dragged herself out of the water and the black clothing she has on feels heavy and water pools under her as she stands there, trying to make sense of what was happening. She pushed a wet, limp strand of hair out of her face and she shook her head. This was wrong but she knew she had to figure out where she was so she could get back home.

i n n

    She'd explored the village and hadn't really seen anything that would alert her to anything obviously out of place. Except not a lot of people seemed surprised to see a woman walking around sopping wet, carrying around some backpack she'd come out of the water wearing. She hadn't really tried talking to anyone and though she wanted answers, needed the time to pull herself together, to try and just figure it all out. She might not have known where is was, but she knew she needed to get out of there, to find a way back to where she belonged.

    She finally found her way to the inn, and honestly she probably should have gone there first. Inns had people and people meant information. Information meant a way out of there. She stepped inside, eyes blinking to adjust to the change of lighting and then she'd taking stock of the room, examining its occupants. She wanted to ask questions, to get answers but she was also hungry and a bit tired. She pushed that back though and rounded her shoulders and took a deep breath before heading towards the first person she sees.

    "Excuse me!" she called out to them. "Where is this place?"
pretendtoneedme: (running in the woods)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme
WHO: Everyone
WHERE: 6I's Town Hall
WHEN: July 10th
OPEN TO: Everyone who wants in. There will be one subheader for welcoming back the group and one for the actual meeting
WARNINGS: Nothing so far; please add headers in the comment subjects if something does come up that could be problematic

The return is, when everything is said and done, uneventful. The group who went to explore the break in the canyon walks back into the village in the early afternoon, laden down with most of the supplies they'd brought with them and without any obvious injury. There's some scratches, a couple bruises, but whatever had happened to seal them away from the village for a week definitely didn't happen to them, and they're not buzzing with any news so world-shattering that everyone needs to be collected and reported to at once. There's enough time for the group to separate and grab showers, clean clothes, and something to eat, while the word passes from person to person that the explorers have returned and that there's going to be a meeting right after dinner for them to explain what they've found and answer questions.

At the appointed time, the five of them are there, looking less ragged, and ready to talk. They've brought a few things back with them to show the others in the village, but all in all there's just not a lot to show about the other side that's different - except for that one, giant thing. But the non-changes are going to be shocking enough for most people, and decisions have to be made about what to do with the information they have now.
chosenbytheocean: (eeeeeee)
[personal profile] chosenbytheocean
WHO: Moana
WHERE: The Forest & The Inn
WHEN: July 5th - 15th
OPEN TO: Closed
WARNINGS: Fighting/Violence most likely...

The Inn - July 5th - 10th

Moana wasn't sure what to make of it. She had found the heart over a week before but hadn't thought to show it to anyone. She kept it in her grandmother's necklace which was now useful as well as a keepsake of the only family member who truly understood her.

She sat on the floor near the fire place. It was to hot to have the fire going but this had been Moana's seat since winter. She saw no reason to change that now. Itiiti, the little piglet, was snuggled against the side of her skirts, enjoying the feel of the grass around his round little body. She looked down at him briefly, smiling before she gently opened her necklace.

The heart dropped lightly into her palm, glowing a familiar green light.

"Why are you here?" She asked the heart as if it might be able to reply back to her. She'd notice that the strength of it's glow had been changing. Right before the earth quake and now she felt that it was dimming. Like a heart beat that was slowly reaching it's end. "Please. Please don't die. I need to return you to where you belong." Moana begged softly, curling her fingers protectively around the stone.

The Forest - July 8th - Bear

She knew that the heart brought trouble, Moana had seen it first hand on two separate occasions, but she hadn't thought that it would happen here. This village, this realm, felt so far removed from the world she knew. Surely no one knew what the heart was or what it could do.

She'd been wrong.

It still brought trouble to it's bearer though it was a little different from before. Moana had been walking through the forest, following behind Itiiti as the little pig sniffed out mushrooms and other eatable roots. She had a small basket with her that was half filled with things that she planned to bring back to the inn. With the crack in the rocks and the damage to the town, food that could travel seemed more important than before.

Her fingers sank into the earth as she dug up a handful of fungi. Itiiti bumped her elbow, sending Moana face first into the dirt. Her necklace popped open as she hit the ground and the glowing green heart rolled out of it's hiding place. Moana pushed herself up and reached for the stone. When she her fingers touched the smooth surface of the Heart she heard a roar echo threw the forest. The ground trembled and she thought it was another aftershock of the quake. It wasn't. The trees parted and a large black bear lumbered into view.

"Itiiti Run!" The piglet didn't need to be told twice. He squealed and took off into the woods. For anyone who ran into Itiiti he'd be too frightened to lead you back to his owner.

Moana scrabbled to her feet, wondering if she'd somehow stumble onto the bears home. Her basket of roots and mushrooms had fallen over and now sat a few feet to her left. Against all logical reason she reached down to try and gather up the food back into the basket. "Please stay away." Moana was used to monsters that could understand her and talk. She's never seen a bear before.

The Inn - July 15th
Place Holder. ooc: Heart looses it's glow. Unsure if Moana will have traveled to 7i by then or not. Pending how the meeting on July 10th goes. She wants to see the ocean as soon as she can. And try to get a boat there so that she can try and sail across the ocean. I might also have another prompt up where Moana is being chased by wolves on the 11th or 12th if anyone is interested in that.
notsocommon: (adventurous)
[personal profile] notsocommon
WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: 6I village, canyon breach, 7I village
WHEN: 2 - 10 July
OPEN TO: Bodhi Rook, Ned Stark, Mark Watney, Clint Barton
WARNINGS: None at this time.

As happened the last time an expedition was mounted, Helen found herself as part of a team to go and investigate something at the edge of the known world. This time, though, the known world had expanded to great degree and it seemed that the canyon that had hemmed them in and been the bane of all those trying to escape the last several months had rent in twain, leaving them with another side of the world to push forward and survey.

Of those she found herself traveling with, only Mark was truly familiar to her. She knew the others in passing, yes, but knowing faces and part of a name weren't the same as knowing someone and she hoped that they were as stalwart and competent as they seemed to be upon first glance. All of them seemed well aware of what such a trek was going to entail, at least, and Helen wasn't concerned that she'd end up having to carry a load bigger than she'd intended in asking them along.

She wished, as always, that she had supplies to be able to draw a map or make notes about the lay of the land beyond the breach. While she knew the forest and fields beyond the village well enough, everything beyond the canyon wall was going to be new territory entirely and she wanted some way to memorialize it for the others. She hoped that someone else had access to paper and pen, that someone would be willing to give up such a precious commodity for the good of the community and for the furthering of knowledge. Supplies gathered and goodbyes said, the hike was begun to the edge of the known world and into the great beyond.

"I have no idea what's beyond this breach," Helen said. "I cannot even speculate, since none of us have been able to climb it. Geology was never my strong suit."
truecaptain: (pic#7062781)
[personal profile] truecaptain
WHO: Kanata Shinonome
WHERE: fountain, around of the village
WHEN: June 14- onward
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as needed!

Read more... )
learned_to_die: <lj user="buckybear"> ([look] weirwood)
[personal profile] learned_to_die
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: In the woods near the Stark cabin.
WHEN: June 13
WARNINGS: None; will update as needed.

It had arrived in a box.

Ned had carried it to his room, careful and gentle, and left it at the foot of his bed until he'd returned to the house later that afternoon. He's received the mysterious gifts before - a cloak, some gloves, other assorted items - but this was a strange sort of weight. Neither heavy nor light, not muted in sound the way the clothes had been. And tall. The box had been taller than the others he'd received, and for a time upon his return, Ned eyed the thing with careful precision and consideration before even laying another finger on it.

He finds his movements, his very breath to be more laborious than normal in light of the sudden disappearance of his youngest daughter. He'd woken one morning to find simply that she'd vanished, seemingly evaporated into nothingness. He'd been warned many times over that such an event could take place and did take place with some regularity, but - he'd foolishly thought his family to be immune. Certainly, given the what they'd gone through, given the pain and suffering they'd already endured, the Old Gods would not see fit to separate them once more.

What a fool he'd been.

After some deliberation and quiet self-muttering, when he feels the time of curiosity and thought has passed, he removes the lid, peering down into the chamber. His brows lift with surprise, eyes alight for the first time in days with intrigue and something vaguely resembling happiness. He reaches out and pulls out a neatly bundled sapling. To those not of Westeros, it might appear to be any other tree - something similar to birch, as he's learned, but to those from his homeland, they'd know the sight of a Weirwood immediately.

He perches himself on the end of his bed as he inspects it, slowly turning it in his hands. It feels real, true. There aren't any illusions he can find. He worries for a moment that having kept it in the box for so many hours might've damaged or dried out the roots, so - now, with a focal point outside of the grief and mourning he carries with him in his broken, shattered heart - he hesitates not a second longer before making his way outside of the cabin and a bit further down the path, where there are no more cabins to be found. He knows that, over time, the thing will grow great and strong - he needn't encroach on his neighbor's territory, even in the name of the Old Gods.

Ned places the sapling on the ground carefully before leaving and returning with a variety of tools: namely, spades of different lengths and sizes. At once, he pours his sorrow into the repeated piercing of the earth and displacing of soil, cursing the Old Gods under his breath for leaving him a weirwood instead of his daughter.
pretendtoneedme: (crossing the fields)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme
WHO: Everyone! It's a mingle!
WHERE: The mill, and the river next to the mill
WHEN: June 13-14
OPEN TO: Anyone! Tag around, tag in, tag things!
WARNINGS: Nothing for now, please warn for content in comment titles
STATUS: All of the Opens

Word had spread in the usual way, one person mentioned it to another, that person mentioned it to a third, and fourth, and so forth and so on. The mill's almost repaired - or, more specifically, it's reached the point where it needs more than one person working on it in order to get it done. Clint wasn't too proud to say this job was above one person's skills, and so he'd designated two days as "group work" days to finish everything that still had to be done beyond some superficial things. As weird as it was to think about, the river going down actually helped with this, since it exposed some outdoor components that needed maintenance and allowed people to work on them without drowning themselves.

The wheel itself needed some repairs, mainly in some of the blades that had rotted after sitting in the water for so long, as well as getting as much algae scraped off the wood as possible. The frame of the gate that isolated the wheel from the flow of the river had been well-built of the same stone as the mill itself and was sturdy, but the rope of the gate itself had broken at some point and the gate had fallen into the river, so it needed replacing. Inside the mill, the grindstones had come out of alignment and the upper one needed to be reseated; the hopper and feeding chute for the grain had been smashed when the demon hail had punched through the roof, and new ones needed to be hoisted up and secured in place. Salvaged scraps from the destroyed houses would do well enough for all of those and the parts had been built; now they just needed to be installed. The connecting belts between the gears had already been replaced with "new" ones made of strips of extra blankets; presumably the original leather ones had disintegrated. Every tool kit in storage at the inn and most of the scraps and salvaged nails Clint had scrounged from the destroyed houses had been hauled down to provide a supply source, along with a few of the ropes or rope-like things and a couple of the first aid kits - just in case. There were a few other issues that wouldn't interfere with the actual mill workings (a couple of hail holes in the roof and one or two other things), so they could be addressed or not as people chose.

Anyone who wanted to show up and help was welcome, as long as they knew which end of a hammer to hit things with. Water to drink wouldn't be an issue since they were right next to the river, but if anyone wanted to bring snacks or any sort of food it would be appreciated by those working. It was still pretty hot, though, so everyone needed to be on alert for people overexerting themselves and potential heatstroke. Anyone who saw someone about to faint or getting dizzy would have been told to make sure the afflicted person stopped working and sat down in the shade with a drink of water. And of course there was always the option of a nice swim as well.
3ofswords: (sleep)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 39; Riverbank, southeast bend
WHEN: June 5
OPEN TO: Credence + 2 at the house; 2 more at the river
WARNINGS: Edited as needed

tl;dr )

at the house

Kira feeds the animals before he gets to work, bringing all of them out to the porch to sort through his materials. Aurora flops in her corner with one bowl of water, and Hoshi drags himself between the sun and another, until enough water has evaporated and the heat is enough that he nests himself down into the cool ceramic. It’s already hot--the sun doesn’t stay down long enough for it to cool one day to the next--but there’s as much shade on the porch as there is in the house, and what breeze comes through the canyon can actually be felt.

He settles his materials into a few piles: pulled and reclaimed shingles, some decidedly not from his own roof; stripped siding, old boards, and most important--nails. He’d settled into a long and silent fight with Casey over the ransacking of Ren’s old house, a fight Casey had won with his disappearance, leaving Kira to finish what he’d started. Leaving Kira with an understanding of the young man he’d only thought to have in his presence--when the world leaves you alone, sentimentality isn’t an option. Ren and Jyn had known that as well, though Jyn had seemed as unable to fully shake it as Kira is.

His hands are already blistered and he’s gone inside for more water before he’s even ready to head for the roof. He’d stripped more nails from the boards with a hammer from the cache at the inn, used his knife to hold them at the heads and hammer them closer to straight. It’s too hot for the work he means to do, but he can’t do it in the few hours of dark they’re getting, and he doesn’t know when the next freak storm is going to tear through. He’s not going to wait on someone to come along and do it for him--catch him fish, bring him wood; carry him back to the inn, take him away from the village when he’s sunk too deep in other people’s problems to see his own.

He’s not coming back. None of them are, and it’s time to stop needing them to.

Working against the heat, Kira carries his materials up to the attic in shifts, doing his best to splash water on his face and hydrate between. The only reason the space hasn’t become a very big, triangular oven is the ventilation of some very noticeable holes, sunlight streaming through to the rafters. It takes some trial and error to brace the boards on the sloping roof with his shoulder, the pockets of his overalls full of old nails, and hammer them into place, but he doesn’t think he’s doing too bad a job, balancing on the beams and boarding up the holes from the inside.

The only problem is how much hotter it gets as the sun rises, and the holes close. By the time he’s sitting half-out the small window, dragging his shingles out and flipping them onto the roof for the last steps, his arms are shaking and it’s more of a struggle than ever to catch his breath. When he tries to pull himself further out to follow the shingles up onto the roof, he wobbles enough to rethink finishing the project today. Instead, he slides his legs out to hang himself down, using the last of his strength to lower himself clumsily back to the porch.

Once there, he slides down on the steps, shoulder against the support beam, and keeps sliding. Down onto his side, then rolled onto his back, back on the porch and legs sprawled on the steps. At his far-flung hand, Hoshi lifts his head and sets to cawing in his small, croaking voice. Aurora shuffles up and he can feel her tongue scraping the side of his head as the bright world dims to black.

at the river

The sun has slipped close enough to the canyon walls that the shadows have lengthened, the world dimmed enough beneath the trees that Kira chances a walk. He’s still shaky, but his brush with heat sickness hasn’t eased his restlessness, his need to prove himself more than the soft civilian who gets pneumonia in a snowstorm and heat stroke in a drought, isn’t good for defending himself from even the fucking weather.

If anyone sees fit to chide him, at least he can say he stayed by plenty of water. Not that there’s as much to go around: the old edge of the river is cracked earth and smooth, exposed pebbles. It stinks, too--the fish left on the high banks aren’t very big, but they’ve been out long enough to go to rot.

Hoshi puts up enough fuss over the exposed treasures glinting under the faded light that Kira sets him down from his perch on his shoulder. His wing seems to have healed, and he has most of his feathers--but he still holds it stiff, and Kira isn’t sure it healed right. He might prove more than a quick rescue and release, no one to teach him to fly, not enough of the right feathers yet to start trying. The little bird picks at the stones, even a couple silver-scaled minnows, but eventually he finds something that captures Kira’s attention as well.

“What have you got there,” he asks, crouching gingerly at the new edge of the water, scooping the little crow back before even he can be swept away in its diminished currents. Moving aside the rest of the pebbles with his own hand, he picks up a dull metal arrowhead, antiquated in shape but so clean, he wonders if it came from the blacksmith up-stream.

[Kira has fainted from heat-sickness in the first prompt, but your character is welcome to come along at any point after he goes out on his porch and interrupt or help.]

iron_beneath_beauty: ([Lyanna] Terror)
[personal profile] iron_beneath_beauty
WHO: Lyanna Stark
WHERE: The Fountain, the Inn
WHEN: May 13th
WARNINGS: Mentions of death, childbirth, war, blood

"Promise me, Ned." "I promise, Lya."

The Fountain - Closed to Jon

Read more... )

The Inn

Not the Seven Hells, some place that pulled people from different worlds. She had to keep repeating those words to herself as she rested in front of the fire. Jon had helped her home, letting her rest and recover what little strength she could. The ache and fever were still there, but it wasn't as great a concern as it had been in the Tower. She wasn't dead apparently and this place was real.

With a bit of assistance, she was taken to the inn, surrounded by more people than she had been in over a year. The noise around her was soothing and the fire was warm. In only a year, she had grown used to heat and felt repelled by the cold. So much of her life had been snow and ice, she missed the dragon's flame.

Others moved around her and spoke, but they seemed separate from her consciousness. She felt so tired and run down, emotionally and physically. The fire cast shadows around her, the crackling as soothing as any lullaby. Just as she started to doze, someone took the seat next to her, murmuring some words at her. She turned her head, bringing the person into focus. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
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.
thekittenqueen: (Default)
[personal profile] thekittenqueen
WHO: Margaery
WHERE: #4 Bungalow, Woods, the police station
WHEN: 4/3 - 4/4
WARNINGS: Nothing, but will update if needed

The Woods

The mornings were much the same as ever. With winter slowly coming to a close, it meant that many of the plants and flowers would bloom again, allowing Margaery to gather with the same fervency and delight as before. While her walk through the woods had been to collect kindling and winter fruit, she made a point to stop by many of her favored places to inspect how the plants were faring. Were there buds yet? How far along were they?

It wasn't uncommon to hear noises in the woods. There were others more often about now, many hunters or villagers exploring. When she heard a twig snap behind her, Margaery expected to see a familiar face. Instead, a deer slowly walked from the underbrush, sniffing the ground and listening for potential predators. Margaery rooted herself, hardly daring to move or breathe.

She could sense someone nearing behind her. Taking the risk, she raised her hand, signalling for them to stop. "I have never seen a doe this close before." She whispered.

The Police Station (Outside)

The usual sounds of animals protesting filled the air as Margaery opened the station doors to allow her animals out, her dog Gilbert herding them towards the fields where they could graze. There was still no large pen for her to let them roam about in, much to her chagrin. However, this was better. Gilbert had become diligent in keeping the animals in check, ushering back a sheep that strayed too far or yapping at a cow that lingered too long in the grass. It was pleasant, comforting.

She watched from a reasonable distance, scanning the fields for wolves or any other predators. She counted her animals in her head, tallying the amount she saw ever half hour. Many of the sheep were growing fat, a few pregnant with lambs. She would need to find a place for them all soon.

As someone passed her, Margaery tore her eyes away for a moment to smile at the nearby figure. "It is finally becoming warm again!" She announced happily. "We can begin planting again and think more about what we wish to do with the animals."

#4 Bungalow - Closed to Ned

It was common routine for Margaery to work on her weaving once her animals had finished grazing until the sun could no longer provide her proper light. The cold weather no longer hindered her from sitting on her porch, listening to the sounds of the world around her. She had fond memories of spinning during the summer, now she could weave during the spring. There were birds in the distance, optimistic for the coming warmth. Gilbert was at her feet, worn out from his work and napping as she lightly sang "The Bear and the Maiden Fair."

It was only when she came to the chorus that she noticed Lord Stark nearing her home. They had walked together earlier in the morning, having explored the woods and simply spoken about what he needed to learn. Once they returned to the village, they had parted ways and she had left to let her animals graze. She hadn't paid much mind to what the Starks might be doing, but she assumed they'd be together. Not that it wasn't pleasant to find one Stark or another turning up at her door.

She paused in her work, rubbing her hands on her skirts. "Back so soon?"
yorkist: (Default)
[personal profile] yorkist
WHO: Bess
WHERE: Fountain/House #51
WHEN: 4/1 + onwards
WARNINGS: Aside from maybe some amusing 15th century cursing, nothing.
STATUS: backtagging


Fountain ━ April 1 )


Village + House #51 ━ April 2 & beyond )
chosenbytheocean: (Water explosions)
[personal profile] chosenbytheocean
WHO: Moana
WHERE: Cliffs & Inn
WHEN: March 17th - 18th
WARNINGS: bruising, that's it.

It doesn't look too high. )

Inn – Open

Moana had decided take the time to heal after Ned found her at the base of the cliff. She was lucky that she didn’t get stung; however she was bruised from head to toe and sore. Her plan didn’t work, which was fine, because now she knew not to do that.

She spent the next day or so around the inn, wearing a tank top with the provided navy blue scrub bottoms. This gave anyone looking a clear view of the lightning scar across her shoulder and back as well as the dark purple and black bruises that trailed from the base of her neck, all the way down to the heel of her foot. Sitting was difficult but Moana could be found standing next to the fire, her arm leaning against the wall to keep her upright while she focused on the task in front of her.

She had decided to work on a new project. Making long strings, like nets and ropes, was boring. Instead, Moana started to work on something more complicated. She used the same milkweed fibers as before. Her fingers nimbly dipped and weaved with the threads creating a lace like pattern that she hoped to turn into a necklace, bracelet or anklet.
assertiveness: (73)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: The fountain/around the village, and Stella and Peggy's house
WHEN: Through March 17th
OPEN TO: OTA, with a closed thread for Peggy
WARNINGS: Stella's increasingly feverish and delusional. Will update if needed.
STATUS: Ongoing

the fountain ; ota
The little jaunt into the woods with Graves, while educational after a fashion, had only left Stella with more questions, a so far harmless sting from a firefly, and a good deal of concern. That one of their own appears to have gone missing is only the latest in a series of difficulties that have plagued them for months, and there's a certain degree of frustration that, for all her skills developed over more than a decade of detective work, she can't do anything about it. Every time she thinks she's getting somewhere, she runs into a dead end. It seems to be a theme, here.

Somewhere, in some distant part of the world, if he didn't bleed out on Slieve Dove, she thinks Paul Spector must be laughing at her.

She's been back from the woods for a few hours when she starts to notice something feels off. Not in the way that this entire place feels strange, but physically, a creeping feeling of being overheated and oversensitive, like even the light fabric of her cotton blouse and trousers is just slightly too much. It's got nothing to do with the weather, which is cold and damp and foggy, and Stella realizes that somewhere along the line she's taken ill. It doesn't as yet occur to her to connect what she's feeling with having been stung; she tries to push through it, stubbornly, as she would were she on an important investigation at home and unable to allow herself to take even a day away from her work. She's not often ill, and the discomfort of even a minor loss of control over her own body is acute.

Stella decides to attempt going for a walk to clear her head. For a little while it almost works, but the rising fever tires her quickly, and she has to sit down, easing herself carefully onto the edge of the fountain. She seems alert, mostly, but she's pale and unmistakably much warmer than normal were one to get close enough to her to notice.

the house ; for peggy
A day or so later, and Stella's fever is in full swing: she's pale, sweating, shaking with chills, and too exhausted to walk more than a few feet. She's been trying to drink water, but her appetite is gone; she's not sure she's even eaten since lunchtime the previous day.

She's seeing things: not full-blown hallucinations, but shadows from the corner of her peripheral vision that make her startle, sometimes reaching for the weight of a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster that's not there. Eventually she finds herself unable to do anything but sequester herself in her room, sitting on her bed with her back against the wall, shivering even with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

There's panic and fear clawing at her throat unbidden, the loss of control an awful violation, and it's all she can do to hold those feelings down with what little remains of her self-control, her composure torn to fine shreds of what it was only a matter of hours previous. Stella thinks of trying to tell someone what's going on, ask for help — from Peggy, perhaps, but right now the idea of trusting anyone even that much seems impossible. She's all too conscious of the fact that she's being watched, listened to, and who's to say anything she says or does won't go straight back to whoever's running this whole goddamned experiment?

She should run, really; she should fucking run before this gets any worse, but she's miserable and too exhausted to move. It doesn't even occur to her that she forgot to lock the bedroom door and anyone could come right in.
onlyeverdoubted: (you are all unreasonable)
[personal profile] onlyeverdoubted
WHO: Bodhi
WHERE: Around town, the inn
WHEN: Forward-dated to March 18
WARNINGS: None, will update

The storms didn't bother him a bit--he had far more on his mind when he first arrived, and wild weather has always been a bit of a specialty of his. The odd little flickers of light excited his curiosity, but he's known planets with much odder bits of phenomena. The soft, wet cold is just as unusual by his standards. Fog is kind of fun. Not, it turns out, the best thing to wander into alone, not when he can't trust his memory to race away to unsafe places, when shifting shapes and unpredictable dimness can so easily evoke... Well, he learns not to stay too far after the first time out.

Aside from that, he doesn't give the little lights or insects or weather much thought. He has Jyn's crisis to deal with, after all, and while he has yet to really find his niche, he's always intent on staying busy, contributing enough with odd jobs to justify the time he spends meandering physically and mentally. He doesn't try to avoid the little lights.

He notices the fever itself. He was a sickly kid, and he's not particularly sturdy now, but what he lacks in immune system, he makes up for in resilience. He moves a little more slowly, takes a few more breaks, but he keeps going. The other symptoms come on more slowly, and these, Bodhi doesn't notice. He's always sure he's doing everything wrong and that if anyone knew the truth they'd hate him. He glances to the side too quickly to see shifting shadows that couldn't be there more often than he'd like to admit. It's a little bit of a bad day, but he's not feeling well. It'll work itself out.

There are slips he doesn't usually make, though, or not without checking carefully to see if anyone's around. Talking to himself--a low, constant murmur, hard to make out any individual pieces. Drumming his fingers in complicated patterns against each other and whatever satisfying surface is nearby (actually, he's done that all his life, but if people notice they sometimes ask, and he gets flustered by having no answer). Long moments that, left uninterrupted, stretch on and on of just being... absent. It's so easy to slip back under, let bor gullet have him. Keeping his head together is the hard part.

There's nowhere he really does belong, and he winds up in the trees and the fog over and over again, but once in a while he gets lost near the inn, his usual base of operations.
3ofswords: (facepalm)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira
WHERE: Anywhere between the canyon walls and the edges of the Village; The Fountain
WHEN: Evening/Sunset, March 15
WARNINGS: Flying insects with intent to harm
STATUS: Now closed to new threads

the woods

If not for the cloud of insects herding him, Kira isn’t sure how long it would have taken him to find the village again. His cards were back in the woods, somewhere in the fog, and the creatures spared him no time to choose directions--only cut him off in glowing streaks, stretching across openings in the trees until he was forced to turn for another. Once he was darting in what seemed the acceptable direction, they would pull back into their teeming mass, gather, and dive at him again, on an arc that dragged the ugly, static noise of them terrifyingly close to his head.

He’d dreamed of being consumed in a roar of fire, concussive heat, for a third of his life. They should only be fireflies, should only cast small lights in the fog, but at every cluster and pass, there was fire in their glow, a roar in their wings, a prickling terror. He wondered if their touch might burn, if their rounded bodies hid sharper parts.

They’d been pretty, like the lush moss around the spring, when he’d found them in the narrow cave. His exploration of the foggy woods had taken him north and west, until the dirt had become chipped stone, and his hands were touching the cold surface of the walls. Trailing along it, hoping to find the river and follow it home, he’d come across a natural crack--some feat of water and winter cold--that he’d just been able to slip inside. The passage had carried on to a slight corner, starting to widen, and the blue-dark walls had been dotted with winking lights like a night sky.

Kira had stood transfixed, another moment to wonder if there weren’t small rewards in the shit-river they were swimming against the current of--until the lights had drifted from the walls, forming the buzzing cloud he now ran from.

When he’d backed out of the narrow passage and into the open, the fireflies had streamed out after, and he’d lost his coat fending off their first attack. Sweeping it through their ranks had bought him a few moments of time, but had cost him the protective layer, his knife, and his cards. Down to his dark scrubs, he’d bolted into the forest, dodging and pushing himself around trees as they appeared through the fog. The paths this far out were unclear, but they seemed intent to steer him in some direction--perhaps the river, perhaps home. All he could hope was that a shelter or body of water was on their trajectory, and that his aching legs and lungs didn’t drag him down before he found it.

the fountain 

As the sun sets against the blooming canopy, new leaves briefly gold above the fog, Kira breaks the trees at the edge of the fountain path. His faded scrubs are torn by branches, his hair damp with fog and sweat. His bare arms are striped with scratches and scrapes, but he still flees the dreaded burn or bite of the insects, the cloud of them building behind him in a final coil before a strike.

With one backwards glance, he carries on his breathless momentum, dragging one cold and cutting breath into his lungs before he pushes himself up, a long leap over the stone lip of the fountain, crashing through the water in a splash that reaches up as the fireflies swipe down. Lungs already popping from the exertion, he snatches only moments of cold sanctuary before he breaks the surface with a gasp, but the insects are already following their arc up into the sky, dispersing out over the trees.

The water is too cold for comfort, a shock to his exhausted body, but he makes no immediate move to pull himself out. He sucks down another stinging breath, letting himself float on his back, staring at a lone star appearing against the purples and reds of sunset. “What the fuck,” he sighs in the exhale, body slipping higher and lower in the rippling water as he catches his breath.

[Feel free to join his flight from the fireflies in the first part, or find him in the fountain in the second; again, if you want to use this as an opportunity to get stung, feel free, but Kira is bite-free.]
learned_to_die: ([moment] the end)
[personal profile] learned_to_die
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: Fountain/Around the Village
WHEN: March 10, afternoon into early evening
OPEN TO: OTA (Separate thread for Sansa (continuation from TDM))
WARNINGS: Mention of death/execution (will update as needed)

// Arrival - The Fountain //
The last thing Ned could remember was the chilling, screaming sound of approaching death as the executioner used his own weapon against him. After that -

He'd ended up here. Clawed his way out of the fountain, felt the press of hard earth against his back as he stared at a sky bluer than any he'd seen before. He'd thought he'd died, been transported to some sort of afterlife, but it would've been too good to be true. Instead, he'd found himself in a village, of sorts. There were similarities, to his beloved home of Winterfell, but also -


His belabored breathing is mottled with violent, hacking coughs - many of which force water up from his lungs to saturate the ground beneath him. He rolls over onto his side, presses a palm to the ground, forces himself up onto his knees. As he brings the back of his hand to his mouth, he feels the strange tug of the fabric around his body -

It isn't the leather he's used to, nor does it even vaguely resemble his usual garments - the ones he'd loved and left behind up North: the furs, the pelts, leather delicately woven and dark as the frozen earth. Even the pieces he'd had to wear in the warmer King's Landing are missing. He then feels the tightness of straps against his shoulders, realizes he's carrying a satchel of some sort on his back. He thinks to remove it, to investigate, but first, he has to figure out how to answer a very pressing question:

Where in the Old Gods' names is he?

// Later - The Village //
He's determined to explore more of the town, now that he's forced himself to scout the area, taking advantage of the cover of a number of trees to finally bend a knee, investigate the contents of the strange satchel he'd arrived with. He'd also taken the opportunity to peel away the saturated clothing for the dry set he'd found - marvelling at how much quicker it was to dress as opposed to before with layer upon layer. Perhaps there's something to the simplicity of it all.

He tries to retrace his steps back towards the fountain or what he believes to be the center of the town, pack lazily slung over one shoulder, long tendrils of hair still dripping and soaking the shoulders of his shirt.


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