warriorborn: (easycompany-benny-157)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Backdated to June 20
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: adolescent fumblings of a sexual nature

If his Kate is to be believed (and she generally is), they've been here almost a year. Benedict has not been keeping track of the days, having not taken up the habit when he arrived and only thinking of it weeks later, ultimately deciding not to bother since he'd missed the first few dozen days and it seemed pointless after that. He remembers he arrived in what he'd been told was Summer, although it was far less hot at his arrival than it is these days. Is there a season hotter than Summer? There must be, as they are living in it. The endless, relentless sunshine has been slowly baking their habble like an oven, and when it is safe to do so — namely in the privacy of their own rooms — Benedict has taken to wearing very little clothing at all.

It seems pointless, when he and Kate have been living as husband and wife in all but name for months, although he cannot quite shake the little thrill it gives him, the illusion of breaking some kind of taboo, lounging around nearly naked with a girl he's made no promise to. A promise without a ring is worth very little, after all.

Perhaps one day.

If he thinks himself hot, he can't imagine how Kate must feel, wrapped up in her corsets and petticoats all day. Sometimes he thinks she's even more eager than he to retire at night (or what passes as night these days), just so she can peel out of her clothes and flop about their room as uselessly as he is, dressed in their underwear and blowing moist air across each other's skin in a vain attempt to cool down.

Watching her pin up her hair again to keep it off her neck, he's struck with the very strong desire to reach out and touch her, to slide his sun-darkened hands across her pale skin and perhaps follow their path with his lips. The fact he can see her sweating stays his hand, though. He is not so squeamish to find a little sweat distasteful, but considering how much he himself is perspiring, he can take a guess that his touch might not be so welcome after all.

"Sweetling," he rumbles, his head lolling lazily as he props it up with one palm, sprawled across their unmade bed as he hopes in vain for a little breeze to come seeping through the window. "Sometimes I think you do this just to tease me." He's lying, of course, understanding that she would no more want her hair pressed wet and warm against the back of her neck than he would, but watching her sitting at the vanity, her body on easy display, arms lifted and back arched as she fusses with her hair and pins it up high, tries the very depth of his patience. "If this heat doesn't lift, I'm going to have to move into a spare room to avoid temptation."
fishermansweater: (Actual human dolphin)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHERE: The waterfall
WHEN: During the hot weather in late May
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: PROBABLY NAKED. cw your warnings in individual threads.
STATUS: Open. THIS IS A MINGLE, have at it, tag around, you know what to do. If you want Finnick, let me know in the comment subject!

He wouldn't actually say it was really hot yet, but it's definitely getting to the sort of temperatures that make Finnick miss swimming. There's no substitute for the sand of a beach underfoot, the reassuring roar of the surf, the taste of salt in the air, but there is at least water here, tumbling down from the waterfall and flowing through the canyon until it disappears into the rocks to the south. And he knows from constantly checking his fish traps that the water is deliciously cool.

He's tested out a few spots along the river for swimming, and it's good to be in the water again, after being kept out of it for so long by the harshness of the winter.  Not swimming doesn't feel right to him, and it never has. He's never spent this long somewhere with a winter this cold, and he can't remember ever going this long without swimming. So Finnick's been testing the water out since before it was probably what most people would consider to be warm enough to swim. It had helped that he and Annie had some gifts to hunt for in the river, but those have long been found, and now it's just for relaxation.

The calmest, most relaxing place he's found so far for swimming in the river is the pool at the foot of the waterfall, where the water plunges into the canyon crisp and cool from the heights of the cliffs. It's deep around the falls, and it's big enough to swim, and Finnick spends most of the hottest parts of the day there.

So whenever he hears someone talking about the heat while he's dropping food off in the village, he suggests they try the waterfall pool. Word's likely to get around, so he won't be entirely surprised to find other people stopping by the falls.

When they do, they're likely to find him swimming around the deep part near the falls, stripped down to his underwear and, from the grin on his face, having the time of his life. It's clear just from looking at him that he's good at this, moving through the water with a confidence and grace more like to a sea-creature than a man. He's in such a good mood that he even calls out to greet many of the people who approach.

Of course, he's not the guardian of the waterfall: everyone's welcome to stop by whether he's there or not. Once or twice, there's even a moose to be seen standing at the edge of the pool taking a long, relaxing drink.
warriorborn: (easycompany-benny-18)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The beehives/surrounding area
WHEN: Backdated to May 5
WARNINGS: beeeeeeeeees 🐝
STATUS: ongoing

For the gift-giving day — Christmas, as some had called it — Benedict had been given multiple sets of beekeeping equipment. A bonnet, gloves, a full suit to protect himself. He'd been quite touched by the thoughtfulness of it; clearly even people he did not speak to very much knew enough about him to know how protective he felt of their makeshift apiaries, one order of business he knew how to take care of without any instruction at all. 

Every now and then he'd idly wish for a smoker, but he'd managed to make do just fine by wrapping grass and leaves and herbs in a tight bundle and charring the end and waving that over the bees as he checked their hives, and while it wasn't as effective as a purpose-built smoker, it worked well enough that he had managed to make do. Bees do not think or see the way humans do, but he likes to think that they've spent enough time together, the hives and he, that they've grown used to each other, and Benedict has taken to tending to them without bothering to do much in the way of covering himself. He's been stung enough times in his life that it hardly registers anymore, and his body doesn't react with the same angry swelling as it had when he was a novitiate monk at the Temple. 

As is his routine, he heads out to the apiaries mid-morning after the clean-up from breakfast was completed to check on how the bees are faring. Much to his pleasure, he can hear the bees buzzing even before he rounds the corner. What he doesn't expect, though, is to see the bees swarming. The air is thick with them, fat little yellow and black bodies bobbing everywhere, and he can already see them converging on a nearby branch, most likely clustering around their new queen to keep her safe and warm while they look for a new home. 

Whooping with surprised joy, Benedict turns on his heel and runs full-tilt back towards the Inn, careening through the door and taking the stairs up to the room he shares with Kate two at a time, shouting nonsensically about his bees, returning in short order with his beekeeping suit and a skep he'd been building throughout the winter. 

The suit gets dumped unceremoniously on the ground when Benedict makes it back out to the bees, abandoned in favor of just getting on with things, and he immediately shifts from the flat-out run to a much more sedate amble so he doesn't agitate the bees. They aren't aggressive at the moment, busy doing important bee business, so he doesn't expect to be stung much, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. 

Carefully laying down the tea towel he'd tucked into the skep when he finished it some weeks ago, Benedict positions it beneath the swarm and then holds the skep directly below the branch before tapping it sharply a few times, knocking the bees into the woven grass receptacle. 

"There you go, my lovelies," he coos at them, seemingly oblivious to the bees buzzing about his head, using his bare hands to carefully brush any stragglers into the skep. "You don't have to go far for your new home." 
fightsinheels: (Default)
[personal profile] fightsinheels
WHO: Isabelle Lightwood
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Backdated to May 1st
WARNINGS: Drug withdrawal

For awhile, she'd been fine. She'd thought that, maybe, something about landing here in the village had done something to her system, saving her from the nasty effects that the yin-fen left behind. Something about portal travel, or ending up in some alternate time or dimension or wherever the hell they are. Whatever the case, she was pleased to not have to worry about it, to not have to face the facts of her mistakes. But perhaps it had simply been delayed, adrenaline from a series of chaotic events (arriving, the feast and the sicknesses, that thing that she's so sure was a demon attack) keeping her going.

It's caught up with her now. She spends the night tossing and turning in her room at the Inn, unable to fall asleep, unable to bat away the anxiety gnawing at her mind. This place is hard to adjust to, she reasons, and she's used to falling asleep to the sounds of the city outside, and waking up in her beautiful bedroom in the Institute. But the sleeplessness continues, as does the anxiety and agitation, leaving her tired and cranky. The pain begins to set in, and that's when she can't deny it any longer.

This isn't homesickness, and she hasn't caught a cold, either. This is withdrawal from the yin-fen, finally sneaking up on her and making its attack.

For awhile, she stays holed up in her room, buried beneath a pile of blankets. Every part of her burns and aches; her bones feel bruised and brittle, her skin like there's been a fire ignited beneath its surface. Still, she shivers like she can't seem to get warm, like there's ice in her very core. The worst part is, she knows if the drug was in reach, she'd take it in an instance.

There's nothing worse than growing up strong, becoming a force to reckon with, a resilient force of nature, just to have one mistake give reminder of how weak you really are. Dependent on something that anyone could hold over her head.

After awhile, she emerges from her room, looking a lot like she's come down with something — color drained from her face, dark circles beneath her eyes, appearing ragged and worn. Bringing one of her blankets with her, she builds a fire in the fireplace downstairs, pulling a chair right up in front of it and curling up in a cocoon of fabric. It might be the very beginning of May, too warm out to warrant a fire, but all she wants is to warm up, to feel a little bit better.
3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHEN: May 1st, morning to afternoon
OPEN TO: Multi starter - Graves, Sonny, and 3 others
WARNINGS: Dealing with power loss, finally leaving the house after Obscurial Plot

Graves Starter )

Inn (Limit 3)

There's nothing to do but keep calm, put some shoes on his feet, and test the absent feeling on someone who didn't just have a smoke monster burst from their being and destroy a building. Maybe the creature is simply excised, and he built his sense of Credence on its presence, he can't place him in the house without it. Perhaps Bodhi simply wasn't home, asleep in a chair at the inn, or out in the woods, or already tending the fields with a friend.

It can't all just be gone--muted as his powers have been, it's like waking up suddenly unable to see the color blue, unable to taste, a register of sound that was previously audible gone silent.

It's so silent. The walk to the inn is a tense affair, as if all the bird and insect song has died, warning of something worse in the trees. There's no one here. There's nothing guiding his feet but the choice to visit the inn, and that's as strange as the sense that he's the last person left alive. It's enough that he shoves bodily through the front door of the inn, rather than the kitchen door he tends to slip through, and calls out to the kitchens and pub, desperate to hear a voice, "Is anyone here?"

Sonny starter )

[This is the first time Kira's really been out and about since the Obscurial Plot meeting and subsequent search, so feel free to tag in and discuss that or the lack of powers!]
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.
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."

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.
lastofthekellys: (light and dark and pretty)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 10th April
WARNINGS: TBA as needed

Spring has arrived, warming the air and seemingly to banish all that dreadful, dangerous fog. Some part of Kate thinks that it should be autumn, but she's not in any of the Australian colonies and everything is backwards here. Backwards and strange and draining. The winter was hard for many, many reasons, and spring hasn't been off to a brilliant start with disappearances and biting insects. Not just disappearances, others have moved out of the Inn. Which she'd been expecting as the weather turned more habitable, but the combination with disappearances means Kate is feeling a little lost and uncertain.

At least she's patched things up with Benedict, thank God.

But as self-destructive as she can be (and has been, over winter, with the access to drink), Kate knows there are still things to be done. Today after the daily village lunch is cleared and the volunteers are cleaning the kitchen, she takes herself to the verandah at the front of the Inn with some sewing. For all the weather is warming and based off last year (oh God, oh God, has it been so close to a year?) it'll get hot even by her standards, clothes are wearing out. There's more farming to be done, more repairs and more building, and what they have will be wearing out.

Today, she has some of the rabbit leather and is stitching together simple fingerless gloves to help protect palms from rough work. She can make clothes themselves, as is evidenced by the fact that she sits there in a long brown skirt with a petticoat underneath and an undyed long-sleeved blouse with some simple embroidery, but those she has to be asked to make. The working gloves are a project she's assigned herself.

And, as is usual, as Kate works, she sings. Nothing more recent than 1883, and usually folk songs, traditional songs. Some sad, some sweet or sly, but all sung clearly and with the air of someone who is keeping herself occupied.
warriorborn: (Default)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: March 23
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly specifically, anyone else who wants to come hang out in the kitchen
WARNINGS: so many feelings
STATUS: ongoing

It's been over a month. A whole month of sleeping in Kira's room, of avoiding Kate's eyes, of trying to keep himself as busy as possible when there still wasn't much to do. 

It's difficult, being helpful in the Inn, since any and all chores he might set his eye on would run a high risk of having him bump into Kate, and they've been avoiding speaking to one another since their fight in the kitchen, the night Benedict burned his arm. His arm has healed, only slightly-pink and shiny skin left to mark his stupidity, but his relationship with Kate was not so easily mended. (Perhaps it might have been, had he been brave enough to step forward and apologize, but Benedict hadn't been able to find the words to say what he wanted to say, and then too much time has dragged on for any attempt to be plausibly accepted, so now he has to come to terms with the fact that he's managed to cock up the one really good thing he's found for himself here, and he'll never get it back.) 

The empty houses around the habble had been drawing his eye, but somehow, the thought of leaving the Inn made his rift with Kate seem so much more permanent, and he hadn't the courage to take that step. Besides, Kira had told him that he was planning on moving out of the Inn soon, so Benedict needn't worry about overstaying his welcome in the room they now share. 

Like he has so many times before, he creeps down to the kitchen after everyone else has gone to bed, intent on making himself a cup of tea. He's much more careful with the kettle now, the cracked tile on the floor from where he dropped it the night he burned himself enough of a reminder to not be so careless, but he can't resist the comfort that a hot cup cradled in his palms brings. Leaning against the counter as he waits for it to steep, he looks out the window towards the tree line, absently missing the swirling colors of the Aurora. The fireflies that have taken to chasing and stinging people are just as dangerous, but if he was given the choice between the two, he'd almost certainly pick the former. There had been something peaceful about the lights in the sky, something that reminded him in a strange way of Etherealist magic. 

He hopes Ferus and Folly are well. And Gwen...the fact that he's barely thought of her for weeks makes him feel suddenly guilty. He's been so wrapped up in his own hurt feelings that he'd all but forgotten his family back home. She'd shake her head at him and cluck her tongue disapprovingly, then threaten to tell his mother the way she had when they were children. 

Almost despite himself, he smiles. 
3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: The Inn, the riverbank
WHEN: Feb 14, midday and evening
OPEN TO: Casey, Benedict, Graves
WARNINGS: Grief and mentions of character deaths

i. Benedict; Graves - leaving the inn or at Ren’s grave

Someone was fucking with him.

Deaths weren’t enough, leaving friends and family behind, being hurt, being afraid and without answers--none of it was enough. They kept adding to the notes and map left by the woman, already disappeared, they kept trying to have civil discussions about what was happening and what to do about it, but Kira had held the note in his hands and could only discern cruelty. Beyond the fact of life could be and into the fact of someone is trying to be.

Maybe their captors were like the wendigo: once captives, warped into something without care.

Maybe they were just assholes.

To Kira Akiyama: There are always more fish in the sea. He’d dropped the note back into the box of rose petals and pink champagne, moved enough of them to see the Durex label and taken his hands up entirely. If he’d any doubts of the time passing, or the consequences of being here so long--the box served to turn his stomach in confirmation.

He’s dead; he’s dead and that meant too many people now. It turned his stomach again that he would even think of Ren, staring down into that box. It turned his stomach to see Casey, head tilted with a dog’s curiosity, the box and the boy in his room and the note like an accusation. We see you, it said, clearer than piles of gifts, clearer than the fact of the pod in the canyon wall.

Maybe they weren’t just former captives turned cruel, maybe they had people like him. Turned inside out, using their impressions of people to design an ugly gauntlet. Maybe he’d be the latest tool in their belts, with the way he’d shoved the box at Casey, used the box to nearly shove Casey just to get away from them both. “Another one for you,” he’d lied, pushing out of the room and making for the exit, needing to get away from them all, the cloud of emotions he doesn’t want to feel, doesn’t want to know, take advantage of, filter into some database to be regurgitated as salt in a wound.

Casey had told him not to know anyone, not to ask or let them answer, not to let them ask about him. To imagine someone else in their place, someone dull and blank, and in this way, never get attached.

Before he hadn’t died, before he’d promised Ty a dinner, before he lost the cards that held the emotions of the city at bay: he’d been better at it. He’d have laughed at the note, and tipped the champagne down his throat, kept his pockets stocked and his standards low.

Now, wandering out the door and down the path, the air crackling over his skin and his pulse telling the powers that be do it, just do it, he wants to go back for it and toss the box in the river. There are too many people here he knows too much about, people he might not stay for, but who he would try to take home with him, to spare them something worse. There are people he would mourn, and one he already does, a knife slid next to the knife of Ty, and the note twisting them both in his side. It isn’t even conscious, to swing past the fountain and head south through the village, until he’s looking around at the trees, biting his lip, knowing he’s orienting himself toward one in particular.

They’d carved a four pointed star into the base of the tall pine, after they’d finished the grave. He’d made a joke in his head about letting Ren down one last time, as they’d carefully positioned the body, and he’d tossed one of the die in after him. He’s down to two, now, an odd set of talismans that let him feel like--he’ll know, if anything happens to Casey or Credence. He’ll know if anything happens to Ren’s grave.

It’s exactly the kind of shit he shouldn’t be doing, if he’s going to pretend someone picking up on his impressions of others is any kind of rational thought. In the absence of a rational world, did it matter? Has anything been rational since he was sixteen, or since his parents were driven out of their home, the city set upon itself?

Ren had been, he thinks, coming to a stop at the rocks piled over the grave. Ren would reject his emotional display over a box of bullshit and give him something useful to do, make him spar, hit him with a stick until they were both tired of getting nothing out of it.

And he’s rational enough to come here, not stare into the depths of the fountain again and wonder exactly how decomposed his ex is. A knife is a knife, and he’s bleeding out from the loss, but Ren is a cleaner cut than Ty. Ty is rust and fever; Ty is how he pulls the knives out of his guts and starts putting them in other people.

If he thinks about Ty right now, he’s going to jump back into the fountain and, one way or the other, not come back out.

“I can’t believe how much I miss you, you fucking asshole,” he breathes, staring at the star over the thick roots, finally releasing some of the tension that the gift had sung through him. If the aim of this place was cruelty and confusion, maybe the best thing he could do was walk away, calm down, and ignore it. “I have much better people to miss, you know. The least you could do is haunt me properly, bang some pans around and turn off the lights at the inn.”

ii. Casey - back at the inn

There is no hour early or late enough to ensure Casey and the box are gone when he returns to the room--but there is an hour after the sun sets, after Kira remembers he was out without his coat, overalls undone and held up by a pair of suspenders, cards and dice stuffed in the pockets--where he’s too cold to dodge someone for anything at all.

It isn’t Casey’s fault he walked in when he did, or his fault that Kira is so bad at taking his advice. Following his own rules, two months in a place and his roots finding literal representation south of the village.

He’s here. For better or worse, and he does no one any favors pushing Casey out of his way and never coming back. When he comes up the stairs, he doesn’t quite enter the room, leaning in the doorway. Looking at the coat left on the bed, the angle of the knife left in its deep pocket, and his eyes eventually finding the open window, the hammock swaying slightly in the breeze.

Casey has made the climb out the window and onto the roof enough times that there’s a trail: a scuff on a branch, a warp to the trim where a hand has grasped, a boot print on the wall, over a ridge of siding. Kira slips and grunts enough times on the way up that there’s a pair of eyes to meet when he gets his head above the roof’s edge, and he lays his arm out across it, hand palm up and open, a wordless request for help.

[Options specified for individuals. The box contains: one 187ml bottle Stella Rosa champagne, one 8" diameter, 2-3" deep box of chocolate covered strawberries, one 50ct Durex Condom variety pack; all empty 'packing' space filled with red and white rose petals.]
warriorborn: (008)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn kitchen
WHEN: February 12, evening
WARNINGS: lightning-related injury, specifically burns/scalds from the stove
STATUS: ongoing

ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛ
The lightning storms have been worrisome. At the beginning, they had been fascinating in their novelty; to someone like Benedict, who's lived his whole life in the controlled environment of a Spire, not accounting for the brief sojourns taken in transport ships, even the most mild of weather patterns are fascinating. That fascination wore off quickly, though, when the lightning started to strike their habble. The storms had gone from a distant, perplexing thing, to something immediate and dangerous. He'd been woken up by a frankly terrifying amount of noise, some nights, and found scorched earth the next morning, clearly indicating a lightning strike.

Then that house had been hit, and Kylo Ren had been killed. Then the redhead Benedict didn't know very well had been injured, followed by at least three others. And then even Ivan had been hit, and Benedict couldn't even feel self-satisfied about it, because injuries like that are not something he'd wish on anyone. Even someone as eminently punchable as Ivan Vorpatril.

He'd been quietly herding Kate inside as often as possible, not wanting her to be the next victim of the lightning strikes, doing his best to make sure that she was safe indoors and not out wandering.

He's in the kitchen when it happens, wholly unprepared.

The kettle is heavy at the best of times, but filled with boiling water, fresh from the stove, Benedict usually takes it upon himself to be the one to move it. He's far stronger than Kate, with a longer reach, too, which means that, using a bit of cloth to protect his palms, he has an easier time hauling it around to where it needs to go.

He's just lifting the thing off the stove when a sudden ball of light materializes before his eyes, blindingly bright and so hot he feels like he's just opened the furnace. Yelping in surprise, he jerks back as quickly as possible, the sharp movement toppling the kettle and opening the lid so the boiling water spills like a waterfall all over his hand. The red-hot pain is immediate, prompting another instinctive yell, and Benedict snatches his arm back out of the way, but it's too late. The arcing water from the falling kettle cascades down his arm, narrowly missing his trousers as well, and splashes onto the tile beneath his feet mere seconds before the heavy kettle follows, cracking the tiles it lands on.

Cradling his burned arm to his chest, Benedict curses. Loudly.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴀғᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ
The last time Benedict had burned his hands, the adrenaline of the moment had blocked most of the pain, and he'd been able to power through the worst of it until he'd been able to retreat to safety. He'd also been poisoned by Silkweaver venom at the time, but that's not relevant to this situation. He doesn't remember much of the healing, having been in a coma at the time, but if the pain he'd missed out on was anything like this pain, he's glad he had been unconscious for the worst of it.

The flesh on his left hand, as well as a good chunk of his forearm, is one giant blister. The skin is swollen and tender, and the blister is an alarming yellow, ballooning up his skin and demanding all of his attention. Even after submerging his arm in cold water in the sink on and off for most of the evening and the next day, the skin feels like it's burning, and he's afraid his temper is rather short as a result.

He feels useless with only one arm in commission, the other wrapped loosely in strips of cold, wet cloth, carefully cradled in a sling that drives him absolutely crazy. He can barely even sit and read like this, unable to hold the book open and turn the pages with any sort of grace using only one hand, and the constant burning pain that isn't receding nearly quickly enough isn't making his life any easier. He feels churlish, snapping at people, feeling sorry for himself the way he is, especially when he knows that there have been others similarly affected by lightning who were injured worse than he. Especially since it was really his own stupidity that injured his arm. He didn't even have the decency to be hit by actual lightning, like the rest of the invalids in the habble. No, he had to pull a hot kettle down on himself like a fool child who didn't listen to the warnings from their cook, and now he's paying the price and he's miserable because of it.
middling: <user name="robutts" site="http://plurk.com"> (pic#10229038)
[personal profile] middling
WHO: Ivan Vorpatril
WHERE: Outside, near house #33
WHEN: Feb. 10th, afternoon
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Unfun discussions of being struck by lightning, will edit if anything else comes up

someone gets struck )
warriorborn: (Default)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: February 7, midafternoon
OPEN TO: Peggy Carter, Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: none at the moment
STATUS: open

With lunch made, consumed, and now tidied up, Benedict is at something of a loss for what to do. There aren't nearly as many chores for him to tackle in the dead of winter as there were when he first arrived, which means he winds up holed up in the Inn common room, near the fire, with one of his blankets from the gifts he'd been given and his very fascinating copy of Tarzan of the Apes.

It is set on the Surface, in a thick jungle rife with wild animals that could tear you limb from limb if they so chose, and Benedict is both horrified and desperately intrigued as to how anyone could possibly live there. The fact that he, himself, is also living on the Surface is something he tries not to think much about. He's still half-convinced it's only a matter of time before a nest of Silkweavers overruns the habble and they'll all be horrifically murdered before any sort of defense can be mustered. Without his gauntlet here, or even his sword, he knows he won't be much of a match for a real opponent, let alone a contingent of them. Murderous fauna just one more entry in the long list of things that are apparently out to kill them, behind the weather, it seems.

The door is open, allowing noise and heat to seep in and out of the room, so Benedict isn't completely shut off from the rest of the community, glancing up from his book every time someone passes by to see who it is in case they require his assistance.
3ofswords: (baleful)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Late night, January 3rd/4th
OPEN TO: Benedict
WARNINGS: Set during Cassian's loud night terrors?
STATUS: closed

His knuckles are already a bit raw from banging on one of the inn's doors when he gingerly sets them to Kate and Benedict's.  The fear of waking them butts up against a wonder at how anyone is sleeping, now that he's heard the cries and crashes that sent Credence to his own room.  The young man had been shaking, staring at his feet, whimpering a plea for help before--recoiling, fear moving through him like a viper drawing back to strike.  

There will be time later to find out why Credence fears reaching out.  Kira had wrapped him in his own blanket and let him into his room, pulled on his coat and gone to investigate the noise.

He wasn't entirely surprised, to wind up outside the latest room to find an occupant.  He wasn't entirely unsure what might be going on to cause it either, from the brief glimpse his gifts--and the man himself--had allowed of his turbulent core.  But the unmistakable sounds of cracking wood had signaled real danger, and explained Credence's fears, and Kira had done his best to face the nauseating fear that their latest arrival set crawling up his spine, to engage the deeply personal maelstrom playing out behind the wooden door--but there had been no answer.  When he tried the door instead, he found it wedged shut, maybe the dresser, maybe even just a chair.  

His own strength might be the difference between solving the issue and letting a man scream himself back to sleep, so he lifts his hand again, forcing a harder knock out of his chapped knuckles and calling far more gently than he had to the stranger: "Miss Kate, is Benedict with you?  I know it's late but I need help with something."

[Note: Cassian's player did not allow for getting into the room, so it has been stated in a thread there that the noise naturally dies down at a point and they will not be actually going in!]
womanofvalue: (relaxed)
[personal profile] womanofvalue
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: #43 - The Vincennes
WHEN: December 27th - Evening
STATUS: Open (Gathering Style)

When the gifts had arrived, Peggy had treated them at first with the same suspicion as anything else here. Things simply weren't that good to be true, but these gifts had people's names on them this time. With the exception of several that she couldn't begin to understand (such as that one from a man named Ivan, that she barely recalled interacting with), the rest were so kind and thoughtful that she soon found herself with a wealth of possessions she hadn't hoped to possess here.

The party had been borne of one single thought: I have nowhere to wear such lovely things and when she'd found the wine and liquor from others (including Tony, which didn't surprise her in the very least), she knew that she could change that. She'd posted a quick notice at the inn using some of the cardboard of a box and the lovely fountain pen Helen had given her, then did the same at many of the public buildings, inviting people to her home and inviting them to bring any food or drink they might like to provide, as well as suggesting this as an opportunity to wear their fanciest.

She set out her drinks (the ones she was willing to share) and made sure to tidy the home so that it was presentable. In her youth, back during her first engagement, she might have imagined entertaining like this on a regular basis, but that had been swept away by the war. Instead, Peggy was left hoping that such a gala would be acceptable and that she wouldn't simply be here alone tonight.

Setting her new record player (and her single record) down, she cranked it to begin playing the record that had come with it (a pressing of the Glenn Miller Band), and then she began to convince herself that there was nothing more that she could do.
warriorborn: (006)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn, Benedict and Kate's room
WHEN: December 8th-ish
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: Excessive schmoop 'n' stuff 💞
STATUS: Ongoing

the rest of y'all don't have to put up with this saccharine shit )
warriorborn: (006)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn/the small "living room" off the main common room
WHEN: Nov 25, after the feast and Karen's discovery
OPEN TO: Inn residents
WARNINGS: discussion of Karen's murder, general moping

It seems that just as one is getting used to the cruelties of this place, something good happens. And when one is getting used to the good things, something tragic happens again, as if to remind them all that they cannot allow themselves to get comfortable, that there are people out there that enjoy toying with them, dangling the prospect of peace and prosperity in front of their noses before snatching it viciously away. 

Benedict did not know Karen well, but she lived at the Inn same as he, and to see her like that... 

He had refused to allow Kate outside to see the body, bundling her up in his arms and physically restraining her when she tried, knowing that seeing that happen to someone she knew and cared for would be far worse than anything else he could think of. Bad enough they can still see the blood in the snow, even with the body removed (so much blood), she didn't need to see the actual physical aftermath of the attack they had all somehow managed to miss in the midst of their revelry. He'd kept the drapes drawn this morning to block the sight, which left the Inn in a kind of dim gloom, the crackling fire he'd learned how to set throwing off light and warmth that seemed almost obscenely cheerful in the aftermath of last night. The picked-over carcasses of the food that had appeared for them seem ominous in the morning, so he'd shut the door to the main room, a plate of apples and some bread and cheese all that he brought into the room with him so that people could break their nightly fast without having to see what was left of the food the Observers had distracted them with while Karen was being so hideously murdered. 

With a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape, Benedict sits on the floor, his back pressed up against the leg of one of the low tables, watching the fire burn without seeing a thing. 

Feel free to respond to Benny or start an OTA of your own! Thread-hopping encouraged.
lastofthekellys: (watch them burn)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 24th November

Aside from the days when she'd been too drunk or too hungover to get up, Kate's kept a farmer's hours all her life. Even in winter, when the bitterly cold winds that'd come up from the south and make its way through the cracks and holes in her ma's hut, she'd get up, get dressed, do her chores. But lately, it's been harder to extract herself from her bed. Benedict's been sharing her bed more often than not lately, and the chasteness of their interactions does nothing to change how warm and safe she feels. How little she wants to get up, get dressed, go out into the colder spaces of the Inn and do her work.

So, today, she's late getting out of bed - at least, by her standards. She's late getting down the stairs. She's late, so she's hurrying; she lazed in bed, and now she needs to start the fire in the main room. Start the fire, open the shutters, show that the Inn is standing and warm. And welcome, so she moves the -

No, Kate doesn't move the chairs stacked precariously at the front door as a rudimentary alarm of someone, something, coming through, because the chairs are gone. She neither dismisses it as one of the residents not getting the message, nor panics. Instead, she just opens the shutters to let in the dawn light and see if there are footprints, except, no, the snow has mostly cleared. The day is sunny. As welcome as it is, that doesn't help at all. Miss Hoppity jumps down from the foyer's desk to rub her face against Kate's skirt, apparently entirely unconcerned.

Kate eyes the cat for a moment, then approaches the closed doors leading to the main room. Closed, but with light coming through the cracks between door and floor, door and door frame. Cautiously, Kate opens one of the doors and peers in.

Then, she gapes.

The fire is blazing - hot, cheery - but so are the candles. The candles: candles on the unused candlesticks, candles clustered on tables, light up sideboards. Candles bobbing in bowls of water and apples. Candles white, yellow and red, when the village had none. Boughs of wheat, corn, decorate tables and the mantle over the fire, apples and pumpkins and collections of yellow, orange, red flowers seem to be everywhere.

And the food.

Each table is piled high with food. Roasted, baked, cooked on stoves and Kate knows how to cook, she knows how long this would all take, how many people, and it's impossible. What she's seeing is impossible to have done with the resources on hand: even an attempt would have woken up the whole building.

Disbelieving, Kate walks in. For a moment, she's entirely dumbfounded. Miss Hoppity, however, is nothing of the sort. The cat has leapt up onto the sideboard next to Kate and - well, Kate isn't sure what happens next. Just that suddenly there's movement and something large seems to lunge at her. Miss Hoppity yowls and speeds off: Kate screams as she battles something, falling backwards and hitting the floor along with a broken bowl of water, spilled apples and some tiny candles, and her attacker.

Pushing the food-turkey off her, Kate sits up and is, for once, entirely lost for words.
assertiveness: (049.)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: The fountain and environs
WHEN: November 20th, afternoon-ish
OPEN TO: Anyone!
WARNINGS: None yet.

For an instant, a brief, ridiculous instant, Stella thinks that perhaps she blacked out while she was swimming. It's the first explanation that comes to mind that even makes sense when she realizes she's several feet deep in water. The problem with that explanation is that, on further inspection, it makes no sense at all: she's fully dressed, for one thing, the extra fabric creating drag that makes it harder for her to push against the water. Harder, but not so difficult that she struggles much, legs and arms working together to bring her to the surface in a matter of seconds—

—to realize that she isn't in a pool at all, but a fountain, as she grabs hold of the edge and tries to get her bearings. She's inhaled a little water, enough that she has to lean forward and cough once or twice, deeply, to get it out of her lungs. It's only when she draws breath again that she realizes how cold the air is, colder than freezing if she had her guess, and even more so because she's soaking wet. Stella pulls herself out of the fountain, trying to stifle the rising panic threatening to take hold of her so she can think, pushing her wet hair out of her face with both hands.

She's wearing boots — hiking boots, not the stylish high-heeled boots she's used to — and a top and trousers in dark blue that look like hospital scrubs. There's a pack with something in it, but she's just going to wait to see what it is because she is, quite literally, freezing, and if she doesn't get indoors and near a heat source she is going to be very hypothermic very quickly.

(Other things to consider: this is not Slieve Dove, there are no squad cars, no one on her team is here, and Paul Spector is not bleeding to death in her arms. But she'll deal with that soon enough.)


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