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.
chosenbytheocean: (I cant leave you)
[personal profile] chosenbytheocean
WHO: Moana
WHERE: 7I – Ocean
WHEN: August 3rd

Sad Thoughts & Losses

Small earthquakes had begun to tremble through the two villages but Moana didn't pay them any attention. She crossed the breach and made her way towards the ocean that rested on the other side, hoping to find a friend waiting for her.

She stood at the shore, her feet bare while the wind tugged softly at her grass skirts. There was so much that Moana wanted to ask the ocean but she couldn't find her voice. She knew that it wouldn't reply to her, she was too far from the home that she knew. Frustration rose in her chest and she kicked at the water, sending thick droplets into the air around her.

"Why aren't you here!?" She yelled at the water before falling to her hands and knees. Everything hit her at once: the loss of her friends, the loss of the heart and the constant reminder of her failure that hung like a beacon around her neck. Moana began to cry softly, her body shaking as the tears streamed freely down her cheeks.

"I need you." She whispered to the ocean, her voice soft as she begged for some way to escape the crushing defeat that weighed heavily on her shoulders.
igotacrossbow: (peeking)
[personal profile] igotacrossbow
WHO: Jake Jensen
WHERE: Around the village
WHEN: Forward-dated to July 25
WARNINGS: Grief, aborted panic attack

Cougar disappearing for a day or two isn't unusual. He's always been the lone-wolf type, prone to withdrawing into himself and doing whatever the hell he feels like despite what anyone else might say, and Jake is used to that. He's used to him climbing trees and staying there all day, to parking himself on the roof and refusing to come down, to skulking around the shadowed corners of rooms and refusing to speak in anything more than the occasional grunt. 

His looming shadow, far-flung as it might occasionally be, has become a central point to Jake's life, the lodestone around which his consciousness revolves. 

Cougar has been missing for nearly five days. 

At first, he'd explained it away. Cougar was out hunting. Cougar was setting his traps. Cougar was exploring. Cougar was sulking. Cougar was lying somewhere in the canyon, injured so badly he couldn't come crawling home, slowly bleeding out into the pine-needle-covered forest floor, wondering why Jake hadn't come to rescue him. 

He hasn't had a panic attack since before he joined the Army. He feels alarmingly close to one now. 

Cougar isn't in the smithy, and he isn't in the store room, and he isn't down by the waterfront. He isn't in the mill, or the cellar of their house, or perched on top of the Inn. Jake is rapidly running out of places to look, and the panic that's been clawing at his throat has really started to get its claws into him, squeezing tighter and tighter. Cougar can't be gone. He can't. They didn't survive Afghanistan and Bolivia only to let this shit hole village to separate them. He's not allowed to leave. 

Frantic, and hiding it very badly, he grabs the sleeve of the next person he passes, for the moment utterly oblivious and uncaring of the fact that he looks like a wild man and could very well frighten the next person he grabs. 

"Tell me you've seen Cougar," he demands, eyes wide and bloodshot behind his glasses. "Do you know where he is?" 
bit_fairytale: (troubled)
[personal profile] bit_fairytale
WHO: Amy Pond
WHERE: Fountain
WHEN: June 28th
WARNINGS: Depression

It's been days since Amy's last seen her husband. At first, she'd just thought he'd gone off to the hospital to work himself to exhaustion like the man he is, but then he hadn't come back for dinner and hadn't come to bed with her. No matter how hard Rory worked, he'd always come back to her. Then, Amy had figured maybe he'd found a way out or the Doctor had arrived and Rory was in the middle of something, but the village is calm apart from its usual madness, and no one's seen Rory.

She knows what's happened. She's known since the moment Rory didn't come to bed, but her denial has been the only thing keeping her sane. Even that can't last forever, though, and now, Amy's finally starting to break because she's having to acknowledge that Rory is gone. He's been gone from her so many times before, but she almost wishes it were like the cracks in the universe again, just so she wouldn't have to feel like this.

"Come back," Amy pleads, for what feels like the hundredth time, hands together in desperate prayer. "This is not the sort of anniversary present that a woman wants, especially not for ten years together, Rory Williams, you come back," she demands, gritting her teeth together as she sinks to sit beside the fountain, feeling punch-drunk with exhaustion (she hasn't slept properly in so long, not since he vanished, and it's catching up to her). "We made a promise, it was you and me, together," she pleads, scraping at the stones of the fountain, like she can somehow coax him back with sheer faith alone.

She'd brought them to a bloody hotel prison with faith, she'd brought Rory and the Doctor back from nothing with memory, so why can't she do it again? Only, the water stays placid and still, no one comes out of the fountain, and Amy Pond is spending two days after her wedding anniversary alone. No Rory, no Doctor, and only Amy Pond, alone.

She rests her head on the stones of the fountain, eyes blurred with tears, her limbs heavy with grief and exhaustion. It's not the first time she's lost Rory, but it's the first time she's lost him and felt this aimless and without a plan. What's she supposed to do, now? What's the point of any of this if she hasn't got Rory at her side?
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.
mindmeld: (Default)
[personal profile] mindmeld
WHO: Spock
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Around
WHEN: Backdated to June 7 & onward

i. fountain

The water is tranquil, rippling over him in gentle eddies lull him into a sense of calm that almost takes him away from the fact that he is currently floating face down in a body of water.

Getting into the enemy ship with McCoy, prepared to crash into a planet, Spock had expected to be shaken and injured; there was always a possibility of such an occurance. He did not expect to wake in something vastly different from the ship, uninjured but decidedly odd.

It does not take long for Spock to react, despite the disorientation he feels; he swims, breaching the surface with a few powerful strokes. Swimming is not an activity which he finds beneficial, but his survival training courses had included lessons, necessary for space missions. Useful now.

What he sees when he breaks the surface is not what he expected from the planet. Between that, and the fact that his clothes are different, and he is decidedly altered from his usual appearance, Spock quickly concludes that he is not on Altamid at all.

"What is the nature of this place?"

It is the only question he asks aloud, though a dozen others run through his head. Now is not the time to speculate; there are more important matters at hand. Such as drying off.

ii. the inn

There are others in the same position as he, an entire village of them. Spock intends to find a place to stay away from the crowd, but for the first few nights, Spock stays in the inn, spending ample time in the common room. Quiet and reserved by nature, he still finds value in socialization - and in understanding where the others are from, how they came to be in this village. Better to find answers that way.

Given a chance, he will approach any individuals who appear to be somewhat idle, or even those busily engaged in a task, to ask, "What was the nature of your arrival?"

iii. the canyon walls

It is logical that the canyon has already been inspected and escape routes discovered - or, in this case, not discovered. But it is far from people and allows Spock an opportunity to assess his situation in relative privacy.

Whatever this place is, it has turned him human. He has made no mention of this to others because the lack of distinctive Vulcan features has made it easy to blend in among the other individuals in the village but it is troubling. Mental control does not come as easily; the awareness of his biology functions is limited; even his heart beats in a different spot.

It is, quite simply, disconcerting. And he wants to be back aboard the Enterprise in order to correct these complications.

The canyon also provides a distraction, as focusing on learning the lay of the land and measuring distances requires more of his attention than customary - one of the downfalls of a human body. Especially since the range never seems to compute; each time he thinks he has an answer for how long the canyon wall is, the number escapes him.

"I have walked fourmiles," he says, at one point, only to take a few more steps and announce, "Perhaps it has only been three."
the_scandal_of_italy: ([Lucrezia] Melancholy)
[personal profile] the_scandal_of_italy
WHO: Lucrezia Borgia
WHERE: Bunglaow 27
WHEN: 6/07

The shock of arrival had worn off as the day was nearing its end. To go from the Roman style celebrations to a vast wilderness had been a shock for her. The smell of Rome was familiar to her, the waste, food and people were almost comforting, even behind the walls of her mother's palazzo. To leave that and surround herself with...nothing, it was as much of a shock as the cold water she emerged from.

Villagers greeted her, others brought in through similar means. They apparently were confronted with new arrivals often, as their explanations seemed well rehearsed. They weren't disingenuous, just...memorized. She wasn't the first and she got the impression she wouldn't be the last.

Without Cesare or her father to guide her, Lucrezia followed the advice of those that found her. Once she was cleaned, she found a house to her liking and waited for the last of her daze to depart. Was this how her precious Djem felt when he arrived in Rome? So out of sorts and confused? The thoughts of her family weren't far from her mind, quickly chased by an overwhelming sorrow that threatened to suffocate her, as though she were drowning again.

Forcing herself to think of other things, Lucrezia collected a number of linens from the house and brought them to the front porch. She didn't know very much about cleaning, but she knew how to soak and treat linens, having sat beside Francesca as she tended to Giovanni Sforza's home. It took a bit of effort to bring a bucket of water to the house, but eventually she was seated on the front porch, singing to herself as she scrubbed the linens in fresh water. There was no soap, but did that really matter?
sixthiteration: (Default)
[personal profile] sixthiteration
Hail had been falling for two days now, peppering the ground and shredding the grass but rather than melt away like a late spring storm it had only intensified, growing in diameter and moving from a mild annoyance to damned near deadly. As the storm raged, ice flew up through updrafts and was forced back to earth in the downdraft, accumulating layer after layer of murky debris until it went hurtling toward the earth with wicked accuracy.

Shingles were ripped from roofs, the wind howled and lightning cracked. The hail had driven both humans and animals into the safety of the indoors, to the dark corners of buildings that might withstand the assault. With only candlelight and the hushed voices of villagers to stave off fear and boredom, the storm raged like a sentient being heedless of those who might be caught in the path.

After the storm, a calm came over the land and weak sunlight glinted off smoke-tinged ice. Steam rose from the melt and humidity was thick in the air; petrichor hung heavy, a soothing scent after a savage display of natural fury.

[OOC: Your hail mingle post. Feel free to have characters on the run, gathering animals or inside the Town Hall waiting out the storm.]
frankensteinian: <user name="preciousblueberry"> (grumpy)
[personal profile] frankensteinian
WHO: Erik Lehnsherr and open
WHERE: Firewood pile, inn, in the village
WHEN: May 1-8
WARNINGS: Grumpy mutant ahead. Also sex in the thread with Claire.

May 1st

It had been a shock to him when he'd gone out this morning to chop some wood and had found that he could no longer control the ax like he used to be able to. Concentrating on moving it does nothing but threaten to leave him with a headache that will keep him from being able to do anything all day. Which is tempting, except for the headache part. So he convinces himself to stop trying, and by that point he feels the anger swell up. It had been hard enough to accept that someone had been able to take away so much of his ability, but now they've gone and taken all of it. That will never set well with him.

Thanks to his ten years of purposely not using his powers, he has some practice at doing things without them, and there's an ax and a pile of wood that needs to be turned into firewood. Put those together with the anger he feels right now, and soon enough there's a pile of firewood large enough to fuel one or two fires for a couple of days.

He only stops when the blisters that have formed on his hands threaten to burst, even after he wraps rags around them. The pain kept him going, but also fueled his anger some more. He shouldn't have to worry about a thing like blisters, but here they are. When he returns to the inn in the village, he leaves the rags wrapped around his hands until he gets inside, where he carefully removes the wrappings to take a look at his hands.

He hadn't stopped soon enough. One of the blisters has burst anyway.

May 2nd – 8th

The rest of the week, he stays around the inn and the other buildings in the village, helping however he can around there. The blisters on his hands prevent him from doing his usual task of chopping firewood, and he has a hard time even using a knife, but he'll find something that he can do to help out. He's not living simply off the charity of others. It's been his experience anyway that most people aren't as charitable as they claim to be.

Sweeping, washing dishes, prep work in the kitchen, give him a task to do.
bit_fairytale: (know better)
[personal profile] bit_fairytale
WHO: Amy Pond
WHERE: Blacksmith
WHEN: April 10th

There's been a box of little jewels under Amy's bed for a few weeks now, collecting dust. Most people would probably hoard them and use them up right away, but Amy hadn't known what to do with a box of diamonds and other gems that she'd just received. Of course, five minutes later, she'd figured out what she wants with them, but there's a problem. She's still annoyed with this place for stealing her wedding bands, but she's got jewels and absolutely nothing to put them on, not to mention that of all the skills she'd accumulated with the Doctor, blacksmith didn't exactly make it on the list.

Good news for her, then, that they've got this place in town that looks plenty like a blacksmith's, though she hasn't exactly seen anybody in there, when she's been scoping the place out. After she sends Rory off to the hospital with a kiss, she decides that today's the day she goes and finds out. Box clasped tightly to her chest, Amy heads out and starts to knock on the wood the minute she's there, even though she doesn't really hear any of that clanking or see any sweaty, shirtless hunks around slaving over a fire, the way you'd expect.

Or, well, the way that Amy would expect, but it's not her fault that she's developed certain fantasies over the years, not with the actual eras of history she's been to.

"Hello," she drawls, peering inside and at all the nooks and crannies to see if anyone is there, nudging over some old tools as she meanders through the place, despite the sinking realization that she is absolutely all alone here. "Married woman, looking for some help, here!" she shouts out to absolutely no one at all, settling herself down on the table with a box of precious gems in her lap. She's got no gold, no rings, and no one to help her out.

She wishes she knew why this is bothering her so much. Shouldn't it be the confines of this place? The boredom? Except, she'd been about to settle down in New York and do just that, but she was going to do with Rory, together, and part of that marriage was the rings they'd exchanged. That ring means more to her than most, seeing as that little ring had helped pulled Rory out of nothing and nowhere in her memory, a man that didn't exist, except to Amelia Pond. Now, she hasn't even got that, but she wants it back. She wants something of her old life back, even if it's just a little piece of jewellery.

Not today, apparently.

Pushing to her feet, Amy heads outside with a briskness in her step, which is why she's not really thinking too much about pushing the front door open as hard as she does, which is instantly regretted when it comes into contact with something that's definitely not thin air. Closing her eyes tightly to avoid looking, she takes her hand off the handle. "Please be a shoe or a rock or some sort of animal," she mutters to herself, peering around the door belatedly. "I really hope I didn't hit anything delicate," she says to whatever (or whoever) is on the other side of the door.
welshdragon: ([Henry] Somber)
[personal profile] welshdragon
WHO: Henry Tudor
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 4/3
WARNINGS: Talk of war and death.

He had felt as though he were on solid ground when the battle had concluded and breath returned to his lungs. All else had been a spinning wheel, determining where fate should land and where his life would fall. On Bosworth soil or in a king's bed? How could he know that neither choice were upon the board. He had felt the weight of the crown in his hands, the feel of the eyes of his men, and the overbearing awe that it had all ended. The war was waged and won, the will of God had been fulfilled and his destiny was no longer an idle dream. He could remember staring down at the mud covered crown and wonder "What now?"

The answer was a swirling mass of water, filling his lungs and churning about him as he kicked towards the surface. The fountain, for it was a fountain, was the source of his arrival. Magic was at work, though he didn't ask many questions when he had been found. He remained silent and listened, following the advice of others and choosing a place to stay. It was well with him. He needed to sleep and rest his mind, already weary from the long battle.

Once he woke and felt able to comprehend it all, he left for the inn that had been shown to him. There were others there, the sounds of life and merriment (as much as there could be). There was a chair by the fire and a woman that handed him tea. With a tired expression, he stared into the flames. It was no dream, this place was unknown to him and now he was stuck here.

The question returned: "What now?"
maternis: (l)
[personal profile] maternis
WHO: Newt Scamander
WHERE: the fountain, the canyon wall, and the woods.
WHEN: March 20th + onward.
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Just an extremely introverted magizoologist who prefers the company of all things not human.

The Fountain:

Newt was still in quite the state after finding himself in this place. A place, which, he apparently couldn't leave. A place that separated him from his creatures, thrust him into a place where his magic was little more than barely within reach at his current ability level, and wandless. After recovering from the strange arrival in the fountain, he had gathered what belongings he had found himself possessing, and distanced himself from what seemed to be the town center.

After taking stock of everything, he'd gotten a very basic idea of the general layout, and since, has returned daily to the fountain. He may look rather strange, a tall man in navy blue scrubs hunched over as he checks the fountain, and the ground surrounding it for clues. What he's looking for are tracks of any sort that might mean any of his creatures might have accidentally found themselves in this place as well. So far, he's found nothing to indicate as much, but he's hardly keen on giving up so easily.

The Canyon Wall:

When Newt isn't tracking creatures who have simply not followed him through to this place, or foraging or fishing for the necessities, he is exploring the land. He's seen swarms of fireflies, and inspected them from a distance. Something nagging in the back of his mind kept him from straying too close, and they seem to congregate in places that might offer means of escape. The fountain. The canyon wall. How curious. He walks along the rock face, one way for a time, keeping a steady pace and counting his steps. He wishes he had paper to map out the area, but perhaps he can find something the next time he goes into town. If someone were willing to trade pad and paper for fish or what edible berries and plants he's found, that would be most appreciated, but it also requires he be willing to make the trek into the small town center.

He would really rather not, if that was all right with everyone.

The Woods:

Newt is used to sleeping rough. He spent a year in the field, the brunt of it in Equatorial Guinea, either taking rest in the shed and on the cot in his case, or making use of nature around him in the wilds. He finds a secure place to rest, where he is sheltered, and his position is protected, and he can gather his things quickly if entirely necessary. While he was not the war hero his brother was, he did still serve and fight (albeit under some duress) in the Great War, and he learned to move quickly from compromised positions.

When he isn't catching sleep at odd times, or running himself ragged as he finds ways to busy himself in this new environment, he's exploring and gathering. While there may not be much by way of hunting or foraging, there are seeds, and he gathers those in case they might be of use at a later time. It's during one of these trips that he hears the high-pitched chirp that most might mistake for a bird of some sort, but Newt knows to belong to a rather small mammal. A squirrel, in particular.

After a little bit of searching, mimicking the sound that the mother would return in answer as she tried to find her youngling, he finds a small, injured baby squirrel at the base of a tree. He crouches down carefully to inspect her, and lifts her up after she's grown somewhat accustomed to his scent.

"Hush, now," he murmurs as he lifts her close to his chest, bringing his peacoat around his hand to offer more warmth to the animal huddled in the palm of his hand. From what he can tell, she has a broken paw, and it doesn't look as if she's been seen to by her mother for days. Orphaned, probably. It does happen. A tension in his chest he hadn't realized had grown so tightly coiled lessens a little, and he smiles gently after what feels like ages. "Mum's here."
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.
chosenbytheocean: (Oh fuck)
[personal profile] chosenbytheocean
WHO: Moana Waialiki
WHERE: The School House
WHEN: March 7th
OPEN TO: EVERYONE [Feel free to make top posts!]

Moana had begun planning event about a month before the date that she had set. She told everyone she could about her and Jean's idea of having a dance class. She didn't know who would come but she hoped that some might find the idea interesting enough to peek their heads inside; if enough people were interested she'd have classes regularly or see if others wanted to teach as well. She'd love to learn dances from other places like the Moon Walk that Jean had taught her.

She got to the school house early and pushed the desks to the side, stacking a few on top of each other to make room. She had a drum that she'd made with her though she'd have to ask someone who didn't want to dance to beat it to a steady tune.

As the time she'd decided grew near she would stand outside of the school house, waving for people to come inside. If it was someone that she'd met or knew she'd grab their hand and pull them into the building without much prompting.

bit_fairytale: (Default)
[personal profile] bit_fairytale
WHO: Amy Pond
WHERE: Outside the Mill
WHEN: February 13th
WARNINGS: Temporary confusion due to lightning & unconsciousness


Something's happened to her, something that hurts and is making everything fuzzy. Amy stares up at the sky from where she's lying on the ground, not sure why it feels like she's coming around from a nap, her body covered in dirt except for her right arm, which has a strange pattern by the shoulder, like little tree limbs stretching out from her neck down her arm. It hurts to move, but the worst is that everything is fuzzy.

"Rory?" she ekes out, trying to sit up as she stares around her, panic beginning to well. She's not entirely sure what's going on, but she's not in her clothes, her ring is missing, and she's not sure how she got these marks on her arms. For a brief moment of panic, Amy's hands fly down to her midsection and she wonders if they've got her at Demon's Run, still, if all that time in between was just some sort of dream...

"Rory!" she shouts, a little louder, more panicked. "Doctor, where are you?" Her head is splitting and she's covered in dirt on the ground in what looks like an old little village? She knows it, though, why does she know it? Rubbing a hand to the side of her head, Amy tries to sit up, but she keeps her eyes closed because everything aches so badly.

Did she get knocked out? Why does she remember a bright flash and then nothing?

Wait. Did she get struck by lightning? Does that actually happen to people? Amy manages to get to her feet, stubbornly trying to keep her balance, but she's still a bit dizzy and ends up stumbling towards the nearest building, pressing a hand to it and rubbing at the mark on her neck, grimacing at how bad it looks as she wonders if this'll be permanent. Right, she decides, she's clearly got something wrong with her, which means she needs some medical help and maybe something strong to drink.
putorius: (Free love on the streets but)
[personal profile] putorius
WHO: Draco Malfoy
WHERE: The fountain and immediate area
WHEN: Afternoon of Feb 8
OPEN TO: Anyone and everyone
WARNINGS: Panic, mentions of torture, murder

The only sound is the battle cry

When the mind wakes to confusion and panic, it grasps at straws to fill the gaps. For a moment, Draco thought he was back in the bathroom. That he'd blacked out and now the place had flooded and he was still dying. He'd imagined the wounds healing, imagined being taken out. Myrtle was in a fit, Harry and wrecked everything, and it was over. In those moments of trashing panic, his mind finally managed to grasp perspective. Some sense of reality. He was drowning, yes, but it was far too deep for a flooded bathroom. He could see the surface, daylight. Not thinking even of magic, he just kicked as hard as he could, reaching for the light, his lungs burning.

Still confused and lost, he burst through the surface, spluttering and coughing. He didn't so much as climb out of the fountain, as tumble. Off balance from the unexpected weight of the backpack, he threw himself over the lip, falling in an ungraceful heap on the ground. Pressing his back to the fountain itself, he tried to catch his breath, shoving a mess of pale, damp hair out of his eyes, dragging in deep, desperate breaths. Nothing looked familiar. No point of reference. Nothing felt right. His mind spun, unable to grasp anything specific.

With each passing moment, with each deep breath, his head seemed to finally settle. The sharpest edges of panic slid away, allowing him at least a little clarity. His hand went right for his wand, where he always kept it, and closed around nothing but air. He patted his pockets, his pants, before finally looking down. Where were his robes? His suit? His uniform? He grabbed a handful of the red material of his shirt, dragging it away from his chest with a surge of disgust and terror. The color, design, material. It was all so unlike anything he'd ever worn that it was alarming enough on its own.

But his wand! He continued is search, hands frantically checking every part of his clothes. Sweeping the ground around him. The he twisted around, hands on the edge of the fountain, as if prepared to dive back in for it. He stopped, taking in just what he'd come out of, and a strange dread dragged at his stomach. From the depth which he'd come, how could that have fit inside a mere fountain? But peering down into it, he could only see the inky darkness of deep water.

Deciding diving back in was best left for an absolutely last resort, he shrugged off his backpack. Even the bag was wrong, nothing like what he would have had at school. It looked like what some of the muggle-born kids brought with them. He didn't have time to worry about that. He opened it and started emptying the contents onto the ground. Finally, he upended the bag and shook it, but nothing more fell out. He swiped his hand around inside, feeling for anything he may have possible missed.

"Where the bloody hell is it?!" He cried out loud, flinging the bag away from him.
solus_unus: (pic#9712770)
[personal profile] solus_unus
WHO: Caius Vitale
WHERE: From the fountain to the Inn and then around the Village from there.
WHEN: 02.02
WARNINGS: Possible mention of Highlander type death prior to arriving

[Arrival > Inn]

It wasn't exactly a frightening experience surfacing in the fountain and realising he wasn't dead, or even in Ireland, for that matter. He wasn't back in the City either, so for a short few seconds to blink the water out of his vivid blue eyes, Caius glanced around. Needless to say, he knew well enough he wasn't there.

So where the hell was he? There was a pack on his back, and the scrubs weren't anything he could understand.

As he climbed out, something scraped against his forearm, leaving a deep enough gouge to bleed pretty badly, made only temporarily better when the water rushed off him. Immediately, the cooler temperature set into his bones and by the time he reached the Inn, he was trembling.

[Around the Village - Evening]

After finding out that the multiverse snagged him again, it was time to do some exploring. The whole situation was oddly familiar in that each time he took on a new identity and landed in the place where he'd live for the next decade, he did the same thing. So off he went to learn as much as he could. Create a mental map, if so to speak. Like the City, there wasn't much in the way of getting answers.

Until answers did become available, Caius looked up after the sun went down and marveled at something the City didn't have. Stopped right in the middle of a pathway, he stared up at sky while lightening danced amidst an aurora of blueish green ribbons of lights.

It was breathtaking.
beallmysins: (Default)
[personal profile] beallmysins
WHO: Jax Teller
WHERE: fountain; village
WHEN: 1 February
WARNINGS: language
STATUS: open


Water. Everything is fucking water from the top of his head to the bottom of his shoes and when Jax breathes in, he takes in a huge fucking lungful of it. It's burning like fire and he has no idea how he's drowning. He's known how to swim since he could walk, just about, so he pushes off against the bottom of the pool and claws his way up.

When his head breaks free of the water he realizes it's not the ocean or a swimming pool but a goddamn fountain. He half expects fairies or some shit pouring water but it's just a regular fountain, bubbling as if a full grown man hadn't just burst his way up from the bottom. Jax places his palms at the lip of it and pushes himself up and out, collapsing against the ground.

Wherever he is, its cold enough that he doesn't want to be outside in wet clothes and he lays there for just a few minutes, trying to catch his breath. He needs a cigarette. He needs a whole goddamn carton of cigarettes, at this juncture, and he has a sinking suspicion that no cigarettes will be to hand. There's a backpack or something strapped to his back and after laying on it for a few minutes he rolls over to his side and works it off; it's got a change of clothes in it, at least.

"Well I'll be damned," he says, pulling out the clothes to examine them. "Scrubs. Must be prison again." Doesn't explain the fountain, which wasn't at Stockton the last time he did time, but maybe he's gotten some kind of rec privileges and had a fight.

"Where the fuck am I?"


It takes him a little while to get his bearings but once he does, he sets out in search of civilization. He's got to figure out where the fuck he is and how to get out but, in the meantime, he needs a shower and a change of clothes. He's got the second part of it handled thanks to the pack he came in with but the first part is going to take a little more doing.

Wandering out of the park with the fountain, he finds a road and starts to follow it. Road has to lead to somewhere, right? Sure as he picks a direction and sticks with it, he comes up on several buildings. One of them looks like a police station, based on the shape and size of it, and he thinks there's some fucking goats or something in there making noise. Probably not the best idea to duck his head in there. No idea where he is but there's almost always some kind of outstanding warrant on his head these days thanks to feuding with the sheriff's office and the Niners so he's steering clear.

The next building he comes up on is a little busier, people coming in and out, and Jax runs a hand through his damp hair and strides up to the porch with the intention of getting some fucking information. Someone has to know more than "village that nobody knows the name of or how to leave," and he intends on shaking down whoever he needs to shake down to be able to get directions out of here. He's carless and bikeless, sure, but he can hitch if he needs to. It wouldn't be the first time.

He gets distracted when a woman walks past him and he tips his head, watching her ass as she walks by. The scrubs do nothing for anyone, it's true, but he likes to admire beauty where he can.


So after figuring out that there's really no way out of here and no matter how many pointed questions or threats he offers in exchange for information he's not getting anything out of the people here because they don't know anything, Jax decides he's going to go outside the inn and blow off some steam. He doesn't anticipate that there's a goddamn chicken coop out there, though, and he has no experience with chickens or farms or any of that domestic shit.

What is he, a fucking hippie? No.

Still, the chickens seem to be curious and one draws up close. He guesses it's the kind of thing his kids might want to see at the zoo or something, if he did stuff like that with his kids, and Jax reaches a hand out to pet one of them. He gets a peck between finger and thumb in response and jerks away. Still, the ground is soft and wet from what feels like a whole lot of rain (or snowmelt, maybe, but he has no idea if it snows in this fucking town or not) and he slides, feet going out from under him.

He lands, of course, in a whole bunch of chicken shit and the chicken looks pleased with herself. He's covered in mud, chicken shit and feathers and now the other chickens are clucking at him too. What is this, a goddamn chicken riot?

"I'm going to eat one of you fuckers if you don't stop," he curses, mostly under his breath. He thinks he probably shouldn't murder someone's pets even if they're stupid pets and he works on pushing himself to his feet. He's going to need another shower - probably ten showers to get all this off him and he hopes like hell that nobody saw that shit.

He stares at the chicken and moves his fingers from his eyes to point at it, issuing a threat. "You and me. I'm gonna get you back for this."
ad_dicendum: (Default)
[personal profile] ad_dicendum
WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: The Inn and around the village
WHEN: January 30
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: None so far

Even after what must be a month or so here, Gaius has not yet grown used to being so completely unable to express himself to most people in this place. He'd been raised from childhood to be a man who would sweep the people of Rome before him with education, eloquence, argument. Even the men who'd hated him had admitted he was the finest speaker in Rome. Even when the people had turned from him to his enemies, it was because they had out-promised him, never because they had outspoken him.

Yet here, every morning he wakes into a world in which the barest handful of people can understand the slightest thing he says. Many of them have never even been introduced, because neither of them knows how to do so, save by baldly stating their names, which is hardly much of an introduction.

He's expecting it to be the same today when he dons his strange blue clothes and goes downstairs to the main room of the Inn for breakfast.

Except that when he hears someone call out a greeting, he understands that it means salve.

Gaius pauses, mid-step, and turns, his hand pressed to one side of his chest where the sweep of a toga would be, and listens. And finds that he can understand every word of English as though it were perfect Latin.

When he next sees one of the residents, he pauses, nods, and says, "Good morning."

The words sound strange in his voice, and he doesn't sound like the others, his accent thick and rolling, but he can speak English.

When he goes out, later that day, the black wool not-quite-cloak wrapped around him, he pauses to greet the people he passes on his way through the village. Not just with a nod, which has been usual for him up to now, but with the greeting of their own people in their own language.

He's got a lot of lost time getting to know these people to make up for.
kissed_byfire: (pic#10377337)
[personal profile] kissed_byfire
WHO: Ygritte
WHERE: Her and Jon's house, #50, out wandering the Village/Inn
WHEN: 28th of January - Afternoon and evening
OPEN TO: Sansa; Open!
STATUS: Open again

Read more... )


Sixth Iteration Logs

August 2017

   1 2 3 45
6789 10 1112
1314 15 16171819


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated 18 Aug 2017 08:58 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios