3ofswords: (resolute)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 39, the Spring, House 52
WHEN: August 21 
OPEN TO: Credence, comment starter for Tim
WARNINGS: Grief, blood, interpersonal conflict; NSFW content with Tim


read more )

posilutely: (029)
[personal profile] posilutely
WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: Various; see below
WHEN: ditto
OPEN TO: 1 locked, 2 OTA
WARNINGS: n/a


House #7 - Mid-Late July - Locked to Sonny


It's the locket that confirms it.

When it had first turned up, Tina hadn't been sure if she wanted to trust it, but she'd taking to wearing it anyway. Just like she'd done at home, there wasn't hardly a time when it wasn't around her neck. Queenie's been wandering the village for a couple days now, and seeing it laying there on Tina's vanity table is like a punch right to the gut, her last bit of hope swept clean away in the matter of a moment.

And with Jacob apparently gone, too, it just makes a sad sort of sense, even if it makes her heart hurt to think about.

From the first time she'd felt that tingle of worry, Queenie's been telling herself it's probably better. If Tina's got out, if she's got home, it's gonna be better for them all -- It has to be, right? If anybody can figure out how to bust them out of this place, it's Teenie.

And if they've made her forget, well... maybe that's better too. She hated it here.

But telling herself these things just ain't the same as believing them, and sitting on the front steps of Sonny's house in her new dress, she can't keep herself from crying.


Behind House #17 - Mid-Late August - OTA (3 thread limit)


The funny thing about Tina being gone is that Queenie knows exactly what she'd say about it: That Queenie oughta stay busy and just get on with it. And sure, there's days when she just wants to fall right down onto the floor and stay there wallowing in how empty the house feels now, or how she accidentally made lunch for two, but that voice in the back of her head is awful quick to give her a kick in the pants, just like Teen herself would do.

Some days it's tough to find enough to fill the day, though, and she's been trying some things she probably would be better off to just let alone.

Today, it's splitting firewood. To say she's awful at it without wand would be the understatement of at least two centuries.

She got herself an axe from the inn, but she can't seem to hit the wood at the right angle or hard enough. She's pinged herself with bits of bark at least 20 times, and in the hour she's been out behind the house, she's got exactly 3 pieces of firewood to show for it, and one of them barely counts, if she's honest about it.


7I Shore - Mid-Late August - OTA (3 thread limit)


All of a sudden, they've got themselves an ocean, and all Queenie can do is stare at it.

The beach ain't much good for sunbathing with all its little pebbles, and it takes her a good fifteen minutes just to find a place to put her towel down. But it's the water that's the bigger problem, lapping softly at the shore like it couldn't just swallow her right up if it wanted.

Dressed in her cut-offs and sleeveless shirt, she wades in to her ankles but then just stands there, staring first at the wide, hazy horizon, and then down at the water swirling around her feet.
enterprisingheart: (definitely not as planned)
[personal profile] enterprisingheart
WHO: Jean-Luc Picard
WHERE: The fountain and around town
WHEN: 8/4
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: None at the moment; will update as necessary



The Fountain

With first contact with the Vulcans successfully (re-)established, the trouble with the trouble with the Borg dealt with, and the timeline (presumably) set back on it's proper path, Picard had, generally speaking, assumed that they'd make their way back to the 24th century and whatever inquiry might be awaiting them. Instead, he comes to and finds that he can't breathe, eyes snapping open a moment later to find that he's underwater. Which explains the former, at least, but not why he's here instead of on the Enterprise. Which isn't to say that he has any significant complaints, when it means postponing what would almost certainly have been a visit from Temporal Investigations, but it's not anything that he can he'd be expecting either.

But there's no time to dwell on the fact. He might not know why he's ended up underwater - or where - but he can see light coming from above, and that's better than nothing.

He breaks the water's surface a moment later, coughing and blinking as he begins to haul himself out of the fountain. As beginnings go, he thinks to himself, it's not a terribly auspicious one. But he's alive, even if he feels half-drowned, and just at the moment, he'll take that.

Out and About

Once he's had some time to get his bearings - helped a little bit by an explanation from Beverly - and has figured out where he's going to be staying besides, Picard takes to the streets. Such as they are, anyway, but the point is more figuring out the lay of the land. And what they have to work with besides - explanation or no, he much rather prefers to actually see things himself. And if that also comes with the opportunity to talk to some of the people he hasn't already met.

The earthquake catches him off guard, small though it is, for all that it's mostly that he hadn't thought to expect any tectonic upheaval.

"Never a dull moment, I see."

He's not really directing the comment at anyone. But it's spoken loudly enough to be easily heard, and the last thing he's about to do is stop someone from chiming in if they should care to.
babyhunter: (Default)
[personal profile] babyhunter
WHO: Clary Fray
WHERE: Fountain & Village & River
WHEN: August 1st to August 6th
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: Drowning? (Note: Scrub color is black.)



Fountain: Arrival [Aug 1]

Clary inhaled, feeling a cool rush of water fill her lungs. Her chest burned while panic tightly constricted around her heart. She flailed wildly in the water, kicking her arms and legs out in a futile effort to swim. The water stung her eyes when she tried to open them. Clary had always hated opening her eyes underwater but she needed to see.

'I need to breathe! She thought, forcing herself to calm down enough to escape a rather pathetic watery death. After everything she's been through, she's not going to have 'death by water' on her tombstone. Clary saw a blurry smudge of light in the distance and swam towards it.

She broke the surface of the water, coughing and gasping for air. Bright orange hair plastered to her cheeks and neck as she made her way to the fountain's ledge.

It was only when she was pulling herself over the edge of the fountain that she felt the weight of the pack on her back. A groan of complaint vibrated through her torso, even as she managed to tumble herself and the backpack onto the pavement. Clary was laying on her back. The backpack was a surprisingly comfortable pillow though that might have just been in comparison to the water. The sun shined pleasantly in the sky, warming her limbs and face.

Clary decided that it wasn't worth getting up. She'd happily lay there until someone told her to move. Maybe she was in central park? That's the only place that she can think of with a fountain. Either way, Clary knew that someone would find her and she'd sort it out then.


Around the 6I Village [Aug 2-4]

Clary really didn't know what to think of this place. She had named the village Salem in her mind, the broken buildings and dreary feeling reminded her of a town where hundreds of girls burned at the stake. It probably wasn't the best name but the village was surprisingly less daunting with a name attached to it.

She wound her way through the houses, inspecting the ones that were broken and then knocking at the homes that looked like someone lived there. If no one replied, she'd peak inside to see what was there. Clary was naturally curious and not at all shy or hindered by the unknown. This wasn't nearly as scary as trying to get Simon out of the Hotel Dumort.

Clary would take the time to stop and stare at the houses or setting around her. She tried to figure out how she'd draw it: what colors she would use or how certain objects might appear out of focus. At the end of each day, she'd find herself at the inn, usually hungry and sitting at the bar like a ghost might come and take her order.

She was new at this whole survival thing and Brooklyn had pizza. She really missed pizza.


At the River [Aug 5]

Clary was both happy and sad to see Izzy in the village with her. She was happy to see her friend and to know that she wasn't alone but it also made her think about home. How was her mother doing? And Simon? What about Jace? She wondered if any of them missed her. She didn't particularly worry about Alec missing her; he was with Magnus and starting towards his happiness.

She missed her sketchbook. It gave her the ability to get all of her worries out of her head and onto a piece of paper. Without it, her thoughts jumbled together in a messy knot that she didn't know how to untangle. A groan pulled from Clary's lips as she took a seat near the water's edge. She watched the waves for a few seconds before pulling off her scrubs and jumping in.

Clary hadn't been in water since almost drowning in the fountain a few days before and as much as she wanted to avoid it, she felt gross. She had never gone this long without a shower. After drenching herself in water, she floated lazily on the surface of the river.

"This place feels too much like the Twilight Zone." She mumbled to no one in particular.


The Breach Between 6I and 7I: Small Earthquake [Aug 6]

Clary first heard about the mysterious second village at the inn, when she had eavesdropped on two people discussing their plans to cross the breach. She hadn't asked about it then but she couldn't stop thinking of the possibilities that lay on the other side of the ridge. Peeked by her curiosity and her ever-rampant thoughts, Clary decided to head to the breach to check it out for herself.

She wasn't completely unfamiliar with bouldering but the path was not as clear as she thought it would be. She took careful steps over small rocks and then slipping between larger boulders that stood like giants in the path.

Clary was halfway through the breach when the earth began to shake. She'd gotten used to the small tremors over the last few days but she hadn't been standing in a small crevasse in the ground back then. A surprised scream tore from her throat as she ran back the way she had come. Peddles and rocks loosened from above her, falling on her head like rain drops falling from the sky.

She ran out of the breach, stumbling to the ground as the earthquake ended. Clary's head was shaking as she tried to regain her balance. She tasted blood in her mouth and felt a soft sting along her cheek. If she had managed to get out of that with a bloody lip and a few thin cuts then she was happy.

"Okay. Maybe I won't go that way." Clary was talking to the rocks and seriously hoping that they could feel her displeasure.
maternis: (fb-6)
[personal profile] maternis
WHO: Newt Scamander
WHERE: In the forest, the village, and at where Graves and Credence live.
WHEN: July 8 and onward.
OPEN TO: All with closed starters for Graves and Credence.
WARNINGS: None yet. Will update if necessary.



everyone needs a place.  )
jokerized: (head tilt and lean)
[personal profile] jokerized
WHO: Tim Drake
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, various houses
WHEN: Evening of July 9 and onward
OPEN TO: OTA with closed starter
WARNINGS: Underage character who was subjected to torture, arriving from the moment he murders his abuser.



introduction )

fountain; july 9; veronica

Tim doesn't want to die badly enough, if the deciding factor is the water's chill. When he wakes up, there's less shock than a physical ache, awareness of his own skin fading in the dark. If only it were warmer, he'd float here until it choked him back to sleep. If only he could just sleep, the dark and dreamless transition from Barbara's grip to this.

Whatever this is. It doesn't rush around him like the river, though it's almost as cold. Tastes better too, when it slips into his mouth.

It's the kind of physical, present, lucid thought that he clings to, swallowing a little more and putting his hands on what feels like concrete siding. Some kind of pool, a wall to kick off from. This is good, this is working: something to do with his body that is only about keeping it alive. Whatever its condition, he's a strong swimmer, and he comes up with his arms catching around the legs and sweeping skirt of a statue.

The park, maybe? The statue is in decent condition: no moss, no vines, no signs of long-term deterioration. An old part of the Manor, closer to the cave than the house? The trees he finds outside the fountain's edge are too wild, the path too foot-worn to be the manicured lawns and carefully edged forest. Bruce's neighborhood is the only part of Gotham to have this many trees without Ivy's meddling.

Nerves build with the chill of the water, soaking into his--scrubs.

Right. That makes a surprising amount of sense, and the first slip of a laugh is genuine, but what follows is a horrible tic, rasping out of a sore throat. He's still trying to swallow the laughter as he gets a grip on the statue and pulls himself up, standing on the platform with her to look out at the twilit wood. In his movement, he notices the press of the backpack, the dragging weight on his shoulders. Is he outside some facility? Did he give Leslie the slip? That--sounds like him, even if he can't remember.

Shuffling his way around the statue, still holding tight, he continues to huff and swallow nervous laughter, trying to decide which way to go.


exploring; july 10-11; ota

The inmates are running this prison, far as he can tell. He doesn't know if this is some remote, free-range asylum disrupted by an earthquake, or there's been no time to breathe before tumbling through a rip in reality.

Or he's just crazy.

That one always starts the wheezing laugh tickling his throat. Nothing is funny, but everything can elicit it. It isn't just--it isn't just what happened. The ugly laughter is just easier than finding the words. Easier than thinking: what does it mean to be stuck here. Would Bruce really send him so far away, let him be taken again?

Is he angry?

Disappointed.

Whatever this place is, it isn't an entirely foreign world. A yellow sun rises and sets, it's temperate enough for the clothes in his pack. People gather supplies and offer meals in two of the larger buildings, and no one is hunting him down with medication or mandates of group therapy. He shelves the first theory pretty quickly, and puts the other two up just below it, in easier reach. Theories get in the way of deduction, and there's a lot of ground to cover, a lot of disparate information to parse.

Finding crude paper in one of the storerooms, Tim adds to his pack, adding a small jar packed with charcoal and a sharpened stick. He wouldn't have needed a notebook on the streets, but he knew those streets the way he knew how far he could jump, the way he knew the fit of his boots. His grasp of information has suffered in transition, and when he isn't slipping in and out of houses that look shaken in on themselves, he can be found at the board in the Inn, copying information with his makeshift pencil, trying to pick out the facts from speculation.

[Find Tim at the blackboard and map on the Inn's first floor, or exploring any house in a state of disrepair. It can even be your house, if it's suffered damage in the quake.]
3ofswords: (resolute)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: July 1st through the 8th
OPEN TO: ALL - Event Mingle
WARNINGS: Please warn in comment headers for sensitive subjects.


The rain had started shortly after the initial quake, a constant downpour counter to the aftershocks trembling through the canyon at-will.  Homes had been destroyed under their own shaking weight or fallen trees, the parched earth quickly flooded and muddy, the river regaining some of its depth.  It's the kind of shit-show Kira had expected after the first quake, his experience of them largely from movies--but this had been so much worse, with no calm blanket of snow to cover all evidence after the fact.

After the aftershocks die for enough time to venture out, the rain is still pouring, the earth still shrugging like it might finish toppling the already ramshackle structures. 

There's no telling who else might be trapped in there, without an orderly line of residents and Veronica's list of arrivals.  There's no telling who might have just up and disappeared in the middle of it all.  The injured will go to the hospital, but there will be plenty of people without serious injuries, who still need somewhere dry to sleep, somewhere to check for friends or family, somewhere to feel like they aren't dealing with cracked and flooded homes alone.

It takes most of the afternoon to drag his supplies to the town hall, use a tarp to cross over to the house he and Veronica use for map-making, and set up inside with a sign-in sheet and basic inventory of supplies.  Now he just has to get people passing through to add to both.

Leaving Aurora and Hoshi safe in one of the smaller storage rooms, he pushes himself back out into the rain, telling everyone he meets to bring themselves and what they can salvage to the Town Hall.

[Mingle post for after the earthquake.  Come sign in as not-dead or missing!  Bring your tools and supplies for recovery efforts!  Report loved ones missing or search for them in the crowd!  Post is set up for people to be in and out of the building throughout the week, mark your OTAs accordingly.]

theintercessor: (dreaming)
[personal profile] theintercessor
WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: Cave at south of canyon, between the River and the Theseus Pod
WHEN: July 1st
OPEN TO: Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: Earthquake/cave-in, mentions of epilepsy symptoms, both characters have abuse in backstories, will edit as needed.


There are only so many days to be spent making paper, and none of them in these temperatures.  Too much of it involves boiling water, and the stacks in the storeroom haven't immediately disappeared.  It's easier to spend the day exploring under the shade of the trees, following the river south, wading in when the heat overtakes him and drives him to dizziness.  He's tied a spare curtain across his chest, a sheer sling stolen from a bathroom, soon filled with arrowheads, interesting stones, leafy--if dried--plants.  He doesn't know if you can make paper out of pine needles, but you can put them in the embers to restart the fire, scent the smoke a little more like home.

His home, anyway.

It never got this hot in the mountains, the sun never hovered over like the concentrated beam of a kid with a magnifying glass, killing ants.  It never got this quiet, even in hunting season.  Especially in hunting season, people moving through the trees, trucking, drinking, shooting.  It's strange not to know where he is.  It's strange not to know his footing in the stream, or know where it leads.  It's strange to come upon the canyon wall: a different kind of stone, a road not touched by trucks or bikes, nothing to follow to some kind of pass.  

It's a lonely thing, somehow.  So much of it seems untouched, or not touched in any lasting way.  Sometimes a tree has the bark slashed away, sometimes the edge of a path or treeline is too neat, but there simply aren't enough people to fill the space.  He's done it, by walking so far from the houses.  He's gotten away, and it feels--too easy.

When he comes up to the wall, he rests a hand against it, looking out into the trees.  Walking is a kind of stimming, mindless motion.  It's too hot, he's walked too far, without enough purpose.  Jude doesn't find the cave with anything but touch, his hand skimming stone until it isn't.  Isabelle had told him: there is no way out, people have already tried.  But she'd also told him the fountain had no bottom, and he'd touched hard edges in the water.  But way out or no, a cave is a much cooler place to rest than the open sun.  Tugging the loop of his sling higher, he tightens it shut against his chest, stones slipping down the folds, leaves rustling as they crushed between.

"I know you're there," he says, pausing in the shadowed opening and pushing his sweaty hair back.  "Stop skulking around."

canaria: made by me | please don't take (working or some such)
[personal profile] canaria
WHO: Sara Lance and open
WHERE: Fountain, then various, winding up at the inn.
WHEN: June 20th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Mention of death
STATUS: Open



Fountain:
The cold water is a surprise. But, thankfully, she's a good swimmer, so Sara moves her way to the water's surface and takes a deep breath of air once her head breaks the surface, and she coughs a small bit of water out of her mouth -- her blonde hair is clinging to her face, shoulders, neck, back. while she doesn't have a fear of water, finding herself in a body of water in this kind of circumstance vaguely reminds her of years ago when she was on a ship that sunk.

This also, she's pretty certain, isn't the time travelling she'd just decided to sign up for. Before she found herself in this fountain, she'd been talking with her sister, Laurel, standing right beside her. Why isn't Laurel here too?

But, she hoists herself out of the fountain completely, shakes some of the water off of her arms, and rings out her hair. If anyone happens to be around as she stands there, they'll get a:

"Just tell me that thing doesn't revive the dead." It's a stupid joke about her Lazarus Pit experience.

Elsewhere / inn:
Sara spends the rest of her day exploring what she can of the village she's found herself in. She won't go too far so as not to potentially wear herself out on her first day here, and so she can become more familiar with certain parts before others. Just because she could do it, probably, doesn't mean she should. So she paces herself.

She does, however, eventually decide to go into the inn. There are probably several more people in there, and people equal potential information (about this place, and maybe if someone has seen her sister if she's here too). Also, she should consider food soon. That's ... probably a smart thing to do.

But first, she'll open conversation with the nearest person by asking: "Uh, hi. Do ... you know of someone named Laurel Lance here?"
163: (40)
[personal profile] 163
WHO: Steve Rogers and YOU
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Town Hall
WHEN: 16 June
OPEN TO: Open to all
WARNINGS: No warnings as yet.
STATUS: Open to new threads



on a steel horse i ride. )
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (58)
[personal profile] repressings
WHO: Credence Barebone, Percival Graves, anyone else
WHERE: Barebone-Graves residence, fountain
WHEN: June 15th-16th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Standard Credence warnings, specifically parental death
STATUS: Open


i ➼ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴜɪsᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; closed to Graves
It's something Tina mentioned to him when he asked why Mary Lou knew about wizards. Why everyone else was sure magic was just a fairytale, but Mary Lou was staunch in her belief. It bothers him less that Graves didn't tell him--he knows that's how the other operates, how Graves answers Credence's questions honestly but doesn't give any unnecessary information. Instead, what's really gnawing at Credence is that he didn't ask the right question. He'd thought he was getting better at that.

It was almost a game, asides from their question-for-an-answer. He's never quite told Graves said game of course, but Credence tries to phrase his questions to get the most out of him. He considers a simple 'yes' or 'no' a failure in these circumstances, even though a yes or no is usually enough to satisfy his curiosity. Credence wants more, ravenously hungry for knowledge. Newt and Tina will happily provide answers to anything he asks, and Credence plans on using this to his full advantage so long as they don't mind, but he still wants Graves to teach him, too.

It's finally too hot for him to handle a long-sleeved shirt and jeans when he gets back from the mill, and since he's just in their house and not planning on leaving, Credence opts to wear his white scrubs again. They're lighter, just cotton, even if his arms show the criss-cross markings of unhappier times. Unhappier times he now knows and recognizes as much more complicated than he could imagine. Which brings him to the question he wants to ask.

He finds Graves in the living room, and he wants to say it's evening despite the never-ending blazing sun. His footsteps are quiet, barefeet, and he stops at the doorway, watching the older man for few moments before speaking.

"Ma knew what I was, didn't she? She knew what my real mom was, too."

ii ➼ Iᴛ's ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙʟᴜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; OTA
The more Credence thinks about how hot it is, the hotter he feels, and the more he thinks about how he shouldn't think about how hot it is the more he does. The circular puzzle he's trapped in is ridiculous. The problem with dressing in long-sleeved shirts and long pants is that, even if they're airier thanks to the fact that they're Kira's clothing and not his own, it's even more hot, which jumpstarts the entire thing.

He does his chores for the day and decides the best course of action is to copy what he'd spied Queenie doing a little while ago: he makes his way to the fountain, book close to his chest, dips his feet in, and reads. It's Frankenstein, which he's sure he's read at least 30 times since Christmas, but it's not like he has anything new.

It's when he finishes a chapter that he looks up--he squints against the sun, frowning--and muses, not necessarily to the person passing by.

"Do you ever wonder why they don't give us books very often? The ones that watch us."

---

iii ➼ Iᴛ's ᴀ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴇʏᴇs;

Feel free to spy Credence at the fountain or by the river, or sometimes at the inn doing whatever needs to be done (most likely sweeping).
pretendtoneedme: (crossing the fields)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme
WHO: Everyone! It's a mingle!
WHERE: The mill, and the river next to the mill
WHEN: June 13-14
OPEN TO: Anyone! Tag around, tag in, tag things!
WARNINGS: Nothing for now, please warn for content in comment titles
STATUS: All of the Opens



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

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

Anyone who wanted to show up and help was welcome, as long as they knew which end of a hammer to hit things with. Water to drink wouldn't be an issue since they were right next to the river, but if anyone wanted to bring snacks or any sort of food it would be appreciated by those working. It was still pretty hot, though, so everyone needed to be on alert for people overexerting themselves and potential heatstroke. Anyone who saw someone about to faint or getting dizzy would have been told to make sure the afflicted person stopped working and sat down in the shade with a drink of water. And of course there was always the option of a nice swim as well.
notsocommon: (Neck; workout)
[personal profile] notsocommon
WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: woods, river, butcher's shop
WHEN: 10 June - 12 June
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Open



i. ❝ the year's at the spring ❞

Helen found that paper was a precious and limited commodity around the village and the bits and scraps she had leftover from her gifts over the winter were rapidly dwindling. She had written on every inch of paper as best she could, cramped writing fitting every square of space, and she was reminded for not the first time of Carentan and how things had to be made to last and last again well beyond their original expiration date. In this, she felt her age for one of the first times in her long life. She felt as her friend Tolkien had once described thin, like butter scraped over too much bread and facing her mortality head on wasn't a position she thought she'd ever find herself in.

She didn't particularly face it head on now if she could help it. This morning she'd found herself in the woods hunting for herbs but, honestly, they were few and far between. The sun was up nearly all the time now and while it flirted with the horizon, it never sank beneath it at night. The best they got was a few hours of near-twilight but no true night fell over the land and hadn't for the past several days. To add insult to injury, it was stifling hot and miserably dry. The grasses had either been eaten down to the earth by the grazing animals or withered and dried up.

Her basket woefully empty aside from some indigo for dyeing, she made her way back to the village, brow furrowed a bit with worry. She made a note in her already-cramped notebook: Sun - constant. Arid. Vegetation scorched.

ii. ❝ the hillside's dew-pearled ❞

Later in the day (for a given definition of day, anyway), Helen made her way down to the river to make observations there. It was dangerously low, the banks exposed to a worrisome degree. Much of their food came from the river by way of fish and if they didn't have that resource and the plants were scorching under the bright sun, what were they going to eat? Rations would need to be put into place regardless but this was escalating to a degree that had Helen wondering if they ought not call a meeting to discuss it. It was something she would certainly be discussing with Mark and Ravi when she got home to see if they ought to bring it to the village at large; her roommates were always a good sounding board for such things.

The bright sun glinted against something bronze and shiny against the dried mud of the riverbed and she picked it up, uncertain of what it could possibly be. It appeared to be some sort of arrowhead but she knew the people here who fletched and made arrows typically used flint for them, not bronze. This was something that didn't seem to fit with the activities that the residents normally engaged in and she slid the arrowhead in her pocket, intending to ask about it once she'd gotten back to the village. Perhaps the others might have a better idea as to what it could possibly be.

iii. ❝ all's right with the world ❞

In spite of the strange happenings of late, some things never changed and one of those things was the need for soap. A village like theirs with about five dozen people, give or take, went through a good bit of soap both for personal bathing and for laundry. It took a lot of Helen's time each week to make soap, cut it, leave it to dry and to distribute that which was ready to be used. Each batch of soap had to be cured for at least three weeks to a month before it could be used but given the bright, beating sun of the past month or so she'd had luck with curing soap for much less time.

"The only good thing to come out of this bloody heat is that I can turn over the soap much faster," Helen muttered, stepping outside the butcher's to get away from the hot lye and fat mixture bubbling over the fire and get some sort of relief. It wasn't coming to her here, given it was nearly as hot outdoors as it was inside, but at least she could fan herself and get a chance to get a few deep breaths without inhaling the scent of soap-in-process.

She slid off her t-shirt, standing in just her bra for the moment, and used the soft cotton to mop off her brow.
posilutely: (003)
[personal profile] posilutely
WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: The fountain
WHEN: About 8:00, June 8th
OPEN TO: ALL
STATUS: Closed to new threads
WARNING: The thread with Sonny will eventually be ADULT


For almost as far back as she can remember, Queenie Goldstein has been a voracious reader. She'd be the first to tell you she doesn't have a head for the books that would make her smart, but there's just about nothing she loves more than losing herself in a good story. At home, she nearly always has a novel or stack of magazines to hand, and the tales of exotic places and sweeping romance are always her favorite. There was one in particular she read about twenty times when she was in school, all about a witch and wizard falling in love amidst the glittering sands of the Sahara. At the time, tucked up in her chilly New England dorm room, it had all seemed so marvelously enticing.

Now, it's a little less so.

To say the days the past couple of weeks have been hot just wouldn't be near accurate enough. It's been about like jumping into a frying pan when you're out in the middle of the day. When you walk around town, you can see it on everybody's faces: They're all waiting for the break that comes at sunset. Except now, the sun isn't going down at all. It's just sitting there on the horizon, brooding behind the cliffs like an angry dog.

That morning, Queenie had woken to another box with her name on it, perched this time on her dresser like someone had stolen in during the night and left it while she was sleeping. Inside, she'd found a pack of needles and several spools of thread, and while a bolt of fabric would've been nice, she's not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. And yeah, she did feel a little guilty about going into one of the houses and pulling down all the curtains and cleaning out the linen closet, but there's nothing in the storeroom in the inn except for scarves and heavy blankets.

It's just past eight o'clock at night, and Queenie's sitting on the lip of the fountain they all came out of, a basket of supplies at her side, bare feet dangling in the cool water as she works on the sewing in her lap and sings softly to herself. There's still plenty of light to see by out here, and the house is too stuffy even with every window flung open. Earlier, she'd cut her pants off above the knee and hemmed the edges; back home they'd be scandalous, but here they're pure practicality. Soon, she'll have a linen shift to wear instead.
theintercessor: (Default)
[personal profile] theintercessor
WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: Fountain, House 23, Schoolhouse
WHEN: June 7 + the night, day, and next day after.
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Mentions of death, bodies, general horror genre stuff in the intro; insect hallucination in the final prompt. Please see his opt out in the comments of his profile.
STATUS: Open



introduction )


fountain

Jude learned at an early age to play his cards close to the vest, and that fear should be chief among them. If people thought you weren't afraid of anything, they wouldn't have anything to use against you. He'd taken every dare, stared down every asshole, pushed himself through every heart-pounding moment until he could stand on the other side of it, a little harder but alive.

The only one he couldn't shake, but had at least managed to hide, was the fear of water.

He's been in it plenty of times since the first and last time he drowned. He's jumped off old ropes into lakes, he's taken the dive off the quarry's edge. He's gone under and held his breath just to prove he can handle anything the other guy can, but he'd been in control every time. He'd chosen it.

He didn't choose to be drowned in the tub when he was eight, seeking some higher power, and he didn't choose to wake up in it now, the burn in his nose and throat something from a nightmare.

Fear isn't a good motivator, but it certainly prompts action, narrows everything away from how and when and why to kicking until he pushes against a hard surface, even if it just sends him into another at his back. The space explored that much, he kicks again, shoving himself between walls until he finds he can touch them with hands outstretched, guide himself up and out of the water with a splash and hacking, whooping series of coughs. He rolls over the edge, then several times on the ground for good measure. His body catalogs dry earth, hard stones, and short grass, and the discomfort at his back turns out to be a pack when he finds the wits to examine himself.

Not his clothes, not his bag. Kneeling, he's still choking when he rips open the zipper, leans to one side without getting a look at the contents when he vomits up water and bile. He doesn't know when he last ate, he can't seem to stay conscious enough to keep track of time.

It wasn't this bright when he blacked out. It wasn't this bright, and strange as it isn't to find himself in a wooded path, last he checked the town didn't have a fountain. Coughing into his elbow, he skirts his gaze over it, taking in the treeline, the branching paths, the overbearing sun. This isn't the first time he's blanked or blacked out, woken up somewhere different, but it's the first time he's woken up somewhere new.

Looking down at the pack, its contents don't appear to be anything he recognizes as his or immediately useful, and he pushes himself up to wander around the edge of the fountain. "Dad," he calls only once, weakly, before a new kind of fear sends him into the cover of the trees.


house 23 )

Schoolhouse )

[Feel free to tag in with the explicit starters or something in-between: Jude wandering the trees away from the fountain, casing the house, peeking out windows, etc.]
3ofswords: (sleep)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 39; Riverbank, southeast bend
WHEN: June 5
OPEN TO: Credence + 2 at the house; 2 more at the river
WARNINGS: Edited as needed
STATUS: Open



tl;dr )

at the house

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

at the river

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

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

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

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


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

zomboligist: (oookay)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Inn, near the Kitchen
WHEN: June 3rd
OPEN TO: All! Mingle post!
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open


There's another one of those strange boxes sitting on the porch of their home when Ravi gets up to another scorching, awful day. He's not sure what switch they hit to get this sort of weather, but he wants them to take it back, seeing as he's been sweating so much that he has to do laundry practically every day to cope with the ridiculousness of it. He can't go shirtless because he has absolutely no will to show everyone the out of shape disappointment that it his torso.

He bends to pick up the box and bring it inside, but hisses when his fingers contact something frosty cold at the bottom of the box. Opening it in a hurry, his eyes widen and he tugs the box to his chest as best as he can, taking off in a completely ungraceful run, heading straight for the inn and shouting as he goes. "Ice cream!" he says, like the world's skeeviest ice cream truck on legs, luring children in after him. "Ice cream, there's ice cream, it's going to melt," he warns, because there are six tubs of it, but he fears that in this heat, it's not going to last very long at all. Scientifically, he knows that it's just going to be calories that generate heat, but science can go take a backseat.

He unloads the toppings and the various six flavours (ranging from vanilla to chocolate, cookie dough, mint chocolate chip, butter pecan, and even a treasured cherry garcia), the sprinkles and peanuts going with the caramel and hot fudge sauces. He could weep because there are even serving spades, bowls, and spoons. He knows he ought to be wary about food after the whole chocolate poisoning incident (if it really was the chocolate), but it's just so hot and he's just so hungry.

He'll chance it, because if he doesn't, he just gets some delicious flavoured ice cream soup soon.
assertiveness: (044)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: The waterfall
WHEN: June 1st, evening
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: a. nudity, b. a thread of Mature Adults Doing Adult Things, c. discussion of physical abuse
STATUS: Open


Read more... )
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (35)
[personal profile] repressings
WHO: Credence Barebone and apparently half the village (including you!)
WHERE: Inn for the OTA, various in closed starters
WHEN: 5/15
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse
STATUS: ongoing




Eventually, Credence has to leave the house. Eventually, Credence has to face what he's done and eventually, he finds himself blinking blearily into the early morning sun, heart hammering in his chest as his foot crosses the threshold of Kira and Bodhi's residence for the first time since he'd been dragged there from the forest, half asleep and utterly exhausted. He finds he doesn't burn up immediately, nor does he feel like collapsing inwards on himself, and takes another step forward. It's a slow start, but a start nonetheless.

He feels terrible, of course, but he's quick to mentally reprimanded himself. He doesn't deserve to feel terrible, not anymore. Not ever. He's long since stopped sleeping because he's recovering and instead has slipped into sleeping due to what he feels is idleness, choosing to nap constantly to avoid the world. 15 days and he's positive--positive--he's slowly driving those he temporarily shares a residence with absolutely insane. Even if it's false, it's what he perceives, and they have a right to be upset. Everyone does.

That's why, very carefully, he makes his way towards the inn. His body feels strange, dimmed, and that's the only reason he leaves in the first place: he's sure the scratching in his skull stopping altogether means the Obscurus--Obscurial?--is at least contained. It's safe for him to be near other people.

He stares at the inn door for a very long time, for what seems like a lifetime, before he physically wills his body to open the door. The weather's changed, but he's still wearing the black fisherman's sweater Finnick has given him, covering himself and hiding skin, the only scars showing the ones on his palms. He tries his best not to shake and keeps his voice as calm as he can, surprised that his nervousness only cracks his voice once.

"Hello? I was wondering if anyone needed help this morning. With..." His voice trails off, face reddening. "..Chores, or..."

This is stupid. They're going to chase him out.
3ofswords: (suspicious)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira
WHERE: The northeastern woods
WHEN: April 26, early morning and onward
OPEN TO: Credence, Newt, Tina
WARNINGS: Smoke monsters, possible references to Credence's canon abuse
STATUS: N/A


Read more... )

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