71st_victor: (consider)
[personal profile] 71st_victor
WHO: Johanna Mason
WHERE: Outside the Mill
WHEN: August 11th
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: n/a


The last few times that she's been out in the woods have been silent, solo jaunts, which means that her temporary friend had been just that -- another person who left, whether of his own volition or not, but isn't that just like home? Everyone goes away, no one sticks around. Whatever, it just means there's more for her, which is why she's working with a lot of firewood, to the point that she eases back on the cutting and starts to look at other uses.

She doesn't build with them, doesn't know any tricks to make them into a floor or a roof or anything else handy, but what she knows is making a weapon or two. She's been whittling using her axe, turning a large slab of redwood into several well-turned staffs of about six feet tall, careful to keep her work clean. She could (and should) put a point on one end, but she'll save those for hunting, for later. Some of these, she's just working on because she misses fighting and keeping her anger hot and boiling. Fists are fine, but no one wants to come after her with the axe in her hands, so she's been thinking about evening up the playing field with a few good blunt instruments.

Twisting the second now-finished staff, she eyes the handiwork with all its errors and flaws, shrugging when she doesn't really care how perfect it is, so much as it's done.

Tossing it into the finished pile, she reaches down for the remainder of the log, using the axe absently to throw all her weight into the strike, cutting it clean in half so that she can pin it down with her boot, prying it up to start on a third. Even if she doesn't end up finding someone who's willing to practice, at least Johanna intends to be well-stocked in weapons for whatever comes next.
fishermansweater: (Jacket side-eye)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHO: Finnick Odair + his peacock
WHERE: The 6I park
WHEN: August 3
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: Baby peacock being ridiculous. Probably mentions of mental health and anxiety later on.



he's a peacock, a total preener --> fountain park


There's been an escape.

There'd been another aftershock, and after he'd calmed Annie down, Finnick had gone outside to check on the birds, only to find another hole in the fence. He'd thought he'd patched it up before he'd gone back to Annie, but he's come out again to find that Star, the oldest of the peacocks, is on the other side of the fence, and making his determined way down the path towards the village.

Finnick curses and turns, rapidly, to pull open the door of the house and shout in to Annie.

"Star's gotten out, can you check the fence?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, only hopes she's heard him before he's off down the road after the blue and brown bird. Hearing Finnick behind him prompts the bird to take off, skimming low over the bushes at the side of the road and leaving Finnick to chase after him.

They're halfway to the village by the time Star lands again, and the bird doesn't seem inclined to let Finnick catch up. Every time he gets close enough to reach out to catch the bird, Star flutters away out of reach and continues on down the path. They've made it all the way to the park before Star finally stops trying to actually run away and starts contentedly pecking at the grass, looking for something to eat. Finnick gives up the pursuit, too, and sits down on the edge of the fountain.

Perhaps he should consider trying to make some sort of leash or harness for the bird so he can't get away. He always carries some of the nylon cable he'd acquired around with him, so he'd be able to, but he's not sure about whether it's even possible to leash a bird. The propaganda films at home about agriculture in District 10 had never said much about poultry.

While Finnick watches, Star stares at the fountain, then turns around, slowly, holding out its wings, tail held straight up in the air. His tail is quivering, displaying the stubs of feathers that haven't yet grown in.

"You've got a while before you'll make it in the Capitol," Finnick says, eyeing the bird.

9601: (.208)
[personal profile] 9601
WHO: Logan Howlett
WHERE: Bungalow #58, the hospital and the village
WHEN: July 1st-2nd; before & after earthquake things
OPEN TO: closed & open threads (see headers)
WARNINGS: Depictions of injuries, claustrophobia, and a lotta swearing


July 1st - bungalow #58 - Jean and Peeta
 
 
The day started normal enough, if by "normal" one meant "blazing hot like the last fucking some odd weeks". Logan had already spent enough time after the morning forage fussing with the furnace, sweeping out ash and soot, stacking wood in its iron belly, and coming upstairs to check Jean's progress with the plank of sulfur shelf they'd returned home with. There was an odd quiet about the place that unsettled him, something he couldn't really put a finger to. As he crossed the yard for another armload of wood to take to the cellar, he expected birdsong in the trees, maybe another jay ready to scold him for getting too near her nest, but no. There was nothing.

With that bit of strangeness in mind, and firewood to carry, he was maybe halfway down the cellar steps when they began to move. Undulate, really, with a rumble of the earth that seemed to surround him all at once, engulfing him in noise so swiftly he barely had a chance to turn around. Dust and dirt rained from the ceiling, then debris- a beam snapped and clocked him across the forehead.

Logan awoke a little while later in darkness. There was an odd tangibility to it, cold and hard and pressing in across his lower body, an inexorable weight he couldn't seem to move. Resting on his side, the world came into focus slowly, and with it an awareness of aches radiating from all over his body. The worst was his head, a feeling like he'd taken a baseball bat right to the temple, throbbing angrily against his metal skull.

Someone was calling his name, someone familiar. He grunted, tasting wet, bitter earth on his teeth. A dull sound like the steady drumbeat of rain on the roof seemed to echo down to him as well, and he coughed, the air thick with dust.

"Kitty?" Logan coughed again, feeling dirt shift when he drew a hand to his face, his clumsy fingers meeting wet skin. "Jean? Are you all right?"

 
July 1st - 2nd - hospital - ota


Logan was a terrible patient. The bruises he could deal with, and had intended to, but the wicked cut just beneath his hairline was a different matter altogether. He abhorred feeling weak, just as he abhorred feeling useless, and no amount of reminding himself that he'd lost his power to heal was going to make him feel any better. As the village sprang to life under the rain and the earthquake and all those little aftershocks, he wanted to be out and in the thick of all of it, doing something other than reclining in bed with a wicked headache, feeling like he'd been hit by a bus. Getting up just made it worse though.

Getting up made him dizzy, and the floor feel like it was going to rush right up and slap him in the face. So there he was, having to rest, and all the while incredibly surly for it.

Anytime someone new happened to arrive, whether just to poke their head in to be a looky-loo or to drag an injured friend to an empty bed, would get their asses grilled within an inch of their lives:

"What's happening out there?"
bewaretheniceboy: (the ruse is through)
[personal profile] bewaretheniceboy
WHO: Peeta Mellark
WHERE: Village in general, bakery, riverbank
WHEN: June 8, 9, and 10
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: It's Peeta, so there's always possibilities of the Games coming up, especially now
STATUS: Open




( June 8, Village )

When he'd woken up that morning, it had been with his heart hammering in his chest and a barely contained panic. The symptoms weren't at all unfamiliar to him after a year: a nightmare, a bad one, the kind that made it impossible to ever think things could be good again, and he turned to look at Katniss like he always did to reassure himself that they were okay, that they were safe (relatively, at least), and-

She wasn't there.

He hadn't panicked at first; sometimes she woke up before him and went out to do different things. Sometimes the hunting or tracking was better in the early day for reasons he didn't understand. But she'd always show up for lunch, at least long enough to grab something she could eat as she moved if she didn't stay for an actual meal, and this time she didn't... He'd left Jacob in the bakery to go check the house and see if she was there, and that was when he'd found that almost all traces of her had vanished. There was only one set of the clothing and supplies that people carried with them up from the fountain, only one scrubs top. The bow and arrows she'd been shaping were still there but nothing that had been supplied to them. As much as Katniss liked the woods, she wouldn't have packed up everything and run away to them, not without giving something away.

All of that means that Peeta goes into a mild frenzy and immediately into search and rescue mode, crutches be damned. Katniss is far from the most social person in the village, but she's been there long enough to still be familiar to most people, and anyone he runs into is likely going to be a target for that question of Where is she? whether he knows them or not. His first target is, of course, the inn and anyone there, but he spirals out around the village as well as he can while still being limited in mobility, getting more panicked as the day drags on.


( June 9, Bakery )

He can't search the woods in his condition and he's angry about that on a level no one in the village has seen from him, but he's not stealthy to begin with and a broken leg, even one that's mostly healed, makes him even worse. There's still two weeks, give or take, before the rigid brace can come off his leg and he can drop the crutches, and while he's gotten pretty good at dealing with them in the village, that's still somewhere with places for him to stop and sit and rest and convenient water and loads of other things. There is literally just nothing he can do right now that other people can't do better than him, so Peeta is pouring that anger and energy he has into doing something that's at least productive, mixing up, rolling out, and cutting down batches of pasta which he hangs to dry on a series of branches he'd carefully washed before using. It's very basic, just flour, water, and a little salt, but it's more food for people to eat and something to say "thank you" to everyone who wanted to help him or even commiserate with him. Even worried and angry he wasn't about to make things worse for the rest of the village residents, not when they all needed each other to get through this.


( June 10, River )

Two solid nights of terror have taken a toll on Peeta and he knows it's not really going to get any easier, though he also knows he'll reluctantly get used to it the longer it goes, and he just needs a day away from the normal haunts he'd established within the village. In case something happens, though, he's not gone all that far: just down to the river, not near the waterfall since that's the most popular area, but downstream from it a little to enjoy the cooler air around the moving water. The way it's drained reminds Peeta a little too much of when the Gamemakers had drained the stream in the 74th Games to herd them towards Cato and the finale, but it has uncovered a small cluster of rocks that make good seating for someone who can't swim. He's brought his pencils and one of the books he's working on to continue his project, the one that's a record of all the residents. The pages are opened to a certain entry and as the water swirls by he carefully begins embellishing it, adding more words and details to the sketch there, slowly and lovingly. Katniss' entry, of course; she almost looks as if she's staring at him from the page. He's entirely wrapped up in his work and oblivious to anyone coming up on him.
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.]
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.
9601: (.115)
[personal profile] 9601
WHO: Logan Howlett
WHERE: Fountain & throughout town
WHEN: backdated to the 21st + onwards
OPEN TO: Arrival closed to Jean; OTA otherwise
WARNINGS: vituperative swearing and a hot, sweaty Canadian?
STATUS: Open



>>21. fountain

meet me there )

>>23. woods

A couple of days in, and he wasn't feeling any better about his situation. Yesterday he'd scoffed at the idea that there was no way out of the canyon, and though others before him had combed every inch of the perimeter of that strange place, he still had to see for himself. Hours later and he'd just ended up pissed off. Logan had new scratches, several split fingernails, a motherfucking sunburn and an aching ass when he'd taken a hard fall from the canyon wall, any handholds having disintegrated beneath his grip.

Today, he was up early in the morning while it was cool out, well before the heat could make an appearance, and he was a man on a mission. Without much in the way of housing options, not inclined to trust the random assortment of village weirdos, he was staying with Jean. Well, a younger version of the Jean he'd once known, an uneasy arrangement he still needed to get his head around.

The house, at least, was much more straightforward than guilty feelings and awkward silences, a catalogue home the likes of which he hadn't seen for a long time, even before the sentinel war. No one built homes like it anymore, not cozy little bungalows of this stripe, and though sound in construction, it had clearly seen better days. If he was going to stay - temporarily, because he'd find a way out - he was going to make sure his digs weren't falling apart. He could do that much for Jean.

"The roof is shit," he'd announced to her the previous afternoon, trying to shore up what part of his pride had been damaged. Logan had pried up a section of broken shingles and dropped it into the grass for her to see, a taste of just what several days of hail had wrought: splintered wood and an easy recipe for leaks. Fixing it, well...that would take some doing, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

That was what he was up to this morning, an axe over his shoulder and, curiously, a mallet tucked in an overall pocket, while he wandered among the trees. A few times he stopped at one or another, touching a hand to the bark and letting his gaze roam up into the branches, before he shook his head and moved on. To anyone else, he probably looked a little odd- and there was someone else out there, tending to something he didn't really care about. He just as soon assumed they were trying to beat the heat the same as him. Everyone in the town seemed to occupy themselves in one task or another for the good of the whole, something he could respect. Back home, it was much the same. It had to be that way when resources were thin on the ground, when you were constantly on the run.

At last, not too long into his search, he found the right tree, a red cedar standing straight and tall. A quick walk around had him sighing in satisfaction, even giving the trunk a little pat. Now he could start.

"Hey! Lookie-loo. I wouldn't stand there," Logan called out to his fellow forest compatriot. He stepped back to widen his stance, hefted the axe, and swung for the trunk.


>>later: town

Logan ended up making a day of it with the tree, stripping bark, cutting shakes, and bundling together greenery to process for other uses. Even his first, mangled efforts to cut shingles weren't spent in vain, just simply tossed aside to be repurposed. Truth be told, he found a sort of quiet enjoyment in the work, in putting a lot of his old knowledge to practice. It didn't give him the time to dwell too much on his situation, which he preferred. Let him get these tasks handled and there was no time to worry.

All throughout the late morning, he could be found carting things back to the house, whether shakes or branches or boughs, tied with bark cordage. By the afternoon, it was getting far too hot for his liking, and he was hurrying a bit with a last stack of shakes, ready to be done with this portion of his pet project. The rest of the tree could be left almost indefinitely where he felled it, if he needed it again in the future. He wasn't paying too much attention to the path itself- he's had a headache the past half hour that hadn't put him in the best of moods. When someone came across him, he almost clipped them due to inattention.

"Watch it-" Too late. A handful of lovely red shingles tipped off the top of the stack and went cartwheeling across the path. Logan sighed, a sharp noise of displeasure, and shifted the stack so he could bend and grab for one of the flat rectangles of wood. Bad idea- a wave of dizziness hit him, and made him teeter just for a second before he straightened, pressing the heel of his palm to a temple, squinting through that flicker of red.
stillplaying: ([action] pausing the hunt)
[personal profile] stillplaying
WHO: Katniss Everdeen
WHERE: Outside House 41
WHEN: May 22
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: N/A
STATUS: Open


It's taken her a while to find the perfect branch. Something that wouldn't require too much trimming in size. Something that was relatively straight, free of the knots and side branches and anything else that might get in the way of carving a decent bow. She had found that bow a few weeks back, shortly before Peeta had wound up with a broken leg. Her project had been put to the side in favor of fretting over Peeta. Maybe that had been a mistake. If she had actually worked harder on finding the right branch, if she had worked harder on making her bow, maybe she could have done something to prevent Peeta from getting hurt. It's a stupid and irrational thought but it's one that's plagued her nonetheless.

Although his leg is still broken, it's finally sunk in that she doesn't need to watch him every second. He's capable on his crutches and that's something that she should respect. This new arena might be dangerous in its own way but there's no one actively trying to kill them. Besides, it's easy to keep an eye on the bakery from the porch of their house. She can stay out of his and Jacob's way but still monitor the bakery's comings and goings.

She sits quietly on the porch, the branch between her knees as she works on carving one edge. The paring knife is small but sharp enough to gently remove the wood from the belly side of the bow. She slowly works her way down the branch, crafting the wood until the limb bends in an even curve. Eventually, she carves notches into either end before moving on to working on the strings. Every now and then, she looks up to watch the bakery entrance - especially if she hears footsteps.

It's not a bad way to pass the afternoon, though she'd rather be out in the surrounding woods. That's the purpose of making this rough bow though, isn't it? She won't feel fully comfortable in her new surroundings until she had a way to protect herself and Peeta. And a way to provide them with extra food.
71st_victor: (wink)
[personal profile] 71st_victor
WHO: Johanna Mason
WHERE: The springs
WHEN: May 11th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Nudity and adult content
STATUS: Open


Out of nowhere, it's suddenly nice outside, with warmth and sun and all sorts of things that ought to make Johanna suspicious. Still, suspicion can take the back seat to her personal comfort, because the great weather means that she can enjoy the springs the way they ought to be. There's a trail of clothes leading up to the springs, with the scrub bottoms first, then a boot, another boot, and finally, the top before the path opens up to Johanna soaking up in the springs. She's heard that they heal people, but the truth is that she doesn't give a damn about healing anything.

All that she wants right now is to soak and relax into the water, pretending that she's not in some giant prison where someone might be watching at any point in time. She hasn't fully relaxed. If she had, then she wouldn't have hidden her axes within an arm's reach under a few branches.

She doesn't expect to be left alone too long, not with the weather warming up so perfectly, but still, when she hears footsteps, she can't help a little showmanship, sinking down into the water and raising a leg to let the water drip off, legs freshly shaved because she might be in the wilderness, but she's still vain enough to care, smirking as she watches the company approach.

"There's always room for more," she guarantees with a wink, moving in the water like a snake to the other side of the springs where she can rest her elbows out of the water, chin on her hands as she lets her gaze roam upwards, expectantly and with an assessing bent. "Unless you didn't want any room," is her dry addition. "I wouldn't mind sharing, if you don't."
fightsinheels: (Default)
[personal profile] fightsinheels
WHO: Isabelle Lightwood
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, and probably the rest of the village, too.
WHEN: 18th.
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Your general panicked-crawling-out-of-the-fountain, some violence because she might punch some people
STATUS: Open


The Fountain; somewhere hanging in between

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

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

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

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

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

The Inn; my life and the death of me

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ ooc: feel free to find her around the village too! ]
markwatney: (013)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Field, orchard and town hall
WHEN: Anytime in April
OPEN TO: Everyone -- MINGLE POST!
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open
NOTE: Details on this year's planting can be found here.


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

Planting season is finally here again.

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

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

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

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

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

With the town hall scrubbed and organized, it makes a perfect staging area and place to rest, have a drink or snack. That's also where we've laid out our tools of the trade, both gifted and cobbled together. This year, I want to make sure everyone has some kind of glove if I can. If they're willing to work, it's the least I can do.
fishermansweater: (Wry amusement)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHO: Finnick Odair & Annie Cresta
WHERE: House #57 - The Windemere, and the woods
WHEN: April 2 - 9
OPEN TO: Everyone! Let us know whether you're after Finnick or Annie or both of them in your subject line. Or look out for a separate starter from Annie and tag her there.
WARNINGS: Nothing so far, but if things come up we will edit.
STATUS: Ongoing!



Twelve birds, five of them geese who are now getting towards fully-grown, are too many to keep in the house.

The birds living or sleeping in the house was never meant to be permanent, but they'd arrived in the midst of winter, and even knowing next to nothing about caring for birds, Finnick and Annie had known they couldn't be outside when they were so little and vulnerable. Now, though, their oldest geese are starting to look recognizably like adults, and the noise and the mess and trying to keep them fed indoors is too much.

The difficulty is that there's nowhere they can safely leave them without the risk of them wandering off and annoying Johanna by settling into her front yard, or wandering further afield and disappearing into the woods, where predators await. There's the remains of a fence around the house, but even the bigger birds would have no trouble escaping through it. Finnick and Annie have been talking, as the weather grew warmer, debating what to do and where to keep their flock. A little experimentation, and a lot of brush gathered from shrubs and trees, and they've done some experimenting and worked out a hardy-looking brush fence. The start of one, at least.

Once the fog has cleared, they've gotten to work, harvesting wood, shaping fenceposts, and soaking branches in their bathtub to make them pliable enough to weave. Most of the first week of April, one or both of them is usually out the front of their home. They smooth down the sturdier branches they're using for fenceposts, with a machete or Finnick's bright orange hatchet. They've borrowed a toolkit from the Inn storeroom to help, and the hammer proves useful when it comes to driving in the fenceposts. Once the posts are in, Finnick and Annie set to weaving the water-soaked wood into a fence.

The entire endeavor is made somewhat more difficult by the curiosity of the geese, who have taken to trying to nip at the brush if it's left too long unattended. In general, though, that just makes their owners laugh, and shoo them a little. Star and the three younger peacocks are less involved, choosing mostly to perch on the front porch and watch, occasionally keening at their foster-siblings.

The two victors are busy at work for day after day, and occasionally one or the other of them can be found in the woods, gathering a new bundle full of brush to take back for the fence.

Wherever they're found, there'll be a pause in the work if anyone approaches. It's necessary to assess any newcomers.

By the looks the geese give, they think so too.


stillplaying: ([fear] please please no)
[personal profile] stillplaying
WHO: Katniss Everdeen + [OPEN]
WHERE: village, woods
WHEN: March 15
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Potential for PTSD, violence, death, other THG-related fun times
STATUS: Open


woods;

It's cold and wet but the clothes and the clothes she wears, although better than the sheer blue jumpsuit the Gamemakers had previously outfitted her in. That they somehow had time to change her outfit and provide her with a backpack of provisions still puzzles her. The last thing she remembers is the force field. Beetee's message sinking in. Knowing just who the enemy is. She remembers taking the wire and securing it around her arrow. She remembers nocking it in her bow and aiming it towards the chink in the field's armor right before lightning strikes the tree. She remembers being blown backward by the force.

Then she had been submerged underwater and survival instinct had kicked in. Now, ten minutes later, her clothes still drip water as she walks. It leaves a trail that can be easily followed. She should be more careful. Cannons had gone off but she still doesn't know for whom. Enobaria and Brutus could still be out there. Finnick and Johanna. Peeta. She should be more careful about the trail she leaves but she doesn't care. She needs to find Peeta. He had been screaming her name, hadn't he? Right before the world had erupted in light. She needs to find him. That's all she wants. All she had to achieve in the Quarter Quell. Get Peeta out alive. Make him Victor and ensure that Peeta will live the long life he deserves.

She can't actually do that unless she finds him. Despite the chill from the wet clothes, she presses on. It slowly starts to register that this isn't the Clock Arena. There are houses not too far from the fountain she had surfaced in. She isn't dumb. Houses potentially mean people. Peeta must have realized it, too. So long as they're weaponless, they need to get away. She heads towards the woods instead. It must be safe there.

village;

Even after her new situation is explained to her, Katniss still finds herself wary. She carefully starts to explore the village, slowly mapping it out in her mind the best she can. If this is an arena, it's unlike any she's ever heard of. This is a village. Small, like District 12. Functional. It's a good setting for a blood bath but unless the Gamemakers have cameras within every building, entertainment might be mixed.

It isn't an arena. She has to remind herself that. The goal isn't for children to kill each other. There are more people here than the normal twenty-four in the Hunger Games. She remembers Haymitch's year though. Forty-eight children and only Haymitch survived. Madge's aunt had been killed in that arena. Still, if anyone comes near, Katniss will tense and scowl.
71st_victor: (a little bit left)
[personal profile] 71st_victor
WHO: Johanna Mason
WHERE: Outside Johanna's House
WHEN: March 13th
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open


Her plants have grown. They're not fully there yet, but when Johanna woke up, they were just saplings with a little dirt. She'd brought them into the house, found the closest window, and let them be. Only, when she comes downstairs today, they're not the same as before. They've grown months worth of time overnight all of a sudden, and better than that, the belladonna has two beautiful little blooms on it. Normally, she'd have put the poison garden outside, but Annie and Finnick's stupid geese might eat them and then she'd never hear the end of it, so inside they stay for now. She plucks one bud and drops it into water, but the other she takes into her hands once she's put on some the plastic gloves from the first aid kit and uses the hilt of her toy axe to start grinding it down, adding just a little bit of water.

Her axes, she won't taint with this. Belladonna's not the kind of poison she wants on a utilitarian set of axes, but that machete she got, well, that'll do perfectly. She heads outside when the fog seems to be breaking just enough for her to see through it, setting up on the porch as she starts to dab and apply the small ounces of poison to the weapon, feeling pleased that her deadly weapon just got a whole lot deadlier.

She whistles, low and steady under her breath, a sad melody she remembers hearing in the woods while her father taught her how to use the axe, wishing for some of the clothes from home. It's been ages since she thought about her family, mainly because doing that only hurts her, but she can't help but wonder how much they'd hate what she'd become.

Maybe it's a blessing they all got killed because of her. Sure, your daughter survived, but had to turn into a bloodthirsty murderer to do it. What kind of parent can live with that forever before it turns and you start wondering when it'll be them, next?

She pauses in her work when she hears the crunch of a boot in soil, lifting her gaze as wisps of hair fall into her eyes. "You're lucky I don't startle," she calls out to the shadow in the fog, "or you'd be dealing with another corpse," she says, steadying her hand as she adds another application of the poison.
bewaretheniceboy: (knocked flat)
[personal profile] bewaretheniceboy
WHO: Peeta Mellark
WHERE: Fountain, then woods
WHEN: March 9th, 10th
OPEN TO: Cassian first, then anyone else
WARNINGS: It's the Hunger Games, so... death, mental manipulation, brutal violence, sheer terror, and about twelve other things
STATUS: First section is closed; second and third are open, but be wary of terrified, adrenaline-filled Victors




The last thing he'd seen before unconsciousness took him was the burning structure of the dome above them collapsing, falling in pieces to the jungle floor right at the spot the lightning tree had been - right where Beetee had been, and maybe Finnick, or Johanna, even Enobaria - and he'd left the bodies of Chaff and Brutus behind in his mad dash back to the tree, as fast as he could go on the prosthetic limb but not nearly fast enough. Because the hovercraft appeared as its cloaking device switched off, claw lowering one, two, three times to lift bodies away (they couldn't be dead, she couldn't be dead, the cannon hadn't gone off again) before something overtook him and all his senses were cut out entirely, leaving him in a heap on the floor of the Quarter Quell arena.

When he woke, he was in another place entirely, but a place just as deadly for him. )
treadswater: (have to be nimble on the waves)
[personal profile] treadswater
WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: The Village, around
WHEN: 26th February
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Open | Ongoing




Auroras, snow, no snow, lightning attacks: a girl's still gotta eat and work for her living. Or something like that. Annie knows she could just stick to the river and fishing with Finnick, remain on the outskirts. But she's been making baskets, bowls, over winter and those need to be dropped off at the Inn.

It's not as bad as a blizzard, she tells herself and her boyfriend. It's merely unpredictable. She can handle that. She's handled waves and storms on a bucking, frightened boat, and even if there is another earthquake, as long as she doesn't lose her head she knows that the shaking ground will stop and then she can move.

(It's an unfortunate choice of words, even within her own skull. Losing her head. Well done, Cresta.)

Naturally, it happens when the small woman is half way between her house on the outskirts and the Inn. Her instincts, honed by Career Academy and the school of the docks, tingle, twitch, pull at her, and Annie hits the ground as a ball of lightening crackles into life where her torso had been half a second earlier.

She hits the ground, rolls, curls up into a ready crouch ready to run, roll, move again if she has to. There's the sudden smell of burnt hair and she's guessing the end of her braid got singed, and the mud is cold against her shin and hands, but she doesn't move.

Not until the lightening is gone.

Not for a long, long moment after, where she stares at where the ball lightening had been. Where it nearly killed her, yet didn't.

"Oh," says Annie. Quietly, Distantly. "Okay."

She'll move, soon. She should. It's not safe, crouching here. She's just going to catch her breath first.

And try very, very hard not to giggle.
theroadremains: (Put your hand in my hand)
[personal profile] theroadremains
WHO: 'Casey' - Son of John
WHERE: The village, the inn, & the river
WHEN: February 19th
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: None currently
STATUS: Open


The Village: Handing off of the box open to one person
    There was no shame, in Casey's world, to be had from looting those who had died or gone. Survival meant taking what you could find when you could find it, and those rules hadn't changed just because the camp had food, clean water, and clean air. He had been slipping in and out of old and unoccupied houses and rooms between chores, scavenging bits of wood and forgotten items. His backpack was weighted with some journals he had picked up, thinking Kira might help him find a use for them. There was a knife and a canteen of water at his hip, the weight of both leaving him far more comfortable with the state of things. His worn to rags scrubs had been ripped apart for use as rags and replaced with some sturdier light gray clothing he had found tucked under a bed in the inn.

    It felt good to slip back into his old life for a moment. He climbed out the window of another abandoned house and dropped to the ground with a lighter step, despite the added weight to his pack and his bedraggled and filthy appearance. His coat was in tatters and his skin caked in dust and dirt, his hair wildly mussed and sticking up in random places.

    On one of these exits, he held a box in his hands, a small one. His name had been scrawled on the card attached, and he had added it to his pocket with the other saved cards, meant for study later to aid in his learning. There had also been a chunk of flint attached by a leather cord to a steel shard in it. He had recognized it for what it was, and tucked it away for later as well before he slipped a wooden sheep into the box in its place.

    He thought little of handing it off to the first person he encountered on his way back to the inn.
The River
    Everyone who had offered to teach him to swim had done so with a caveat. Wait until the weather grew warmer. The phrase had been meaningless to him then, unable to imagine a world warmer than the canyon already was. Even the snow had seemed softer in the camp, enough that when the weather finally began to warm and he sank deeper into the melting snow, he lost the surety of his footing. The packed snow had been too soft and grown thinner by the day. Now as he stood by the bank of the river, its level and speed raised with the water from the melting snow, he had his first real look at green trying to sprout from the ground at the river edges. It was nothing more than moss on rocks, but he had slipped dangerously close, laying on his belly on the bank to reach out and touch it.

    The camp never got any easier to believe. Even though his lungs had become accustomed to not needing to gasp in deep breaths of clean air or regulate his breaths to short, stifled intakes through a mask, he was still in awe of the air, the sky, the water. The apparent endless ability of the camp to provide at least a little meal for its ever growing numbers. It all unsettled him as much as it amazed him. Even after over a month of it, the camp still felt like a dream he would wake from at any moment.

    At some point he dosed off where he was sprawled on the bank, his fingers creating a current where they dipped into the cold water and his cheek tucked against the crook of his other arm.
The Inn
    It was dark by the time he made it back to the camp. He had taken the day to himself after finishing his morning chores, and he was in good spirits about the productivity of his scavenging, and distracted by the stars above. His eyes were so focused toward them that he missed the larger box until his foot bumped into it, and the contents made a noise like a sneeze. He hesitated, looking down at the box as it shifted and crouching before it.

    Another card, another scrawl of a name that had been loaned to him. He wondered if perhaps the things Kira claimed to be his had really been meant for another, but the brass casings that clinked in his pocket as he moved suggested otherwise. He opened the box to find a pair of deep brown eyes staring out of the black darkness at him, lit by the light of the moon and the dancing colors of the aurora's in the sky above them.

    He reached into the box without fear, letting the small, furred creature put her paws on him, a tail thumping into the side of the box. She didn't whine or bark, and he said nothing to her as he lifted her from it and tucked her into his coat to keep her warm, moving only far enough to sit on the steps of the inn.

    Hours later, he could still be found there in the dark of the night, a sleeping bundle of black fur curled up on his lap, half hidden in the folds of his ragged, tattered coat. Late though it was, he was playing softly on the harmonica, keeping the level of the music as soft as he could, with his head tilted back toward the stars and auroras above.
[It takes a moment to start but in this post Casey's harmonica sounds a bit like a softer, quieter version of this.]
markwatney: (013)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark & Anyone
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: Feb 16, afternoon through evening
OPEN TO: EVERYONE! This is a mingle post!
WARNINGS: N/A - Please warn in thread subject lines if needed
STATUS: Open


When we all get together and have our town meetings, the truth is that a lot of times we don't come up with the sort of solutions we're looking for. I'm not trying to say we're complacent -- Or at least not all of us, not the people speaking up in the meetings -- but just that the nature of living here, such as it is, means that answers aren't exactly forthcoming.

But the latest meeting, the one about organizing, creating some kind of formal entity to oversee the group of us, it threw something into sharp relief for me: I've been talking for a long time about how we all need to be sharing our knowledge as a safeguard, but I haven't been doing much to make this happen beyond sharing my own personal knowledge. And that's really just not acceptable -- Not here, not when we've apparently got an entire section of the population asking for active leadership and another section who might just be too shy or apathetic to admit it.

So, I've been trying to figure out a way to kickstart this project. A way for people to even put out there the sort of knowledge they have to share. You have to start somewhere.

I've never had a problem getting people together to help with the field, but somehow we've been neglecting the town hall building right next to it this entire time. It's one of the biggest buildings in town, but it's still coated in dust and cobwebs, piles of leaves drifted into corners. The inn is starting to get a little crowded during meetings; it might be nice to have a little more room, a place where people come to share.

Regardless of how you feel about community leadership, I think most of us can get behind that.

A couple days before, I put out the call: A cleaning party. We get together, clean out the town hall, and afterward we have a little potluck. People can bring premade dishes, or we can cook out back over a bonfire. We can just be around each other, in a relatively safe space, just having a moment to relax and say hello. Meet someone new, find out where to begin.

After everything that's happened recently, I really think we could use it. I'm just hoping I'm not the only one who shows up.

[CLEANING PARTY & MIXER! Threads can take place during the CLEANING portion, after during the MIXER or BOTH. They can be indoors, upstairs, in the attic, out back by the bonfire, chowing down, whatever -- It's 100% cool to improvise! Mark will have expressly told folks this is about getting to know each other and what they can each do, too. There are some additional OOC notes here.]
00nothing: (i can run for my life)
[personal profile] 00nothing
WHO: Alex Rider
WHERE: around the village, then inside the inn
WHEN: February 12
OPEN TO: anyone
WARNINGS: severe lightning injuries, probably references to past injuries
STATUS: open


i don't want to follow death and all of his friends )
tarnishing: (087)
[personal profile] tarnishing
WHO: Taylor Baum
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: Late afternoon, then evening
OPEN TO: Jax Teller & YOU
WARNINGS: Possible narrative mention of drug abuse
STATUS: Closed to new threads


fountain, for jax;

When Taylor jolts awake, it isn't the water that's the biggest shock; it's the cold.

One moment sunk into the warm, bubbly depths of a much-needed bath, the next her body has seized, the drop in temperature a vise across her chest that jerks her legs and arms inward and leaves her floating for a moment, embryonic and quaking in the cold, shimmering depths of the pool. Instinct and Mrs. Lennon's kindergarten swimming class kicks in, butterfly kicking her up and up until she surfaces, coughing, grasping against rough concrete, trying to haul herself free and failing. Her fingers have gone rigid and her muscles don't want to work, skinny elbows wavering when she makes a second attempt, mind already racing at the flood of unexpected information, finally flopping over the lip and curling into a ball on the hard ground with a throat-tearing, "FUCK!"

What has happened, what has happened, what has happened?

Bunched on the ground, her eyes are wide, blinking against the cold, and this is nowhere she has ever been, nowhere she has ever seen, she's sure of it.

"What, what, what, what," she whispers, the words shuddered out as she watches the sun dip past the tops of the line of fir trees, and she knows she has to move, but isn't certain she can.


inn, later that evening, ota;

If this is a dream, or a coma, or a drug-fueled hallucination, it is an impressive one.

It's been hours since Taylor changed into clean, dry, clothes, but still she's huddled beneath a blanket and parked in front of the wide hearth in what everyone is calling the "inn." It makes her wonder, dimly, if that name really applies if nobody's paying to be there.

She's not such a SoCal girl that she can't handle a little cold; she's been to Big Bear and Tahoe enough times. She owns a pair of skis, for fuck's sake, along with several super cute sets of stylish-yet-practical leggings for hitting the slopes or showing off her yoga butt at the coffee shop at Sundance. But this weirdness wasn't a gradual cooling; it was like a hard slap that reverberated down to her bones. She can't seem to get warm.

The sun has fully set and she probably needs to be more practical than this, probably needs to figure out where the hell she's sleeping tonight, but right now she's pretty sure could pass out right here and be okay with it.

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