ψ it's all too quiet and i can't trust anything now | closed

[fishermansweater]

WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: House #57, the Windemere
WHEN: Late on the night of February 6, immediately after he leaves Jyn and Cassian in House #56, the Worthington
OPEN TO: Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: References to suicidal ideation. Likely references to sexual assault/abuse/quasi-slavery, Hunger Games is a terrible canon. Passing references to character death.
STATUS: Ongoing

---

( Cut for potentially triggering content )

002. I sat alone, in bed till the morning - OTA (Part 1)

[putorius]

WHO: Draco Malfoy
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Spanning his arrival to the evening of Feb 13
OPEN TO: Everyone, second section closed to Pietro Maximoff
WARNINGS: Angry teenagers (will update as necessary)
STATUS: Mixed

---

01. I'm crying, "They're coming for me" -- OTA

The past week has been a blur. Draco felt like he was just drifting in a constant state of panic that things like hunger and exhaustion barely penetrated. He'd rejected every scrap of help he'd been offered, thinking himself more than capable of doing everything on his own. The problem was that he was far too accustomed to life with magic and now he had to try to get by without it at all, his wand gone the way of his robes, his heirloom ring, his family's reputation. He didn't even have his wealth or connections to fall back on. For the first time, probably ever in his life, he was putting in hard, physical labor. Unwilling to accept what everyone said, he was trying to prove that he could escape.

The first few days were focused on the fountain, as that's where he'd come in, but there was no way he'd be able to reach the bottom of that thing without so much as a bubblehead charm. One night when he was certain no one see, he may have attempted such a feat, out of desperation. Finally, he gave up, focusing his efforts elsewhere. But the forest proved just as frustrating and far more perilous. If he wasn't running into sheer cliff walls or getting completely turned around, he was finding that footing was as dangerous as the depths of the Forbidden Forest and just barely escaped grievous injury. Night after night, he dragged himself back to the village, always wrapped snugly in his peacoat, growing more and more disheveled and frazzled. He was not made for this life and was getting more and more irritable.


02. And I tried to hold these secrets inside me -- Closed to Pietro

Finally, on Monday night, Draco decided he would not live like this any longer. He wasn't accepting that this place was permanent but if he didn't find a base of operations, he was going to run out of internal resources and be useless in every possible way. Constantly throwing ones self at a problem without a real plan was the gryffindor way, and he'll be damned if he was going to keep it up. Regroup and re-evaluate. Not all was lost. This meant having a set place to rest every night. Somewhere to call his own, to rest and recharge.

In his exhausted state, he didn't realize that the lack of available room keys meant the place was fully occupied. So he went room to room, checking doors, checking rooms. Some were locked, some were clearly occupied even if no one was home. Finally, when he reached the door for room 11, he thought perhaps he'd finally found one. It looked like people had been there recently, or at least that it had been cleaned more recently than some of the houses he'd seen. But he didn't see so much as a backpack to mark it as taken, though he was just tired enough that it was easy to miss something.

Convincing himself that it was free to take, which wasn't difficult for someone with such a self-centered view of the world, he dropped his backpack on the floor and collapsed onto one of the two beds. He barely managed to kick off his shoes, not bothering with his coat, before he started to drift off. He'd come up with a plan in the morning.

"I don't get particularly friendly with new people at first go .." - Sanjay Dutt

[kestreldawn]

WHO: Jyn Erso
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: February 9, early evening.
OPEN TO: Sansa, Claire
WARNINGS: None yet; will edit as needed.
STATUS: From aforementioned characters.

---

A routine has been slowly established: wake up at first light, comfortably and warmly nestled in Cassian's arms; begrudgingly force herself from their safety and from the bed; prepare for the day, sometimes with him if he feels like waking when she does; go to the Inn, visit Kira if he's there to check on him; if he's there, talk about their previous day, maybe have tea, maybe just sit and mope together; study the map on the wall and determine what new intel needs to be added. She hasn't yet begun to venture out to the boundaries of the town, not yet, but that day is fast approaching. It isn't that she's necessarily looking for an escape (the motivation to do so has waned she since's found Cassian, an underlying fear that if they do try to leave, they won't be able to do so together). It's more that it gives her something to do, something familiar and something like normalcy.

There's no threat of the Empire here. There's no planet killer, there's no Man in White. But she can't shake the anxiety from the back of her mind, where it's made its home. It's a constant gnawing at her gut, an ache in her side - a shroud stitched of darkness and fear and self-preservation. It makes her sometimes pull away from Cassian when he holds her, ignoring the pain, the hurt that flashes in his eyes when she does. It makes her withdraw into herself into silence, despite her tongue's protestations of wanting to move. It makes her lose herself in the crudely drawn map for hours at a time, and it's only the ache in her shoulders that reminds her it's time to go home.

For Claire
She's trying to plot the path she'll take when the expedition finally begins, but she's finding herself distracted by everything, unable to concentrate. She collapses into a nearby chair, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose to will away the pain that's beginning to split into her skull. A heavy sigh the weight of a boulder bursts from her mouth as she closes her eyes, trying to regain the focus she's lost.

For Sansa
She's lost in the imaginary expedition when she hears the distinct sound of slow, hobbling footsteps. There's a light thud as a body falls into a chair. The sounds are enough to draw Jyn's eyes away, for a moment, to see a young woman - girl? - sitting nearby, looking rather frail and possibly even injured. Jyn first notes the burning auburn cascading down her shoulders, then the pain-stricken contortion on her face. The part of her that wants to focus on the map tells her to ignore the girl, it's none of her business. The part of her that remembers the kindness Finnick and Kira showed her after her arrival makes her expression soften as she asks:

"You all right?"

001 - For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky

[kosu]

WHO: Spock
WHERE: Fountain
WHEN: February 13
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Possible mentions of war/unnecessary destruction
STATUS: Closed to new threads

---

Arrival

Never has Spock been so thankful that Starfleet had required swimming lessons as that moment when she opens her eyes to discover water.

Vulcan had been a desert and water a rare commodity for the people who thrived on it's surface; Spock had never needed to learn to swim in such an environment, which suited her perfectly. When she had joined Starfleet, she had been required to learn the basics, because surviving meant knowing how to manage different terrains. And Spock, never one to settle for being less than perfect, had excelled at it, even if the water made her skin crawl.

Her skin is not crawling at the moment, but she spares no second thought to that. Compared to the burning in her lungs, not reacting to the water is a benefit. Discerning which way is up took but a moment, and she kicks off, breaking the surface a moment later to draw in a deep breath. The cold hits her almost immediately and frustratingly enough, Spock cannot seem to get her body to adjust to the temperature, something she has been able to do since she was young.

Assuming it has something to do with the fact that she is still in the cold water, Spock hauls herself out of... the fountain? She takes a moment to observe her surroundings as she does, ignoring the cold for the time. She looks, cataloging what she sees: a fountain, obviously; buildings nearby, though nothing stands out as familiar; a few vague humanoid shapes, though none appear to be threatening or familiar.

"Most unusual," she comments, "this is nothing like the Yorktown." As though speaking the name of her most recent residence reminds her of the cold, Spock shivers. It is not unusual, but nor can she regain control of her body. None of the biofeedbacks she is accustomed to are accessible. She risks a glance in the water, catching sight of her visage. "More importantly, I appear to be human. What is this place?"

001- As you're standing at the edge of your life

[onlyeverdoubted]

WHO: Bodhi Rook
WHERE: The fountain, around town, and the inn
WHEN: February 14th, throughout the day
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: None, will edit if necessary
STATUS: Open

---

Arrival-For Finnick

The grenade lands. He has a split second to understand, to anticipate if not actually feel impact and heat and an end to every last, desperate plan to turn it around and save the few--very few--that might still be saved. Then there should be nothing.

Instead there's water.

Indefatigably analytic in all things, Bodhi tries to make sense of being submerged. He was awfully disoriented, probably some inner ear damage from the explosions, toxic smoke inhalation. Maybe he wasn't facing the way he'd thought, and the explosion had thrown him back. Not that the water should be deep and ice-cold and empty, but--

Even he can't put that much energy into trying to puzzle something out while he's also drowning a little. There's some momentum upward, but Bodhi has never tried to swim. Water didn't come in volumes larger than "enough to stay alive" back home, and there aren't a lot of pool parties cargo pilots are invited to. He's not getting to the surface on his own.

Sightseeing

He's not really taking very much in, but motion is soothing, and it's not like the scenery is that captivating. He'll appreciate the fine points later. For now, he's alive and deeply confused about it. He moves quick and guarded, stiff with the memory of pain. (Every little wound and ache, every souvenir of Saw's holding cells and Scarif has faded to nothing but a few scars, indistinct from a lifetime of little burns and slices from ship repairs. Even the bone-deep weariness, the never-quite-treated dehydration and malnutrition have faded.) Missing his goggles and poncho more for what they represent than any practical purpose, he fidgets with his unfamiliar clothes and blinks owlishly into the middle distance as he paces. Nothing feels quite real, least of all him.

And he's still a bit damp. Less than comfortable in this weather, even with his Jedha-bred cold tolerance.

Roosting

Eventually, as the light lengthens and dims, he finds his way to the inn. Closest thing to a cantina. He's still a pilot, no matter how dazed and lost. He's visited dozens of worlds, most of them experienced mainly through whatever bit of the spaceport was friendliest to clusters of Imperials talking too loud, gambling "secretly," and trying to forget. It's an extra sense, maybe some very small sliver of the Force dedicated to guiding worn out vacuum jockeys to drinks, forgettable music, and forgiving lighting. He slips in as unobtrusively as he can, not sure what he'll find.

Blow the man down

[seekingcrocodile]

WHO: Killian Jones
WHERE: The inn
WHEN: February 14th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: None
STATUS: Open

---

Someone's in a good mood. Which is probably a little strange for this place, but that's just how it is right now. He's got something to look forward to, namely his wedding with Emma (or as much of one as they can manage to put together in this place, at least), and the weather's finally improving, a little at a time, and the whole situation is helped along by the occasional sip from the flask in his pocket. (Although he is rationing as much as he can, since he knows that he has a finite supply of rum to fill it with.)

He got a particularly good haul of fish today, and he's out of the way in a corner somewhere, with a basket of his catch and a bucket that he scrounged up somewhere, to use for catching the insides of the fish as he cleans them out. This (hopefully) avoids a mess all over the floor, and the contents of the bucket can then be used as bait or possibly as animal feed.

As he works, he finds himself setting a rhythm, which then leads to humming, soon followed by singing. That had been the point of these sea shanties, after all, to set the rhythm of a task for the crew. It comes naturally to him now, and the mood and the rum mean that he doesn't care what others might think.

"I'll sing you a song, a good song of the sea
(To me way, hey, blow the man down)
I trust that you'll join in the chorus with me
(Give me some time to blow the man down)"

If only random bits of metal would stop sticking to his hook while he's working.