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[OTA] every single night's a fight
Oct. 12th, 2017 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
theintercessorWHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: 6I Village; Various
WHEN: Mid October and onward
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Epilepsy symptoms, including hallucinations
Each season seems to come with its triggers, like crazy can relate to allergies. Winter was easiest, like the cold took too deep a root in the world to let it affect him. He was calm and collected at the end of the year; his spine kept to its purpose and he didn't blink away so many insects and shadows that weren't there. Spring was always long rains, trapping him indoors, storms breaking pressure behind his eyes and making them pop with color, making shapes crawl in the shadows of the water running over windows. Spring stranded the truck in churning mud and clipped the line that told him to care, so that he'd sit twenty minutes with a foot on the gas, snapping out of it when tires found earth and shoved him forward. Summer was the worst, most dangerous. Late humid heat boiled his head in his skull, and those were the months he could really snap: fall over in a pile of elbows, sob uncontrollably, disappear into a white hot rage and come out not knowing why he'd felt any of it.
He doesn't know if it's leaf mold or just the haunted atmosphere of Autumn, but it's when the shadows crawl the longest, when he has to decide if the thing in the corner is real based on a twitch in his pinky or a smell no one else seems bothered by.
Looking at the leaves, his birthday must have passed. The anniversary too, and it's better not to know. Better to just keep making paper while the weather allows him to use the wood and take the work outside. He's started experimenting with the fallen leaves, and they don't add the color he thought they might--but new batches of paper hold their fragile skeletons on the surface. He doesn't know how much to stockpile for the winter, but--it's the last thing a lot of people would complain about running out of.
The shorter the days get, the more he can be found scavenging the wooded areas; the more his staked out blankets and drying paper are replaced with him out in the yard, chopping wood while it's dry on the ground. Sometimes he tosses what look like perfectly good branches away from himself, wiping his hands furiously on his denim jacket.
Sometimes, though always mid-morning or mid-afternoon, he squints down a path at a familiar enough figure, only to watch the world pass through it. By the time the sun sets, he can't be sure the person even exists, and he swallows down the urge to ask. It's always just been in his head.
When he takes meals at the inn, he keeps his head down in his portion, refusing to look at certain corners, out certain windows. When he sits on his porch or on a rock in the southern field, his sketches of the trees include pale figures or bright eyes. For those who venture out at night, he's sometimes on the porch or also wandering, and there are dark circles growing under his eyes behind the lengthening fall of his hair, his already quiet nature burrowing down as if to prepare for winter, as he struggles with a stress that compounds its source.
[Jude's struggling with some hallucinations as the weather changes--though some of those figures might just be villagers waxing and waning from existence. His hallucinations tend to be shadow-figures and insects, and you can choose if your character notices his behavior or just his general not-doing-great.]
WHERE: 6I Village; Various
WHEN: Mid October and onward
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Epilepsy symptoms, including hallucinations
Each season seems to come with its triggers, like crazy can relate to allergies. Winter was easiest, like the cold took too deep a root in the world to let it affect him. He was calm and collected at the end of the year; his spine kept to its purpose and he didn't blink away so many insects and shadows that weren't there. Spring was always long rains, trapping him indoors, storms breaking pressure behind his eyes and making them pop with color, making shapes crawl in the shadows of the water running over windows. Spring stranded the truck in churning mud and clipped the line that told him to care, so that he'd sit twenty minutes with a foot on the gas, snapping out of it when tires found earth and shoved him forward. Summer was the worst, most dangerous. Late humid heat boiled his head in his skull, and those were the months he could really snap: fall over in a pile of elbows, sob uncontrollably, disappear into a white hot rage and come out not knowing why he'd felt any of it.
He doesn't know if it's leaf mold or just the haunted atmosphere of Autumn, but it's when the shadows crawl the longest, when he has to decide if the thing in the corner is real based on a twitch in his pinky or a smell no one else seems bothered by.
Looking at the leaves, his birthday must have passed. The anniversary too, and it's better not to know. Better to just keep making paper while the weather allows him to use the wood and take the work outside. He's started experimenting with the fallen leaves, and they don't add the color he thought they might--but new batches of paper hold their fragile skeletons on the surface. He doesn't know how much to stockpile for the winter, but--it's the last thing a lot of people would complain about running out of.
The shorter the days get, the more he can be found scavenging the wooded areas; the more his staked out blankets and drying paper are replaced with him out in the yard, chopping wood while it's dry on the ground. Sometimes he tosses what look like perfectly good branches away from himself, wiping his hands furiously on his denim jacket.
Sometimes, though always mid-morning or mid-afternoon, he squints down a path at a familiar enough figure, only to watch the world pass through it. By the time the sun sets, he can't be sure the person even exists, and he swallows down the urge to ask. It's always just been in his head.
When he takes meals at the inn, he keeps his head down in his portion, refusing to look at certain corners, out certain windows. When he sits on his porch or on a rock in the southern field, his sketches of the trees include pale figures or bright eyes. For those who venture out at night, he's sometimes on the porch or also wandering, and there are dark circles growing under his eyes behind the lengthening fall of his hair, his already quiet nature burrowing down as if to prepare for winter, as he struggles with a stress that compounds its source.
[Jude's struggling with some hallucinations as the weather changes--though some of those figures might just be villagers waxing and waning from existence. His hallucinations tend to be shadow-figures and insects, and you can choose if your character notices his behavior or just his general not-doing-great.]
