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theintercessorWHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: 6I Canyon and village; The Inn
WHEN: November 19
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Mentions of death/hallucinations in reference to his arrival.
the village
Clary had taken her sketches with her, but not the memory of them, or the conversation. Bad enough for the snows to drift in, bad enough for the feast to set him forward or back in time. Something about the winter air usually made him better. Clear, crisp. Solitude was easy, the mountains seemed to disappear beneath it--and all their spectres, their sulfur vents. Charlie made idle warnings of sinkholes, and Jude wandered out with barely a wave.
Before he got his license he'd walk out of the park into the woods, snow up to his thighs, a sweater under his denim jacket and a scarf on his shoulders. On clear nights with teal skies he'd be the only soft sound beneath trees cracking from ice, and he'd walk a spiral of the valley--daring the ground to swallow him.
No one talks about it, but between the hot spring and earthquakes, the ground here might be just as unpredictable.
Two days in the house proves too much: he finds an early morning lull in which to wander. The trees and snow groan, ice and wood crack, branches fall under the weight of icicles. The cave to the west that he'd crawled out of after the quake has a mouth of clear teeth, and the river pushes displaced ice into piles around the rocks. Jude walks the length of it, deciding at its end between a trek of the western wall, or heading back.
He doesn't want to go home. Even when he isn't sleeping now, something seems to sit on his chest, follow him room to room. He follows the sound of scratching in the walls, breath steaming in the bedrooms he's never used, closets investigated with wooden fingers. When he sleeps, he's back in the valley: the truck is idling out behind him, its front end folded up against the tree, smoke slipping under the hood. His steps go side to side, blood is hot down the side of his face. Footsteps crunch the snow, he lurches along as the ground slopes beneath it. He had to get out of the dorm, he had to get away from the people without faces, knocking at the door. He drove home, he crashed the truck, he walked into town.
When he looks at his hands in the dream, they're cut at the palms and bloody, and the shadows on snow are bodies hanging in bare branches--
So he leaves the house, he walks. He proves to himself that here and now, the trees are clear. His head is in one piece, his hands are clean. And if he falls into a sinkhole, at least he won't have to remember what he's left behind.
the inn
The weather decides him: spotty rain begins to fall, ushering him back toward the village. He doesn't want to go home, but he doesn't have to--there's a fire and company at the inn, and he knows he needs that. Fire, dry, something to eat--but also people. Something by which to measure his own sanity, someone to keep him out of his head.
He'd tried it the other way at school. That dorm would have killed him, he's sure of it. Half a semester without a roommate and he'd covered that side of the room in paper and ink, manifested the eyes he could feel on him. Manifested the teeth.
The dining room in his house isn't covered in teeth. It's just trees, over and over. The slope in winter, bare branches and shadows. He puts them up then he takes them down, afraid of looking up one day and seeing something between them.
By the time he gets to the inn doors, he's soaked through; he should have come straight here while the weather held. Another icy shower puts a shine back on the encrusted village, and all he can do is lean his weight into closing the door, denim and wool hanging heavy and dark from his frame. Jude sways a couple of steps to the right, then left, struggling out of his clothes until he's carrying a coat in one hand, jacket in the other, and aiming for the kitchen.
It's fine: everything is fine. He grits his teeth against a shiver and hangs his first two layers over the nearest chairs to the door, carrying on in until he's out of a sweater and using it to dry his hair, grateful for the fire already started in the grate.
[It's the last day of the ice storm; feel free to meet Jude out early between rain/sleet showers, or at the inn after he's been caught in one. He's starting to remember his arrival point and generally having a bad time, but it's not a bad time to meet him.]
WHERE: 6I Canyon and village; The Inn
WHEN: November 19
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Mentions of death/hallucinations in reference to his arrival.
the village
Clary had taken her sketches with her, but not the memory of them, or the conversation. Bad enough for the snows to drift in, bad enough for the feast to set him forward or back in time. Something about the winter air usually made him better. Clear, crisp. Solitude was easy, the mountains seemed to disappear beneath it--and all their spectres, their sulfur vents. Charlie made idle warnings of sinkholes, and Jude wandered out with barely a wave.
Before he got his license he'd walk out of the park into the woods, snow up to his thighs, a sweater under his denim jacket and a scarf on his shoulders. On clear nights with teal skies he'd be the only soft sound beneath trees cracking from ice, and he'd walk a spiral of the valley--daring the ground to swallow him.
No one talks about it, but between the hot spring and earthquakes, the ground here might be just as unpredictable.
Two days in the house proves too much: he finds an early morning lull in which to wander. The trees and snow groan, ice and wood crack, branches fall under the weight of icicles. The cave to the west that he'd crawled out of after the quake has a mouth of clear teeth, and the river pushes displaced ice into piles around the rocks. Jude walks the length of it, deciding at its end between a trek of the western wall, or heading back.
He doesn't want to go home. Even when he isn't sleeping now, something seems to sit on his chest, follow him room to room. He follows the sound of scratching in the walls, breath steaming in the bedrooms he's never used, closets investigated with wooden fingers. When he sleeps, he's back in the valley: the truck is idling out behind him, its front end folded up against the tree, smoke slipping under the hood. His steps go side to side, blood is hot down the side of his face. Footsteps crunch the snow, he lurches along as the ground slopes beneath it. He had to get out of the dorm, he had to get away from the people without faces, knocking at the door. He drove home, he crashed the truck, he walked into town.
When he looks at his hands in the dream, they're cut at the palms and bloody, and the shadows on snow are bodies hanging in bare branches--
So he leaves the house, he walks. He proves to himself that here and now, the trees are clear. His head is in one piece, his hands are clean. And if he falls into a sinkhole, at least he won't have to remember what he's left behind.
the inn
The weather decides him: spotty rain begins to fall, ushering him back toward the village. He doesn't want to go home, but he doesn't have to--there's a fire and company at the inn, and he knows he needs that. Fire, dry, something to eat--but also people. Something by which to measure his own sanity, someone to keep him out of his head.
He'd tried it the other way at school. That dorm would have killed him, he's sure of it. Half a semester without a roommate and he'd covered that side of the room in paper and ink, manifested the eyes he could feel on him. Manifested the teeth.
The dining room in his house isn't covered in teeth. It's just trees, over and over. The slope in winter, bare branches and shadows. He puts them up then he takes them down, afraid of looking up one day and seeing something between them.
By the time he gets to the inn doors, he's soaked through; he should have come straight here while the weather held. Another icy shower puts a shine back on the encrusted village, and all he can do is lean his weight into closing the door, denim and wool hanging heavy and dark from his frame. Jude sways a couple of steps to the right, then left, struggling out of his clothes until he's carrying a coat in one hand, jacket in the other, and aiming for the kitchen.
It's fine: everything is fine. He grits his teeth against a shiver and hangs his first two layers over the nearest chairs to the door, carrying on in until he's out of a sweater and using it to dry his hair, grateful for the fire already started in the grate.
[It's the last day of the ice storm; feel free to meet Jude out early between rain/sleet showers, or at the inn after he's been caught in one. He's starting to remember his arrival point and generally having a bad time, but it's not a bad time to meet him.]
