wittyskepticism: ({ 062)
[personal profile] wittyskepticism
WHO: Astrid Hawke
WHERE: By the forest in 6I, then all over
WHEN: October 7th

In all honesty, for the longest time Hawke has been expecting something to blow up. Ever since the earthquakes and especially since the eclipse and the rash of illnesses, she has been expected something to happen. A darkspawn invasion, the world to implode, a Rift into the Fade. Something. But for the most part, things have been relatively normal. For whatever passes as normal in this strange little village.

So when she spies what looks like a pear tree in full bloom, complete with actual pears, she is both suspicious and intrigued. Pears are good. Pears mean food. She's more interested in food than a lot of things here and though she isn't much of a farmer or a gardener, she isn't about to let this one go without at least trying it. So, even though she also doesn't have a basket or anything to carry a lot of them back, she decides she'll at least pick one to try. If they're ripe, she'll come back for more later.

Reaching up, she chooses the one that looks the best, twisting her hand once she's grasped it and tugging until the pear comes free. What she doesn't expect is for the thing to vanish. One of her eyebrows arches and she turns her hand over. No sign of the pear at all can be seen on her hand.

Case of the vanishing peach, is what she wants to say. Except nothing comes out. She mouths the words, but no sound can be heard. It's like the air won't even push through her throat right. She tries again. Same result. Now her expression morphs into something like irritation. She can't even make terrible puns to cope without her voice!

This better not be permanent.

Deciding to avoid any other peaches that might be skulking around, she heads out of the forest and back towards the village. Her first stop is the Inn, where she looks for something to eat just in case it's some sort of illness that just needs a good bowl of soup. When that doesn't seem to do the trick, she leaves for the hospital. Eventually, she wanders around the village, looking grumpy and put out, and ends up back at the house she's sharing with Fenris. It's easier just to be there than anything else.

With her luck, this will be permanent and she's certainly going to sulk and complain for as long as it lasts.
fishermansweater: (Studying)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: The church, 6I
WHEN: Early October
OPEN TO: Francis Mulcahy
WARNINGS: None so far

Finnick doesn't know what to expect from the church. He knows the house, of course, blocky and solid with columns supporting the porch roof and a t-shaped emblem on the door. He's never been inside before, though he's stopped to observe the house plenty of times in the past as he made his rounds of the village for information.

Today, though, he heads up the porch and inside, stepping through into something he'd expect to be a lounge room, or something like it, but it's not: it clearly looks set up for people to listen to someone talking at the front of the room. Finnick's still not sure just what is supposed to happen here, despite Kate Kelly's explanations. Church, temple, God, these were all new concepts to him when he'd asked her, but he'd gathered enough to know that Father Mulcahy can often be found here because he's a priest.

Finnick steps further into the room, looking around, but he doesn't see anyone, so he calls out.

"Hello? Father?"
babyhunter: (Hurt)
[personal profile] babyhunter
WHO: Clary Fray/Fairchild
WHERE: 6i Inn
WHEN: October 1st – 7th
OPEN TO: Everyone

Clary has been through a lot over the past few months: uprooted from her home, learned that her father was a psychopath, that her father-figure was a werewolf and that she was a descendant of the angel Azrael and supposedly part of some secret organization that fought demons. Comparatively, pulling her way through the fountain hadn't been all that traumatizing. It was just another drop in the bucket of weird that was becoming her life.

At first, this Red versus Blue like canyon hadn't been so bad. Clary hadn't been here very long but Isabelle was here and it looked like everyone was working towards the general goal of survival and finding the way back home. Now it sucked. It sucked like perpetually stubbing your toe on the bedpost.

Isabelle was gone.

She had heard stories about people vanishing. Most of which were told to her by Isabelle but she didn't think that it would happen to her. Now she wanted to go home: to see her mother, stop her father, save Jace and see Isabelle again.

Clary tried to think of other, more creative ways, to leave the canyon but without magic of some sort, she was stuck. She ended up moping around the inn with the pieces of paper that had effectively become a replacement for her sketchpad.

Most of her skills were useless here. Nothing had to be kicked in the face or hacked to pieces and there was no one to recklessly try and save. So Clary began the long tedious processes of making a nicer map that fit roughly on one sheet of paper and then duplicating it for anyone who wanted one. The job took up most of her free time and it distracted her from her friends sudden disappearance.

When drawing the map got boring, she switched to a fresh sheet of paper and began to draw bits and pieces from home: Isabelle with her whip looking strong and fierce, an angel with beautiful blond hair, a crystal cup or a demon that was partially obscured in shadows. When this depressed her more, she began to draw the people around her. Eventually her drawings covered the table in front of her.

Clary didn't feel any better. It seemed that no amount of distraction was going to stop her from missing Isabelle.
chosenbytheocean: (I got this... I hope)
[personal profile] chosenbytheocean
WHO: Moana
WHERE: 7i Ocean
WHEN: October 1st
OPEN TO: Bucky Barnes

It's Calling Me! )
chirrutsluck: (worried)
[personal profile] chirrutsluck
WHO: Baze Malbus and OTA
WHERE: Outside the inn and around the village, 6I side
WHEN: October 3
OPEN TO: Any and all
WARNINGS: Miniature thunderstorms

At first, Baze is relieved that no one saw him stop in his rounds of the snares that morning to try and pick the round and ripe-looking melon, only to have it disappear as soon as he straightened up again. He's still not sure what exactly happened, but if no one saw it, then he doesn't have to explain it to anyone until he's worked that out.

It isn't until he walks out into the sunny morning, out of the dappled trees, and notices he's still standing in shadow that he realizes that something even stranger happened. He's standing on the edge of the village, underneath a tiny dark cloud, three feet in diameter at most, looking baffled and annoyed. The cloud rumbles with tiny crackles of lightning, and starts to drop a fine mist of rain on his head.

And it doesn't even go away as the day progresses, and he attempts to do normal things like making mud bricks for Clint's smokehouse or whittling some arrows down for drying out while underneath a cloudshadow or, worse, more rain. It isn't very conducive to getting things done, and it's doing a number on his mood-- which, with Chirrut in the village, has lately been better than usual. BUT NOT TODAY!
pretendtoneedme: (aiming)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme
WHO: Clint Barton
WHERE: Area behind the inn/police station, fields/forest, and behind the boathouse (all in 6I)
WHEN: October 1-3
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: Nothing yet; will update if anything changes

( October 1 - Archery Lessons )

The leaves are starting to turn colors, everything except the needlers going gold or red or brown, and it's getting less comfortable to wander around in shirtsleeves although he's still doing it most days. But back home that cooling and color changing means something specific to him that it doesn't mean to a lot of people he worked with - namely, hunting season. It's something he grew up with and still participates in, back home, and here it'll be even more important considering the number of mouths they're going to have to feed over the winter, even with the recent losses of a fair number of people, since among them were some of the regular hunters. In the latter half of September, Clint's switched his focus more towards food acquisition than construction and repair for that reason (and the fact that the scavenged wreckage is beginning to run out), but good as he is he knows he can't feed over fifty people alone. There's other hunters, but not enough, and not nearly enough equipment. It's time to get to making more and teaching other people to use them. Finding Baze trying to make bows and arrows a couple weeks before had basically forced his hand, and Clint had offered to teach him exactly what to do, both in crafting and in actual shooting.

Now, the fruits of their labor are ready for testing. The four bows aren't that great, they were all done in too big a rush and probably nothing's going to last longer than late spring, but they're even and basically smoothed out and Clint figures even getting some basic weapons out into the community will help and he'll have the winter to really get down to crafting some good bows. The arrows are much better; there's a huge box of arrowheads in the inn storage, more than even he could ever possibly need in a year, and he'd liberally helped himself to them and feathers from some of the geese he'd brought down to make quality arrows. They're more likely to break than the bows simply because they're thinner and they're the things making direct contact with whatever's being shot at, but they'll shoot straight and true until then, and their non-wood parts can likely be reclaimed and used again.

He's also taken five of the abundance of snuggies from the inn storage (why would there be so many snuggies?) and rolled them all up to make a target that he'd balanced on a tree stump and weighed down with some rocks so it wouldn't go rolling off into the sunset when it got shot. The blue of the outer snuggie is eye-catching, and he's carefully testing each bow and its cord of tightly twisted duct tape with the new arrows. They work... well enough. Not what he's used to, but they'll work fine for anyone with some sort of skill at aiming - and he's willing to help people find out if they have that skill. He might even make this a real thing every few days until it gets too cold for any but the most dedicated hunters to be out seeking a target.

He looses an arrow, which pierces his fluffy target, then speaks to whoever's watching him while reaching for the next one and not moving his focused sight on one bit. "If you wanna try it out, come on over. Just don't get in the gallery."

( October 2 - Dastardly Tricks )

In the vein of archery, Clint's taken to roaming the forests looking for good slim branches he can cut for arrows for about an hour a day, and today's no exception. Archery lessons went decently well and he's cautiously optimistic about their chances at finding enough game. If the bows don't break. If they don't run out of arrows. If there's not another natural disaster. If- So, yeah, looking for more supplies is always good. He also keeps his eyes open for any branches he could use to make another bow, but those are harder to find. He's debating binding reeds together to give them another one, as makeshift as that is.

It's almost harvest time, so he's not taken aback when he sees the apple hanging from the tree in front of him - big, red, bright and shiny, like the tree had been tended by the foremost gardeners in the world from the time it was a sapling. Their own fruit output looks pretty good, but none of them are as perfect as that sample. Clint doesn't even try to stop himself from reaching up and picking it, not realizing any significance in the fact that it's just inside his comfortable reach, and-

-it vanishes in a little puff of apple-scented air, prompting an outburst of дерьмо́! and him nearly dropping the small bundle of sticks he'd gathered to season for arrows. "I was looking forward to that," he mutters, regathering the sticks he'd fumbled and continuing on through the trees. Without realizing that he'd come away with something even if it wasn't a nice, juicy apple: a set of soft gray, fluffy bunny ears and a matching white-tipped tail smashed flat under his scrubs pants.

( October 3 - Under Construction )

Did Clint want to go outside and face a few dozen people who were probably still laughing at the stupid ears and tail? No. Is that what he's doing? Yes. Well, sort of.

He's gone out after breakfast at the house, sure, but even though he's not hiding, he's not exactly hanging out in the middle of the village tempting everyone to tease him. While he's still one hundred percent not happy with the trick played on him, the snow that had dusted the ground when he'd woken up had lit a fire under his ass on a project he'd been working at off and on for about a month. The days had been getting chillier, hunting season was coming, sure, but snow? Whatever hands are controlling the weather, he's pretty sure they're about to fuck with the residents again. Over the past few weeks, Clint - and lately, Baze - have been forming mud bricks with some plant fiber mixed in, leaving them to dry after being shaped in a wooden frame Clint had lashed together from branches and paracord. It's something they can only work on on days with no rain, since the bricks need to dry in the sun, but they've manufactured a respectable pile of bricks that are more or less 12"x6"x4".

Today's all about putting that together. Using the mud technique, Clint had cleared a small swath of grass and moss and other ground cover from a small area behind the boathouse and mixed it up to form a concave "dish" of mud in the ground, which he's now piling the bricks around in a square formation, leaving space for a door that he's planning on stealing from one of the damaged homes. He's also got a few thick, more or less straight branches piled off to the side, chopped down to matching lengths that are clearly for some latter step in the process. But the smokehouse he's been planning is finally being assembled, and hopefully soon it'll be ready to start preserving their meats.
learntthehardway: (6)
[personal profile] learntthehardway
WHO: Diana Prince and Open
WHERE: 7I area
WHEN: September 30th
OPEN TO: Anyone in the area
WARNINGS: None as of right now.

Diana had heard that there was another area, had heard that it was pretty much just the same as the original area. She had been meaning to check it out, to see what the deal was with this new area, but time had slipped away from her - besides, she hadn't wanted to go too far from Steve just in case he had a relapse with the illness he'd had.

But, when she'd heard that the new area had been overrun by foxes, she'd had to go and check it out for herself. She'd left Steve a short note, just to let him know where she was, because she knew he'd be worried if she didn't and knowing him, he'd set off to find her and make sure that she was doing okay. That's just the type of man he was and it was one of the reasons she loved him.

With everything all set, she'd packed her pack with water and some sandwiches and off she'd gone.

It took a little longer than she'd planned to get there. And at first, she wasn't even sure that she'd arrived at the correct place, only because it pretty much looked like the other area - though the fountain... That was strange, it looked like it had smashed or neglected. She shook her head and moved on.

No foxes. She peered around, peeking under things as she moved through the area and yet there wasn't any signs of the so called foxes. Maybe people had been mistaken. Maybe they'd only thought that they'd seen them. Or maybe they'd just returned from wherever they had come from. It was odd and for a moment she felt a flash of disappointment. She'd missed the foxes.

Sighing, she made her way back to the crumbling fountain and took a seat on an edge that was still intact and began to dig through her pack for the sandwiches.


29 Sep 2017 12:10 pm
lastofthekellys: (new forest new ways)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: Waterfall
WHEN: 20th September
OPEN TO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster

Kate does not particularly like the forest here. It's too different from the bush of her home, too green and then changing so dramatically when it gets cooler. The smells are different, the shadows are different (oh, except for that strange period when the shadows were right but the sun was wrong), and she'll never forget that time she was lost with Margaery. She will venture into the forests with a group, but on her own? Never.

But today she's decided to stop being a silly little girl, and take Benedict out to the waterfall where the river begins. It is nice to have a day without work, so blessedly nice, although that's not the main reason why she's here. No, she has Plans with a capitol P and they involve swimming.

Kate doesn't trust the river. It changes, and she knows from last year that the weather will turn, and who knows what their captors will think up this time. The best way to deal with a flood is to avoid getting in the water altogether, but just in case...

Well. She'd prefer Benedict know what he was doing. And if they take all day, and make a nice day of it, with some packed food and just them, then it'll be a nice day from whatever weirdness is going on.
templelessguardian: (Default)
[personal profile] templelessguardian
WHO: Chirrut and YOU
WHAT: Arrival and settling in
WHEN: first couple days after his arrival, so now plus 2 days
WHERE: the fountain and wherever else he ends up

WARNINGS: other than spoilers for parts of Rogue One I can't imagine there will be much to warn for here but I'll update as needed.

He wakes up with a weight on his back and surrounded by water, a discovery that might be more troubling if there wasn't a force pushing him and a need to do something about it more immediately, temporarily displacing plenty fresh memories of rocks and trees and a skirmish with insurmountable odds.  So he takes note of the direction and goes with it, doing his best to find the surface until he pops up, sucking in whatever air he can against the cough to expel the water.

Shore is harder to find.  He calls out, as much in hopes of attracting someone's attention as trying to gauge the space he's in, then, so long as no-one answers, strikes out in a direction picked mostly by educated guess in search of shore.

The next few days are spent getting oriented, and coming to grips with...whatever happened.  He remembers dying, after all, or what certainly felt like it at the time, and waking up somewhere new, in one piece with no signs of it otherwise, well it takes some time reconciling the two.  Not to mention finding himself...dampened isn't really the right word, but his awareness certainly isn't as wide as usual, although he grants that may be as much due to the loss of his echo box than anything else.

By now he's made himself an improvised staff, a sturdy length of wood as straight as he could find, and with it in tow he makes his way around, determined to familiarize himself with the place.  With Baze here he doesn't need to learn it so quickly, maybe, but he's too stubborn not to at least try; this isn't a mission out of desperation, it's something else entirely and he's still not entirely sure what that means.
assertiveness: (≺ 103 ≻)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: 6I - the inn
WHEN: September 24th
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: None, will update if needed

A couple of months or so after breaking her arm in the earthquake, Stella thinks it's high time she sat and talked to Kate Kelly.

She hasn't been avoiding the issue, honestly — in fact, she'd meant to thank her for helping her get to the hospital as soon as she could. But with the earthquake and its aftermath, and then the number of people that had fallen ill in the epidemic after that... well, suffice it to say she'd been distracted and occupied. Now, though, they've room to breathe, at least until the next crisis the observers see fit to throw at their little village.

Stella comes in after lunch, when most people have finished eating and gone their separate ways. The post-meal cleanup seems mostly done, but Kate is still there in the kitchen, dealing with the last of the dishes. This is probably as good a time as any other.

"Miss Kelly," she says, polite, and soft so as to try to avoid startling her. She doesn't exactly smile, but she's trying as best she can to appear nonthreatening. There is a particular skill Stella has developed, a talent for being intimidating despite her height — or rather, her lack thereof — but she's learnt the opposite, too, a quiet, unimposing, self-contained calm. If she makes a point of seeming at ease, perhaps Kate will follow suit.

"Do you need any help?" she asks, nodding to the pile of plates and pots and pans. She wasn't brought up so privileged as to balk at hand-washing a few dishes — and she does try to help people here when she's able, because not contributing would be counterproductive at best.
majorlyugh: (obligatory . you don't say)
[personal profile] majorlyugh
WHO: Major Lilywhite
WHERE: All around the village
WHEN: Sept 19/20
OPEN TO: OTA, specific starters for different characters; please feel free to have your character run into Major at any point during his re-clothing.

The Hot Spring. Ever since Major had found out about it, he made a point to stop there a few times a week, if not once a day. Although he didn't rely on them the way some people did, he liked having a few things in his life that were more or less routine, and it didn't take long for him to incorporate the almost-scalding, healing waters into what had now become his daily life in the village.

He'd even made the act of going to the spring a bit of a routine in itself, taking his items of clothing off one by one before folding them up and setting them off to the side - far enough away from the water's edge that they didn't risk getting soaked, but not so far that he couldn't see them if he needed to. It always went pants, shirt, underwear (which he sandwiched between the pants and shirt, to keep some kind of modesty in case someone else were to come meandering by), and today hadn't been any different.

Except for when he had crawled out of the water, letting himself air dry for a few minutes, then went to the retrieve his clothing.

Because when he goes to collect his things, he's met with the very unpleasant sight of them being completely .. gone. Nada. Zilch. Kaput.

"That's .. unfortunate," he mutters to himself, glancing around at the surrounding brush. Maybe he'd put them somewhere else, and hadn't remembered. After scouring the bushes and grass along the perimeter, he comes up just as empty handed - and just as naked - as he'd started. "Crap." Not that Major gets easily embarrassed about being in the wind, but - he usually likes it to be his decision to be wandering around in his birthday suit, rather than having it foisted upon him in some very bad practical joke. "Ha-ha, okay, okay, I get it!" he shouts, thinking that maybe the perpetrator might be nearby, mindfully using both hands to cover his most sensitive areas. "Play a joke on the new guy, right? I set myself up for it, putting my stuff off to the side - but like, c'mon! You can't expect me to walk around the village naked! Can I have my stuff back? .. Please?"

When he's met with silence, he realizes he has no other choice but to try and track down his clothing, one article at a time.
theintercessor: (dreaming)
[personal profile] theintercessor
WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: 6I Woods and paths
WHEN: September 23rd, after dark
OPEN TO: Bodhi Rook
WARNINGS: Usual warnings for mentions of epilepsy symptoms, specifically hallucinations.

Sometimes you have to steer into the slide. Sometimes you let circumstances take you by the hand and lead. Jude’s used to being led: by Parker, by his dad, by a tug in his center of gravity that just told him to go. He’d drop everything to drive out to whatever field Parker woke up in on a given Wednesday; he’d quit a job that hurt his hand under Charlie’s orders, or he’d go find another one when the stuffy summer days in the trailer started to suffocate.

The illness is a little different.

Given a choice, he wouldn’t bow to it at all, but maybe that’s why he rolls over so easy in the day to day. If the strings can cut at any moment, if something can spark a nightmare, if something can take over his head and launch him at a given target--what’s control anyway? What’s its weight, what’s its worth?

The things he sees, the ones that aren’t really there--a lot of them are easy to ignore. It’s just a bad smell no one else notices. It’s just bugs that dart between one crack and another. Tonight a creature of pure shadow sat a physical, choking weight on his chest, looking at him with baleful eyes, breathing sulfur across his face. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t anything: he could close his eyes and breath through his mouth against the stink. But it sat so heavy, pressed down on his chest until it felt like the burn of water in his lungs, and he’d shoved up, tangled in a curtain, torn the hooks off the rod rolling onto the dining room floor.

That had knocked the weight off his chest.

The air outside is clean and fresh, cold enough to warrant his new jacket. There will be dew in the morning, and he might stay up to feel it on his ankles. He puts his feet on the path and starts walking, no destination in mind. Nothing better to do when he blinks white butterflies against the dark than follow their lead.

When next he looks up, he’s in a moonlit field, probably south of the village proper. Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he tilts his head back, wondering if all the stars in the dark sky are really there, or--projected, imagined. The best part of being alone, he thinks, is having no one to tell you the difference.

3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 42
WHEN: September 23rd
OPEN TO: Mark Watney

The longer he stays in the main village, the more it feels like a mistake. He should be running again, he should be fending for himself against the foxes--and if he loses everyone he knows in the meantime, so be it. From the sound of Margaery’s panicked prediction, he has worse things to worry about.

Margaery’s prediction is its own problem.

Kira walks up the porch, leafy plants brushing at his knees. For a moment he tries to focus on that: the itch and slide, the wood with its slight give beneath his feet, the grain against his heels. The world has a texture and a scent, is firm beneath him, is sharp and real around him. Mark and Helen live about as far removed from the village as he does, and this long after the sun goes down, it’s quiet. He isn’t standing saturated in the panic of a gathering, or trying to cook through the hunger of a dozen early risers.

He’s alone enough on the porch that it’s just his own fear, his own exhaustion. In one hand is the folded pages of notes, Mark’s name across the outer edge, and he stoops down to shove it under the door. It’s been more than a month since the ability came back, but for ever brief reprieve, it’s gotten worse, not better. He’s done his best to track the timing in the notes, explain the severity, own up to the fact that Margaery’s new burden might be from a vial with his name on it.

He doesn’t expect Mark to fix it, but someone needs to know. If only to excuse Kira’s desire to hibernate under the dog until it’s all over.

When he gets up, he stumbles enough to catch himself on the door with a dull thud. It doesn’t seem loud enough to warrant a hasty retreat, he takes another moment at the bottom of the steps. There will be quiet and calm at home, but it won’t smell this green, and there’s another walk through occupied houses between him and his bed.
3ofswords: (baleful)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 19
WHEN: September 17
OPEN TO: Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: Usual warnings for Credence and his history; abuse, etc

Credence is still here.

He knows as much from Bodhi. If he just stays on the porch, Credence will either come out the door, or come home. The day he spent waiting for Tim to come home had just gotten him an armful of distressed goat, some new shirts for her to chew on as he carried her to the pens. It’s a thing that hovers overhead, the surprising weight of that loss. He’s going to lie to himself a little longer, however long it takes to keep it crashing down.

When he went to the church, someone else had taken it over. Sonny had--done something stupid, while he was gone, and no one’s really seen him since.

Everyone’s going to leave you.

He hadn’t needed it said aloud: he knew. Maybe that’s why he'd left first, dragged himself across the gap in the wall and taken care of himself, by himself. It’s going to be like that sometimes. It’s going to be like that a lot of the time, probably. If he’d stayed, the only difference would be the note he’d left people on.

Kira isn’t going to let that be the case with Credence.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, and he winds up dozing, back to the post, body strewn across the top step for someone to trip over. He’ll go three verbal rounds with Graves if he has to: he’s not going anywhere until he sees Credence with his own eyes. Until he gets to explain.

Maybe it’s a shift in the air, maybe it’s a shadow across his waist--it isn’t anything else when Hoshi ruffles up against his jaw, and Kira blinks all the way awake for someone’s approach. “Credence,” he asks, voice soft and drowned in sleep. Lifting a hand against the slant of the sun, he squints at the sloping silhouette. “Credence,” he affirms, pulling himself to sit forward with his feet on the steps below. “You’re home.”

The sigh pushing through the words is entirely relieved.


23 Sep 2017 01:05 pm
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (Default)
[personal profile] mund
WHO: Percival Graves, Credence Barebone
WHERE: Their home
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: closed
WARNINGS: Nothing, really. At least not yet.

locking your heart away is never easy. )
thenewways: Kira will trust you if she has to (a matter of trust)
[personal profile] thenewways
WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: The garden
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: OTA, with locked log for Watney
STATUS: open (OTA)

It's clear to nearly everybody (and that's despite everything that's come up to divert the attention of the group, particularly of late) that the change of seasons is upon them. Even though Nerys doesn't have any solid sense of Earth astronomy at all, and has no clue that autumn is nigh, she's not completely oblivious to the shift herself, even if the weather's been veering frantically over the course of the last month. Apparently staying firmly put in the 'cooling down' column isn't really how this works.

Either that or the observers roll the damn dice every day to see what the weather's going to be. Today it is absolutely frigid, to the point where Nerys had to pull out a couple of layers of sweater this morning just to steel herself up to the notion of working outside. She's wrapped her hands firmly as well, as much for the warmth as to protect them from her tools.

If there's anything that Nerys is good at, it's getting on with the business of surviving--while the village and the other finds intrigue her somewhat, they unsettle her even more. These days, the chill in the night air (and now the day too) means it's nearly harvest time, and if they don't start canning up what they've got right now, it's going to be a lean winter again. Not to mention that there are more people around to feed, and she has no intention of anyone starving on their watch.

It's not like the garden hasn't been through enough this year, the plants hanging on to their lives with a sheer tenacity that rivals the sentient beings of the village. Hell, rivals the damned foxes. The latter have, over the last few weeks, been making a mess out of what's still left to be harvested. Sure, using blood- and bone-meal for fertilizer probably attracts them, but that doesn't really account for the sheer maliciousness of what's been done--vegetables left in neat piles with a single large bite taken out of them, mounds of chewed up berries, holes dug in very precise locations. It's enough to piss a hungry Bajoran the hell off.

[kind sir, be civil, my company forsake - OTA
So that's why Nerys is out hoeing up potatoes on a freezing cold afternoon. If they can get these down into the cellar space at the inn, they'll last a few months, though not as long as if they could leave them in the ground a while yet. She's already cut an armload of late zucchini and squash without much incident, but word gets around both among the humanoid and vulpine populations, it would seem.

A pack of three foxes have spent the last ten minutes slinking up to and around the potato patch, circling Nerys in slowly narrowing concentric arcs. She could swear that they keep looking at her, with the kind of expression that indicates they want her to know they're looking. Despite herself (come on, the Cardassians have played this game with much higher stakes), the frustration's built up to the point of snapping in two. One fox tries to move a little too close, pushes the envelope, and Nerys finds herself snarling, brandishing the hoe like a pike at him.

"Get!" she shouts, voice cracking. "Damn it...all of you, get!"

The fox doesn't, though all of them freeze; instead, they seem to give her a look that asks her who exactly the animal is meant to be in this situation. It's not lost on Nerys, who bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck, come on," she says, almost pleading. "We just want to eat."

The foxes are, unsurprisingly, unmoved.

[sly, bold Reynardine - for Mark]
The potatoes are in, or at least as many as Nerys dares to harvest right now today. Midday's long gone and it's not gotten much warmer, and all she can think of is frost on the vines. So, despite herself, she's kept on working, switching over to the remaining beans. The goal with these is to can them in the containers from one of the earlier feasts, cap them with beeswax, and call it a day, hoping it won't kill them all.

It seems like a worthwhile thing to try, at least.

Nerys' got a half a bag full already when she realizes there's a fox watching her from over by the wastewater tub. Five minutes later, it hasn't ventured much closer, so she's pretty sure it's just a scout. She makes a silent snarling face at it, before shifting up to her feet to ease the strain on her hamstrings for a second--and in the process, ends up snarling at Mark across the plot of beans. The color of her face after she figures that out probably rivals the turning leaves across the field.

[refs are to the British/Irish were-fox folk song 'Reynardine'; Rhiannon Giddens does it well.]
bit_fairytale: (conquer)
[personal profile] bit_fairytale
WHO: Amy Pond
WHERE: Border of 7I
WHEN: September 24th / 25th
OPEN TO: OTA / Locked Log to Jax


The little mirror village has been Amy's solace and quiet place ever since Rory vanished. She's not saying the earth opened up and gave her the Scottish female equivalent of a mancave, but she's also not-not-saying that. It's quiet, there's thankfully barely any people, and there's been peaches to keep her from starving, not to mention that snagging a peach is a thousand times easier than trying to hunt rabbit and then deal with all the blood and the bones and the gross parts of rabbits that Amy doesn't want to think about.

It's perfect, right up until the stupid foxes come along.

At first, it's just that Amy notices a lot of them are around. It's not too strange and since she's not exactly kicking off a fox hunt, she doesn't care. Then, they start to get involved around her. The peaches she picks and sets on the ground go missing. Flattened, gone, or ruined, but they're missing. Seeing as no one else seems to be around, she figures that it has to be the stupid animals, but she can live with it.

What she can't live with is that they seem determined to kick up their levels of mischief when Amy keeps going back. She's taken off her shoes to get comfortable and read one of the books she'd brought over with her (squinting more than she likes, which just makes her wish she had her reading glasses with her), when sh hears a faint rustling sound nearby.

Then, when Amy clocks it for what it is, her eyes widen with alarm. "Don't," she warns the furry little thing, who currently has one of Amy's boots in its mouth. "No, you...! Idiot fox!" she snaps when the thing takes that as a sign to run away. It's got a heavy boot in its mouth, she ought to be able to keep up, but the stupid thing is fast and Amy doesn't have any shoes on. Glancing back to the other, she lets out a sharp, "Oi!" of anger when she sees another fox is making good on getting both that boot and the book.

That's it, Amy decides. Fox hunts are back in style. "If you don't drop that boot," she shouts at the fox, one of them, who cares which one, "I'm gonna wear you for a hat and gloves!"

For Jax

"Hey!" she shouts at the furry thing that's currently making off with the bottom leg of her trousers. It's not cold yet, but she's fairly sure that one long leg and one shorts leg isn't the height of fashion anywhere in the world, not to mention that Amy has stubbornly decided that instead of being mature and calm about it, she's going to go chase after a stupid fox like a maniac, marching right into a fight with one of mother nature's creatures.

This can't go wrong, right?

She's closer than ever to getting her pant-leg back because she's managed to corner the fox into one of the little nooks and crannies, crouching over to try and approach quietly like this is some easily spooked alien creature and not the devil's own little dog-cat pets. She's going to time her moment right, she's going to make it happen, except when she does lunge forward for the fox, it darts out, her scrubs-pant-leg flapping in its mouth, leaving Amy flat on the ground, dusty and dirty and hating her life.

Instead of getting up right away, she flops into her hands, chin pressed stubbornly there.

"Guess I'm spending winter in half-shorts," she mutters sarcastically, unless she can actually catch up to one of the stupid things and skin it for leggings, that is.
thekittenqueen: ([Margaery] Looks To (Gentle))
[personal profile] thekittenqueen
WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: The Village
WHEN: 9/19
WARNINGS: Visions of things that could be triggering

The specimen room hadn't left her mind, neither had the collection of thoughts and worries it had created in her. As much as she wanted to brush it aside, there were too many questions about what was happening to them. Whether or not it had been an illusion or some game. Then there was the deeper fear, rooted and coiled about her mind. What if none of this was real? The vials, the samples, it was of them, of all of them. Her analytical mind didn't want to take everything at face value, but fear far too often took control.

Her only means of escaping those thoughts was to focus on something else, specifically the ability that seemed to emerge out of nowhere. Perhaps once she could have brushed it aside as nothing, but these visions were coming true. Despite the headache it could cause her, she found herself trying to summon one, staring off into the distance as she mentally struggled to unleash the ability, if only to control it.

It was why she was standing in the open field, just beyond the ruined houses. Her eyes locked ahead at the forest. This was where she had seen the barn in her vision, the first of the images to appear. Perhaps if she concentrated enough, she could find the will to bring those images back. Her head was starting to ache, something that for a moment gave hope, until she realized she was concentrating too hard.

Frustrated, she placed a hand against her face and turned, ramming into someone behind her. "Forgive me." She let her hand fall, a weary smile on her face. "I didn't hear you come up."
underpinnings: (looking down in reds)
[personal profile] underpinnings
WHO: Owen Prichard
WHERE: 7I; the beach; near house 120
WHEN: September 16-17th
WARNINGS: Fox mischief, language, possible mention of burn scars

i. beach, 9/16 (open to 2)

The foxes--are new.

Everything about the side of the canyon he calls home is relatively new, he’s found, but he’d had some time to get settled before they started coming out of the woodwork. Not so settled that he can’t adjust more than a few behaviors to preserve his meager belonging: he’d seen someone out in the water one morning--that welcome-wagon guy who’d left a note and fucked off--tying his bag and clothes to man-made stakes. A decent brain to pick, he still believes, but getting close has proven difficult. Maybe it’s the dog or the bird, but he always sees the man at a distance, and he’s always gone by the time Owen catches up.

At least he figured out how to hide his stuff. Not everything fits in the bag, and he’s wary of leaving his belongings out overnight. He’s got food locked in the cellar, clothes and notes stuffed into corners of the attic. At night he puts the clothes he isn’t wearing under the mattress, guarding them with his own weight.

It’s a nuisance, and in the early days when his food stores were being dug into, the long-term consequences were troubling. Cautious new habits in place, however, he’s returned his attention to the boats. If he’s out on a canoe, he’s as safe as his bag tied to a stick out in the tide.

Today he’s flipped the boat over on its makeshift cradle, giving himself shade to work in. It’s early enough that the wet rocks and sand are cool against his back, but the sun is high enough to drive him underneath the log. The center has been hacked into a generally hollowed shape, but he’s taking his time to smooth and shape the edges, guiding the ax with a hand flat to its side as he pushes it along the grain of the wood.

Just when he thinks it time for a break, curling shaves of wood littering the ground and his chest, the sounds outside the canoe change. Pebbles scatter, wood creaks, a sound like grass on grass hisses between something like--laughter.

Owen stills himself to listen, puts his ax flat on the ground at his hip and steadies his hands on the canoe’s smoothing edges, trying to pinpoint the sounds as they dance too-close and too-far. The next time they come in close, he almost ducks out to look, but a sharp crack pulls him in and puts his arms instinctively over his head. The rough canoe drops off its cradle of branches, one end and then the other, trapping him in the dark.

When the weight of the log proves too much to shove off on his own, he lays there, staring at the dark until pinpricks of light form at the edges--spaces between stones. There’s slight ventilation, and he can dig at the edges, maybe even carve himself out if it came to it.

He’d rather not, considering the work he’s put into getting it this far. Scrabbling his hand at the nearest meeting of beach and wood, he gets his fingers through, and keeps going. “HELLO,” he calls, coughing against the dust shaken free of the log. “IS ANYONE THERE? I NEED SOME HELP.”

ii. house 120, 9/17 (open to 2)

After the canoe, he’s been a little more on edge. That could have been a bad day, made worse if he’d had any of his body turned out of the log’s shadow. He’ll get back to it tomorrow: turn it right-side-up and do without the cradle now that he’s got the basic shapes. He might enlist some company just in case.

That’s harder to find this side of the wall, and he’d spent the last night back in the other village, tending to his notes in what felt like relative safety. He marked a third day with no sign of the guy with the bird and dog, and he wonders if they crossed back over as well, if they ran into some surprisingly malicious mischief. Maybe he’ll finally catch up the guy’s corpse.

Not today, he won’t: today he’s staying at home. Every other path he tried to take seemed to have a fox at its end, some in mirrored poses, blocking the gap. They’d seemed a little childish, compared to other obstacles the villagers have faced, but--it’s a creeping kind of unease, rather than the terror of an earthquake.

The house isn’t safe. His belongings can be taken at any time. The forest is a little more dangerous than before.

“Feels like home,” he mutters wryly, turning away from another fox-laden shortcut to the house. When he catches sight of it from the main path, he breaks into a jog: the door is ajar, and there’s a long tail lifting up from the porch, where he’d buried a bag of fish behind the latticework. “Hey,” he yells, then louder upon approach. It isn’t until he’s cornered the thing that he realizes--not a bushy fox tail, just a tail.

What turns and shimmies out of the gap is the right size, but it’s--one of those exotic pets, minus the rhinestone collar, rough around the edges and hackles up against the wall of his house.

He had wanted some company, and he isn’t getting home to Emrys any time soon.

“Shhh,” he says, putting his pack down to one side, lowering himself into a crouch. “Thought you were a fox, calm down.” He doesn’t expect the cat to respond to anything but the quieting of his voice: he keeps low, eventually shifting to sit on the ground after his long hike home. Slowly, he reaches for his pack and opens it, leaving it for inspection as he finds some of the crumbling bread from the other inn to break apart and toss between them. “Can’t imagine how you’re dealing with these things,” he tells it.

Alone at the end of a long and unpredictable day, talking to a cat? This isn’t so different from home either.

iii. wildcard, any day (open to all)

If you have your own fox related hijinks or starters to play out, feel free to toss one at him, I’m happy to play out anything with anyone!


Sixth Iteration Logs

October 2017

1 2 345 6 7
8 9 1011 121314
15 16 17 18 19 2021


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated 21 Oct 2017 06:54 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios