markwatney: (004)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: 6I Inn
WHEN: 19 Oct 2017
OPEN TO: ALL Closed to new threads


I think most people have an unspoken list of things they intend to do when they have the time and inclination. Mine I usually actually write down, even in a place like this where paper and writing implements are scarce — Days with much downtime don't happen often, and my list is embarrassingly long. It helps to have a note so I can look everything over and figure out what's most pressing. I managed to get off of Mars this way, so I figure it's not a bad system.

Today, though, my choice was made for me. I woke up to two things: A box with my name on it, and a sky full of snow. Fortunately, all of the harvesting had been done on the less cold-hardy plants already, and unless this cold snap dragged on into something long-term, it would be good for what we picked later in the season. Sweetens the berries.

I've got plenty of ways I could fill a free day, but the snow and that mystery box left little question what needed to be top of the list: Taking a census before winter fully moved in. As far as I could tell, while various people in various places took notes about events and connections, we'd never had one central, definitive list of everyone in the community, where they were living and how long they'd been around. With a second village in the mix now, this information was more important than ever. A proper census would give us the tools to start to prepare for winter in earnest — Not just in predicting how much food and firewood would be needed, but what roads needed to be cleared, medical preparations and more.

The box I mentioned before, it helped with this. It was full of items that were a huge help in getting organized: Pencils, binders, blessed paper. And chalk. There was only one place to use that.

After carefully copying the information that had been collected on the blackboard at the Inn, I wash down both sides and jumped right in: At the top of the outfacing side, I make three headings:

Name - Residence - Apx. Arrival


Beneath this, I start with my own info:

M. Watney - W. outskirts, blue - 1yr, 4 mo


"Why haven't we named the damn streets yet?" I mutter, and then began writing in what information I know on the rest of the villagers, leaving blank spaces for others to fill in next time they're at the Inn. But seriously, though, one more thing added to my to-do list: Street names and house numbers.
collaronhisneck: (head bowed)
[personal profile] collaronhisneck
WHO: Francis Mulcahy
WHERE: All of 6I, especially the church
WHEN: October 13-24
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Panic? Memories of war? Will update if something specific crops up.



For all that he's been told this place is not like the home he's used to on so many levels, for all that he'd seen that in effect in many minor ways, in truth Mulcahy hadn't entirely believed it to be true. Oh, of course he'd been brought to the village in a way he couldn't account for, for a reason he couldn't begin to comprehend, and there were people here from worlds he couldn't even begin to imagine, but in terms of day to day life everything had been surprisingly calm. Well, except for the little tricks that had been played on a few of the residents recently, but that seemed fairly harmless in the grander scheme of things.

Suddenly, though, it's no longer a laughing matter.

The first day, it's barely noticeable, since he's only at the inn for the usual help with the midday meal, but by the time the sun sets it's unmistakable when he reaches for a cup and he can barely feel it, even seeing some of the metal through his fingers in a way that nearly gives him a heart attack. Walking back to the church after sundown, it feels both like he's being stared at by an unseen entity and like he can't be seen, as the few people out don't seem to be focusing on him with their eyes. The second day he's awake early, though he's barely slept, and is out in the pre-dawn trying to find anyone awake and who can see him, though it seems to be a losing battle. It gets better as the sun rises, and he calms somewhat - and then worse again as the sun descends, and the panic kicks in once more. He's seen the same fear on the faces of far too many soldiers, especially the ones who'd been trapped in shell holes or buildings that had been bombed, that fear that they'll be forgotten and left behind to die on the battlefield in horrible ways... and while he's never had to face that fear himself, he's rapidly becoming all too familiar with it, as he fades out every day as the sun goes down and the world seems to forget he exists.

After five or six days, Mulcahy's established a kind of routine to give him something to hold on to as this... existence doesn't seem to be getting any better, though it also doesn't seem to be getting any worse, at least for him. He still shows up at the inn for lunch, helping as best he can but still somewhat hazy even then, and as the sun goes down he wanders the village looking for anything he can find that might provide some sort of clue about what's happening, or the other people affected by this phenomenon. At night, he retreats to the church, kneeling in the "nave" and praying over the rosary in the darkness, sometimes varying it with recitations of parts of The Republic. He's praying for any sort of answers or deliverance from this half-state, but he's also wondering if he's truly done something to anger God and this is his punishment.
ad_dicendum: (in contionibus)
[personal profile] ad_dicendum
WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: The fields, the storehouse in 6I, around the village, and the Inn
WHEN: October 8-31
OPEN TO: All!!
WARNINGS: Brief mentions of slavery


The seasons are turning )

[ all locations are open, feel free to catch him in the fields, storehouse, scavenging around the village, or in the Inn]
zomboligist: (like please bitch)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Under a delicious tree (an evil, delicious tree)
WHEN: October 17th
OPEN TO: All!
WARNINGS: Ferrets, mischief, swearing


There is a ferret currently pawing at a sweater vest near one of the trees on the outskirts of town.

This isn't a sentence that Ravi would've ever assembled prior to this place, and yet, now it feels commonplace. If he weren't currently in a little ferret body, he might even feel compelled to squeak about how this place is awful. No. Wait, squeaking is for right now, which is what he's doing. It's all that bloody apple's fault for looking so green and perfect, and if someone's going to change you into a ferret after a few bites, he thinks he ought to be warned.

Of course, right now, maybe his priorities are a little off. First, there had been the immediate 'oh, fuck, I'm a ferret', and yet, after that, Ravi didn't think about switching back instantly. No, instead, he's far more concerned about the fact that he'd been wearing one of his best shirts and sweater vests and they're currently all in a pile where someone might step on them or, worse, might take them for their own. That won't do.

This is how there's come to be a tiny little angry Ravi-ferret pawing and clawing at the sweater vest to try and figure out a way to drag it with him back to his and Major's place. No opposable thumbs rule out hands, which means that teeth are next. That is, teeth are next until heavy footsteps and a looming shadow above him makes Ravi realize just how small he is and just how much he currently detests that stupid apple for making him like this.

What if it's permanent? What if he has rabies?

What if their dog eats him?

Letting out a panicked and angry squeak, Ravi clambers to protect his clothes ever the more, while simultaneously hiding behind one of his boots in case he ends up accidentally pelted by an over-eager kick.
thekittenqueen: ([Margaery] Shields Eyes)
[personal profile] thekittenqueen
WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: The Village
WHEN: 10/17
OPEN TO: All; Closed Starter for Robb
WARNINGS: Pain, headaches, sickness, dark visions



I've Lost my Shadow (OTA)


As much as she wanted to pretend otherwise, the seasons were beginning to shift and winter was steadily approaching. That was something the Starks could be given credit for, they were right about that. As much as she normally enjoyed the color of the leaves (and they were a brilliant collection of reds, oranges and yellows), it was the subtle disappearance of something else that held her attention.

Setting down her basket of harvested fruits, Margaery paused on her walk to the inn. The sun was beginning to descend in the sky, a time when her shadow should have been lengthened, but there was nothing. She could see the homes and trees casting shadows, but hers was simply gone. She stood alone, adrift without her anchor, confused and lost.

Of all the strange things that had happened, this was the most baffling. Earthquakes, rain, hail, she could understand and predict that. But this? This was an oddity that couldn't be explained.

"How is this possible?"

Closed to Robb


It was a feeling that she was beginning to learn to anticipate, the sudden tingle in her head that indicated a vision was about to come. The sun was only beginning to peak over the horizon, a soft pink spreading over the dark sky. Robb was in bed beside her, seemingly undisturbed by her stirring in his arms.

It was only a second between acknowledging that a vision was coming when it hit her at full force, making her feel as if her head was splitting apart. She gave a shriek as she fell off the bed, pressing her palms against her eyes as a swirl of emotions raced over her, feelings not her own. Horror, shock and a looming dread. She could see a hole in the ground, no. It was something else but there and gone again. There was illness and a collection of lost villagers, confused and uncertain though about what, she didn't know.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she struggled to catch her breath, nausea rising in her stomach. It seemed like hours, but finally everything disappeared, the visions and emotions they brought. She was crumpled on the floor, the pain in her head intense, leaving her trembling.

When she looked up at Robb, there was shock and disbelief on her face. "What are you doing here?"
theintercessor: (Default)
[personal profile] theintercessor
WHO: 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.]
onlyeverdoubted: (rogue one)
[personal profile] onlyeverdoubted
WHO: Bodhi
WHERE: Around the forest, his house, wandering random paths
WHEN: 10/11-10/12, general second half of the month
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: (Please warn for adult content or anything triggering)


And the creepers of the ivy and the bending boughs of yew. )
othermcgarrett: (Mary looks to the side-yellow)
[personal profile] othermcgarrett
WHO: Mary McGarrett and YOU
WHAT: Mary's arrival
WHERE: Fountain & Village
WHEN: Slightly backdated to October 1st
OPEN TO: All
SCRUB COLOR: Navy Blue
WARNINGS: None but will update if it changes
STATUS: Open

[Fountain]

Mary had a very eventful couple of days. Her house had been broken into, she had been abducted and then later rescued by her brother and his partner. After she helped her brother and his Task Force out a bit, Steve had put her on a plane back to the mainland as he was convinced that she was safe to be on the island. As much as she didn't want to leave, she knew that he was right and by her not being on the island, it'd give her brother some peace of mind.

She had been in the air for about half and hour to forty-five minutes before she dozed off. Before she knew it, she was waking up underwater. Mary was taken by surprise but she feels a slight push upwards and she rights herself in the water and proceeds to swim towards the surface. Once she breaks the surface, she takes a deep breath as she treads the water, looking around to try to figure out what is going on. Did her plane crash? She looked around but she saw no evidence of such but instead she was in some sort of...fountain?

Swimming over to the side, she climbs out, brushing her now wet hair out of her face and she realizes that the bandage that was wrapped around her hand from her fight with her abductors was missing as was the one on her face. "This is some kind of weird dream right?" She said out loud, mostly to herself.

Mary takes a few minutes to look around from where she stands and she realizes that nothing looks familiar but she starts to walk towards the village. She didn't know where she was going but something told her she may be able to find some answers there.

[Village]

As she walks through the village, she has no plan in mind but she has genuine curiosity. She's still wet from the fountain but she wanders through the village, looking at the various buildings located in the village. All of the buildings look old and not the skyscrapers and built up homes and apartment buildings that she was used to at home. This village looked like something out of a history book.

As she did some exploring she figured she needed to find some help. Maybe someone could explain what was going on and point her in the direction of a telephone. If she could get in touch with her brother, he would come find her. She hiked her backpack up on her shoulder and continued her exploration through the village but now she is also on the lookout for someone who she could talk to.
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.
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
WARNINGS: n/a


OTA

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
OPEN TO: All
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
OPEN TO: All
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!
chosenbytheocean: (PB - oooooo)
[personal profile] chosenbytheocean
WHO: Moana
WHERE: 7i Beach Area [Also around the 7i Boat House & Town looking for stuff]
WHEN: Month of September
OPEN TO: EVERYONE [Feel free to make top posts if you'd like as well. Moana will hit everyone up but this is open to whatever people want.]
WARNINGS: None





Building a boat! )

Image References: Moana's Boat, Boat One, Boat Two, Drawing One, Drawing Two, Drawing Three, Drawing Four.
tooktheblack: (119)
[personal profile] tooktheblack
WHO: Jon Snow
WHERE: woods; House 25; weirwood (locked to Starks only)
WHEN: 18 August (plague prompt); early September
OPEN TO: all; weirwood prompt locked to Starks only
WARNINGS: usual sad bastard warnings.



a. bring out your dead

It had only taken a few days after visiting his lord father for Jon to fall ill and he tried to ignore it and push past it as much as he could. He did what he could to keep going, to maintain his routine, but after three days he fell to the fever and the rash and took to his bed.

Jon couldn't ever remember being ill like this. Once, during the False Spring, he'd fallen ill with a flu that all the rest of the Starks had fallen ill with one after another in succession. While Sansa and Robb had the touch of Catelyn Stark to soothe them when they thrashed in the sheets, Jon only had broth from Old Nan and the fevered dreams of a boy who wanted his mother more than anything. He wanted his mother to put cool cloths against his forehead and to brush his hair back from his brow.

His mother never came.

Now, as a man grown, he wouldn't do anything so weak as beg for his mother but he did, in passing, wish to be put out of his misery a handful of times. He hoped that none of his other siblings had fallen ill with this and that only he and Father had gotten it. Perhaps the girls and Robb had been spared and Jon would be better in a few days. Didn't it pass? All things passed in time.

So, for the first time since that illness as a boy, Jon Snow took to his bed and didn't rise for a week.

b. but i'm feeling better!

After laying in bed for a week and a half, Jon finally felt well enough to venture out into the woods. His traps were all a loss, considering they hadn't been checked while he was ill and he spent a few hours redoing the lot of them. It was tedious work, yes, but he was just glad to be out of his bed and moving around again. He hadn't been the best patient while he'd been ill and he'd been really glad to be out of the house; he had the idea that he'd spend the whole day out of doors if the women in his life would let him.

Once he'd reset all of his traps, he took one of the bows to actually hunt, feet silent against the leaves. It was times like these that he missed Ygritte. For all that he was good with a bow, she was better, and she could shoot further and cleaner than he ever would. Still, he had a duty to feed those in the village and he wouldn't manage that if he was lost in a dream of days past. Seeing a rustle out of the corner of his eye, he nocked an arrow and let it loose, pleased when it struck a grouse. It'd make a fine dinner for someone, whether it was his family or up at the Inn.

c. you have found...the shrubbery!

The weirwood was still a tiny thing but even as a sapling, Jon knew what it meant. He occasionally said prayers in front of a heart tree for his family who hadn't come here to this village - for Bran, for Rickon whom he knew was dead and gone. He said them for Catelyn Stark, that his siblings might have their mother again. He said them for Ygritte, for the brothers he'd lost at the Wall and the brothers who had betrayed them. It was a time to think and reflect, to remember the Old Gods and the First Men and how they'd given rise to the man he was today.

It seemed so far away from him now, the snows of the North and the battle that they had yet to fight. There was a war to wage against the dead and yet he was here in a place that was summer-green, a place that winter lasted only a few turns of the moon before it became spring and then autumn. It seemed like madness that seasons would last only a few moons' turn but he guessed for those not from Westeros, the opposite must seem true.

He knelt for what felt like an eternity, his lips moving without sound escaping as he gave his prayers to this fledgling tree in hopes that House Stark would take root here in this village and be strong once again.
ottimismo: (Default)
[personal profile] ottimismo
WHO: Sonny Carisi
WHERE: The Fountain, the Inn, other places in the village
WHEN: September 4th
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Sonny trying to drown himself, mentions of religion



Fountain

Sonny bounces back. He always bounces back. He did in high school, after years of relentless bullying, and in law school, when he thought the course load was going to be enough to kill him. He's bounced back from every single case he's ever had, even the toughest ones. Even the ones where the victim didn't make it. Coming back from a hard time has never been difficult for him. It's only ever taken some quality time with his siblings and his niece and a little bit of church.

Those are all things he doesn't have here. No sisters, no family. He has his little makeshift church, but it doesn't make much of a difference. It's been weeks since he's felt God in the village.

And now, Queenie's gone. He's spent the last two days searching high and low for her, but nobody else has seen her around, either. A lot of people have left lately, with no pattern or rhyme or reason. There's no telling who's next, or when it'll happen. if it will happen. They don't know how it happens, or if the people who leave are safe, if they go back home. There's too many questions and not enough answers and Sonny is so tired. He's never felt so tired in his life.

He wants to go back home. Back where things make sense, and he can connect the dots and solve the case and nobody is going to stumble upon any strange pods or discover weird rooms with blood vials.

Probably, anyway.

It's late in the afternoon now, and his feet hurt from trekking across the village looking for Queenie. It's hopeless, he decides as he sits on the edge of the fountain. She's gone from this God forsaken place, and he wants to be gone from it, too. The water ripples, showing him his wobbly reflection in its surface. This is where they all crawl out of, somehow, without fail. It's the only sure thing that happens in this place. Everyone comes out of the fountain. That never changes.

Sonny kicks off his boots, peels off his socks. He doesn't bother with anything else as he slips over the edge of the fountain, into the cool water. A single breath, and he slips beneath the surface, heading straight for the bottom.


Inn

There's no fire in the fireplace, but Sonny sits in front of it anyway, wrapped in a spare blanket from the storeroom. Since being dragged out of the fountain, he's eaten some food and dried off a bit, though his white scrubs are still damp and unchanged.

In retrospect, it was obviously a stupid idea. He's always encouraged victims to get help, find someone to talk to, be open about what they're feeling and going through. He never realized until now that he's terrible at taking his own advice.

He probably needs to apologize to some people. He needs to pray and get some sleep and figure out how he's going to pull himself back together.

For now, he sits, sipping on a cup of now luke-warm tea.

[ Stella will be pulling Sonny out of the fountain, but other than that, interaction is entirely open! Feel free to find him wandering the village before, or sitting at the fountain immediately after almost drowning himself, or chilling at the inn!

Also to be noted, Sonny has been pretty withdrawn and absent the last month or so. ]
elderflowermacarons: (hmm)
[personal profile] elderflowermacarons
WHO: Taako
WHERE: Around 6I
WHEN: First two weeks of September
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None anticipated, will add if needed



confused, connected, diffused and alive )
super_seal: (Action - Gun - Hidden)
[personal profile] super_seal
WHO: Steve McGarrett and YOU
WHERE: Fountain, Forest, Village (behind and in between buildings)
WHEN: September 3rd
OPEN TO: All
SCRUB COLOR: Hunter Green
WARNINGS: None to start
STATUS: Open

[ Fountain ]

Coming to, Steve knows instantly that he’s underwater. Fighting the upwards momentum, he opens his eyes and tries to get some idea of what the hell is going on. All he sees is darkness with light shining down from above. He knows which way to go and after confirming he’s alone without any detectible threat in the water he kicks up.

Slowing just before surfacing, he eases his eyes and nose above the water with barely a splash. SEAL training coming in especially helpful at the moment. He scans his surroundings, only to find that nothing looks familiar.

The last he remembered was taking Wo Fat prisoner and flying a chopper from an island not far off Hawaii. They’d been over the pacific, he remembers that, but then nothing until coming to in the water. Had someone shot them down? The chances of him landing in the fountain he found himself in was extremely slim, but it is possible someone attempted to dispose of him there. The landscape doesn’t look familiar and he doesn’t think he’s on the islands anymore. Which makes him wonder how long he’s been out and where exactly he is.

But first things first. Easing up high enough to see over the edge of the fountain, he sees what looks to be... a park?


[ Forest ]

Out of the fountain, he makes quick work of getting some distance between him and it. It’s not till he has some cover in the trees does he notice what he’s wearing. It strikes him odd to find himself in scrubs and instantly he misses his cargo pants and everything he normally keeps in his pockets. What he misses most though is a weapon.

Taking inventory of what he has in the backpack, he decides against changing at the moment. Changing may help him fit into whatever mess he’s found himself in, but until he has more intel he’ll stay as he is. Instead he removes only one sock from the backpack and with a quick look around him he picks up a rock about the size of his fist and slips it into the sock. Not a great weapon, but it’s better than nothing until he has time to either acquire some or make something better.

With the backpack secured to his back, he carefully scouts out the forest staying as concealed as possible while also gathering as much information as he can. As he moves through he does some light tracking of any animal trails that he might find as well as notes any vegetation that could be useful for food, weapons, tools or anything else he may need. He may not need any of it, and doesn’t waste time lingering, but if he needs it later he’ll know where to find it.


[ Village ]

Once he ventures out far enough from the fountain, he sees the buildings. With the fountain he had figured there was a settlement of some sort not far off and now that he finds it, he’s curious to see what he’s up against. Attempting to keep as concealed as possible, he peaks into windows and around corners.

The town isn’t what he was expecting and he’s still confused about where he is and why. His leading theory is that Wo Fat somehow managed to get the upper hand, knock him out and brought him here, but seeing the village and the people walking around without weapons he realizes that doesn’t seem likely either.

After watching for a bit he slips his ‘rock-in-a-sock’ into his backpack and ventures in closer. He can only find out so much information by remaining hidden and so far he’s not detected a specific threat. Still, he came to by almost drowning in the fountain and as far as he knows, any one of these people could have tossed him there... Along with a backpack with three days worth of clothing. Whoever put him in the fountain hadn't expected him to die there. So, he’s ready for anything.
collaronhisneck: (working hard)
[personal profile] collaronhisneck
WHO: Father Francis Mulcahy and others
WHERE: Various, check starters
WHEN: September 2nd through 4th
OPEN TO: Everyone, but only the last prompt will be an open in full. The rest are first come, first served in order to prevent Topic Fatigue.
WARNINGS: None so far; mentions of wartime problems may come up



( fountain, September 2, open to Major )

Considering he'd gone to sleep in his normal rickety cot, the familiar sounds of an April night outside Uijongbu drifting through the lashed-down sides of his tent, the rumble of engines passing by on the road in the distance...

Well, the last thing he expected to wake up to was water.

Jolting awake with the sudden plunge and the screaming lack of air, instinct kicks in just like his feet, and Mulcahy surges in the direction he hopes is upwards, towards light and away from the darkness, a stray thought passing through his mind that he hopes he's not heading for The Light just yet. There's so much left to do, after all. The coughing starts when he founders into the early morning light, because he'd managed to swallow some of the water before he surfaced, though fortunately it seems to be coming out fairly easily. What he doesn't realize right away is that his glasses seem to have disappeared; he's more concerned with catching the rim of the fountain and clinging to it while he spits up the water that invaded his esophagus. Not the most comfortable of welcomes, this.

inn, hospital, and church prompts under the cut )

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