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sixthiteration

WHERE: Lawn in front of 6I Inn
WHEN: Morning, April 5
OPEN TO: ALL - Mingle
WARNINGS: n/a

The day dawns bright and just a little cool, soft mist rolling over the distant mountains as the forest stretches and yawns in the breeze. It's another beautiful morning in this new-old village, just waiting for its inhabitants to begin filling it with the work of the day.

But this day, there is a surprise. A gift, if you will, not unfamiliar to the old timers, although they know too that sometimes these gifts come with strings.

On the lawn in front of the 6I inn, all of the tables, chairs and even the bar has been moved out into the breaking sunshine. A breakfast feast has been arranged, tables piled high with every imaginable delicacy and comfort food of a certain era: Muffins, toast, coffee, fruit, pop-overs, crumpets, lamb chops, porridge, hot chocolate, biscuits, and every kind of egg, just to start. Even the bar is stocked for those itching for mimosas, mint juleps or irish coffee.

Of course, anyone who has spent time in the wilderness can tell you: In a place gone wild, it's only a matter of time before the scent of food draws in unwanted visitors. Eat up while you can, villagers; you may be sharing your plate soon.

[Please read details here!]

sixthiteration

WHERE: 6I Fountain Park & Elsewhere
WHEN: April 1
OPEN TO: ALL - Mingle
WARNINGS: N/A

In the snug circle of an old park, a fountain sits burbling beneath a broad, midday sky.

Once-neat paving stones have buckled and cracked from the slow nudge of wayward roots. Benches stand covered in lichen and rust. Three paths push into the underbrush like the spokes on a wheel, the encroaching forest creating lush tunnels through the dark.

But the fountain stands singular and pristine, brightly splashing in open rebellion of the deep, muffled sounds of a place long ago gone to seed. A vibration hums through the ground, there and quickly gone, and the water in the fountain trembles, lapping against the high walls of its cool, pale reservoir.

Far, far away, in a place that isn't really there, people begin to blink out of existance.

It is the first of April.

It is precisely ten o'clock in the morning.

[Please see event details and guidelines here.]

learned_to_die

WHO: Ned Stark
WHERE: Around the village
WHEN: Mid-February
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: N/A; will update as needed.

The Setup
It was the blaze of red that had caught Ned's eye, carefully perched like a patch of newly spilled blood on the windowsill of his chambers. He'd thought himself mad, seeing visions of death in the blossoming sunlight of dawn, but upon closer inspection, the realization and understanding had cracked over his skull like an egg. He'd seen these envelopes before, twice - first with Moana, as she tried to rid herself of the letter by one of the trees on the outskirts of the village, and then with Beverly, as she sat, brows furrowed and concerned, by the crackling hearth in the inn.

Each letter demanded something of its recipient, the thing itself unable to be destroyed or ignored. He'd run his finger across the wax insignia. It had reminded him of the flaming tree of House Marbrand, but he knew this was no raven-sent message of home. This was sent from their captors, the Observers. The controllers who went unseen and unheard, known only through their manipulations of the villagers' lives. It had unsettled Ned down to his core, rattling his molars and vibrating his bones with a sense of dread he couldn't quite understand.

But now, it seems, his turn has come.

He takes hold of the sealed envelope, turning it over carefully in his hands a few times before finally slipping a finger underneath the flap to open it. With trembling fingers, he removes the letter - eyes skimming over letters without truly understanding, needing to go back and re-read to fully absorb the demand being made like a blade at his throat.

A sacrifice. The price to return home. The word itself, "home," screams out at him from the page, practically rendering him blind and deaf. But - what waits for him back in Westeros? Would he be returning to his last known breath? He'd rather not experience the horrors at the Sept of Baelor, listening to the jeers of the crowd with a thirst for blood and a call for his head. Hearing his daughter's pleading, frantically searching for his other daughter's face in the sea of sneers and flustered, angered faces. But if he could return to a time before that? Back to when life had been simpler, back to when he'd had his beloved Catelyn at his side, when they'd watched their children train in the yard and their worries seemed few and far between? How sweet a thought; it almost makes his chest ache with want.

The Stark House
He removes his fur-lined cloak from his wardrobe, folding the letter up and keeping it close to his chest underneath his other wintry Westerosi garments. As he makes his way through the house - getting himself something to sup on for breakfast, stoking the hearth, ensuring they've enough to eat, going about his morning routine - he seems to be preoccupied. His mind is elsewhere, brows stitched together with concern, worry, and silent dispute. He might even be grumbling to himself about this thing or that, not making much sense of whatever can be heard.

Outdoors - Anywhere around the village
Once he's finished there, he makes his way into the village, taking time to enjoy the silent solitude that these early morning walks provide him. Margaery had started the pattern shortly after he had first arrived, and he finds that he cannot seem to truly start his day without them now - though her company is more and more scarce as time goes on. (Deep down, this pains him as he'd come to enjoy her friendship, but he will never admit such a thing).

Still, he seems distracted, absent-minded. He goes about the motions as he heads towards the center of town, eventually heading north to check traps and investigate the riverbed, but it's clear his eyes are not truly seeing what lies around him. They're envisioning other worlds, other possibilities. He stops a few times at seemingly sporadic moments and locations, completely lost in thought, only to come to after a few moments, after which he continues on his way.

The Inn
Finally, as he does most days, he finds himself wandering back towards the warmth of the inn, sitting opposite the raging fire. He cradles a mug of something in his hands, though he's barely touched its contents. Instead, he idly spins the mug in between his palms and fingers, both restless with unused energy and worry.

It's only here, when his guard is down, that he reveals the envelope, clutching it in one hand, as he fights the call of home as best as he can.

warriorborn

WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn/immediate surrounding area
WHEN: Jan 13, after supper
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: foul language probs

LEAVING THE INN

OTA

He'll never get used to Winter.

This is Benedict's second cold season down on the Surface, and he would have thought he'd be prepared for snow; after all, he had plenty of experience with it last year — never mind that it hardly feels like a year has passed, he's had it explained that the seasons only happen once each per year and a year is shorter here than it is back home, by nearly a third! — but he was wrong. He's starting to think that one can never be ready for snow, that it catches you unawares every time, that you're left scrambling to deal with it no matter how well prepared you think you might be.

It started snowing overnight. In his humble opinion, that's the absolute worst time for snow to begin to fall. When snow begins during the day, you can keep an eye on it, keep abreast of it, decide how you're going to deal with it and make the effort regularly to go out and maintain your pathways. When it snows after you're already in bed... It's pretty to look at, he'll admit that, but only from the warm safety of his bed, with Kate beside him like a warming stone tucked against his side. When he inevitably hast to get up and get started for the day, the crushing weight of the impending snow-removing work he has to do feels like a physical weight on his shoulders.

By the time the evening meal is concluded, Benedict is afraid that, by the time morning rolls around again, he won't be able to even guess where the path is to shovel it even if he wanted to.

Bundling up as best he can, making use of some of the abandoned cold-weather gear left behind by those who've disappeared in the past, he heads towards the front door, a coil of climbing rope over his shoulder. As he nears the door, he grabs the sleeve of the person closest to him.

"Do you have a minute?" he asks, voice muffled by the way he's turned up the collar of his coat and has already burrowed down into it in anticipation of the miserable task ahead. "I would be eternally grateful for an extra pair of hands for a brief moment."

BACK AT THE INN

OTA

Surely it's not healthy to be this cold. Benedict is fairly learned, more so than many of his peers, but while he studied human anatomy in both an academic and a military-triage sense, he does not have much knowledge about extreme temperatures and their effects on the human body. In the climate-controlled Spires, it wasn't exactly an issue, outside of perhaps accidents involving fire or blaster burns. The only time he had ever possibly gotten close to being as cold as he's grown used to becoming during treacherous Winter was on the airship Predator, and even that felt wildly different than this.

He's hung up his sopping wet clothing, changed into something dry from the wardrobe, and even went so far as to drag the blanket off his and Kate's bed so he can wrap it around himself as he huddles near the fire in an attempt to thaw out his frozen extremities.

"How do you people live like this?" he grumbles to nobody in particular, tucking his fingers into his armpits and pulling his knees up to his chest.

iron_beneath_beauty

WHO: Lyanna Stark
WHERE: By the Weirwood Tree
WHEN: 12/12
OPEN TO: Ned Stark
WARNINGS: Supreme Angst

She kept a number of her thoughts to herself over the course of her life in the village. When the initial glow of happiness at being reunited with her brother had worn away and the confusion of her place in the village faded, doubts and insecurities reared up in its wake. In the night, it was hardest to escape those thoughts as well as the gnawing feeling that something was missing in her life, something important that she had hoped for and needed. That emptiness had a way of tearing at her heart and weathering away her strength. Iron became brittle and broken, tested by so much loss and tragedy. Eventually, it began to feel as if she were wearing a face not her own, made to smile and tease when she didn't feel much need for it anymore.

Lyanna relied on the normal chores of the day, the routines that helped her through her thoughts. Seeing Ned daily was both a help and further difficulty. There was so much unsaid between them about the matter of Jon, her own thoughts as well as recent developments (though she had no idea what they were). The better place for such soul searching and confessions had always been in the presence of the Old Gods, but there was no Godsgrove here. There was only a place where a hopeful spring took root and struggled to grow.

She knew she would find him there alone, away from the eyes of the rest of the village. Kneeling beside him, she peered at the familiar white and red that colored so much of her childhood. "How is it faring?"

learned_to_die

WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: Around the village
WHEN: November 16, the beginning of the ice storm
OPEN TO: OTA!
WARNINGS: Will update as needed

The steadily dropping temperatures has filled Ned with a certain vigor, one he has not felt for quite some time. He has yet to experience a winter within the village, and while he has come to expect short and fleeting seasons here, unlike the seasons of Westeros, he cannot deny anticipating the frigid temperatures with which he's so intimately familiar. He will therefore enjoy the impending winter as deeply as he is able, for long as he is able.

It is in the early morning hours, when the village is still cloaked in darkness, that Ned is stirred awake by the sounds of rain pelting the roof of the cabin. No, it must be something harder than rain, given the noise and percussion of the sound; perhaps ice? He thinks to check on the others but, as he always is, he is concerned with being too overbearing and too meddling with their lives. None of them are children any longer, and though he does not anticipate having his usefulness wear out with them, he does not need to treat them as though they were still the children running around the yard at Winterfell.

He attempts to find slumber again but finds it impossible with the noise. He goes to the window to glance outside and, indeed, it seems as though ice is falling and crashing against all that lay on the earth. He busies himself until first light, donning the Westerosi outfit he'd received as a gift some time ago, as well as the heavier of the two fur-lined cloaks he'd also received as gifts. Quietly, he slips out of the house and out into what feels like a transformed world.

The village he knew as of the night prior has been turned into a wintry, sparkling land reminiscent of the North - the trees cocooned in layers of ice, the rain and ice falling from above. There is a particular smell in the air that always follows these colder, more frigid conditions, and if he closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nostrils, he can almost convince himself that he's been transported back to the Godswood.

The thought of it reminds him of the small Weirwood sapling just south of the cabin and, after checking on it, he decides that perhaps he should build some sort of shelter for it, to protect it from the dagger-like ice.

He can be seen wandering about the village, checking the inventory at the Inn, trying to figure out a way to shield the small, white-barked tree from nature's harsher elements.

sixthiteration

WHERE: 6I Inn
WHEN: 10 November, all day
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE POST
NOTE: Details can be found here.

In the wee hours of November 10th, before even the earliest risers have roused themselves for another day, items begin to appear in the front room of the Inn. Decorations first — Boughs of autumn leaves in their reds and golds, wreaths of dried flowers and silken ribbon, flickering candles among the goards and berries and acorns. The food arrives next, the decadent aroma slipping up the Inn stairs to tempt those lingering in bed — Every imaginable harvest time delicacy, from roast turkey and ham to smoked salmon and oysters; fresh, soft bread warm from the oven to plum pudding and ice cream. And did we mention pie?

Once again, it's time for a feast. The bar is stocked, the coffee is brewed and the tables are groaning with food. Indulge, there's more than enough for everyone — That is, if you don't lose your appetite worrying about what it will all cost.

chirrutsluck

WHO: Baze Malbus and OTA
WHERE: At one of the houses in 6I
WHEN: Early November, before the feast
OPEN TO: Any and all
WARNINGS: S for Sad Bear

Baze hadn't finished fixing up the house he'd planned for him and Chirrut to move into, not enough for it to be safe to stay in if the temperatures dropped further. But he'd gotten a good start on it, between moments of intangibility over the course of the past month, and even with no one else to move into it when Chirrut disappeared shortly after he picked up full visibility again, Baze had just... kept working. It was stupid, because living in it alone wasn't going to happen, and finishing the job wasn't going to bring Chirrut back, but he wasn't good at quitting things. Maybe someone else can use it.

So while he spent his mornings checking his snares and hunting, his afternoons were spent at the little house, sometimes hammering on the roof, sometimes sanding down a doorway or a new beam support for the ceiling. Some of the time, though, he can be found just sitting on the front porch, with the staff he'd made Chirrut turning around in his hands, grumpily wishing he had some alcohol.

chosenbytheocean

WHO: Moana.
WHERE: All Over.
WHEN: November 4th – 15th
OPEN TO: EVERYONE.
WARNINGS: None.

[ooc: Let me know the day and where you tag her. It is all open to run into her at any time or in between any action!]

Nov 4th – 10th | Letters Everywhere | 6i & 7i

( Many days and many letters )

Nov 11th – 15th | Green House Glasses | 7i

( Finding stuff and she has no idea what it is. )

thekittenqueen

WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: Bungalow #4
WHEN: First few weeks of Nov.
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Visions, illness, memory loss, pain

The last she could remember was being in the fields during midday. The sun couldn't push away the frost and chill, the harbingers of winter's approach. Despite this, the animals were happy, the newly born nannies bounding over the dried grass. Her cow lulled against the growing wind, filling the day with the noises that brought her a measure of peace and contentment. She could recall a flash of blood, the taste sudden and sharp on her tongue. All at once the world flashed a blinding white as her mind felt as if it was ripping apart at the seams. Then there was nothing at all.

When she woke, she was in bed, the sun apparently rising. The hows of returning home seemed insignificant compared to the question of how many days she had been unconscious. Someone had carried her home and for an unknown amount of time, she had slept. Her mouth tasted sour and a waste can was by the bed, smelling of sick. Though she couldn't remember it, she knew that she had stirred only to empty her stomach and then returned to her sleeping coma. Her head didn't just ache, it hurt. Light, sound and taste all mixed to create an unbearable agony. She moaned softly as she pressed her hands against her head, trying to dislodge the pain.

There was someone else with her, seated by the bed, but their face was unfamiliar and shrouded in early morning shadows. She felt as if she knew them, their name so close at hand but lost among everything else. When she could manage to open her eyes, she stared at the person, uncertain and with no recognition in her eyes. "I...know you?" It was a question, not a statement. Everything had disappeared, only the frightening images that lingered in her head and a pain that was enough to make her wonder why death did not come.

Without another word, she turned to the side of the bed and shuddered as she vomited once more.

ethnobotany

WHO: Beverly Crusher
WHERE: hospital, House 20, Inn
WHEN: Nov 4th and onward
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: will update as needed

hospital - Nov 4th

Of all the things Beverly had expected to find in the hospital, it wasn't a red, sealed envelope. She was alone in one of the rooms, looking through their supplies. She'd turned around to pick something up and there it was on a table. It hadn't been there before. Frowning, she hesitated for a few seconds before reaching out to pick the envelope up and turn it over. It has a wax seal with the same insignia as the one on her backpack. Not a very comforting thought.

Slitting it open doesn't seem to produce any terrible consequences and she pulls out the letter inside. She doesn't really know what she's expecting, but this sort of letter, or these instructions, definitely weren't on the list. A frown crosses her face, one definitely of disgust and confusion.

"What in the world...?"

House 20 - Nov 4th-5th

As soon as she gets back to the house on the 4th, she builds up a nice fire and tosses the envelope and its letter inside. Whatever the Observers might want of her, she isn't about to obey. That isn't the type of person she is. When it reappears in her room, again when she's alone, on the 5th, she does the same thing again.

"Whatever you want, it's not going to happen."

She stands over the fire with her arms crossed, watching the paper curl and burn, until it's all a mess of ash and fire and she can't tell what is fire and what was letter.

Inn - Nov 6th

Eventually, she ends up at the Inn, throwing the next letter into the fire there, on the off chance that it was somehow the fire that meant it came back. Unfortunately for her, that doesn't seem to have much effect either, so she spends most of the 6th looks really put out and actually more than a little unsettled. Somewhere towards the end of the day, she returns with another, flops into a chair, and stares at the red letter she's set on the table. What do they want?

fishermansweater

WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: By the river and at the Inn in 6I
WHEN: November 4
OPEN TO: EVERYONE
WARNINGS: N/A

Being married hasn't actually changed much. Finnick and Annie have been living together since they arrived here, and they've long ago given up the pretense of being anything less than devoted lovers. Functionally, they've lived like husband and wife for years, in private, and in Panem it was only in public that they pretended to be less than that, when they'd had to lie to the public and the media for the sake of Finnick's Victor narrative.

All it's changed here is the fact that now he wears a ring woven of rabbit-leather on his left hand, and Annie wears a matching one on hers. That sort of makeshift ring isn't uncommon in the poorer parts of District Four, where not everybody can afford jewelry, because food is more pressing, even as a new household comes together. In a way, this place is similar: no break from the business of survival can be afforded for the luxury of being newlyweds. Like in the districts travel restrictions and cost prevent most people traveling far on their honeymoon, confinement here means there's no time to stop, and the day after the wedding they'd been back gathering and fishing and caring for their birds. If a little later than normal.

Finnick misses summer. The leaves have been turning over the last few weeks, and they're falling now, crunching underfoot, slick with frost in the early mornings as he makes his way down the river. It's cold enough that he, used to coastal, tropical weather, has taken to wearing the winter clothing he'd been given the previous year. Today, because he's heading down the river, he's wearing a heavy cabled sweater and the he's carrying gloves in his pockets to put on after he's had his hands in the river.

He stops about halfway between the village and the waterfall, next to an old, tall tree that forks into two magnificent crowns and steps across to a particular spot where the river eddies past some rocks. He tugs on the cord that connects to a fish trap and hauls it out, only to find the trap empty, a hole smashed in it by something that the river's carried along. That means less fish, and more time spent, because he has to go find some sticks pliant enough to mend the trap with.

Anyone who happens across him by the river that morning will find Finnick with an oddly-shaped basket in his lap, weaving sticks into and around a hole in one side. But he's still vigilant; he looks up each time he hears footsteps, and if a knife happens to be close by, it's because it's useful for working with the wood.

Later, after the trap's fixed, a somewhat damp Finnick makes his way to the Inn, where he strips off his sweater and hangs it off a chair near the fire to give it a chance to dry, leaving him in just his now very well-worn red scrubs pants and shirt.

And he'll be staying by the fire until the sweater is dry. It's warm there.

viridescere

WHO: Oliver Queen
WHERE: along the river in 6I
WHEN: 3 November, afternoon
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: TBD

When Oliver was younger, his parents used to refer to this as snow weather. It's just a little above freezing, from what he can tell and there's clouds low and heavy in the sky. It's getting darker earlier in the day; by his reckoning, there's only about eight good hours of sunlight now and there's not much of it to speak of. It reminds him a little bit of home, if Star City were in the middle of the pristine wilderness instead of an industrialized and globalized city.

He's not running today. Instead, he's walking along the river, trying to skip stones across it like he had as a kid. It was good luck to get one all the way across and he remembers his father being really successful at it almost all of the time and Oliver himself failing miserably about 90% of the time. Later, when he'd gotten older, it'd been him teaching Thea how to do the same thing. The stones along the river here are flat and smooth, just right for getting them to skid across the surface.

His first attempt isn't so great. It skips for a moment and sinks down to the bottom with a plop and a splash. His next is better, though, and it skips about halfway across the river before it falls beneath the water. There's a scientific principle to it, he's sure, but that's not what he's interested in right now. Right now, he's wondering what's going on in his city, what he's not able to prevent because he's stuck here.

Oliver closes a hand tight around a stone and curses beneath his breath, frustrated by his impotence in this place. This place holds him here just as much as it holds everyone else and no matter what he's done and what he's capable of, he's held by the same strange power that keeps them all trapped here. He's no better or worse than anyone else. Maybe he has a little edge on some of those who've never had to survive outdoors before but that's it. That's his only advantage in the world.

"Looks like I've turned into just one more madman railing at the sky," he says, frowning deeply. The heavy clouds don't respond.

treadswater

WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: By the river
WHEN: 27th October
OPEN TO: Ned Stark
WARNINGS: None yet

The weather is getting colder, something Annie is not very happy with. Colder, but then in the afternoon it turns warmer, and really, if she runs around then she gets warm again. Which partly explains why Annie is out walking her geese. She's become a regular sight since spring, the small redhaired woman with her flock of geese. They still follow her like she's their momma, and she rarely has to use that slender switch she carries with her to help guide them back.

Today she's a sweet picture, her denim overalls and one of her new shirts - mostly because she's trying to cheer herself up. She's not looking forward to the winter.

So down she is by the river, singing sea-shanties under her breath as she watches over the geese. Some are swimming in the water, others are grazing in the grass and bushes. But as she watches her birds, Annie also keeps a sharp eye out on the surrounds.

Once a victor, always a victor.

tooktheblack

WHO: Jon Snow
WHERE: 6I village, at Lucrezia’s Home
WHEN: 26 October
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: tbd

Jon had made a habit of going to see Lucrezia daily when he went to visit his family and when he didn’t see her for two days running, his heart sank like a stone. It wasn’t like her to be out often; she usually kept close to her home or to the inn and to not see her at all for two days meant that surely she must have gone.

The evening of the second day confirmed his suspicions completely. Her cat mewled and yowled, wandering about the steps and of Lucrezia’s porch seemingly in search of his mistress. It took Jon a moment to actually get the cat to come close to him but once he coaxed it near, he gathered him up into his arms.

“Barnabus,” Jon said quietly. “I fear she’s gone and left us both. No amount of looking is going to bring her back to us, all right?”

When Ygritte had disappeared, Jon had searched for her in the woods for days and only when he’d exhausted every hollow and dale that he had declared her truly gone. When Arya had gone, he‘d done similar.

Now, though, he simply felt hollow and empty. He’d lost another person he had cared for in this place and there was no telling who might be next. Would it be his Lord Father? Would it be his sisters? His brother? Lyanna? Jon hoped not.

Armful of cat, he walked past the home his family lived in and down the road toward the inn. Possibly there was a bit of milk or something he might be able to give the cat so it would stop yowling for the time being.

ethnobotany

WHO: Beverly Crusher
WHERE: Outside mostly
WHEN: backdated to October 14th
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: will update if needed

A lot of things have happened since Beverly surfaced out of the fountain. Some of them have seemed almost normal for a Starfleet officer to experience, while others seemed like something a Cardassian or Q would cook up. Despite still not being pushed for Starfleet intel or information on the Enterprise, Beverly isn't entirely convinced that one of the above isn't running the entire show.

On days like today, she leans more towards Q. If she were at all aware that yesterday was her birthday, she would be even more convinced that Q is the prankster.

The day starts out as well as most, but partway through, when she's headed to the Inn for lunch, she notices that the ground is unusually bright. She lifts a hand to shade her eyes from the sun and barely anything happens. In fact, as she turns her hand over, she notices it isn't casting a shadow at all. More to the point, she isn't casting any kind of shadow. Even turning around and looking down doesn't produce anything. Nor does lifting her feet.

"The trees and buildings are all casting shadows," she comments to herself, but loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Are the people just not?"

She probably looks a little strange wiggling her arms and legs around, as though a shadow will simply fall off of her if she moves enough. Eventually, she'll end up in the Inn, where she finds she is still not exactly casting a shadow, even in the unnatural light inside. Still, even shadowless people need food. And maybe a bit of company.

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.

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.

catchallthecats

WHO: Arya Stark
WHERE: Village outskirts/Forest, Stark Family Cabin
WHEN: During the plague event, backdated
OPEN TO: Village section OTA, Cabin section open to Stark CR
WARNINGS: blanket warning for violence/death chat because it’s murderchild with no filter.

Village outskirts and the forest, OTA
It was no new thing, how Arya all but seemed to vanish when she really wanted to, the only sign of her existence anywhere the fact that her chores were still being done. But she’d seen the illness that seemed to be flying around, and with how off she was starting to feel, she knew it was better to avoid others in order to minimize the risk of spreading it to others. So instead of seeking out one of the rare people she considered a friend, or any of her family, or lurking near the fountain, she spent her day exploring the forest, a satchel slung over a shoulder for anything interesting she found, though her attention was more on finding the kind of trees she remembered as being good wood for things like bows. She’d not made one herself, but she’d seen plenty in the process of being made, and felt that if she was careful, she could possibly manage to teach herself to make one with minimal waste. Given how few bows there were, it would certainly help to have more, and even if they weren’t strong enough for proper hunting at first, they could be used for teaching others how to shoot.

Others might spy her picking her way through the woods, or near the outskirts of the village on her way back. Still alert though she was still paler than usual aside from the red flush of her cheeks.

Stark Family Cabin, Closed to Starks and pre-existing Stark CR
Arya might not have gotten this bad if she’d rested herself when she first became aware she wasn’t well. But then she’d never been one to fuss, had counted on youthful health to help her through, at least until now. She hadn’t even managed to get out of bed before the way the world seemed to spin had her on her back again, kicking away blankets in a vicious if uncoordinated manner as if they were responsible for the boil of heat that had seemed to settle over her like a pall. The only sign beyond her bedroom door that anything was wrong today would be that none of her chores were finished.

As the morning drew on, she hadn’t left her bed, only tossing and turning in some attempt to find relief from the fever, or the itch of the rash that had crept up along the side of her neck over her collar. Sometimes she managed to catch scraps of sleep, the only real relief to be found at this point, but even that didn’t help. Not when she started to wake disoriented, too delirious to realize where she was, or what was going on. In the state she was in, it was probably for the best that the illness had sapped her strength enough that she wasn’t about to go wandering today. The vehemence she sometimes called out with, the way her hand reached blindly for weapons that weren’t there was hint enough that had she the energy for it, violence would be had.

((ooc: If your character wants HORRIBLE MURDERCHILD TRUTHS in the cabin threads, let me know! Otherwise they’ll luck out and find her in the midst of a childhood memory or something instead.))

underpinnings

WHO: Owen Prichard
WHERE: 6I Woods and river, 6I Inn, 7I Beach, others
WHEN: August 24 - 30
OPEN TO: OTA starters with caps
WARNINGS: Burn scar mentions, possible allusions to childhood abuse (blanket warning for the character and threads)

intro

It’s morning when Owen comes to in the water, swims for the pale yellow patch of sky, and pulls himself out of a fountain. Few and far between, it’s still deeper than any fountain he’s ever known, and the preoccupation with it is quickly replaced with preoccupation with: the trees, the morning sky, the gap between grinding cigarette butts under his foot in the Valley and — this.

Patting at his chest, he swipes the wide collar of a shirt wide over his shoulder, blindly checking himself as he stares wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the trees. Northern species, not even browning for autumn. Foot worn, patchy grass at his feet, a treeline broken in three directions. No tire tracks, no cigarette butts, no wrappers. He was on a street corner, getting ready to bail. Cloudy skies overhead, night painting the clouds purple against a setting sun. Now he’s in the woods, morning dew shining on the grass, starting to shiver in wet — something. Wet scrubs, he finds, looking down at his hands still searching for a jacket that isn’t there, pockets he doesn’t have. When he feels the back of his head for possible injury, even his fucking earrings are gone.

“Fucking shit,” he seethes, coughing once and looking over his shoulder. No one in view. The morning is a quiet one, no signs of who dragged him here, who tossed him in a fountain. Did Eddie sell him out? Is Eddie still in the fucking water?

Catching himself at the fountain’s edge, he searches the clear depths, finding only the shadows of its sides and central pillar.

Do most fountains even warrant pillars? It isn’t a helpful detail, but still — it feels off. As off as a pristine fountain in the woods, the area around it tread flat rather than manicured. If this is some kind of estate, it isn’t the best kept, but maybe it’s hard to find lawn guys you can count on to look away while you toss people into your water fixtures. Staring into his reflection, Owen grips tight to the edge of the fountain, trying to let the questions go until something clicks. His pale face stares back, silhouette against the sky, and he’s neatly distracted a second time when he looks down at his hands.

His arms are bare.

That stabs him in the gut worse than crawling out of the fountain, worse than not knowing where his clothes and wallet are. His left arm holds his attention a moment longer, and he realizes — the lines are too clean. Trisha finished inking those lines two days ago, petals and leaves unfurling around scar tissue, waiting for color, and he’d still been wearing the bandages last night. The skin should be tight and red, itchier than a rash, screaming at him for soaking in the water — but it’s just skin, black ink settled, irritation healed.

How long has he been out?

Owen’s reflection answers only one question: the weight on his back is attached to black straps, stood out against the white scrubs. Slinging one arm free, he lurches it onto the ground. The zipper sticks twice, struggles open on the third try, and he’s relieved to find dry clothes. A trail of water is harder to cover, and wherever he is, whenever it is — it’s colder than LA. Pulling a white shirt with sleeves free, he tugs the wet one over his head without a thought, covering himself rising to the top of his concerns. Overalls aren’t his first choice, but they’re dryer and sturdier than what he’s wearing, and he swaps them out with equal disregard, shoving the wet clothes into the pack and doing what he can to fit the wet boots as well, zipping the bag from both ends to secure the excess at the top.

Replacing the pack at his back, he examines the fountain one last time, confident he’s never seen it before in his life. What he needs is a vantage point, and one he won’t be spotted in from the trails. Following the shadows to turn himself north, he slips past the treeline on damp, bare feet.

( prompts within )

Sixth Iteration

Logs

Entries tagged with asoiaf: eddard stark

Credits & Style Info

[MINGLE] Breakfast Feast

[EVENT] The Simulation Ends

[we're quiet on the ride, we're all just waiting to get home]

"the snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches." -- e. e. cummings

LEAVING THE INN

BACK AT THE INN

Pay to Play

[the dire wolf collects his due while the boys sing 'round the fire]

[MINGLE] Harvest Feast 🍂

06. Empty House

014 Finding to many things [OPEN]

"I'm Cursed"

it's like playing the lottery with you ( OPEN )

ψ colors in autumn so bright before they lose it all | OPEN

(no subject)

goosey-goose goose [Closed]

🍂 autumn fades

fading in and out

wear it like armor [open]

OTA - First Things First

Who am I, what's inside, that's causing this malfunction

[OTA] in my right hand, there's the great unknown