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 )
lastofthekellys: (rabbit and dandelion stew)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 15th August | Noon
OPEN TO: E V E R Y O N E
WARNINGS: N/A
NOTES: All sections are completely free for all! You can handwave your character helping out or thread it out, or just jump in to them eating. All characters are ICly invited, as they are every day. In light of the illness plot, feel free to use this post as an excuse for your characters to catch ill or spread the plague around.
STATUS: Open and ongoing!




Rain, hail, shine; blizzard, earthquake or lightning storm, the meals at the Inn have continued. People can, and do, wander in at breakfast and supper - as long as the stores are enough for three meals, anyway - but the main meal remains the one at midday. It's this meal which is the main event that Kate structures her day around, making sure volunteers arrive to help prepare, serve, and then clean; double-checking that there is enough food for all, that stores aren't too low and that fresh greens have been gathered. With the village chickens now producing eggs regularly there's a welcome addition of protein to the foodstuffs, and by now there are a number of experienced cooks in the village. At least, experienced in the ways of cooking communally and with what's on hand.

The main room of the Inn is swept, dusted; cutlery and bowls, plates are laid out on the sideboards in piles to be collected as people need. Everything is as it should be, even if some people - Kate included - are feeling a bit under the weather. But that's to be expected, isn't it? Everyone gets run down, has a day or two of feeling off colour. Certainly, it's nothing to worry about.

So come on in, help at the kitchen or pull up a chair at a table and enjoy some warm food and company while the outside confusion stays firmly outside.
9601: (.208)
[personal profile] 9601
WHO: Logan Howlett
WHERE: Bungalow #58, the hospital and the village
WHEN: July 1st-2nd; before & after earthquake things
OPEN TO: closed & open threads (see headers)
WARNINGS: Depictions of injuries, claustrophobia, and a lotta swearing


July 1st - bungalow #58 - Jean and Peeta
 
 
The day started normal enough, if by "normal" one meant "blazing hot like the last fucking some odd weeks". Logan had already spent enough time after the morning forage fussing with the furnace, sweeping out ash and soot, stacking wood in its iron belly, and coming upstairs to check Jean's progress with the plank of sulfur shelf they'd returned home with. There was an odd quiet about the place that unsettled him, something he couldn't really put a finger to. As he crossed the yard for another armload of wood to take to the cellar, he expected birdsong in the trees, maybe another jay ready to scold him for getting too near her nest, but no. There was nothing.

With that bit of strangeness in mind, and firewood to carry, he was maybe halfway down the cellar steps when they began to move. Undulate, really, with a rumble of the earth that seemed to surround him all at once, engulfing him in noise so swiftly he barely had a chance to turn around. Dust and dirt rained from the ceiling, then debris- a beam snapped and clocked him across the forehead.

Logan awoke a little while later in darkness. There was an odd tangibility to it, cold and hard and pressing in across his lower body, an inexorable weight he couldn't seem to move. Resting on his side, the world came into focus slowly, and with it an awareness of aches radiating from all over his body. The worst was his head, a feeling like he'd taken a baseball bat right to the temple, throbbing angrily against his metal skull.

Someone was calling his name, someone familiar. He grunted, tasting wet, bitter earth on his teeth. A dull sound like the steady drumbeat of rain on the roof seemed to echo down to him as well, and he coughed, the air thick with dust.

"Kitty?" Logan coughed again, feeling dirt shift when he drew a hand to his face, his clumsy fingers meeting wet skin. "Jean? Are you all right?"

 
July 1st - 2nd - hospital - ota


Logan was a terrible patient. The bruises he could deal with, and had intended to, but the wicked cut just beneath his hairline was a different matter altogether. He abhorred feeling weak, just as he abhorred feeling useless, and no amount of reminding himself that he'd lost his power to heal was going to make him feel any better. As the village sprang to life under the rain and the earthquake and all those little aftershocks, he wanted to be out and in the thick of all of it, doing something other than reclining in bed with a wicked headache, feeling like he'd been hit by a bus. Getting up just made it worse though.

Getting up made him dizzy, and the floor feel like it was going to rush right up and slap him in the face. So there he was, having to rest, and all the while incredibly surly for it.

Anytime someone new happened to arrive, whether just to poke their head in to be a looky-loo or to drag an injured friend to an empty bed, would get their asses grilled within an inch of their lives:

"What's happening out there?"
womanofvalue: (disheveled)
[personal profile] womanofvalue
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Riverbed / Peggy & Stella's House
WHEN: June 10th / June 11th
OPEN TO: 1st section is open to all; 2nd is open to anyone Peggy considers a friend or anyone who would be stubborn enough to barge into hers and Stella's house
WARNINGS: Descriptions of an injury
STATUS: Open!


The River

The sun hasn't gone down properly in too long and Peggy is weary past recollection. She'd never considered herself someone so greatly affected by lighting, yet the steady presence of the sun in the sky has robbed her of her sleep, paired with the fact that it's so unceasingly hot. It's that exhaustion that sets her into a dazed mood, sleepwalking through her tasks. She's barely paying attention when she gets to the river, but even with her attention half there, no one would miss how low the levels are.

It's clear that she won't be fishing today. She's not quite worried, but Peggy is too tired to be worried, slipping her boots into the river in order to measure the true level and how much they've lost in the past few days. Perhaps it's time for her to stop fishing and go back to the canyons, picking up whatever berries and other greens on her way. Her mind drifting back to a cloudy state, she continues to walk up the shallow river, but when she climbs out on a few of the smoother rocks (shaped by the river's flow), her foot slips and her body gives way, crashing down hard on the outcropping of rocks in front of her.

She's ready to criticize herself when a sharp pain accosts Peggy in her side, a familiar place of pain after the incident with the rebar, but it's not quite like that. She hadn't hit her head, so that's a plus, but a glance downwards as she steadies her hand on the rock shows that there's something in the shallow water below her that looks suspiciously like blood. Moving her body up a touch, it doesn't take long for her to see that it is blood and that it's her own.

There, in between the rocks and wedged out like a pointed weapon is an arrowhead, covered in several inches of warm blood that gives Peggy a good indication of how deeply it had punctured her (or perhaps it had scraped her? She can't see, given the angle). Turning herself cautiously, she settles herself on the dry land beside the river, pressing both palms against the wound to apply pressure, most certainly awake now and chastising herself for being so stupidly distracted.

Closing her eyes and swallowing her pride, Peggy knows that she's not getting out of this without at least some intervention. "Is anyone nearby?" she calls, keeping her tone from wobbling. "By the river, it's Peggy Carter!" she calls, a little louder. I need some help, she thinks, but stubbornly doesn't say, because it will be clear soon enough once she's found.

The Day After

It's all terribly familiar, this stinging sensation in her side that's just painful enough that it nearly knocks her out. She's been lying in bed for nearly a full day, though, and the last time she'd injured herself had been far worse. She had gone right back to work. Clearly, that means that Peggy was well-suited to get up and have some breakfast, knowing that Mr. Jarvis wasn't going to come and fetch it for her. She had the presence of mind to check on the bandage at her side, pressing it tightly against her stitched wound. She also took the time to glare at the arrowhead on her bedside table, since that bloody thing caused this whole mess.

Carefully, she pressed a hand down into her bed to lever herself into a sitting position, pressing the back of her hand to her sweaty forehead. The terrible head and the constant sun had been keeping her in a state of exhaustion before, this new injury hasn't done anything to help. When she moves to stand, the weakness in her legs could be for any number of reasons, but whatever the cause, they force her back down to the bed as her frustration mounts.

She'd saved the whole world and she'd been worse off.

Perhaps if she could get to the spring, she could heal herself and this could all be in the past. "Up we go," she says stubbornly, swaying a little as she makes it to her feet, inching her way towards the door at a rate that suggests she'll reach the springs approximately next month if she keeps it up.
fishermansweater: (Actual human dolphin)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHO: E V E R Y O N E
WHERE: The waterfall
WHEN: During the hot weather in late May
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: PROBABLY NAKED. cw your warnings in individual threads.
STATUS: Open. THIS IS A MINGLE, have at it, tag around, you know what to do. If you want Finnick, let me know in the comment subject!





He wouldn't actually say it was really hot yet, but it's definitely getting to the sort of temperatures that make Finnick miss swimming. There's no substitute for the sand of a beach underfoot, the reassuring roar of the surf, the taste of salt in the air, but there is at least water here, tumbling down from the waterfall and flowing through the canyon until it disappears into the rocks to the south. And he knows from constantly checking his fish traps that the water is deliciously cool.

He's tested out a few spots along the river for swimming, and it's good to be in the water again, after being kept out of it for so long by the harshness of the winter.  Not swimming doesn't feel right to him, and it never has. He's never spent this long somewhere with a winter this cold, and he can't remember ever going this long without swimming. So Finnick's been testing the water out since before it was probably what most people would consider to be warm enough to swim. It had helped that he and Annie had some gifts to hunt for in the river, but those have long been found, and now it's just for relaxation.

The calmest, most relaxing place he's found so far for swimming in the river is the pool at the foot of the waterfall, where the water plunges into the canyon crisp and cool from the heights of the cliffs. It's deep around the falls, and it's big enough to swim, and Finnick spends most of the hottest parts of the day there.

So whenever he hears someone talking about the heat while he's dropping food off in the village, he suggests they try the waterfall pool. Word's likely to get around, so he won't be entirely surprised to find other people stopping by the falls.

When they do, they're likely to find him swimming around the deep part near the falls, stripped down to his underwear and, from the grin on his face, having the time of his life. It's clear just from looking at him that he's good at this, moving through the water with a confidence and grace more like to a sea-creature than a man. He's in such a good mood that he even calls out to greet many of the people who approach.

Of course, he's not the guardian of the waterfall: everyone's welcome to stop by whether he's there or not. Once or twice, there's even a moose to be seen standing at the edge of the pool taking a long, relaxing drink.
lefthandfree: (before it's gone)
[personal profile] lefthandfree
WHO: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes
WHERE: fountain, inn
WHEN: May 13
OPEN TO: closed arrival, otherwise open to all
WARNINGS: language
STATUS: second prompt is open closed

     the fountain

closed to pegs )

     the inn (open)

He’s not even going to pretend he’s not new. It seems like something that should be obvious, so why bother with putting people on? Not that it means he won’t do his damned best to make sure people know he’s not incapable, especially with the blatant visible handicap. But he’s dripping a lot less now, and that’s a good time to try and figure out what all he actually needs to deal with given his clear displacement of space and possible displacement of time.

Soaked is still very much the description of his physical state though, something that’s apparently becoming a trend, but he’s far more grateful this time around since his arm isn’t trapped in a vice and, well, he clearly hasn’t gone on a murder rampage either. It’s the little things in life...

There’s a fire at one end of the establishment he wanders into, and even without the cold, it’s a welcome sight. Soggy garments are really not his style, and having a quicker way to dry off other than waiting for the world to end is a huge bonus. He plants himself nearby and takes the opportunity to dig through the pack. It’s sturdy. Effective. But everything else inside is soaked through like him.

God. Why can’t anything ever be easy?

Dragging a hand down his face, he gives a long sigh. One thing at a time, Barnes. And at the least, the water isn’t sopping out of the bag, he tells himself. So it’s not all bad. Maybe.

He wants to laugh, but instead a wry grin plasters itself to his face. Patience is a goddamn virtue, for sure. But as long as he doesn’t get kicked out for being a drowned mess, he’s glad to stay parked here for another couple hours before moving on.
sixthiteration: (Default)
[personal profile] sixthiteration
Hail had been falling for two days now, peppering the ground and shredding the grass but rather than melt away like a late spring storm it had only intensified, growing in diameter and moving from a mild annoyance to damned near deadly. As the storm raged, ice flew up through updrafts and was forced back to earth in the downdraft, accumulating layer after layer of murky debris until it went hurtling toward the earth with wicked accuracy.

Shingles were ripped from roofs, the wind howled and lightning cracked. The hail had driven both humans and animals into the safety of the indoors, to the dark corners of buildings that might withstand the assault. With only candlelight and the hushed voices of villagers to stave off fear and boredom, the storm raged like a sentient being heedless of those who might be caught in the path.

After the storm, a calm came over the land and weak sunlight glinted off smoke-tinged ice. Steam rose from the melt and humidity was thick in the air; petrichor hung heavy, a soothing scent after a savage display of natural fury.

[OOC: Your hail mingle post. Feel free to have characters on the run, gathering animals or inside the Town Hall waiting out the storm.]
3ofswords: (yellow/drink)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira
WHERE: Behind the Inn
WHEN: April 21st
OPEN TO: All, Spring Feast mingle post
WARNINGS: Please warn for content in comment headers for individual OTAs
STATUS: Open


He's hardly the first to arrive for a shift in the kitchens, but those ahead of him have sunk into the the search for the building's chairs and tables--the kitchen is open and empty, the tavern devoid even of stools.  It's another wrench in the works, one of the smaller reasons for routine to fall apart to reactions, and Kira thinks they'll have a better time of solving it if someone gets the fire up in the stove and everyone eats first.
 
The damage assessment has people upstairs, people on the path wandered out of their homes.  Kira hadn't come through his own dining room on the way out, so he can't say if he's missing furniture or not, and his growling stomach doesn't much care.
 
It's when he slips out the side door of the kitchen in search of fresh kindling that he finds it.  Every missing table and chair standing in the grass, laden with platters of food, buckets of bottled drinks, carafes of what he finds to be coffee sending steam from their lids.  There are pastries with the coffee, roasted fowl gleaming golden on the next table, between ham hocks shining with honeyed glaze, large fruits piled among wreaths of fresh flowers.
 
Dotting the tables are jars, more jars than they've had since he arrived, flickering with short candles.  Garlands accent the tables, carry from them into the trees, a web of spring decoration with a feast at its center.  Between the platters are smaller plates, small chocolates laid out under decorative drizzle.  
 
"Hey!" he calls back through the door, blinking several times to make sure the sight doesn't shimmer away into the air.  "I found the furniture, and I don't think we'll need to cook anything today."

forthecrown: (red flower)
[personal profile] forthecrown
WHO: Elizabeth Windsor
WHERE: Fountain; Inn; garden behind the Inn
WHEN: 6 April - 8 April
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None
STATUS: Yes



Domine salvum fac reginam

Elizabeth had arrived late in the afternoon on a day that wasn't terribly auspicious in any way at all. Given that her life of late had been more unsettled and undone than she'd like, she'd rather enjoyed that this was a day where she could settle in and have tea with her family and not have to concern herself with the nonsense going on outside her own four walls but, apparently, that was not meant to be. Having politely excused herself from tea with her mother and sister to go and see about her children (who were supposed to be having naps and were likely not, as the case usually went), she had not expected to find herself sputtering and flailing in a murky pool of water.

Her natural inclination was to shout, call for help, and that simply caused more water to sink down her throat and into her lungs causing them to burn. She'd learned to swim as a girl - first in small ponds and then, later, in the freezing waters of the oceans off Scotland. She could do this. Once she had her head about herself she pushed herself upward where it seemed there was light and gripped at the stone edges of this strange pool.

She coughed and sputtered, coughing up the water she'd swallowed, and pushed the mop of her wet hair off her brow in order to get her bearings. She didn't recognize the place. It certainly wasn't the palace or any of the associated gardens, places she'd known most of her young life, and the sun was brilliant and bright, almost warm against her skin.

"I don't think this is England," she said, half a whisper. A knapsack floated up beside her and without a second thought, Elizabeth plucked it out of the water. She had no idea what was in it but it could prove useful later and she was nothing if not practical.

et exaudi nos in die qua invocaverimus te.

After having made her way away from the fountain park and the fountain, Elizabeth eventually found her way along a road to an Inn. It was a simple place, to be certain, and was not in possession of a telephone or any electricity. It was all right. She'd done without before and had lived under heavy rationing during the wartime years so this would simply be another time of austerity. She wasn't too good for that. Unlike her sister, she had never really developed a craving for the finer things and while they were nice, they weren't the things that were necessary. She could be content with very little, so long as her family was taken care of and her people were all right.

The thought of her family, her children - it pained her every moment that she was away from them and she had to actively push it down and remind herself that even in her absence, they would want for nothing. They were children of a sitting sovereign, after all, and her son would ascend to king if the worst were to happen.

The only way to avoid that particular sort of brooding was to keep herself busy and so she had. She'd changed into dry clothing upon arriving at the Inn and set herself to any task that was asked of her - she'd lit fires, fed fires, helped prepare the morning and evening meals. She had dressed a chicken and set it to boil in a large pot on a wood-burning range and felt, for all the world, like she'd done something when she finally sank down in a chair before the fire and let out a little sigh of exhaustion.

Perhaps if she simply worked herself to the bone each and every day she wouldn't have the time to dwell upon her unique situation.

et nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum.

Elizabeth had taken herself out into the garden early and while she had no hat to shield her face from the sun, she still wanted to work and contribute to the collective effort. It was no mean task, to weed a garden, and while she occasionally liked to work with flowers or things of that nature this was no flower garden. This was a tidy and well tended vegetable garden full of edibles and this garden was part of the effort to keep the villagers in a healthy diet. There were no markets here, after all, and the only things they had were the ones they caught from the river, gathered from the woods or grew with their own hands.

It was a stark difference from her own life, a life that was sheltered and full of comforts even during wartime. She had always had the option of fleeing to Canada, after all, and that luxury hadn't been afforded to many. Her family hadn't availed themselves of it, her father being a frugal and practical sort such as herself, but it had been there. They'd actively made a choice. Here, there weren't many choices to make. From her understanding, one worked and one ate and eked out a survivalist existence in hopes that some sort of disaster didn't cause one to start over again.

As she knelt in the garden, pulling weeds by hand to keep them from choking out the tender shoots of the edible things growing along side them, sweat beaded her brow and her palms ached from blisters. She'd ridden horses, yes, but she was no woman to work with her hands on a daily and consistent basis. Until she built up proper calluses, it would continue to pain her. Well, unless she could get her hands on a pair of proper gardening gloves.

Elizabeth straightened a bit, flexing her right palm and wondered if this was one of those situations where her hand might get stuck a certain way if she overworked it. She'd been through that nonsense in Australia and wasn't looking for a repeat of the situation.

"Perhaps I should simply take a quick break from all this and come back, yes?"

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