canaria: made by me | please don't take (working or some such)
[personal profile] canaria
WHO: Sara Lance and open
WHERE: Fountain, then various, winding up at the inn.
WHEN: June 20th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Mention of death

The cold water is a surprise. But, thankfully, she's a good swimmer, so Sara moves her way to the water's surface and takes a deep breath of air once her head breaks the surface, and she coughs a small bit of water out of her mouth -- her blonde hair is clinging to her face, shoulders, neck, back. while she doesn't have a fear of water, finding herself in a body of water in this kind of circumstance vaguely reminds her of years ago when she was on a ship that sunk.

This also, she's pretty certain, isn't the time travelling she'd just decided to sign up for. Before she found herself in this fountain, she'd been talking with her sister, Laurel, standing right beside her. Why isn't Laurel here too?

But, she hoists herself out of the fountain completely, shakes some of the water off of her arms, and rings out her hair. If anyone happens to be around as she stands there, they'll get a:

"Just tell me that thing doesn't revive the dead." It's a stupid joke about her Lazarus Pit experience.

Elsewhere / inn:
Sara spends the rest of her day exploring what she can of the village she's found herself in. She won't go too far so as not to potentially wear herself out on her first day here, and so she can become more familiar with certain parts before others. Just because she could do it, probably, doesn't mean she should. So she paces herself.

She does, however, eventually decide to go into the inn. There are probably several more people in there, and people equal potential information (about this place, and maybe if someone has seen her sister if she's here too). Also, she should consider food soon. That's ... probably a smart thing to do.

But first, she'll open conversation with the nearest person by asking: "Uh, hi. Do ... you know of someone named Laurel Lance here?"
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (58)
[personal profile] repressings
WHO: Credence Barebone, Percival Graves, anyone else
WHERE: Barebone-Graves residence, fountain
WHEN: June 15th-16th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Standard Credence warnings, specifically parental death

i ➼ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴜɪsᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; closed to Graves
It's something Tina mentioned to him when he asked why Mary Lou knew about wizards. Why everyone else was sure magic was just a fairytale, but Mary Lou was staunch in her belief. It bothers him less that Graves didn't tell him--he knows that's how the other operates, how Graves answers Credence's questions honestly but doesn't give any unnecessary information. Instead, what's really gnawing at Credence is that he didn't ask the right question. He'd thought he was getting better at that.

It was almost a game, asides from their question-for-an-answer. He's never quite told Graves said game of course, but Credence tries to phrase his questions to get the most out of him. He considers a simple 'yes' or 'no' a failure in these circumstances, even though a yes or no is usually enough to satisfy his curiosity. Credence wants more, ravenously hungry for knowledge. Newt and Tina will happily provide answers to anything he asks, and Credence plans on using this to his full advantage so long as they don't mind, but he still wants Graves to teach him, too.

It's finally too hot for him to handle a long-sleeved shirt and jeans when he gets back from the mill, and since he's just in their house and not planning on leaving, Credence opts to wear his white scrubs again. They're lighter, just cotton, even if his arms show the criss-cross markings of unhappier times. Unhappier times he now knows and recognizes as much more complicated than he could imagine. Which brings him to the question he wants to ask.

He finds Graves in the living room, and he wants to say it's evening despite the never-ending blazing sun. His footsteps are quiet, barefeet, and he stops at the doorway, watching the older man for few moments before speaking.

"Ma knew what I was, didn't she? She knew what my real mom was, too."

ii ➼ Iᴛ's ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙʟᴜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; OTA
The more Credence thinks about how hot it is, the hotter he feels, and the more he thinks about how he shouldn't think about how hot it is the more he does. The circular puzzle he's trapped in is ridiculous. The problem with dressing in long-sleeved shirts and long pants is that, even if they're airier thanks to the fact that they're Kira's clothing and not his own, it's even more hot, which jumpstarts the entire thing.

He does his chores for the day and decides the best course of action is to copy what he'd spied Queenie doing a little while ago: he makes his way to the fountain, book close to his chest, dips his feet in, and reads. It's Frankenstein, which he's sure he's read at least 30 times since Christmas, but it's not like he has anything new.

It's when he finishes a chapter that he looks up--he squints against the sun, frowning--and muses, not necessarily to the person passing by.

"Do you ever wonder why they don't give us books very often? The ones that watch us."


iii ➼ Iᴛ's ᴀ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴇʏᴇs;

Feel free to spy Credence at the fountain or by the river, or sometimes at the inn doing whatever needs to be done (most likely sweeping).
learned_to_die: <lj user="buckybear"> ([look] weirwood)
[personal profile] learned_to_die
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: In the woods near the Stark cabin.
WHEN: June 13
WARNINGS: None; will update as needed.

It had arrived in a box.

Ned had carried it to his room, careful and gentle, and left it at the foot of his bed until he'd returned to the house later that afternoon. He's received the mysterious gifts before - a cloak, some gloves, other assorted items - but this was a strange sort of weight. Neither heavy nor light, not muted in sound the way the clothes had been. And tall. The box had been taller than the others he'd received, and for a time upon his return, Ned eyed the thing with careful precision and consideration before even laying another finger on it.

He finds his movements, his very breath to be more laborious than normal in light of the sudden disappearance of his youngest daughter. He'd woken one morning to find simply that she'd vanished, seemingly evaporated into nothingness. He'd been warned many times over that such an event could take place and did take place with some regularity, but - he'd foolishly thought his family to be immune. Certainly, given the what they'd gone through, given the pain and suffering they'd already endured, the Old Gods would not see fit to separate them once more.

What a fool he'd been.

After some deliberation and quiet self-muttering, when he feels the time of curiosity and thought has passed, he removes the lid, peering down into the chamber. His brows lift with surprise, eyes alight for the first time in days with intrigue and something vaguely resembling happiness. He reaches out and pulls out a neatly bundled sapling. To those not of Westeros, it might appear to be any other tree - something similar to birch, as he's learned, but to those from his homeland, they'd know the sight of a Weirwood immediately.

He perches himself on the end of his bed as he inspects it, slowly turning it in his hands. It feels real, true. There aren't any illusions he can find. He worries for a moment that having kept it in the box for so many hours might've damaged or dried out the roots, so - now, with a focal point outside of the grief and mourning he carries with him in his broken, shattered heart - he hesitates not a second longer before making his way outside of the cabin and a bit further down the path, where there are no more cabins to be found. He knows that, over time, the thing will grow great and strong - he needn't encroach on his neighbor's territory, even in the name of the Old Gods.

Ned places the sapling on the ground carefully before leaving and returning with a variety of tools: namely, spades of different lengths and sizes. At once, he pours his sorrow into the repeated piercing of the earth and displacing of soil, cursing the Old Gods under his breath for leaving him a weirwood instead of his daughter.
caelus: made by chatona for me dnt (Default)
[personal profile] caelus
WHO: Jim Kirk
WHERE: (Where the post takes place)
WHEN: Backdated to June 10 and onward.
OPEN TO: All, unless otherwise marked.
WARNINGS: No warnings as of yet.

jump to warp. )
assertiveness: (044)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: The waterfall
WHEN: June 1st, evening
WARNINGS: a. nudity, b. a thread of Mature Adults Doing Adult Things, c. discussion of physical abuse

Read more... )
maternis: (pic#11116489)
[personal profile] maternis
WHO: Newt Scamander
WHERE: outside gathering animals during the storm, helping people into the town hall (if need be), and at graves' house.
WHEN: backdated to the 14th when the hailstorm began
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Just an extremely introverted magizoologist who prefers the company of all things not human.
STATUS: Open, save for the closed starter that is marked.

Gathering the animals:

It had been quite an eventful month, thus far. While he was still making due with feeling as though he had lost a sense with having no access to his magical abilities at all. Still, he did much as he usually did. He kept to himself mostly, though Carol had insisted that Percival was to be visited quite regularly. She had become rather attached, and so he had started to come to the village more regularly than he had in the previous months. Mostly, it was to check in to see if anything had changed with Credence, say hello to Tina and Queenie in brief, and Jacob as well.

He had been in the relative safety of the forest when the hailstorm began, and likely would have stayed if things hadn't begun to grow worse. It was during the start of it that he had found his newest passenger, though he had yet to introduce him to anyone as of yet.

But while he's helping to gather the animals, some by ushering them towards the safety of the Town Hall, and others by the armful if he's able to grab hold of them, one might notice the tiny triangular face of something that looks suspiciously like a weasel of some sort. Newt will be happy to introduce you to him after the current situation is handled.

"Come on, that's it. In we go," Newt soothes, warmth in his voice despite the urgency of the situation. "All of us inside where it is warm. There we are."

He looks back over one shoulder, his left cheek is stinging and starting to bruise from a glancing blow from a chunk of ice, but otherwise he's unharmed. "Is that all of them?"

Helping people inside the Town Hall:

While Newt has experienced his fair share of bad weather, the brunt of it had been during his time past in Equatorial Guinea, and the monsoon season coming to bear. It's tropical climate meant that he didn't have to contend with something so fierce as a hailstorm that seemed to have no end in sight, but rather the torrential rain that came instead.

If anyone needs assistance with supplies, or merely getting to a place of shelter, Newt is there to help take items, or offer the slight shelter of his peacoat over the top of their heads as they go to the Town Hall. He won't be staying for long, and will likely attempt to make a break when it is safer.

Closed to Graves at his house:

Newt shows up during a small lull with a polite knock to Graves' door that belies his current state. The hail is still coming down all around the village, but most everyone is safely away from the worst of it to wait it out. He isn't much for crowds, much less of people he doesn't know well, and decides that this is the better option. What Percival might see upon opening his door, despite the quiet ask for entry, is a sopping wet Newt Scamander, curls sticking wetly to his forehead, a small cut and bruise forming on his left cheek, and his coat tucked carefully around his thin frame.

It's obvious that his coat wrapped as it is, while not for his own benefit, is for the benefit of yet another creature he has managed to gain the trust of.

He casts a glance up, meeting his gaze briefly, and then letting it settle on the other man's shoulder. His expression, however, is warm as he offers a smile as if it were a day like any other. "Hello."

Wildcard! choose your own adventure:

( Perhaps I missed something you'd like to see. Go ahead and comment in, and I'll happily join in! )
assertiveness: (055)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: Graves's house
WHEN: Backdated to May 10th
OPEN TO: Percival Graves
WARNINGS: N/A, will update if needed
STATUS: Ongoing

Read more... )
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (35)
[personal profile] repressings
WHO: Credence Barebone and apparently half the village (including you!)
WHERE: Inn for the OTA, various in closed starters
WHEN: 5/15
WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse
STATUS: ongoing

Eventually, Credence has to leave the house. Eventually, Credence has to face what he's done and eventually, he finds himself blinking blearily into the early morning sun, heart hammering in his chest as his foot crosses the threshold of Kira and Bodhi's residence for the first time since he'd been dragged there from the forest, half asleep and utterly exhausted. He finds he doesn't burn up immediately, nor does he feel like collapsing inwards on himself, and takes another step forward. It's a slow start, but a start nonetheless.

He feels terrible, of course, but he's quick to mentally reprimanded himself. He doesn't deserve to feel terrible, not anymore. Not ever. He's long since stopped sleeping because he's recovering and instead has slipped into sleeping due to what he feels is idleness, choosing to nap constantly to avoid the world. 15 days and he's positive--positive--he's slowly driving those he temporarily shares a residence with absolutely insane. Even if it's false, it's what he perceives, and they have a right to be upset. Everyone does.

That's why, very carefully, he makes his way towards the inn. His body feels strange, dimmed, and that's the only reason he leaves in the first place: he's sure the scratching in his skull stopping altogether means the Obscurus--Obscurial?--is at least contained. It's safe for him to be near other people.

He stares at the inn door for a very long time, for what seems like a lifetime, before he physically wills his body to open the door. The weather's changed, but he's still wearing the black fisherman's sweater Finnick has given him, covering himself and hiding skin, the only scars showing the ones on his palms. He tries his best not to shake and keeps his voice as calm as he can, surprised that his nervousness only cracks his voice once.

"Hello? I was wondering if anyone needed help this morning. With..." His voice trails off, face reddening. "..Chores, or..."

This is stupid. They're going to chase him out.
71st_victor: (wink)
[personal profile] 71st_victor
WHO: Johanna Mason
WHERE: The springs
WHEN: May 11th
WARNINGS: Nudity and adult content

Out of nowhere, it's suddenly nice outside, with warmth and sun and all sorts of things that ought to make Johanna suspicious. Still, suspicion can take the back seat to her personal comfort, because the great weather means that she can enjoy the springs the way they ought to be. There's a trail of clothes leading up to the springs, with the scrub bottoms first, then a boot, another boot, and finally, the top before the path opens up to Johanna soaking up in the springs. She's heard that they heal people, but the truth is that she doesn't give a damn about healing anything.

All that she wants right now is to soak and relax into the water, pretending that she's not in some giant prison where someone might be watching at any point in time. She hasn't fully relaxed. If she had, then she wouldn't have hidden her axes within an arm's reach under a few branches.

She doesn't expect to be left alone too long, not with the weather warming up so perfectly, but still, when she hears footsteps, she can't help a little showmanship, sinking down into the water and raising a leg to let the water drip off, legs freshly shaved because she might be in the wilderness, but she's still vain enough to care, smirking as she watches the company approach.

"There's always room for more," she guarantees with a wink, moving in the water like a snake to the other side of the springs where she can rest her elbows out of the water, chin on her hands as she lets her gaze roam upwards, expectantly and with an assessing bent. "Unless you didn't want any room," is her dry addition. "I wouldn't mind sharing, if you don't."
oncewasroman: (I Will Wait for You)
[personal profile] oncewasroman
WHO: Rory Williams & Percival Graves
WHERE: Rory & Amy's House
WHEN: April 24/25 -- Post Town Hall
OPEN TO: Percival Graves
WARNINGS: Injury/Blood, Stitches

I'm a doctor, not a wizard... )
goldsteins: (0010013)
[personal profile] goldsteins
WHO: Tina Goldstein
WHERE: Goldsteins, School house
WHEN: April 29-May 1
WARNINGS: N/A at this time

april 29 )may 1 )

[OOC: Note, I'm up for any other prompts/people! If you want to plot/a specific one let me know and I'll be happy to do so.]
3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHEN: May 1st, morning to afternoon
OPEN TO: Multi starter - Graves, Sonny, and 3 others
WARNINGS: Dealing with power loss, finally leaving the house after Obscurial Plot

Graves Starter )

Inn (Limit 3)

There's nothing to do but keep calm, put some shoes on his feet, and test the absent feeling on someone who didn't just have a smoke monster burst from their being and destroy a building. Maybe the creature is simply excised, and he built his sense of Credence on its presence, he can't place him in the house without it. Perhaps Bodhi simply wasn't home, asleep in a chair at the inn, or out in the woods, or already tending the fields with a friend.

It can't all just be gone--muted as his powers have been, it's like waking up suddenly unable to see the color blue, unable to taste, a register of sound that was previously audible gone silent.

It's so silent. The walk to the inn is a tense affair, as if all the bird and insect song has died, warning of something worse in the trees. There's no one here. There's nothing guiding his feet but the choice to visit the inn, and that's as strange as the sense that he's the last person left alive. It's enough that he shoves bodily through the front door of the inn, rather than the kitchen door he tends to slip through, and calls out to the kitchens and pub, desperate to hear a voice, "Is anyone here?"

Sonny starter )

[This is the first time Kira's really been out and about since the Obscurial Plot meeting and subsequent search, so feel free to tag in and discuss that or the lack of powers!]
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (Default)
[personal profile] mund
WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: Half an hour after the first sighting / hearing of the Obscurus
WARNINGS: Mentions of violence, abuse, hate, etc
STATUS: Something like a mingling -- feel free to post OTAs of your own. If you need Graves to respond, just put his name in the header / or in bold somewhere in your comment!

the ragged they come, and the ragged they kill. )
goldsteins: (0010030)
[personal profile] goldsteins
WHO: Tina Goldstein
WHERE: Various places, all labeled
WHEN: 4/10-4/13
WARNINGS: N/A will update if needed but unlikely.
STATUS: Ongoing


(INN - OTA - APRIL 13) )

posilutely: (010)
[personal profile] posilutely
WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: Graves' House/Inn & Hot Springs
WHEN: 1 week after her arrival & March 22, evening
OPEN TO: Graves, Credence & All
WARNINGS: Half-naked witch? IDK
STATUS: Closed

for graves & credence )

current: at the hot springs (ota)

The hot springs has, by far, been the flat-out, absolute best thing Queenie has discovered about this place. A chance encounter on the road a couple of weeks ago, a teenage girl with big, tired eyes and a towel looped over her arm, dark hair still pinned high on her head.

I don't want a scar, is what the girl had said when she'd pulled up her sleeve to show the ghostly web of lines tracing her skin. It's great for your hair, too.

Queenie's been slipping out into the forest every few days since.

The girl hadn't been wrong; curls once limp were now bright and bouncy again, and Queenie just felt better each time she took the time to go the springs. She could swear she had more energy than ever before, but even if she didn't, she thinks she'd go anyway. Sure, she's got a tub at home, but it's just not the same.

Today she's carried along a couple of bath towels and an empty teapot to fill with water to carry home. They're set neatly aside under the nearest tree, under a low branch draped with her coat and clothes, black cotton fluttering gently in the warm mist skating off the water. She's kept on her underthings -- She's not that bold, no matter what her sister might think -- but there's not all that much left to the imagination as she gratefully sinks in, all the way up to her shoulders.
beallmysins: (004)
[personal profile] beallmysins
WHO: Jax Teller
WHERE: front steps of the Inn
WHEN: several days spanning over 21 March - 25 March
OPEN TO: all
WARNINGS: White Boy Angst
STATUS: open

the pen and paper has no judgment, no vote.

The box had come two days earlier and Jax hadn't opened it because he doesn't trust a single fucking thing about this place. He'd let it sit on the little table in his house and when the curiosity had finally eaten him alive, he'd opened it and found cigarettes and matches and a little notebook and pen. He'd been so goddamned elated to have a pack of cigarettes (eight packs of them, actually) that he'd wanted to start chain smoking them but he has decided he's going to ration them and try to make them last. Who knows if he's ever going to get another box like this again anyway?

He'd taken the notebook and stuck it in his pocket, stuck the cheap ballpoint behind his ear and taken a pack of the smokes up to the Inn so he could write. It's something he's always liked to do, get his thoughts down on paper, and while it's not going to be anything novel-worthy he thinks he wants to keep a record of this place and what happens here just in case he disappears and someone else from Charming shows afterward. He wants to leave an indelible mark so that it matters that he got marooned here and it's not just some fucking useless detour.

Right now, he's writing about everything that's happened so far that he can remember - the fountain, the people he's met. He's writing it in case Abel or Thomas ever get to read it. He thinks they'll like Moana, at least, maybe some of the others. He doesn't do a lot of editing when he writes like this, just stream of consciousness, and when he's finished for a while he puts it down and lights another cigarette, letting the smoke curl up and the embers flicker in the fog. He takes a drag, exhales, and thanks God that he's got at least a several days' supply if he rations. Maybe he can go three weeks if he's real good about it. When he hears someone approach, he figures it's only polite to offer a smoke even if he doesn't want to waste them.

"You want one? I can share."
maternis: (l)
[personal profile] maternis
WHO: Newt Scamander
WHERE: the fountain, the canyon wall, and the woods.
WHEN: March 20th + onward.
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Just an extremely introverted magizoologist who prefers the company of all things not human.

The Fountain:

Newt was still in quite the state after finding himself in this place. A place, which, he apparently couldn't leave. A place that separated him from his creatures, thrust him into a place where his magic was little more than barely within reach at his current ability level, and wandless. After recovering from the strange arrival in the fountain, he had gathered what belongings he had found himself possessing, and distanced himself from what seemed to be the town center.

After taking stock of everything, he'd gotten a very basic idea of the general layout, and since, has returned daily to the fountain. He may look rather strange, a tall man in navy blue scrubs hunched over as he checks the fountain, and the ground surrounding it for clues. What he's looking for are tracks of any sort that might mean any of his creatures might have accidentally found themselves in this place as well. So far, he's found nothing to indicate as much, but he's hardly keen on giving up so easily.

The Canyon Wall:

When Newt isn't tracking creatures who have simply not followed him through to this place, or foraging or fishing for the necessities, he is exploring the land. He's seen swarms of fireflies, and inspected them from a distance. Something nagging in the back of his mind kept him from straying too close, and they seem to congregate in places that might offer means of escape. The fountain. The canyon wall. How curious. He walks along the rock face, one way for a time, keeping a steady pace and counting his steps. He wishes he had paper to map out the area, but perhaps he can find something the next time he goes into town. If someone were willing to trade pad and paper for fish or what edible berries and plants he's found, that would be most appreciated, but it also requires he be willing to make the trek into the small town center.

He would really rather not, if that was all right with everyone.

The Woods:

Newt is used to sleeping rough. He spent a year in the field, the brunt of it in Equatorial Guinea, either taking rest in the shed and on the cot in his case, or making use of nature around him in the wilds. He finds a secure place to rest, where he is sheltered, and his position is protected, and he can gather his things quickly if entirely necessary. While he was not the war hero his brother was, he did still serve and fight (albeit under some duress) in the Great War, and he learned to move quickly from compromised positions.

When he isn't catching sleep at odd times, or running himself ragged as he finds ways to busy himself in this new environment, he's exploring and gathering. While there may not be much by way of hunting or foraging, there are seeds, and he gathers those in case they might be of use at a later time. It's during one of these trips that he hears the high-pitched chirp that most might mistake for a bird of some sort, but Newt knows to belong to a rather small mammal. A squirrel, in particular.

After a little bit of searching, mimicking the sound that the mother would return in answer as she tried to find her youngling, he finds a small, injured baby squirrel at the base of a tree. He crouches down carefully to inspect her, and lifts her up after she's grown somewhat accustomed to his scent.

"Hush, now," he murmurs as he lifts her close to his chest, bringing his peacoat around his hand to offer more warmth to the animal huddled in the palm of his hand. From what he can tell, she has a broken paw, and it doesn't look as if she's been seen to by her mother for days. Orphaned, probably. It does happen. A tension in his chest he hadn't realized had grown so tightly coiled lessens a little, and he smiles gently after what feels like ages. "Mum's here."
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (27)
[personal profile] mund
WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Assorted places
WHEN: Mid-March
OPEN TO: OTA, with closed threads for Credence, Stella,
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery, epic paranoia, that's pretty much it for now.
STATUS: Open to new threads!

and I'm straining to remember just what it means to be alive. )
womanofvalue: (determined)
[personal profile] womanofvalue
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Peggy & Stella's House of Intrigue
WHEN: Backdate to March 4th
OPEN TO: Stella Gibson, Percival Graves
STATUS: Closed to specific characters

Since she arrived, Peggy has been accumulating information. At first, with Killian's help, she'd put together a decent map picking out routes in the canyon and mapping terrain. After the incident that left her stranded for nearly a full day, she'd shifted her focus to something a little less dangerous. She'd begun to write down people's scrubs colours, their backgrounds, histories, whether they believed themselves alive or not, and began to cobble together working notes.

Now, what she needed was second opinions. She'd been staring at this puzzle longer than she could think about without growing sharp with frustration and needed the help of others to take a look at what she had and determine whether or not she'd absolutely lost her mind. It was why she'd put the kettle on, set out some of the few remaining biscuits she had left, and left word for specific parties that she trusted to offer their analytical minds on her notes.

Thank goodness she had been gifted with a pen and notebook, though even that is beginning to run out. If she decides to analyse another aspect of this strange village, she might have to simply learn how to make paper herself, which certainly wouldn't be a hardship after spending all the time learning how to fish in order to keep herself properly fed.

For now, though, patterns. Patterns and people and predictions, as if she could somehow work a way out forward if only she could see how it all came together.
3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: The Inn, the riverbank
WHEN: Feb 14, midday and evening
OPEN TO: Casey, Benedict, Graves
WARNINGS: Grief and mentions of character deaths

i. Benedict; Graves - leaving the inn or at Ren’s grave

Someone was fucking with him.

Deaths weren’t enough, leaving friends and family behind, being hurt, being afraid and without answers--none of it was enough. They kept adding to the notes and map left by the woman, already disappeared, they kept trying to have civil discussions about what was happening and what to do about it, but Kira had held the note in his hands and could only discern cruelty. Beyond the fact of life could be and into the fact of someone is trying to be.

Maybe their captors were like the wendigo: once captives, warped into something without care.

Maybe they were just assholes.

To Kira Akiyama: There are always more fish in the sea. He’d dropped the note back into the box of rose petals and pink champagne, moved enough of them to see the Durex label and taken his hands up entirely. If he’d any doubts of the time passing, or the consequences of being here so long--the box served to turn his stomach in confirmation.

He’s dead; he’s dead and that meant too many people now. It turned his stomach again that he would even think of Ren, staring down into that box. It turned his stomach to see Casey, head tilted with a dog’s curiosity, the box and the boy in his room and the note like an accusation. We see you, it said, clearer than piles of gifts, clearer than the fact of the pod in the canyon wall.

Maybe they weren’t just former captives turned cruel, maybe they had people like him. Turned inside out, using their impressions of people to design an ugly gauntlet. Maybe he’d be the latest tool in their belts, with the way he’d shoved the box at Casey, used the box to nearly shove Casey just to get away from them both. “Another one for you,” he’d lied, pushing out of the room and making for the exit, needing to get away from them all, the cloud of emotions he doesn’t want to feel, doesn’t want to know, take advantage of, filter into some database to be regurgitated as salt in a wound.

Casey had told him not to know anyone, not to ask or let them answer, not to let them ask about him. To imagine someone else in their place, someone dull and blank, and in this way, never get attached.

Before he hadn’t died, before he’d promised Ty a dinner, before he lost the cards that held the emotions of the city at bay: he’d been better at it. He’d have laughed at the note, and tipped the champagne down his throat, kept his pockets stocked and his standards low.

Now, wandering out the door and down the path, the air crackling over his skin and his pulse telling the powers that be do it, just do it, he wants to go back for it and toss the box in the river. There are too many people here he knows too much about, people he might not stay for, but who he would try to take home with him, to spare them something worse. There are people he would mourn, and one he already does, a knife slid next to the knife of Ty, and the note twisting them both in his side. It isn’t even conscious, to swing past the fountain and head south through the village, until he’s looking around at the trees, biting his lip, knowing he’s orienting himself toward one in particular.

They’d carved a four pointed star into the base of the tall pine, after they’d finished the grave. He’d made a joke in his head about letting Ren down one last time, as they’d carefully positioned the body, and he’d tossed one of the die in after him. He’s down to two, now, an odd set of talismans that let him feel like--he’ll know, if anything happens to Casey or Credence. He’ll know if anything happens to Ren’s grave.

It’s exactly the kind of shit he shouldn’t be doing, if he’s going to pretend someone picking up on his impressions of others is any kind of rational thought. In the absence of a rational world, did it matter? Has anything been rational since he was sixteen, or since his parents were driven out of their home, the city set upon itself?

Ren had been, he thinks, coming to a stop at the rocks piled over the grave. Ren would reject his emotional display over a box of bullshit and give him something useful to do, make him spar, hit him with a stick until they were both tired of getting nothing out of it.

And he’s rational enough to come here, not stare into the depths of the fountain again and wonder exactly how decomposed his ex is. A knife is a knife, and he’s bleeding out from the loss, but Ren is a cleaner cut than Ty. Ty is rust and fever; Ty is how he pulls the knives out of his guts and starts putting them in other people.

If he thinks about Ty right now, he’s going to jump back into the fountain and, one way or the other, not come back out.

“I can’t believe how much I miss you, you fucking asshole,” he breathes, staring at the star over the thick roots, finally releasing some of the tension that the gift had sung through him. If the aim of this place was cruelty and confusion, maybe the best thing he could do was walk away, calm down, and ignore it. “I have much better people to miss, you know. The least you could do is haunt me properly, bang some pans around and turn off the lights at the inn.”

ii. Casey - back at the inn

There is no hour early or late enough to ensure Casey and the box are gone when he returns to the room--but there is an hour after the sun sets, after Kira remembers he was out without his coat, overalls undone and held up by a pair of suspenders, cards and dice stuffed in the pockets--where he’s too cold to dodge someone for anything at all.

It isn’t Casey’s fault he walked in when he did, or his fault that Kira is so bad at taking his advice. Following his own rules, two months in a place and his roots finding literal representation south of the village.

He’s here. For better or worse, and he does no one any favors pushing Casey out of his way and never coming back. When he comes up the stairs, he doesn’t quite enter the room, leaning in the doorway. Looking at the coat left on the bed, the angle of the knife left in its deep pocket, and his eyes eventually finding the open window, the hammock swaying slightly in the breeze.

Casey has made the climb out the window and onto the roof enough times that there’s a trail: a scuff on a branch, a warp to the trim where a hand has grasped, a boot print on the wall, over a ridge of siding. Kira slips and grunts enough times on the way up that there’s a pair of eyes to meet when he gets his head above the roof’s edge, and he lays his arm out across it, hand palm up and open, a wordless request for help.

[Options specified for individuals. The box contains: one 187ml bottle Stella Rosa champagne, one 8" diameter, 2-3" deep box of chocolate covered strawberries, one 50ct Durex Condom variety pack; all empty 'packing' space filled with red and white rose petals.]


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