posilutely: (029)
[personal profile] posilutely
WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: Various; see below
WHEN: ditto
OPEN TO: 1 locked, 2 OTA

House #7 - Mid-Late July - Locked to Sonny

It's the locket that confirms it.

When it had first turned up, Tina hadn't been sure if she wanted to trust it, but she'd taking to wearing it anyway. Just like she'd done at home, there wasn't hardly a time when it wasn't around her neck. Queenie's been wandering the village for a couple days now, and seeing it laying there on Tina's vanity table is like a punch right to the gut, her last bit of hope swept clean away in the matter of a moment.

And with Jacob apparently gone, too, it just makes a sad sort of sense, even if it makes her heart hurt to think about.

From the first time she'd felt that tingle of worry, Queenie's been telling herself it's probably better. If Tina's got out, if she's got home, it's gonna be better for them all -- It has to be, right? If anybody can figure out how to bust them out of this place, it's Teenie.

And if they've made her forget, well... maybe that's better too. She hated it here.

But telling herself these things just ain't the same as believing them, and sitting on the front steps of Sonny's house in her new dress, she can't keep herself from crying.

Behind House #17 - Mid-Late August - OTA (3 thread limit)

The funny thing about Tina being gone is that Queenie knows exactly what she'd say about it: That Queenie oughta stay busy and just get on with it. And sure, there's days when she just wants to fall right down onto the floor and stay there wallowing in how empty the house feels now, or how she accidentally made lunch for two, but that voice in the back of her head is awful quick to give her a kick in the pants, just like Teen herself would do.

Some days it's tough to find enough to fill the day, though, and she's been trying some things she probably would be better off to just let alone.

Today, it's splitting firewood. To say she's awful at it without wand would be the understatement of at least two centuries.

She got herself an axe from the inn, but she can't seem to hit the wood at the right angle or hard enough. She's pinged herself with bits of bark at least 20 times, and in the hour she's been out behind the house, she's got exactly 3 pieces of firewood to show for it, and one of them barely counts, if she's honest about it.

7I Shore - Mid-Late August - OTA (3 thread limit)

All of a sudden, they've got themselves an ocean, and all Queenie can do is stare at it.

The beach ain't much good for sunbathing with all its little pebbles, and it takes her a good fifteen minutes just to find a place to put her towel down. But it's the water that's the bigger problem, lapping softly at the shore like it couldn't just swallow her right up if it wanted.

Dressed in her cut-offs and sleeveless shirt, she wades in to her ankles but then just stands there, staring first at the wide, hazy horizon, and then down at the water swirling around her feet.
posilutely: (003)
[personal profile] posilutely
WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: The fountain
WHEN: About 8:00, June 8th
STATUS: Closed to new threads
WARNING: The thread with Sonny will eventually be ADULT

For almost as far back as she can remember, Queenie Goldstein has been a voracious reader. She'd be the first to tell you she doesn't have a head for the books that would make her smart, but there's just about nothing she loves more than losing herself in a good story. At home, she nearly always has a novel or stack of magazines to hand, and the tales of exotic places and sweeping romance are always her favorite. There was one in particular she read about twenty times when she was in school, all about a witch and wizard falling in love amidst the glittering sands of the Sahara. At the time, tucked up in her chilly New England dorm room, it had all seemed so marvelously enticing.

Now, it's a little less so.

To say the days the past couple of weeks have been hot just wouldn't be near accurate enough. It's been about like jumping into a frying pan when you're out in the middle of the day. When you walk around town, you can see it on everybody's faces: They're all waiting for the break that comes at sunset. Except now, the sun isn't going down at all. It's just sitting there on the horizon, brooding behind the cliffs like an angry dog.

That morning, Queenie had woken to another box with her name on it, perched this time on her dresser like someone had stolen in during the night and left it while she was sleeping. Inside, she'd found a pack of needles and several spools of thread, and while a bolt of fabric would've been nice, she's not about to look this gift horse in the mouth. And yeah, she did feel a little guilty about going into one of the houses and pulling down all the curtains and cleaning out the linen closet, but there's nothing in the storeroom in the inn except for scarves and heavy blankets.

It's just past eight o'clock at night, and Queenie's sitting on the lip of the fountain they all came out of, a basket of supplies at her side, bare feet dangling in the cool water as she works on the sewing in her lap and sings softly to herself. There's still plenty of light to see by out here, and the house is too stuffy even with every window flung open. Earlier, she'd cut her pants off above the knee and hemmed the edges; back home they'd be scandalous, but here they're pure practicality. Soon, she'll have a linen shift to wear instead.
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: (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

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."

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) )

ottimismo: (they are my own)
[personal profile] ottimismo
WHO: Sonny Carisi
WHERE: The Inn, the Hospital, the Church
WHEN: April 10th
OPEN TO: OTA, with two closed starters!


This morning, like all mornings, Sonny begins his day at the church.

He needs his faith like he needs air and water and shelter. Some days, he's sure it's the only thing that keeps him going. He's stuck in an impossible situation, one that has little rhyme or reason, one that makes very little sense. Sometimes he thinks that it's possible God can't even hear him here, but that's a thought he always dispels quickly. God has to hear him. God can always hear him. So every day, often more than once a day, he prays. In his head, out loud, with his hands clenched tight in front of him. He prays likes it's the last thing he's ever going to do.

This morning, like all mornings, Sonny is praying.

He's on his knees in the home he's turned into a church. It's nothing special — just a bunch of chairs and couches pushed into the living area, lined up and facing the far wall where a crudely made cross stands. It's not much, but it serves its purpose. It brings a sense of peace as Sonny folds his hands together, bows his head, and moves his lips soundlessly in a conversation with God.


That morning, after returning to his house, he finds a cardboard box on his front step. He's gotten one before, and it wasn't filled with anything bad. Though he knows some people aren't so lucky, and have received some not-so-good things in theirs. Even so, he's excited to tear the top off of this one and see what he's gotten this time, all hopeful gaze and bated breath.

He had not asked God for breakfast foods, but he's certainly not disappointed.

Instead of working in the silence of his home, as he did the last time he got a gift like this, he decides to take it all to the Inn and work in their kitchen. He's never much liked being alone anyway, and things are far more lively here. He gets to work immediately, cheerful despite lacking the usual music he enjoys cooking to. There's a mixed fruit bowl, and he picks out the strawberries and blueberries to make two different batches of fruit pancakes. He wishes he had a few more spices at his disposal to toss in, so he could make it closer to what he does back home. But beggars can't be choosers, and he's happy to have what he does.

Once it's finished, he gathers the pancakes and syrup and the rest of the fruit bowl onto a platter that he unearths from a cabinet in the kitchen, arranging it all nice and neat before carrying it into the main room.

"Who wants pancakes?"

i will gather myself around my faith )
for light does the darkness most fear )
welshdragon: ([Henry] Somber)
[personal profile] welshdragon
WHO: Henry Tudor
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 4/3
WARNINGS: Talk of war and death.

He had felt as though he were on solid ground when the battle had concluded and breath returned to his lungs. All else had been a spinning wheel, determining where fate should land and where his life would fall. On Bosworth soil or in a king's bed? How could he know that neither choice were upon the board. He had felt the weight of the crown in his hands, the feel of the eyes of his men, and the overbearing awe that it had all ended. The war was waged and won, the will of God had been fulfilled and his destiny was no longer an idle dream. He could remember staring down at the mud covered crown and wonder "What now?"

The answer was a swirling mass of water, filling his lungs and churning about him as he kicked towards the surface. The fountain, for it was a fountain, was the source of his arrival. Magic was at work, though he didn't ask many questions when he had been found. He remained silent and listened, following the advice of others and choosing a place to stay. It was well with him. He needed to sleep and rest his mind, already weary from the long battle.

Once he woke and felt able to comprehend it all, he left for the inn that had been shown to him. There were others there, the sounds of life and merriment (as much as there could be). There was a chair by the fire and a woman that handed him tea. With a tired expression, he stared into the flames. It was no dream, this place was unknown to him and now he was stuck here.

The question returned: "What now?"
goldsteins: (0010001)
[personal profile] goldsteins
WHO: Tina Goldstein
WHERE: The Fountain & Around
WHEN: 3/25 Onwards
OPEN TO: Closed arrival to Queenie, OTA threads to anyone else
WARNINGS: Nothing applicable at the moment
STATUS: OTA sans Queenie thread

(This is locked to Queenie, but should you want to do something with it let me know! It's merely because I prefer not to have a lot of initial reaction threads. )

Tina is usually not so quick to wake up in the mornings. The nature of her job forced her to be an earlier riser, but even then she had to wake up a little earlier than most. It took at least one cup of coffee to make her ready for the day (some days more if a case kept her later than usual). The sudden jerking motion, as if from a fitful of sleep, to wakefulness is more than enough to set her sense alive. Her brain whirled half groggily become aware very quickly that this was certainly not where she was supposed to be.

It's December in New York. Most of the water inland was frozen over, so she has to be somewhere else. It's distinctly somehow warmer than it had been and that's more than enough to set off further bells. Bells that she can't really take heed to at the moment as she forces herself upwards. Grateful, not for the first time, of the training that Aurors were pressured to go through of all kinds. Panicking right then would surely be her downfall. A few moments later her hand grasps the sides of a slick wall, uses it to guide, and lets out a strangled breath as her hand grips the edge and her head emerges from the water.

She gives herself a moment to catch her breath before giving a frustrated noise and hoisting herself out of the water. The immediate danger seemingly gone for now, the woman can't help but still remain on high alert. What kind of Auror doesn't have a wand? She mentally scolds herself, but it's easily returned with a simple: The kind who was sleeping peacefully in their home until five minutes ago. The realization sobers her from the adrenaline high of a few minutes prior and she takes in her immediate surroundings: Buildings she would certainly not find in their part of New York.

A tensity sets her shoulders and for the first time she glances down at herself: Definitely not the comfortable pajamas she had worn to bed. Her mouth formed a thin line and she rises to her feet, hefts the weight off her back-- a bag-- and glares at it as if it's the problem here (there was a lot of problems here).

"What in the name of Deliverence Dane is going on?" She growled to herself neverminding at the moment how absurd she most look as she unzips the thing hoping against hope somehow a wand would be in there. Hope, of course, doesn't work and she hardly looks as absurd as the last person to arrive. Or the person before them.

Once she's settled and dry, Tina finds she can't sit any longer. As much as she wants to sit and talk to her sister-- to make up for an apparent lack of being there-- she's restless. The house Queenie had settled in was nice, far larger than their one bedroom they shared in New York, but it reeked of unfamiliarity. The idea of simply having her own room after all this time was simply disconcerting and saying as much wasn't going to help anyone (of course, however, her sister knew her better than anyone could read her in ways she didn't like to be). Tina just had to get out and do something: Anything.

Even taking in the village left her uneasy. The functionalities of things didn't seem so strange, but she's used to taller buildings, crowded streets, millions of people. There was overcrowding New York and here it seemed overly spacious. The fog certainly doesn't help. When the weather was right the fog rolled over Manhattan and on a good day it was difficult to see where you were going and as homey as that feeling was it's inherently wrong. Tina feels more disconcerted by the moment as she takes in the various houses and buildings, frowning at how it can seem so empty and stepping away quickly if she comes too close to someone.

She doesn't seem to offer any words of apologies in that moment: Or at least the excuse me doesn't sound entirely apologetic. It's not as if people running into each other in overpopulated New York wasn't normal nor was it really easy to see anything. The disgruntlement is obvious in her tone if and when she does even if she manages a somewhat apologetic look.

Being busy is just part of who Tina is and investigating is another. Once she's set on where things are in the village she can't help but test the limits: Just because someone says they're trapped doesn't make it any easier for the woman to believe. Her time in any expanse of forest is few and far between. Most of her job involved city arrests and her Ilvermorny days were kept to the school (not into the surrounding woods on Mount Greylock). In spite of that she's determinedly made her way into the woods.

The woman certainly doesn't move with any sense of ease in the woods, but she's careful enough. Taking in the growth and wondering just how large the woods are. If there's really no way out. Right now, however, she's merely curious-- taking in the area as opposed to even trying to find a way to escape. It's hardly as if she's prepared for that at all.

Unfortunately for her, inexperience in a forest shows and now and then the noises of animals moving or the rustling of trees makes her stiffen up. At one point she catches sight of a deer out of the corner of her eye and stops-- Turning to it in surprise and gives out a puff of a breath.

"Now this is ridiculous," She mumbles to herself unhelpfully deciding then that she's certainly had enough for the day and turns to find her way back to the village. Which is another thing altogether: Mapping a city she can do. A forest? Not so much.
fantastic_kneads: (not so good)
[personal profile] fantastic_kneads
WHO: Jacob Kowalski
WHERE: Inn / Around the Village
WHEN: March 22

bugging out

Today's not really going so swell.

He'd started off with a pretty good day. The lineup had been around the block and he'd just hired the new kid, so he wasn't even run off his feet the way he'd been after the bakery really took off. In the middle of going to get more loaves of bread from the back, though, all of a sudden, it'd been like he got sucker punched and shoved down a giant well, water clouding up his lungs. He doesn't know why, but something about the whole thing felt familiar, like that wobbly feeling is something he ought to know about.

Near drowning, that's got a weird association to it too, but Jacob keeps thinking it ought to be ice and not water. Whatever's going on, he manages to clamber up top to a ridge, spitting and coughing up water before he realizes he's in a fountain, like the kind in Central Park. How'd he get to Central Park so quickly? How'd he get so wet? For that matter, where'd his clothes go? That tie had cost him a lot of money, now it's gone, replaced by clothes that make him look like he belongs in a mental institution.

"Aw, come on, not today," he says, barely keeping the complaint from his tone. He's got three big orders this afternoon, he's got prep to do for tomorrow morning, he's got...

He's got a group of weird little bugs staring at him when he doesn't exactly get out of the fountain. They're all grouped together, looking like little lights. The water sloshes around him from his less than graceful emergence over the top, now he's got an audience. Regardless of the bright things, he's gotta try and get back. Maybe if he goes back the way he came?

Only, as soon as he even tries, one of those bright little things zips forward, jamming itself against his wet clothes, which are the only thing that stop the little stinger from hitting him. Yelping with alarm, Jacob rolls himself over the top of the edge of the fountain, but the bugs don't stop then. Barely aware of the bag on his back, Jacob starts running as far as he can for the nearest building he sees, a big multi-story thing that looks like it belongs back in the old country (not that he remembers the old country). He h its the door with his shoulder, fumbling with the knob to get it open. "C'mon, c'mon, just open, would you, come on!" That's when he goes staggering inside, the low buzz of fireflies after him drowned out by the slamming door.

Pressed up against it, Jacob works to sling his wet backpack to his feet, breathing hard as he tries to figure out what the hell's going on and why he's being chased down by a load of bugs with a grudge. Awkwardly, he realizes that he ain't alone when he sees someone right there, so now he's dripping all over someone's floor and he looks like he escaped the asylum, and for some reason he can't place, this doesn't even feel like the weirdest thing that's ever happened to him.

"I'm dripping all over your floor," he says, words heavy with apology. "I swear, I'm not trying to ruin anything, but these things are after me," he insists, probably a little paranoid, but hey, are you paranoid if you're actually being chased?

foggy wandering

So, Jacob is trapped. That's not exactly something you wanna hear, especially not when you figure you've got a pretty good life going. He's trapped with swarming fireflies coming at him in a place that you can't get out of, but not only that, it's got all these faces he could swear he's seen before, but when he tries to remember, there's nothing. It's just a big blank canvas, waiting for a painter, and he's no good with art. Once he'd dried off, he made his way upstairs in the inn, picking himself a bed to sleep in while he gets his bearings.

Now, he's out in the soupy fog, feeling a little edge of panic. It's not like he was there for the years when they were using gas in the war, he got there too late, but this kind of cloud still makes him fumble, reaching for a gas mask that isn't there. He's got some comfort, knowing he can breathe easy, but it still makes things look like something out of a nightmare.

He feels like he's creeping around without permission, as if you need permission to be wandering around a little village like this. Every once in a while, he sees a little buzz of light and he tenses up, on guard, but they don't seem to care so long as he keeps doing circles of the main little fountain area, which he's been doing for a while, just trying to get this to all make sense in his head. He's so lost in his own head that when he turns to start the fourth loop around the place, he bumps right into someone, sending him staggering a few steps back.

"I'm having a rough day," he mutters, but he's contrite immediately, at fault. "I'm real sorry, I didn't look where I was going. You okay?" He might not have been barreling at anyone, but getting shoved isn't exactly high on the polite behavior scale.
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.
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. )
posilutely: (008)
[personal profile] posilutely
WHO: Queenie Goldstein
WHERE: Fountain and Inn kitchen
WHEN: 22 & 23 February
OPEN TO: Graves, Credence and YOU
WARNINGS: Potential spoilers for Fantastic Beasts
STATUS: Closed to new threads

fountain (for graves & credence);

As far as prime places to wake up out of a deep, snuggly sleep go, Queenie is pretty darned sure this one goes at the very bottom of her list. In the muddy mental place between sleeping and waking, when her body jolts sharply forward, upward, she thinks she's done a doozy and disapparated in her sleep. Just last week, there had been a story in the papers about a little old lady minding her sweet business in Queens who ended up in the middle of a No-Maj cheese factory. She'd accidentally fallen asleep with her wand her in her hand and sneezed. It happens, it really does.

And oh, Queenie's gone and added insult to injury and ended up smack in the middle of the ocean -- No, the Hudson -- and her wand isn't in her hand anymore. She's going to drown out here and Tina will be all alone, and gosh, she'll be so ashamed of Queenie she'll probably have to make something up about it. Trembling hand clutched bravely to her breast, my sister Queenie died battling a rabid fire crab. She saved three starving orphans and an 80-year-old nun.

Because the thing is... Queenie Goldstein never learned to swim.

When she sputters to the surface, she's gotten there by sheer instinct alone, her muscles flailing with rigid panic. She coughs, spitting up water and then gulping more down, arms frantically slapping before she sinks once again.

inn kitchen, the next day (ota);

Every inch of Queenie's body feels utterly worn out. The confusion of finding herself just about as far away from New York City as it's apparently possible to get is lingering, crouching at the back of her mind, but she guesses she oughta be grateful that she's too tired to do more than just shove it aside and get on with... well, whatever the heck this is.

Just now, breakfast.

Without a wand.

Hands on her hips, she's crouched down in front of one of the ranges, peering inside the heavy opened door at the neat pile of firewood inside. "Oh, applesauce," she mutters, and then puffs out a breath that stirs the short hair skimming her cheeks. She's never had to light a fire without magic before, not once.


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