underpinnings: (sidelong over shoulder)
[personal profile] 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)


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 )

remporter: <user name=bangparty> (ne font plus pleurer mes yeux)
[personal profile] remporter
WHO: René Vallières
WHERE: The fountain, the inn, 7thi's peach trees
WHEN: 18th
OPEN TO: Open to all, with closed prompts for Neil and Aurora
WARNINGS: Talk of war, nazis, ptsd probably.

elle était si tranquile, cette révolution )
3ofswords: (resolute)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 39, the Spring, House 52
WHEN: August 21 
OPEN TO: Credence, comment starter for Tim
WARNINGS: Grief, blood, interpersonal conflict; NSFW content with Tim

read more )

3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Tim's house, general places in the canyon
WHEN: After Kira and Sonny pick peaches, August 14
OPEN TO: Tim Gutterson
WARNINGS: NSFW content is always possible, nothing immediately planned though.

It's been a couple of days since he put himself in Tim's path, or let himself be at the house to answer any calls.  The orientation house provides a distraction, a place most people wouldn't know him to be, but much as he's avoided the village at large before, he's never avoided Tim.  They'd spent entire days together after the quake, caginess washed away in light of Kira's cold, and after that week--well, he wasn't about to get kicked out of bed to walk home in the dark.

But now his power is back in pieces.  But now Margaery had picked up one of them, and given him a vision to worry about.  

The house felt easier to deal with.  It was down to just him, putting it together, and if something was going to happen to him, he'd need to get it as far along as possible for the next person.  Infrastructure is important, beds for new people, maps, a dedicated face and voice to deliver the most current information available.  Far too important to set aside for visiting some guy he's been having a good time with, so long as everything stays neatly in its lines.

He's as guilty of blurring them as anyone, but even that would be fine, no way of knowing how Tim feels about it unless he says something, and they'd all get home to hell frozen over before that happened.  But walking with Sonny had reminded him--connections are important.  Routines, projects, but also the little things.  A person to share a bed, a face you like the day better for having seen.  If Sonny is starting to slip in a place like this, there's no telling how much better Tim might fare.

As if to press the point about everyone's sanity, the box he'd taken to fill with rumored peaches had shown up that morning, another bottle of Grey Goose and a box of tea.  Knocking on Tim's door in the waning afternoon, he has the cardboard box looped under one arm, the bottle peeking over the edge, the space around it piled with his half of the haul.

It's a beat before Kira stops waiting for Tim to break the days of silence he himself created, remembers who he is, and shoves the door open without waiting for an answer.  "Come on," he calls to the house at large, "I brought you something."
comfortablyerect: (Default)
[personal profile] comfortablyerect
WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: House 52, then the village
WHEN: July 1st
WARNINGS: Minor ax injury, Tim's Existence probably, possibly nsfw content?

House 52

When it comes to staying occupied, Tim's gotten pretty damn good at it. There's no fugitives to chase here, no shoot-outs or stake-outs or tailing bad guys, and no bars to unwind and relax in afterwards. He's had to reach back to his childhood to remember ways to stay busy, back when his mother shooed him outside and told him not to come back until the sun was setting, just so he'd stay out from under her feet.

Fishing has been put on hold recently due to the decreased water levels, but there's other things he can do. Forging among the trees, collecting berries and edible plant life to drop off at the kitchen. Sometimes, he helps tend to the crops, remembering his mother's instructions from when he helped her with their small vegetable garden as a kid. Occasionally, he goes down to the police station to where they house the animals, checking to make sure they've been fed and watered, trying to introduce Kid to the other goats so that, one day, she might actually stay there.

Today, he's taken to chopping firewood. They use less of it with the heat of the summer, only needing it to feed the furnace for the few times they need hot water. But it's better to cut it and stock up now than wait until it's cold and frigid and everyone wants to stay wrapped up inside. Kid has taken to sprawling out under the shade of a tree, and Tim's thinking about how a break might be in order once he finishes this log.

That's when the ground begins to shake.

He fumbles the downswing, missing the log entirely, clumsily stepping out of the way of its path. Not quite far enough though, because the blade grazes his leg anyway, and Tim lets out a sharp fuck as the pain blooms through him. The violent shaking continues, Kid hopping up with a sharp bleat, running and stumbling to reach him. It's an earthquake, he realizes, maybe a little belatedly, and so he hunkers down on the ground, finding the open area around him a safer option than near any trees or inside. Kid tumbles into his side, and he immediately gathers her up beneath his body to wait out the worst of it.

Around the Village

The injury isn't too bad. At the very least, it's not in need of stitches. So instead of tending to it immediately, he finds a dish cloth and ties it around the gash. It'll do, for now. He has other things to attend to.

The rest of the day is spent around the village, and what he's really doing is looking. Looking for Kira, but also checking up on other people in the meantime, popping his head into buildings and gatherings to ask if everyone's alright. This isn't the first earthquake the village has had, he learns, and he supposes it's nice to know that the place is fucking prone to them. At least it's not sand storms. Fuck sandstorms.

Eventually, he ends up checking Kira's house, but doesn't find him there. Past that, he has no clue. He checks the Inn and the Town Hall, near the river, on the outskirts of the woods. Only once he's exhausting his options does he go into the woods, taking the risk of the trees shifting around him and losing him inside. At this rate, not even the sudden rain is slowing him down.

It's an odd feeling, caring enough about someone to hunt them down after a natural disaster, but not feeling attached enough to really know where to look or who to ask. He's definitely not very fond of it.

[ Feel free to hang out with Tim before the quake or find him afterwards, searching the village and chatting people up in his efforts to hunt down Kira! ]
zomboligist: (oookay)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Inn, near the Kitchen
WHEN: June 3rd
OPEN TO: All! Mingle post!

There's another one of those strange boxes sitting on the porch of their home when Ravi gets up to another scorching, awful day. He's not sure what switch they hit to get this sort of weather, but he wants them to take it back, seeing as he's been sweating so much that he has to do laundry practically every day to cope with the ridiculousness of it. He can't go shirtless because he has absolutely no will to show everyone the out of shape disappointment that it his torso.

He bends to pick up the box and bring it inside, but hisses when his fingers contact something frosty cold at the bottom of the box. Opening it in a hurry, his eyes widen and he tugs the box to his chest as best as he can, taking off in a completely ungraceful run, heading straight for the inn and shouting as he goes. "Ice cream!" he says, like the world's skeeviest ice cream truck on legs, luring children in after him. "Ice cream, there's ice cream, it's going to melt," he warns, because there are six tubs of it, but he fears that in this heat, it's not going to last very long at all. Scientifically, he knows that it's just going to be calories that generate heat, but science can go take a backseat.

He unloads the toppings and the various six flavours (ranging from vanilla to chocolate, cookie dough, mint chocolate chip, butter pecan, and even a treasured cherry garcia), the sprinkles and peanuts going with the caramel and hot fudge sauces. He could weep because there are even serving spades, bowls, and spoons. He knows he ought to be wary about food after the whole chocolate poisoning incident (if it really was the chocolate), but it's just so hot and he's just so hungry.

He'll chance it, because if he doesn't, he just gets some delicious flavoured ice cream soup soon.
3ofswords: (facepalm)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Outside House 39
WHEN: Backdate: May 13-14, hail storm
OPEN TO: Tim Gutterson
WARNINGS: update: yeah they're gonna bang, nsfw shit in the second thread of the post

Read more... )
comfortablyerect: (Default)
[personal profile] comfortablyerect
WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: The river
WHEN: Backdated to May 10th
WARNINGS: Just Tim, I Guess

Like clockwork, Tim wakes up with the sun. It doesn't matter how late he stays up, doesn't matter what time he finally crawls into bed. He can never seem to sleep past 6:30 at the latest, not even if he tries. With no clocks to be found in the village, it's one of the very few ways Tim can make some approximation of what time it is. Still, the days always seem to feel endless, with everyone basing their days around where the sun's at in the sky, closing themselves inside once it disappears behind the horizon.

On the bright side, he can tell the weather's nice before he even steps outside. The perfect sort of weather for him to put some new gifts to use, a spool of line and fish hooks he got in a box earlier in the month.

It's been awhile since he's had to make his own pole, not having done it since he was a kid, but the process is a basic one. A sturdy, curved stick, with the line wrapped around it and a hook secured at the end. The only thing left to take care of was bait, and it wasn't like there was a bait shop to buy any worms or live crickets from. So, it looked like he was getting even further back to the basics.

Barefoot, in a tank top and overalls rolled up to the calf, he spends the better part of the morning catching crickets in the grass, storing them away in the box his gifts came in for safe keeping. It's a lot of crouching and kneeling, crawling through the damp grass, but it's an oddly therapeutic routine, almost as therapeutic as the fishing itself is, when he gets to it.

That happens around midday, after he's caught plenty of crickets and taken a break to eat lunch. Then, he's by the river again, standing at the bank with his toes in the mud, fishing for whatever the river in this area holds. He's nabbed a bucket from the storage house, and it's half filled with water with a few decent sized fish darting around inside. He figures he'll be able to catch several more before the sun sets, and then he can pass them along to whoever cooks around here to make some meal out of.

He's doing his part, at least. And having a good time while at it.

[ feel free to find him anytime throughout the day around the river! ]
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."

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."
comfortablyerect: (tell all those pencil pushers)
[personal profile] comfortablyerect
WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: Canyon wall, the woods, House 52
WHEN: March 20th
WARNINGS: Firefly stings, so accompanying paranoia and, in Tim's case, PTSD

Canyon wall

Tim is not a mountain climber. Canyon climber?

Kentucky, the lands he's grown so used to, the place he undoubtedly calls home, is all rolling fields and farmland. They have their dips and their valleys and, in some places, climbing, rocking terrain, but nothing worthy of being called a mountain, and certainly nothing worth any sort of challenge. And Afghanistan had it's cliff sides, high places overlooking small villages, which is where Tim spent a bulk of his time at war, but that's not the same as a steep, vertical wall of hard rock.

Still. He's felt increasingly more trapped here as the days have ticked by, and he can only go so long without doing something about it. This, all in all, seems like a better option than trying to force his way back into the depths of the fountain. Always go up, forward, never back.

He's got no climbing gear to speak of, and this is probably an incredibly stupid attempt. But instead of approaching the wall directly, he chooses to give himself a leg up by scaling a nearby tree first, hoping to find better foot and hand holds higher up the wall. He begins shimmying up the tree, and has just grabbed onto the lowest viable branch when the first firefly comes around. He's seen them before now, of course, around the village and on his trek through the woods. It strikes him as odd, seeing as it's the middle of the day, and his experience with fireflies has always been at night, catching them in jars as a child.

This place is fucking weird. He hoists himself up onto the branch, and a few more fireflies come out, and then a handful more, and Tim's just beginning to think the word swarm when the first one stings him.

Fireflies don't sting, he thinks, just as a second one stings him, and then a whole bunch more come out of somewhere, nowhere, everywhere, and he literally bails out of the tree, landing and rolling like he's eighteen and in bootcamp again, as opposed to thirty and frequently waking up with a sore back. It's all muscle memory, though, and he sticks the landing wonderfully, knowing he's definitely going to feel it in his muscles the next morning.

House 52

It's nearly evening by the time Tim makes his way out of the woods, having to spend far too much time shaking off the fireflies and losing their trail before making it to the village. He feels warm all over, just a tiny bit dizzy, but he chalks it up to the physical exertion of sprinting through the woods to escape a swarm of fireflies.

This is not what he expected his life to be after the war but — here he is.

He moves through the village, the sun beginning to sink behind the trees, and the fireflies seem to be everywhere. More than usual? It seems like it. It seems like the blinking green insects are appearing more frequently, hovering particularly close to the fountain, their numbers actively growing with each step Tim takes. He has to be imagining it. There weren't this many a few days ago, and the weather hasn't changed enough to bring in more, he thinks. They certainly can't be growing in number that fast.

Something familiar has snaked into system, twisting around his very bones and taking root there. He recognizes it for what it is — paranoia, sharp and dark and and ever-growing, absolutely unshakable. This is how he was for months and months and months after coming back stateside. Feeling like the very walls in his home were watching him, feeling like every person who looked at him for a second too long was going to strike. Feeling trapped and suffocated with the ghosts of the lives he took infecting his dreams and his life and reminding him who he was, what he's done, every time he turned around.

This is just the beginning. He makes his way quickly through the village, avoiding the swarms of fireflies the best he can. But by the time he reaches his house, the fever has exhausted him, slowing him down enough that he sits on the porch steps, resting his head against the railing.

He's tired, but he can't close his eyes. Exhausted, but he won't sleep. Because his skin crawls like there's bugs beneath the surface, like his veins are full of gasoline and he's just lit a match. Because he's trapped here, and he'll never get out, and he's sure — so sure — that this is where he's going to die.

[ ooc: feel free to also find him in the woods, either before or after the firefly stings! ]
comfortablyerect: (Default)
[personal profile] comfortablyerect
WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: The woods, House 52
WHEN: February 23rd
WARNINGS: Possible mentions of PTSD

The Woods

It took roughly a week for Tim to be able to sleep for longer than two hours at a time. It took a little longer than that for him to quit walking around with knives hidden on his person. He still carries the metal fire poker with him, however, because he can't bring himself to walk around weaponless. That, actually, has little to do with being here and a lot more to do with what he brought him with him from Afghanistan. Nightmares, paranoia, the inability to feel at ease without a firearm. It was always a work in progress. Now it's an even bigger work in progress.

Of course, the paranoia's only gotten worse since he's been told that they're being watched the first night he was here. It makes him feel like his skin's always crawling.

Since arriving here, he's explored every inch of the land he can reach. He's mapped out the layout of the village in his head, clocking who lives where, and where people tend to spend most of their time. He's explored several community buildings inside and out until there were no more left to search, and has since spent time exploring the woods.

If he had his gun, he could do some hunting. Kill a few deer, squirrels, maybe some rabbits. Contribute what he can to the community. They have bows at the Inn, he knows, but he's not well-versed with a bow. It'd take a lot of practice, and he's fairly certain they don't have the supplies for him to be losing arrows in the woods. He can probably set up some crude forms of traps, even do some fishing at some point when it's a little warmer. For now, though, he's making his way carefully through the trees, noting various plants that he recognizes and knows might come in handy, examining tracks that he finds in the dirt.

Any movement heard results in sudden stiffening and Tim being on guard.

House 52

Upon returning home later in the afternoon, Tim finds a fairly large box in front of his door. He's not sure what to make of it, at first, and stands a good few feet away like he thinks it might blow up. There are round holes in the sides of it, and he's leaning forward to see if he can peer into the holes and see what's inside.

Something rustles inside, and he hears a sharp Meh!

"What the fuck." It's not a question, and it's murmured under his breath. With the tip of the metal poker, he flips the lid off the box, and a baby goat pops its head up to look around. One young enough that its horns have just barely started coming in. Tim knows shit about goats, but upon further examination, he finds that it's a female. Beyond that, he hasn't got a clue.

He can be found for the rest of the evening sitting on his front porch with her, feeding her piles of grass out of the palm of his hand.

[ ooc: feel free to find him in various other parts of the village too! if you want to plot something, hit me up on plurk or message me! ]
comfortablyerect: (Default)
[personal profile] comfortablyerect
WHO: Tim Gutterson
WHERE: The fountain, briefly, House 52, and eventually the Inn.
WHEN: January 30th and 31st.
WARNINGS: Brief description of war zone and depictions of a very mild PTSD episode.


Tim does not remember going to sleep underwater, but that's where he wakes up.

At first, he thinks it's one of his many nightmares, but he's never had one like this before. Normally, the nightmares that so often plague him are hot and dry — gritty sand on his tongue and between his teeth, sun beating down on the back of his neck, fatigues sweaty and uncomfortable. Usually in these dreams, he's on some high, rocky cliff side when the ghosts of the men he's killed come back to haunt him. Sometimes, the dreams involve the fellow soldiers he's watched die. Never are they wet, and never do they leave him scrambling for breath.

Maybe his dreams are evolving. That would be unfortunate.

Only, it's not a dream, and he becomes very aware of that when he accidentally inhales a bunch of water. He's awake, and he's drowning. Thankfully, he's close enough to the surface that a bit of scrambling has him breaking through, immediately coughing violently as he reaches for something to hold onto. Fingers grip roughly at the stone edge of the fountain, clinging desperately until he can gather his wits and examine his surroundings. All he knows for sure is that he's definitely not in Lexington anymore, and the shocking change is more than enough to put him right on edge.

Panic tries to burrow itself in his chest, but he shuts it out quickly, instead pulling out the only version of himself he's truly comfortable as: the soldier he became in Afghanistan.

It doesn't take long to take stock of himself. The clothes he wears are not his, there's no gun at his hip, and there's a backpack secured over his shoulders. It's also freezing, and while there doesn't appear to be anybody around, he seems to be in a small town, a little reminiscent to the one he grew up in.

He hauls himself from the fountain, but he doesn't go towards the nearest building. He finds a large rock near the base of the fountain, easy enough to carry but big enough to do some damage, and moves quickly but quietly through the village. The house he settles on going into isn't the furthest away, but it's remote enough, and the one directly next door seems to be in shambles. Inside, he takes stock of what's in his backpack before changing into something dry, then ventures back outside for all the time it takes to gather a little bit of wood from the nearby destroyed house to build a fire with. That night, he doesn't sleep. He flinches at every single noise, sits with his back to the fire, and keeps the rock firmly in his hand.


The next morning, he still hasn't relaxed any. His back is sore from sitting so ram-rod straight, and he feels so bare without a firearm on him. But the sun begins to come through the window and Tim knows he can't stay here forever. The fire's out and he hasn't eaten and he needs to explore his surroundings one way or another.

In the kitchen, he finds a couple of knives, slipping them into the waistband of his longjohns and pulling his now-dry scrubs on over them. He grabs the iron poker from beside the fireplace and with that, he's slipping out of the house and into the light of day. He skirts around the outside of the village, doing his best to avoid being seen by anyone, taking in the size of it and the various homes, some standing and some damaged. It's only when he makes a full circle around the village does he take to the road, choosing to go into the building that's likely to have the most people in it: the Inn.

[ ooc: This intro definitely got away from me in the end, but! Feel free to interrupt him doing any of these things on either day! ]


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