markwatney: (004)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark Watney
WHEN: 19 Oct 2017
OPEN TO: ALL Closed to new threads

I think most people have an unspoken list of things they intend to do when they have the time and inclination. Mine I usually actually write down, even in a place like this where paper and writing implements are scarce — Days with much downtime don't happen often, and my list is embarrassingly long. It helps to have a note so I can look everything over and figure out what's most pressing. I managed to get off of Mars this way, so I figure it's not a bad system.

Today, though, my choice was made for me. I woke up to two things: A box with my name on it, and a sky full of snow. Fortunately, all of the harvesting had been done on the less cold-hardy plants already, and unless this cold snap dragged on into something long-term, it would be good for what we picked later in the season. Sweetens the berries.

I've got plenty of ways I could fill a free day, but the snow and that mystery box left little question what needed to be top of the list: Taking a census before winter fully moved in. As far as I could tell, while various people in various places took notes about events and connections, we'd never had one central, definitive list of everyone in the community, where they were living and how long they'd been around. With a second village in the mix now, this information was more important than ever. A proper census would give us the tools to start to prepare for winter in earnest — Not just in predicting how much food and firewood would be needed, but what roads needed to be cleared, medical preparations and more.

The box I mentioned before, it helped with this. It was full of items that were a huge help in getting organized: Pencils, binders, blessed paper. And chalk. There was only one place to use that.

After carefully copying the information that had been collected on the blackboard at the Inn, I wash down both sides and jumped right in: At the top of the outfacing side, I make three headings:

Name - Residence - Apx. Arrival

Beneath this, I start with my own info:

M. Watney - W. outskirts, blue - 1yr, 4 mo

"Why haven't we named the damn streets yet?" I mutter, and then began writing in what information I know on the rest of the villagers, leaving blank spaces for others to fill in next time they're at the Inn. But seriously, though, one more thing added to my to-do list: Street names and house numbers.
ad_dicendum: (in contionibus)
[personal profile] ad_dicendum
WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: The fields, the storehouse in 6I, around the village, and the Inn
WHEN: October 8-31
OPEN TO: All!!
WARNINGS: Brief mentions of slavery

The seasons are turning )

[ all locations are open, feel free to catch him in the fields, storehouse, scavenging around the village, or in the Inn]
zomboligist: (like please bitch)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Under a delicious tree (an evil, delicious tree)
WHEN: October 17th
WARNINGS: Ferrets, mischief, swearing

There is a ferret currently pawing at a sweater vest near one of the trees on the outskirts of town.

This isn't a sentence that Ravi would've ever assembled prior to this place, and yet, now it feels commonplace. If he weren't currently in a little ferret body, he might even feel compelled to squeak about how this place is awful. No. Wait, squeaking is for right now, which is what he's doing. It's all that bloody apple's fault for looking so green and perfect, and if someone's going to change you into a ferret after a few bites, he thinks he ought to be warned.

Of course, right now, maybe his priorities are a little off. First, there had been the immediate 'oh, fuck, I'm a ferret', and yet, after that, Ravi didn't think about switching back instantly. No, instead, he's far more concerned about the fact that he'd been wearing one of his best shirts and sweater vests and they're currently all in a pile where someone might step on them or, worse, might take them for their own. That won't do.

This is how there's come to be a tiny little angry Ravi-ferret pawing and clawing at the sweater vest to try and figure out a way to drag it with him back to his and Major's place. No opposable thumbs rule out hands, which means that teeth are next. That is, teeth are next until heavy footsteps and a looming shadow above him makes Ravi realize just how small he is and just how much he currently detests that stupid apple for making him like this.

What if it's permanent? What if he has rabies?

What if their dog eats him?

Letting out a panicked and angry squeak, Ravi clambers to protect his clothes ever the more, while simultaneously hiding behind one of his boots in case he ends up accidentally pelted by an over-eager kick.
3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 42
WHEN: September 23rd
OPEN TO: Mark Watney

The longer he stays in the main village, the more it feels like a mistake. He should be running again, he should be fending for himself against the foxes--and if he loses everyone he knows in the meantime, so be it. From the sound of Margaery’s panicked prediction, he has worse things to worry about.

Margaery’s prediction is its own problem.

Kira walks up the porch, leafy plants brushing at his knees. For a moment he tries to focus on that: the itch and slide, the wood with its slight give beneath his feet, the grain against his heels. The world has a texture and a scent, is firm beneath him, is sharp and real around him. Mark and Helen live about as far removed from the village as he does, and this long after the sun goes down, it’s quiet. He isn’t standing saturated in the panic of a gathering, or trying to cook through the hunger of a dozen early risers.

He’s alone enough on the porch that it’s just his own fear, his own exhaustion. In one hand is the folded pages of notes, Mark’s name across the outer edge, and he stoops down to shove it under the door. It’s been more than a month since the ability came back, but for ever brief reprieve, it’s gotten worse, not better. He’s done his best to track the timing in the notes, explain the severity, own up to the fact that Margaery’s new burden might be from a vial with his name on it.

He doesn’t expect Mark to fix it, but someone needs to know. If only to excuse Kira’s desire to hibernate under the dog until it’s all over.

When he gets up, he stumbles enough to catch himself on the door with a dull thud. It doesn’t seem loud enough to warrant a hasty retreat, he takes another moment at the bottom of the steps. There will be quiet and calm at home, but it won’t smell this green, and there’s another walk through occupied houses between him and his bed.
thenewways: Kira will trust you if she has to (a matter of trust)
[personal profile] thenewways
WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: The garden
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: OTA, with locked log for Watney
STATUS: open (OTA)

It's clear to nearly everybody (and that's despite everything that's come up to divert the attention of the group, particularly of late) that the change of seasons is upon them. Even though Nerys doesn't have any solid sense of Earth astronomy at all, and has no clue that autumn is nigh, she's not completely oblivious to the shift herself, even if the weather's been veering frantically over the course of the last month. Apparently staying firmly put in the 'cooling down' column isn't really how this works.

Either that or the observers roll the damn dice every day to see what the weather's going to be. Today it is absolutely frigid, to the point where Nerys had to pull out a couple of layers of sweater this morning just to steel herself up to the notion of working outside. She's wrapped her hands firmly as well, as much for the warmth as to protect them from her tools.

If there's anything that Nerys is good at, it's getting on with the business of surviving--while the village and the other finds intrigue her somewhat, they unsettle her even more. These days, the chill in the night air (and now the day too) means it's nearly harvest time, and if they don't start canning up what they've got right now, it's going to be a lean winter again. Not to mention that there are more people around to feed, and she has no intention of anyone starving on their watch.

It's not like the garden hasn't been through enough this year, the plants hanging on to their lives with a sheer tenacity that rivals the sentient beings of the village. Hell, rivals the damned foxes. The latter have, over the last few weeks, been making a mess out of what's still left to be harvested. Sure, using blood- and bone-meal for fertilizer probably attracts them, but that doesn't really account for the sheer maliciousness of what's been done--vegetables left in neat piles with a single large bite taken out of them, mounds of chewed up berries, holes dug in very precise locations. It's enough to piss a hungry Bajoran the hell off.

[kind sir, be civil, my company forsake - OTA
So that's why Nerys is out hoeing up potatoes on a freezing cold afternoon. If they can get these down into the cellar space at the inn, they'll last a few months, though not as long as if they could leave them in the ground a while yet. She's already cut an armload of late zucchini and squash without much incident, but word gets around both among the humanoid and vulpine populations, it would seem.

A pack of three foxes have spent the last ten minutes slinking up to and around the potato patch, circling Nerys in slowly narrowing concentric arcs. She could swear that they keep looking at her, with the kind of expression that indicates they want her to know they're looking. Despite herself (come on, the Cardassians have played this game with much higher stakes), the frustration's built up to the point of snapping in two. One fox tries to move a little too close, pushes the envelope, and Nerys finds herself snarling, brandishing the hoe like a pike at him.

"Get!" she shouts, voice cracking. "Damn it...all of you, get!"

The fox doesn't, though all of them freeze; instead, they seem to give her a look that asks her who exactly the animal is meant to be in this situation. It's not lost on Nerys, who bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck, come on," she says, almost pleading. "We just want to eat."

The foxes are, unsurprisingly, unmoved.

[sly, bold Reynardine - for Mark]
The potatoes are in, or at least as many as Nerys dares to harvest right now today. Midday's long gone and it's not gotten much warmer, and all she can think of is frost on the vines. So, despite herself, she's kept on working, switching over to the remaining beans. The goal with these is to can them in the containers from one of the earlier feasts, cap them with beeswax, and call it a day, hoping it won't kill them all.

It seems like a worthwhile thing to try, at least.

Nerys' got a half a bag full already when she realizes there's a fox watching her from over by the wastewater tub. Five minutes later, it hasn't ventured much closer, so she's pretty sure it's just a scout. She makes a silent snarling face at it, before shifting up to her feet to ease the strain on her hamstrings for a second--and in the process, ends up snarling at Mark across the plot of beans. The color of her face after she figures that out probably rivals the turning leaves across the field.

[refs are to the British/Irish were-fox folk song 'Reynardine'; Rhiannon Giddens does it well.]
theintercessor: (Default)
[personal profile] theintercessor
WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: The fields (behind the Town Hall)
WHEN: August 18, Afternoon
OPEN TO: ALL, Mingle style post for the Specimen Room plot
WARNINGS: See the Plot Post for details of the Specimen Room and its contents

Jude's glad to have the meeting out of doors, with or without the illness to prompt it. The cave-in hadn't scared him out of the canyon's cracks and crevices, but the room he'd found with Margaery might, and he needs every helping factor he can get to keep himself steady through the meeting. Public speaking is less a great fear than a thing he's never cared to do, but public speaking on a subject like this might prove too much, and if he pitches over again in front of someone, he's going to throw himself in the fountain and never come back out.

He'd gotten some help to carry the board out of the inn, tacking up fresh sheets of paper to the back of it. While others gathered those villagers well enough to come out to the fields, he'd done his best to recreate his and Margaery's view of the room through the glass, the layout of the coolers, the shape of the machinery at its center. Next to that, he'd tried to draw a rough overview of the room--what shape it might have from above, the placement of the door, the curve of the tunnel that Margaery had led him down.

As far as he'd noticed, there was no way around the rest of the cave to get at the door, but he hadn't been very inclined to look. When he pulls back from the board, charcoal staining his fingers, his brow where he'd wiped back his hair, he turns to find a crowd gathering behind him.

When it comes to the actual explanations, he struggles a bit to project his voice, but the words are there when he looks for them. He sticks to using the drawings to present the information, pointing to each element in turn. "There're electrical lights, florescent ones, in the room and the coolers, so I guess they're working too. And the glass was--uh, well, it was thick enough that knocking into it didn't break anything."  He drops his gaze to his feet, hiding behind his hair at the memory.

[OTA within the post or tag others. Please indicate in top levels if you do not allow threadjacking, or if you have specific warnings for threads. Use the link above for a complete list of details about the Specimen Room; ask questions, or assume that the details have been given in your threads!]
zomboligist: (oookay)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Hospital / Casa di Helen & Mark
WHEN: Anytime between August 7 - 10
OPEN TO: Mark, Helen, Kira, Major

It ought to be strange, really, taking your best friend from a world before and hiking him around for all your new friends to meet, but Ravi is somewhat determined to make sure that the people he feels closest to here really do like Major, especially seeing as he's going to end up picking up his life and moving in with him, mainly in an attempt to reclaim some of home again, but also because it's Major. How can he not move in with him and have incredible roomie shenanigans, again?

"They're going to love you," he vows, promising Major like he's the one who needs the pep talk instead of Ravi who needs a little bit of encouragement to sort of get over the fear that any of his friends are going to meet Major and, well, and not like him. He takes Major by the shoulders and stares at him like he's about to give him some sort of sports-related pep talk.

He doesn't, though, mainly because it would just make Major cringe and then Ravi would cringe with embarrassment and generally, it just wouldn't go over well. There's no time like the present, though, which is why he steers Major in the direction of the door, one hand draped around his shoulders like he's proudly showing off his latest creation (even if that sort of mad science has never been his bag of cats), plastering a broad smile on his face.

"Guess who has two thumbs and found a best friend?" he says, gesturing to himself, then to Major, then quickly back to himself. "I'd like to introduce you to Major Lilywhite. Yes, that is his name," Ravi says. "It's an unfortunate American thing, I think."
pretendtoneedme: (running in the woods)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme
WHO: Everyone
WHERE: 6I's Town Hall
WHEN: July 10th
OPEN TO: Everyone who wants in. There will be one subheader for welcoming back the group and one for the actual meeting
WARNINGS: Nothing so far; please add headers in the comment subjects if something does come up that could be problematic

The return is, when everything is said and done, uneventful. The group who went to explore the break in the canyon walks back into the village in the early afternoon, laden down with most of the supplies they'd brought with them and without any obvious injury. There's some scratches, a couple bruises, but whatever had happened to seal them away from the village for a week definitely didn't happen to them, and they're not buzzing with any news so world-shattering that everyone needs to be collected and reported to at once. There's enough time for the group to separate and grab showers, clean clothes, and something to eat, while the word passes from person to person that the explorers have returned and that there's going to be a meeting right after dinner for them to explain what they've found and answer questions.

At the appointed time, the five of them are there, looking less ragged, and ready to talk. They've brought a few things back with them to show the others in the village, but all in all there's just not a lot to show about the other side that's different - except for that one, giant thing. But the non-changes are going to be shocking enough for most people, and decisions have to be made about what to do with the information they have now.
notsocommon: (adventurous)
[personal profile] notsocommon
WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: 6I village, canyon breach, 7I village
WHEN: 2 - 10 July
OPEN TO: Bodhi Rook, Ned Stark, Mark Watney, Clint Barton
WARNINGS: None at this time.

As happened the last time an expedition was mounted, Helen found herself as part of a team to go and investigate something at the edge of the known world. This time, though, the known world had expanded to great degree and it seemed that the canyon that had hemmed them in and been the bane of all those trying to escape the last several months had rent in twain, leaving them with another side of the world to push forward and survey.

Of those she found herself traveling with, only Mark was truly familiar to her. She knew the others in passing, yes, but knowing faces and part of a name weren't the same as knowing someone and she hoped that they were as stalwart and competent as they seemed to be upon first glance. All of them seemed well aware of what such a trek was going to entail, at least, and Helen wasn't concerned that she'd end up having to carry a load bigger than she'd intended in asking them along.

She wished, as always, that she had supplies to be able to draw a map or make notes about the lay of the land beyond the breach. While she knew the forest and fields beyond the village well enough, everything beyond the canyon wall was going to be new territory entirely and she wanted some way to memorialize it for the others. She hoped that someone else had access to paper and pen, that someone would be willing to give up such a precious commodity for the good of the community and for the furthering of knowledge. Supplies gathered and goodbyes said, the hike was begun to the edge of the known world and into the great beyond.

"I have no idea what's beyond this breach," Helen said. "I cannot even speculate, since none of us have been able to climb it. Geology was never my strong suit."
markwatney: (014)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Fields and nearby
WHEN: 23 May, evening
NOTE: Please don't feel you have to talk to him about plants. I know how boring it can get.

The weather is starting to become a concern.

Now, I really am not a person prone to panic. Things have to be going pretty badly pretty abruptly for me to freak out. But I'm also aware of how nefarious a gradual change can be, and how dangerous to people not paying attention. Personally, I'm not interested in being a lobster in a slow-warming pot.

Then again, maybe I don't have much choice in that.

Point is, it's easier to pay attention to the fact that the sun is taking the opposite path in the sky than that we're getting way too warm too soon for this time of year. (And I could get into why it's implausible that the Earth has actually reversed rotation, including disruptions that would likely end all life, but it's way more boring than it sounds, so I'll just say I'm not buying it.) People are finding ways to cool off, and that's good -- Apart from physical health reasons, we don't get nearly enough opportunities to simply relax and have unfettered fun. The plants we've all been so tending so judiciously, though, don't have the option to take a dip.

The hail was bad enough. The damage was... Well, it wasn't great, obviously, but nothing we couldn't recover from. Assuming, of course, that everything stays relatively predictable. This heat and lack of rain? It isn't predictable.

I've been out in the fields all day today, even longer than normal, taking notes and measurements, doing what I can to ensure the plants are well fed and watered. We really cannot afford to lose a significant part of this harvest, not with the number of people in the village now. It's tedious, back-breaking work, but it has to be done.

And it's honestly probably a testament to how tedious and back-breaking it is that I am tired and distracted enough that I end up covered in shit. Not metaphorical shit; actual shit, courtesy of a poorly-timed misstep while I was shoveling fertilizer. Manure's coated all along the front of my thighs and torso, splashed up to my neck and chin.

"God damn it," I moan, picking myself up with a wince.
markwatney: (013)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark Watney
WHERE: Field, orchard and town hall
WHEN: Anytime in April
NOTE: Details on this year's planting can be found here.

Before I managed to wander completely off the map (again), I'd never been a farmer. Oh, I'd worked on a farm for purely academic purposes while I was in school, and I don't think it's unreasonable to say that I got to know the daily beats of tending to fields. But my time farming had previously been limited to a single term, and one of the things I'd missed was how quickly your days can go from stretching out long and listless to not having enough hours in them.

Planting season is finally here again.

Once the ground had thawed enough to allow for it, we'd expanded our fields and tilled them as well as we could -- We were still lacking in what most of us would consider "proper" tools for that, but I'd had plenty to time to rig up alternatives over the winter, and I have to admit, I'm pretty pleased with the outcome. "Engineer" tends to get overshadowed by the "botanist" in my list of credentials, but I'm glad I'm still a little worthy of the title.

Now it's just a matter of getting the seeds and seedlings planted, fertilized and watered as quickly as we can -- We've lost a handful of people to mysterious disappearances, but if the new arrivals keep on as steadily as they have been, we're going to have a lot more people than we did last fall. If we're going to feed everybody and still be able to put away enough for next winter, we need to harvest as much as we can as quickly as we can.

And no, today I'm really not going to think about the dubiousness of still being here next winter to care. One thing at a time.

I'm also not going to think about how I got another mystery box filled with seeds a few weeks back, and how god damned creepy that is.

The main fields will be split between a generous diversity of fruits, vegetables and the new grains I received. This year we're adding things like melons, corn, and yes, bane of my existence but still-useful staple, potatoes. We've also cleared out an area for an orchard where we'll have grapes, berries and eventually apple trees from the seedlings I've been fostering inside over the cold months. Also new is a little plot dedicated just to herbs, more necessary than ever now with our lack of ready salt.

With the town hall scrubbed and organized, it makes a perfect staging area and place to rest, have a drink or snack. That's also where we've laid out our tools of the trade, both gifted and cobbled together. This year, I want to make sure everyone has some kind of glove if I can. If they're willing to work, it's the least I can do.
pretendtoneedme: (waiting for the plan)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme
WHO: Clint Barton
WHERE: Woods behind House 20, Wreckage of House 14, and the mill
WHEN: March 11-13
OPEN TO: Anyone who wants in
WARNINGS: Nothing as of yet; will alter if that changes

Target Practice (March 11)

Even with the weather still very cold, one of the first things Clint does every morning is go for a run - through the village, not the woods, so as to minimize any chance of random attack by the creatures he's been told live in the forest and any accidents that could land him in a spot where he can't get to (or call for) help. Anyone paying attention to the area around breakfast time would easily be able to spot him and tell this is a familiar routine for him.

But this time when he goes out for his run, there's a box on the porch of House 20.

He's been told about these by a few different people, the "gifts" left anonymously by, presumably, whoever had locked them in here to begin with, and he's fully prepared to ignore it until he sees that the tag on top bears his name. Not bothering to get off the porch, Clint stoops down to lift off the lid, revealing something he hadn't expected at all: throwing knives, six of them in two flat sheathes, along with materials to keep them honed and polished. The sheathes are clearly meant to be worn over a belt, which he doesn't have, but he can rig something up. And he's never minded drawing from a pocket anyway. They're obviously sharp.

His run that day is foregone in favor of practice. One of the destroyed houses is right down the road, so he'd gone and lifted a few pieces of wood from the pile and propped them against some trees beyond the Avengers' home (specifically out of the way of the road). He doesn't bother painting targets on anything, but he spends a good two hours throwing his new knives at the poor, splintered wood, deciding where the sheathes would fit best for future access, getting used to the heft of the blades and their feel in his hand. For shits and giggles, he'd also borrowed a bow from the inn's storeroom when grabbing his targets and shoots with that, too. The draw weight is still way, way below what he's used to and the arrows feel like feathers in his hands, not weapons, but the only way to become more familiar with a specific weapon is to use it.

He never misses, with either weapon.

Salvage (March 12)

The wreck of (what had been) House 14 has been taunting him for a bit now, ever since he, Wanda, and Sam had decided to move to the north of the village and they have to pass it every day to get to almost anywhere. His promise to look at the mill and see what can be done there and his annoyance at not having his normal arsenal of Home Depot collectibles at his disposal during the Town Hall cleanup have been ringing in his head lately. There's just not a lot to work with here, and they definitely have to use their ingenuity more than anyone he's met so far had at home. There's no way out (that they know of) and, with the exception of the gifts they're sometimes given, no supply chains to rely on, and those are hardly reliable

So it's time to get creative. Also desperate. After a run and a half-hour of target practice, Clint wraps his hands in rags to protect them, grabs the tools he'd claimed from Nat's things, and heads down to House 14, or what's left of it. Because he's going to be hunting for nails and other useable objects and pieces in that mess, cracking and prying open boards as needed to reach them, and throwing the scraps out into a semi-neat pile for people to claim as firewood and even kindling for their furnaces. He even takes a piece and scratches "free to good furnace" in the dirt of the road with an arrow pointed at the pile, because that's all most of the pieces are good for. The ones that are mostly intact and fairly large he sets aside in another pile for future projects, whatever they might be.

Inspection (March 13)

One day's all Clint can really take of continual destruction without proper gear - even with the rags protecting his hands, he'd still gotten a couple of splinters ripping the house apart the day before. Inspecting the mill will be a better use of the day to let the punctures heal up a little, though he'll have to stop himself from diving into any project that isn't absolutely simple and not a huge strain. While he's not an engineer or a mechanic, he'll at least be able to tell what's needed to get started on the place, even if he can't fix everything himself.

As he crosses the bridge to the other side of the river, he can tell that a couple of blades on the wheel have either broken or rotted away, but that damage seems negligible. Someone had built a water gate to isolate the wheel from the current of the river which is closed at the moment, so the wheel itself isn't turning. At least he won't have to worry about getting crushed by moving machinery. The building itself looks sound from all sides, built sturdily of heavy stone closely fitted together and a few windows in each wall for natural light, so any problems are likely to be inside, with the machinery itself. Clint pauses a few feet from going in, looking up at the building with a considering gaze for several seconds, and then heads on in.
markwatney: (013)
[personal profile] markwatney
WHO: Mark & Anyone
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: Feb 16, afternoon through evening
OPEN TO: EVERYONE! This is a mingle post!
WARNINGS: N/A - Please warn in thread subject lines if needed

When we all get together and have our town meetings, the truth is that a lot of times we don't come up with the sort of solutions we're looking for. I'm not trying to say we're complacent -- Or at least not all of us, not the people speaking up in the meetings -- but just that the nature of living here, such as it is, means that answers aren't exactly forthcoming.

But the latest meeting, the one about organizing, creating some kind of formal entity to oversee the group of us, it threw something into sharp relief for me: I've been talking for a long time about how we all need to be sharing our knowledge as a safeguard, but I haven't been doing much to make this happen beyond sharing my own personal knowledge. And that's really just not acceptable -- Not here, not when we've apparently got an entire section of the population asking for active leadership and another section who might just be too shy or apathetic to admit it.

So, I've been trying to figure out a way to kickstart this project. A way for people to even put out there the sort of knowledge they have to share. You have to start somewhere.

I've never had a problem getting people together to help with the field, but somehow we've been neglecting the town hall building right next to it this entire time. It's one of the biggest buildings in town, but it's still coated in dust and cobwebs, piles of leaves drifted into corners. The inn is starting to get a little crowded during meetings; it might be nice to have a little more room, a place where people come to share.

Regardless of how you feel about community leadership, I think most of us can get behind that.

A couple days before, I put out the call: A cleaning party. We get together, clean out the town hall, and afterward we have a little potluck. People can bring premade dishes, or we can cook out back over a bonfire. We can just be around each other, in a relatively safe space, just having a moment to relax and say hello. Meet someone new, find out where to begin.

After everything that's happened recently, I really think we could use it. I'm just hoping I'm not the only one who shows up.

[CLEANING PARTY & MIXER! Threads can take place during the CLEANING portion, after during the MIXER or BOTH. They can be indoors, upstairs, in the attic, out back by the bonfire, chowing down, whatever -- It's 100% cool to improvise! Mark will have expressly told folks this is about getting to know each other and what they can each do, too. There are some additional OOC notes here.]
notsocommon: (slightly victorian)
[personal profile] notsocommon
WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: hospital, schoolhouse, outside the butchers, Inn
WHEN: 7 February - 14 February

i. fixed law of gravity

Thanks to the work done by Rory, the hospital was something approaching hospitable. There were beds inside it, yes, but Helen wasn't certain that the narrow sickbays could really be considered proper beds or not. It was more of a triage station, really, or a field hospital to her modern standards and she was reminded yet again of all the medicine she'd practiced during the two great wars; there was little that rattled the nerves quite as much as hearing and feeling the vibrations of shells and mortar just outside one's door while trying to heal the sick and make them comfortable.

Helen could do without ever seeing another war.

Still, it was the nature of human beings to fight and while there hadn't been many quarrels here in this place, Helen wasn't naive enough to believe that it would always be so calm or that their threats would always come in easy to handle packages. The injuries this month were proof enough of that. No one had been hurt terribly as of yet but she was certain it was not far off, considering the lightning only increased in frequency as days passed.

Currently, she was in the midst of cataloging her meager supplies with which to treat burns. There were bandages, there were poultices and her very precious store of penicillin. She had five syringes, prepared if she should have to use them, and there was no reason to believe she'd ever get more. Their captors had been gracious enough to give her the medicine once. She wouldn't be the one to waste it.

She was ripping linens at the moment in order to make more bandages and hoped that she'd never have occasion to use quite as many as she'd made.

ii. so simple a beginning

After putting in a long day of scouring the woods for more herbs and dodging lightning where she could, Helen found herself in the Inn for a cup of her preciously-hoarded coffee and a bite to eat. She'd been grateful that there was food already cooked when she'd arrived at the kitchens and made a note to bring more berries and herbs to replenish Kate's stores from time to time. It was what she could do to help, after all, and while she could cook she was also content to eat the cooking of others.

She had a bowl of stew balanced on one knee and a mug of coffee in the other as she sat by the fire, lost in reflection and memory. There had been disappearances of late, a rash of them, and she wondered what that meant. Their captors never seemed to announce why they did things and she supposed it was futile to assume they'd start doing it now. Once she'd finished eating, she pulled out her notes from Annie and Finnick's findings, trying to make sense of the new information they'd discovered.

She wound up moving from the chair to the floor and when that didn't give her enough room, she decided to take the lot of her work over to the schoolhouse in order to avail herself of the slates inside there. She took care not to erase anything already on the chalkboards, not wanting to ruin someone else's work, but took up a piece of it herself and started trying to make sense of the muddled equations and endless lines of text.

"It doesn't bloody make sense she exclaimed in frustration, banging a closed fist in an uncharacteristic fit of pique. Even her own mind had been tested by this and if she couldn't figure it out, what hope did she have of ever finding a way back home? How could she provide insight and understanding to the people here if she couldn't make heads of tails with what she'd been presented? She sank down at one of the desks, sitting hard enough to send it flying a few inches.


iii. endless forms most beautiful

Having given up on the mystery of the pods for the time being, Helen decided to make herself useful and was tending a hot fire and a veritable cauldron of soap. The butcher's was the only place where she had the equipment to render fat properly and while it was smelly, disgusting work, the end result was quite nice. It reminded her of being a girl, making soaps and things by hand and once she had the soda ash added to the fat, she could start the process of turning the lot of it into soap.

This batch was going to be scented with lemon, one of the precious essential oils she'd been gifted, and it lent the air a fresh, clean scent. It was something neutral, something that simply smelled of clean and she hoped that the others in the village would agree with that assessment. If not, they were free to make their own soap, she supposed, though she was the only one who seemed to make any in any real quantity.

The next batch was blood orange and the final, at the end of the day, ended up scented with lavender. Once she'd poured it into the crude molds she'd crafted of wood she covered it with towels to let it cure. Later, after it'd set up, she'd slice it into thick bars but for now it would simply have to set. There were more than a few lye burns on her hands once she'd finished for the evening and she wondered if the powers that be would gift her a set of proper gloves. They would have more than one use. Of that, she was absolutely certain.
zomboligist: (oh please no)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Outside Ravi's House
WHEN: February 4th
WARNINGS: Lightning Storm

The auroras and the lightning have seemed harmless. It's beautiful, of course, but Ravi's so occupied with the science behind this place that he doesn't even pay much mind to what's in the sky. It's just another component of what might be a simulation. Then, all of a sudden, the lightning isn't so pretty when it's getting close enough to scare him to death, stealing sleep away from Ravi. It's put him on edge, obviously, he'd be an idiot not to be, but what he hadn't been expecting was for things to continue on in this general bad direction.

He'd been cleaning up from some tests on the local foliage (using spring water to see what growth rates it could yield) when suddenly, his house explodes, a concussive blast that forcibly knocks him off his feet, one of the front walls having burst in. Not just that, but there are singed wires in the walls exposed, on fire, and it takes him a moment to realize what's just happened.

His hair is practically standing on end, the particles around him so supercharged, and he knows, right this moment, that his house has been struck by the sort of intense lightning that causes this sort of damage. It's paranoia and true fear that sends him skittering out of the house, bundling up a bag of whatever he can grasp, rushing outside and tripping in his clumsy struggle to escape before another bolt can hit and kill him, the way it had done to Ren.

He ends up curled up on the ground, his possessions around strewn around him, and all logic and sanity goes out the window as he curls up in the fetal position, hands protecting his head as sparks start to shoot off his skin. "I have lived through too much shit to die like this," he moans out loud, rocking a little. "If I'm cooked to a crispy Chakrabarti, make sure someone commemorates me with a beautiful drawing." Internally, he adds, and please, please don't let anyone turn me into a charred zombie.
andrend: (04 I hear something more)
[personal profile] andrend
WHO: Kylo Ren
WHERE: Just outside the Inn
WHEN: February 1st
OPEN TO: All; Threadjack style
WARNINGS: None other than that this is really long.

The fact that daily meals not only existed, but seemed to do so in spite of snow, earthquakes, and auroras in the sky, was one of a few consistently positive glimmers of hope for the village and its inhabitants. It also had the benefit of drawing a large number of those same inhabitants to one predictable location more often than not. For Ren, that was normally a reason to avoid the inn in the hours after dawn and before dusk. However, with his mind on the conversations he had had with Sansa and Veronica, and the missing beast presumably still roaming somewhere out in the canyon, Ren knew he couldn't keep approaching the problem the way he had been, previously.

Veronica's advice still lingered in his mind fresh enough after a month of thought to have him trying something new. He waited for a good number of people to enter the inn before doing so himself, and asked, with a softened tone and a calm voice, if people could spare a moment when they finished to have a discussion.

He had missed the most recent meeting, entrenched as he had been in his training. It had been another lost opportunity, and he wanted no more of those. This was as good of a chance as any, and he was taking action before action could be taken from him.

With his request submitted, he left the inn and borrowed a sturdy crate from outside one of the unused buildings. He took a seat on it, just outside the front of the inn, during the meal. Most people came and went through the doors, and it gave him a good position without worrying about the crowding of the growing village's size packed inside one space.

When enough people decided to come out and take part, he stood back up, his long hair loosely pulled back, and the scar the cut across his face and down his arm far more visible for it. He looked around at the faces gathered, some familiar, others new, and straightened his back, standing taller and more assured. He needed people to trust him, or at least trust that what he had to say might be important. But he could not be harsh, he could not demand. He had to coax reason out, and the only way to do so was to offer his ideas as ideas, and nothing more.

"A lot has happened in this canyon. Some of you have been here for far more of it than I have. There have been hazards, storms, unusual discoveries, and violent creatures. People come and go, almost always without the slightest inclination as to how or why. I myself have gone and returned, and I remember nothing of it." He paused there, one hand holding onto the metal staff he had been using so long now it had become an extension of him. He rested it on the ground like a cane now, using it to keep himself grounded.

"This canyon is unpredictable. The dangers and threats that may face us in the future can not be anticipated wholly, and there is no way of knowing who among us will still be around to see them. But one thing is clear. I do not believe our captors have ever intended anything positive of this place. They observe, and they prevent our escape. They take our strength, our possessions, our memories," He hesitates a moment, his grip tightening on the staff, his voice sharper for a moment before settling back to an even tone. "And they toy with us. We have no idea who they are, what their true intentions may be, or how they came to bring us here, only that for now we are trapped here, together."

He looks over the group that has gathered, a frown crossing his face, his brows furrowed a moment before smoothing over. He has to choose his words carefully, and for the sometimes reckless young man, it isn't easy not to dive straight in.

"I think it's time we discuss whether or not this place needs more than the loose assortment of tasks and common, repeated actions it has as it currently stands. I believe we need a leadership in place. A council. With how unpredictable this place has proven to be, no one person can or should be trusted with that task but more dangers will come, we will face more disasters, more attacks that we can not see coming. We can not assume that we will always have the luxury of waiting until after the fact to react."

He breathes, slow and deep, and tries to find the words again, searching for the right phrasing, the right voice.

"I think a council is something we should consider. A group of people to share the burden of making tough calls or assigning tasks when things go wrong, or when something needs to get done. It will not work, however, if disagreement runs rampant underneath it. That's why I came here. At the very least, it should be discussed. If the majority is against it, I will drop the matter, but if we do not at least have this conversation, I do not think this village will last many disasters before the fragile organization the structure of it is currently built on collapses and falls apart."

Having said his piece, Ren stepped aside, and offered the area he had been speaking from to anyone who might choose to use it.

[This is a meeting post open to threadjacking, interruptions, opinions, and the like. If your character has anything to say, let them do so. I'll drop a secondary comment below for Ren specifically, otherwise go wild and respond to anyone you like or start your own thing. It's intended to be an IC discoure over whether or not the village needs some form of leadership, but any actual organizing of a leadership is not intended or planned to be formed from this meeting.]
fishermansweater: (What do you think?)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Evening of January 20th
OPEN TO: EVERYBODY! Kate and Finnick will be doing their best to make sure everyone is summoned knows
WARNINGS: Who knows with Finnick? Nothing expected.

It's late in the day by the time Finnick and Annie return to the village. They've pushed the timing as late as they can: while the auroras are still lighting up the night well enough to see by, they do nothing for the cold that creeps deeper under Finnick's skin with the sinking of the sun. And they definitely do nothing for the snow that had begun to fall again while Finnick and Annie were in the cave, their light dimmed somewhat by the heavy clouds.

The Careers need to get back to the village, and night falls early, now it seems to be something like midwinter.

They'd discussed whether or not to tell the villagers what they'd found. Finnick had thought they'd be giving up a vital potential advantage, but ...

Annie had been right that hiding what they'd found would damage their standing, and while he doesn't care about their reputation here much, he does care that Annie thinks they should be trying to get themselves closer to the villagers, not further away from the community. It has seemed to be the point of their gifts.

So when they make it back to the village at around dusk, they don't skirt around the houses like they usually do, sneak their way through the edges of the woods and find a roundabout way to get back to their house. Today, they go straight for the crossroads at the centre of the village, and straight into the Inn.

Finnick needs to find Kate Kelly, because she knows how to make things happen around here, and if they're going to tell everyone what they found, they need the villagers to gather.

"Kelly," he tells her when she finds her, "We need to call a town meeting. There's something people should know."

So it is that as night falls over the rooftops, gleaming green in the aurora-light as it bounces off snow, people who arrive response to a summons to the large main room of the Inn will find Finnick standing at the front of the room, holding a sketchbook. His ever-present spear is resting against the wall next to him, just next to their meticulously sketched map of the canyon on the stolen curtain.

There's a new mark on one side of the canyon walls.

[ This is your standard mingle-type meeting post! Finnick will have an OTA comment but feel free to mingle, start your own things, threadjack, whatever. ]
theroadremains: (I’ve drowned and dreamt this moment)
[personal profile] theroadremains
WHO: Son of John
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker. Pretty much all the big buildings near the fountain/inn. If your character lives there he might knock or peek through the windows.
WHEN: January 7th - Night and January 8th
OPEN TO: The post is open to everyone but each section has a set number of tags available to it.
WARNINGS: an instance of short, mild musings about ceasing to exist.

The water is cool and clear. )


15 Dec 2016 06:19 pm
3ofswords: (facepalm)
[personal profile] 3ofswords
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Arriving out of the Fountain, later at the Inn - evening or night
WHEN: December 15

When you're a kid, even growing up on the Hudson, there's something magical about snow.  You watch it fall from the grey sky, you catch it on your tongue--it's pure, and light, and you barely feel the cold.

At 26, face-down in it with his hood flipped over his head, Kira's fucking sick of it.  His face is going numb, his cheeks burning and chapped, and it tastes like the smell of the nearest dumpster with a fine dusting of cigarette ash.  The footsteps of the rioters grows closer, pauses.  His fingers don't so much as twitch over the 6mm in his pocket, though the opposite hand strokes one finger against the side of his cards, seeking the smallest comfort.  The deck told him to come back, and he can feel the three of swords at the top, his message to Ty scratched to the back of it--go home.

The gun isn't an option, against so many footsteps.  He has to play it safe, just another body in the alley, waiting for them to pass.  He has to get into the building, find the stash.  He has to get these antibiotics, or Ty isn't going anywhere.

He grits his teeth, grey snow melting against his lips.  Exhaustion saves him from flinching when a silencer taps against his hip.  "Leave it man, shit's still dirty out here.  We've got places to be."  The rifle lifts; someone steps over his body.  The snow crunches, broadcasting their footsteps down the alley and around a corner.  He'll give it another minute, until the sounds fade and the silence only Winter can bring falls again.

It's the span of his body relaxing, his head ready to tilt up, his eyes ready to open--he swears he falls asleep.  Passes out, loses the plot: when he blinks awake the world isn't divided between cold snow and cold wind.  It goes deeper, swallows everything around him, keeps the world dark when he opens his mouth and eyes and starts to gasp--only to find himself choking.  He doesn't wonder if the earth gave way under him, if he's fallen through the concrete and subway into the fucking sewers, if he's lost his mind and someone's dragged him back to toss him in the river.  All he can do is kick his feet, hit a hard surface below him and push for the surface, breaking it moments later with a whooping cough and a hoarse "What the fuck?"

The surface of the water provides no substantial answers, though it reveals the edge to be within reach.  Expecting a waterlogged parka to weigh him down, he tugs hard at the lip of a stone fountain, rolling himself several times over--a backpack?

Laid on his side, a parenthesis to the foreign landmark, he coughs and gasps again, air no warmer than Manhattan's assaulting his soaked body.  He's close enough to reach out a hand and lay it on the edge once more, his panic and confusion elaborating on their theme: "Fucking christ, what is this?"

[optional - at the pub]

Shockingly, a second dip in the freezing waters hadn't improved the situation, or his understanding of it.  He can't swim back to the alley and his hypothermic delusion is so advanced it's also trying to give him hypothermia, until he Inceptions himself out the other side and sets himself on fire in a daze, probably.  Hopefully--crazy and freezing to death is better than trapped.  At least his body combined with the note he left might lead someone to the supplies.

He stares down at the food left in front of him, wondering why he couldn't imagine a step up from what he'd been serving at the safehouse, and nudges it around on the plate just to feel his hand moving, see the signal his brain sends reach his body, try to decide if this is actually real.

He should eat, his fingers shaking from that as much as the cold, as much as the fear--but he pushes the plate back and hides them in the pockets of his new coat, burrowing into the warmth, missing his dirty old parka.

thecatinahat: (tip of the hat)
[personal profile] thecatinahat
WHO: Cougar Alvarez & The Hunting Party
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: December 12th
OPEN TO: All - jump in wherever it suits!
WARNINGS: Discussion of violence

In a way, the village is strangely like coming home even though it's not one that Cougar would ever have claimed. Maybe it's not that he's relieved to see the village, but just that he's relieved that the long hike back with a heavy, eight foot beast on his shoulders that reeks and makes him smell awful has been wearing on his last nerve, making his patience dwindle to the point that when the inn comes into sight, it's a good thing, otherwise Cougar might have killed the first thing they came across.

The beast is large and looming and he's inclined to believe Helen's theory that this is what killed the animals and Karen. The rest of what they've found is equally as confusing, but given the amount of people they seem to be attracting given their cargo and the smell, Cougar doubts they'll have any trouble rallying the troops to discuss it.

He hefts up the animal over his shoulder for the last few feet into the inn when the door is held open for him, heaving it off his shoulders so it collapses on the floor. Cougar digs out his hat from his back pocket, sliding it on his head, and glancing over his shoulder at the people who have come in. He tips his hat to them as he glances back at the creature, bending down to haul the arrow out of the thing's eye, because he'd carved this one himself. "It's dead," he offers in a rough deadpan, the sarcasm dryer than some of the winter days.

Sniffing himself, he grimaces and heads off to the corner with one last jut of his thumb towards the group. "They know more." And with that, he heads upstairs to try and get some of the awful smell off and to wrap up the bruise on his chest, just in case.


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