womanofvalue: (off kilter)
[personal profile] womanofvalue
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Outside the Inn
WHEN: September 1st
OPEN TO: Steve Rogers

It's been an odd few weeks most recently, what with one thing after another. Part of her feels like there are pieces of this puzzle that she's missing, because it seems far too obvious that the flu had somehow been connected to the opening to the other side of the village, not to mention that strange room of samples. It's the latter that's truly weighing on her, tugging at old, raw memories that she doesn't like to think about. Every night, she dreams about standing on the Brooklyn Bridge with what she'd thought was Steve's last vial of blood, but she'd been wrong, hadn't she?

What if they've got more of it here? What if this is some elaborate scheme to get at Erskine's serum and she's been looking past the obvious the whole time? Part of her is also aware that she's using the incident and discovery as a way to ignore the other dreams she's been having. Steve has been here with her for months now and Peggy is no closer to understanding how to open up and tell him how she feels if it isn't already glaringly obvious.

Every time she closes her eyes, she thinks about bloody Steve Rogers and how she'd kept trying to protect him even after he'd gone, like somehow she could save him when he had been frozen so far away from her. Will this just be another retreat of last time, another instance of Peggy being unable to do anything but let fate trod all over her and take away what she'd just figured out she wanted. It's these thoughts that plague the back of her mind as she wanders around the village to try and give herself inspiration and perhaps it's simply her mind directing her there or the universe pointing her that way, but she ends up finding Steve outside, working, and isn't entirely sure whether she's prepared.

Well, now she has to be, she decides, never one to shy away from something potentially difficult.
163: (40)
[personal profile] 163
WHO: Steve Rogers and YOU
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Town Hall
WHEN: 16 June
OPEN TO: Open to all
WARNINGS: No warnings as yet.
STATUS: Open to new threads

on a steel horse i ride. )
paragon: and a stronger right arm. (aou ☆ 005)
[personal profile] paragon
WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The inn, The Florence, about town
WHEN: Evening of January 9th
OPEN TO: Natasha Romanoff
WARNINGS: Sadly, none.
STATUS: Ongoing

It's one of the few times he's ever been grateful for the cold. Steve opens the box with his name on it that he finds on the porch one morning (he's heard of them appearing, but never gotten one himself) and knows immediately and with a deep, steadying breath, the fog of condensed air in front of his mouth a visible, ephemeral proof of his nerves, what he'll use it for. But he needs a day or two to secure time to himself in the inn's kitchen, to ask Sam to clear out that evening, and to ask Miss Kate for some of the salt she hoards so closely. For a special occasion, he ends up telling her. Hopefully, he doesn't say, though she also lets him have a pinch of pepper from her supply, and rosemary when he asks for it for the potatoes, so he figures he didn't have to.

(She warns him only to use a little, because their taste buds will feel the kick more intensely after months without, which sounds promising to Steve.)

In the meantime, the box will keep just fine, nestled in the snow by the side of the house (and secured against any foragers, like Tony's pet raccoon, of all things). When he opens it again it's two days later and a couple of hours before he plans to get started in the kitchen. The meat needs the time to thaw, after Steve carries the box to the inn with the spices. There's (unsurprisingly) little of the wine left from the Thanksgiving meal, but with the gifts last month they've preserved enough of a supply to be sufficient for cooking and a couple of full glasses, and he has no compunctions about using it for this.

After more than one trip between the inn and the house (and pressing the man named Gaius into standing lookout in case Natasha had come down the stairs in the meanwhile, though it'd involved a bit of miscommunication at first thanks to Steve's barely passable Italian and the combined efforts of Bucky and Tony on him until they'd all three formed a sort of motley guard around the entrance to the kitchen), Steve closes the door to his and Sam's place to head to the inn one last time. He looks up at the sky as he crosses the porch and heads down the steps again — it's not quite as bright as day, but the auroras illuminate everything below them well enough for none of them to need help to see where they're going at night now. Safer, too, though it's not the selling point he's planning to go with.

Steve pulls his hands out of his pockets to open the inn door, the shape of it familiar now, and once inside heads directly to the stairs. He goes to Natasha's floor and then her room, knocking once on the door. "Nat? I'm gonna take a quick look around outside before turning in, if you wanna join me."
womanofvalue: (relaxed)
[personal profile] womanofvalue
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: #43 - The Vincennes
WHEN: December 27th - Evening
STATUS: Open (Gathering Style)

When the gifts had arrived, Peggy had treated them at first with the same suspicion as anything else here. Things simply weren't that good to be true, but these gifts had people's names on them this time. With the exception of several that she couldn't begin to understand (such as that one from a man named Ivan, that she barely recalled interacting with), the rest were so kind and thoughtful that she soon found herself with a wealth of possessions she hadn't hoped to possess here.

The party had been borne of one single thought: I have nowhere to wear such lovely things and when she'd found the wine and liquor from others (including Tony, which didn't surprise her in the very least), she knew that she could change that. She'd posted a quick notice at the inn using some of the cardboard of a box and the lovely fountain pen Helen had given her, then did the same at many of the public buildings, inviting people to her home and inviting them to bring any food or drink they might like to provide, as well as suggesting this as an opportunity to wear their fanciest.

She set out her drinks (the ones she was willing to share) and made sure to tidy the home so that it was presentable. In her youth, back during her first engagement, she might have imagined entertaining like this on a regular basis, but that had been swept away by the war. Instead, Peggy was left hoping that such a gala would be acceptable and that she wouldn't simply be here alone tonight.

Setting her new record player (and her single record) down, she cranked it to begin playing the record that had come with it (a pressing of the Glenn Miller Band), and then she began to convince herself that there was nothing more that she could do.
almightythor: (shirtless)
[personal profile] almightythor
WHO: Thor Odinson
WHERE: The Inn, village roads, his bungalow
WHEN: 2nd December
OPEN TO: all
WARNINGS: none at this time

When Thor awoke, he was not cold. This, of course, was a new development considering that winter had fallen upon their village several weeks ago and had not let up for some time. There had been snowfall for most days and even though it had cleared the day of the feast, it had come right back. He had grown used to the idea that this was a place where it snowed, quite a lot, and they were in for a long, dark winter.

So why, precisely, was it unbearably warm? He kicked off his blankets and padded out onto the porch of his house wearing nothing but the too-short scrub bottoms that he had been gifted upon his first arrival to this strange place. It should have been cold enough to make his skin break out in goosebumps and yet, instead, it was not. When flakes of snow hit his skin, they hissed and melted almost immediately.

"What strange trick is this?" he asked, holding out his hand to examine it? As he did so, flickers of flame extended from the tips of his fingers and he blew on them quickly, trying to extinguish the fire. "Madness," he muttered. "It is clearly madness."

He went back into the house and dressed, intending to head to the Inn for breakfast and for the chance to speak with others. Was he the only one who had suddenly woken up like this or were there others? Were others experiencing fire coming off their fingers and steam off their heads; were others so hot that even a blanket was too much in the cold of winter?

"Tell me the meaning of this," he demanded, stepping into the Inn and opening the palm of his hand, revealing a ball of flame. "Why do I have fire? Does anyone else have fire? Has someone seen my brother here?"

If Loki were involved, there was no telling what all of this meant for the village. No telling at all.
paragon: i'm in a glass case of emotion. (beard ☆ 007)
[personal profile] paragon
WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The Windemere
WHEN: Morning of November 25
OPEN TO: Annie Cresta
WARNINGS: Only current plot, will edit if necessary.
STATUS: Closed

Steve's been spending less time in the woods since the onset of the snow. Not that he's abandoned his one-man logging operation entirely — he doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he didn't having something to keep his mind and body occupied, something useful, and they're gonna need as much wood as they can get — but maneuvering both his body and fallen trees through the snow means more effort, means he gets tired quicker. Not as quickly as a normal man, but still sooner than he'd like, emerging from the woods with his haul usually not long after midday. That still leaves a lot of hours to fill before sundown.

It hadn't been a problem yesterday, between arriving early at the inn as usual to find the feast, and somehow finding himself trying to convince Natasha not to abscond with all the candles, and then the woman's, Karen's, death. There had been plenty of work to do after that, though Steve still rises early, finally cleaning himself up as soon as he has the light to do so, and it's still far from mid-morning before he makes his way to the outskirts of the village.

He doesn't think anyone will have told them yet; they'd left, unsurprisingly, long before dark, though he'd been glad to see them at the inn for as long as they had stayed. He also knows they didn't go back to the woods. As much time as he spends out there himself, he would see them if they were still around. He figured weeks ago that they'd found a better place for the winter, survival taking precedence over paranoia, and there's only one house out here that he's seen lately with smoke rising from its chimney. He climbs the steps to the door, cautious of any boobytraps, and raises a hand to knock.

"Annie, it's Steve," he says to the painted wood, breath fogging the air in front of it.
lastofthekellys: (perched to fly)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn/Pub's main room
WHEN: 2st December
OPEN TO: E V E R Y O N E not going on science/hunt quest. Hunt a monster, miss a meeting <.<
WARNINGS: TBA as needed

For the past few days, Kate has been spreading the word that there'll be a meeting after lunch today. The previous meetings had been in reaction to something, and to a certain extent, this one is no different. But Kate wants to try something else: planning. Planning on how to deal with the coming months when the weather will only get worse. How to deal with blizzards, storms. How to deal with problems hopefully before they arise.

And, maybe, it makes her feel better doing this. Organising something, now that her comrade-in-practical-arms (Mark Watney) has left her to go trek after a monster. Far, far more practical than having hysterics. Which she won't admit to having to anyone but her cat and Benedict.

(Her tea that night might have been spiked with a dash of whiskey to insure that she slept.)

Today, the weather is cold. There is snow on the ground, and the sun isn't coming out to play. It is the kind of day where people linger over their meals in the warmth of the Inn anyway, seats near the fireplace taken quickly. Towards the end, Kate starts to organise for the meeting. One of the smaller tables is tipped over its side so Ivan has something to write on to take the minutes, and Kate hands him some pieces of precious chalk.

Then she stands on a chair and taps a spoon against a tiny saucepan in lieu of a bell.

"Attention, please! I call this meeting to order. So much as we ever get order. Winter's not goin' away in a hurry, so before we all run into trouble, we're goin' t'come up with some ideas and share knowledge. Not all of us come from the same world, let alone the same environment. If it seems obvious to you, say it anyway, because it might not be to others. Everyone got that? Good."

With that, she steps off the chair and sits on it.

Meeting's begun.

[OOC: Like our other meetings, set-up is mingle and threadjackable unless otherwise specified. Please set up your own heading posts for various topics that your characters would bring up for some organisation, but otherwise, have fun!]
seekingcrocodile: (what is this madness)
[personal profile] seekingcrocodile
WHO: Frank Castle, Killian Jones, and ota
WHERE: near the inn/the inn
WHEN: the night of the feast
WARNINGS: Uh. Gore and blood and stuff.
STATUS: Open and ongoing.

After four mutilated animals in as many weeks, Frank isn’t feeling much like celebrating. Word gets around, and the sudden appearance of this morning’s feast does nothing to settle him. They need the food, to be sure, with more hungry mouths coming out of the fountain every day and their winter stores getting no fuller; he doesn’t begrudge those who decide to eat it — but a meal like that appearing out of thin air? Sounds like a trap to him, and somebody’s got to not get caught in it. (If the feast would have turned his thoughts to crayon-colored hand turkeys and cookie crumbs and Frank Jr.’s small, still fingers in the blood-wet grass no matter what the circumstance, Frank doesn’t let his mind linger too long on that. )

Almost as soon as he’d arrived at the inn, Frank had set back out into the cold, bright day, but by the time the sun start to dip he’s swinging back towards it again, black wool coat buttoned up over his overalls, a lamp swinging by his side.

The now-familiar scent of fresh woodsmoke gusts through the air — and beneath it, the coppery bite of blood.

Killian had fewer qualms about enjoying the feast, even though he is still uncomfortable at the thought of someone watching them. Someone toying with them. But like he’d said all those months ago after he and Jo found the weapons (or tools, as some prefer to think of them), it’s also about survival, and the spread of food currently occupying the inn will go a long way towards ensuring their survival for another day. Discovering the presence of alcohol, which he hasn’t had a drop of in months, was another deciding factor in his determination to enjoy the food and worry about its consequences later. (He’s good at dealing with consequences. He’s had a lot of practice at just going with a situation.)

Even though the warm inn, with its smells of food and the smoke from the fire, is exactly the sort of place he used to frequent when he and his crew would put in at some port or another, he finds himself in need of some fresh air to clear his head. He’s been indulging in the rum, and having lost his tolerance due to going without a drop of it for months, it’s gone to his head more than it used to. Plus there is the looming concern about making it through the winter, and even if he’s not in charge here, worrying about the survival of everyone present is a hard habit to break.

He’s a distance from the inn before he stops, reaching for a tree for support. There’s the smell of blood in the air, familiar from his many years of a life at sea, but he thinks nothing of it. There have been so many attacks lately, and the smell ends up clinging to his clothes when he’s been preparing a pile of fresh-caught fish. It’s a smell he’s used to by now.

It’s when he’s reaching for the tree that it happens. His foot connects with something, something that shouldn’t be at the base of a tree. Something he can’t see in the dark. If only he’d thought to bring something with him when he came outside.

“What the hell…?”

At the sound of a voice, Frank squints ahead into the dark, trying to make out the approaching figure. Luckily, it’s someone he’s seen around enough to recognize from a vague outline in the dark. “Everything alright, Captain?”

As Frank lifts his lamp, the light falls across the well-trodden ground toward the tree, and Killian — and the limp arm resting against the ground at his feet. A woman’s, and far too quiet and still out here in the night. Frank lifts the lamp higher.

"Karen," he breathes, as the light hits her pale face. "Karen--" Louder now, Frank’s moving before he's thinking, boots skidding through the dirt as he rushes for her, his lamp hitting the ground hard and his knees harder as he drops down beside her.

She's too still. Too red. At her neck, in her hair, there's so much red, Jesus. Meat is coming out of her abdomen, and on some futile instinct Frank reaches to scoop it back in, like he can just put her stomach back where it belongs and she'll make it. She'll be okay. (She doesn’t look like she’s going to be okay.)

When Killian catches sight of her face, he can tell right away that she’s someone he saw around but not anyone he ever talked to in any way more than passing. He wishes he had, though, if only because he’s sure that she wouldn’t want to be remembered this way by strangers. He reaches out to stop the other man -- he doesn’t have to be a sawbones to know that it’s too late -- but then stops. This is how he’d be reacting if it were Emma beneath the tree, and he’d strike out at anyone who tried to stop him.

“The others need to know.” They’ll probably wonder, for one thing, and now it’s a matter of everyone’s survival. “I’ll keep them from coming out here themselves.” For privacy, and also because even during the course of several lifetimes at sea, he never saw anything like this. The others don’t need these images keeping them from sleeping tonight.

He turns away from the tree and heads back to the inn, allowing time for Frank to speak if he wants, but not expecting it. Killian pauses for a moment outside the door to the inn. He really doesn’t want to be the one to break the festive mood, but there’s no other choice. At least it’s given him a chance to sober up somewhat.

He stops just inside the door and waits until he has everyone’s attention. It takes a moment, because everyone is enjoying themselves, but the grave look on his face and the blood that he’s sure to have picked up from stumbling in the dark should help with that. He makes sure to stay calm when addressing the room -- panic would only cause more panic, and he’s hoping to keep enough of them calm for this not to turn into an even bigger disaster.

“It’s not just animals. Whatever is out there, going after livestock, has come for one of us now.” He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “Her name was Karen.”
carterbyblood: (Default)
[personal profile] carterbyblood
WHO: Sharon and Peggy and Sharon and Steve
WHERE: Peggy's House and the Inn
WHEN: 11/22-23rd
OPEN TO: Peggy and Steve
WARNINGS: none that I can think of, but will update if needed
STATUS: (Closed)


Sharon would by no means call herself a coward. She was the furthest thing from it actually, in most cases she was the one at the front of the line, willing if not able to contribute, to do whatever is needed to achieve her goals. This is different, however, this is Peggy and it honestly scares the crap out of Sharon to tell her great Aunt the truth.

She knows that is stupid and asinine, but the part of her that watched her Aunt die, is scared that Peggy won’t believe her, after all, she did come across looking like a crazy person when they first met. Sharon didn’t blame her actually because she was in such shock that Peggy was alive and well, never mind standing in front of her introducing herself. It wasn’t one of Sharon’s finest moments, which is why she know stands in front of her door, raising her hand and knocking.


Sharon was on her way to the inn, the snow blowing in her face. She had her head down and her hands tucked deeply into her pockets. Her plan today was to track down Steve Rogers or die trying. She had heard rumblings that he was around, but she had yet to talk to him. She hadn’t sought him out, and they somehow kept missing each other. There was also the awkwardness of Aunt Peggy being here to contend with as well.

She figured Steve had to have a place here, but the Inn seemed to be her best bet. A gust of wind blew through, knocking her back a few steps.

zomboligist: (now hold on)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Outside the inn
WHEN: Mid-day November 21
WARNINGS: There will be rats
STATUS: Closed

There's a box with his name on it.

Ravi's seen Seven before, he knows what happens when there are mysterious boxes, but somehow he doesn't think that he's going to get Gwyneth Paltrow's head out of this. The squeaking is sort of a good indication that it's not a head in a box, which is good! Until he remembers that he's commonly dealing with the undead and the squeaking means something is in there. Cautiously and carefully, Ravi sets the box down on the steps of the inn and begins to open it very, very slowly.

Peeking one eye open, he braces himself for the absolute worst and then...

Well, and then, he's face to face with six of the most adorable little rats he's seen since the last batch of rats -- not Hope, though, Hope tried to eat his brain and turn him into a zombie, but Beta and Charlie and Delta had been good girls (and then dead girls). "Hello, you!" he says brightly, peering in and hauling one out to investigate in his hands. There's not really a good way to tag them here, but still, rats means scientific testing and maybe even simulating experiments to see how the rats behave in this environment.

Ravi's so caught up in his thoughts that he misses two of the rats creeping over the top of the box and beginning a mad dash for freedom. "Stop, no!" he calls, cursing as he reaches back to shove the rat in his hands back in the box, closing it up before he heads off to chase his fleeing gift -- before frantically and clumsily doubling back to poke a hole in the box for air and then he's off again.

"Stop that rat!" Ravi shouts, pointing to where the rats are burrowing into the snow in opposite directions. "Or...that one! Stop any of the rats!"
zymasoldat: WS (looking around)
[personal profile] zymasoldat
WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: Fountain / Around
WHEN: Late afternoon, November 20
WARNINGS: Nothing yet. Will update as necessary.

vdova: (383)
[personal profile] vdova
WHO: Natasha Romanoff
WHERE: The Town Hall
WHEN: November 14th into November 15th
OPEN TO: Everyone! This is a mingle log.
WARNINGS: Description of injuries/probably descriptions of violence.
STATUS: Open to All
cut off one head... )
womanofvalue: (uncorking secrets)
[personal profile] womanofvalue
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: The Canyon | Inn
WHEN: mid-day November 4 | end of day November 5
OPEN TO: Steve | OTA
WARNINGS: Potential language
STATUS: Closed

For Steve

It's been colder than Peggy likes, but that's no reason to stop exploring the canyon. If anything, it's actually a good incentive as if she doesn't finish her work of mapping out the area, then she's going to end up locked out from onslaughts of snow that piles up too high to do anything about. It's why she's clad herself in her coat, grasped the rope, and starts towards the canyon.

She stops, though, outside of the house Steve is living in. It's the sort of adventure that she thinks he might like. More than that, it's the sort of thing that she imagines they might have done together at some point, had he come home from the war. "Steve, it's me," Peggy says, trying to stay brisk and refuse to allow any emotion to creep into it.

Adjusting the rope a little more, she reaches up to tweak her hair to ensure it stays pinned up.

"I've got a prospect I think you won't want to turn down."

Down The Ledge

Later, much later, Peggy feels like she's had a long experience that she's not sure she can quantify. Truly, it's a stressful thing because she'd been up on that little crumbling edge so high above everyone else that she had genuinely worried about ever coming back. There had been moments, up there, where all she could imagine was a broken leg that led to her death or something else equally as terrible.

She's made it back to the inn with some help, but she still feels shaken. The canyon map is spread out in front of her with all its conflicting information. She wants a drink more than anything else, because her whole life had flashed before her eyes and she feels like she's neglected whole parts of it and for what?

Some bloody map that still doesn't make sense.

Months and months of work and this is a dead end. Staring forlornly at it, Peggy leans down to rub sore muscles from standing on that little ledge for so long, wondering what comes next. "This bloody, awful, ridiculous thing," she swears, her voice trembling slightly as she crumples the map before her (for all the good it does, seeing as fabric doesn't crumple quite well).

It's nearly cost her her life. What else might this place try and take from her next?
notabirdcostume: (Lap 14)
[personal profile] notabirdcostume
WHO: Sam Wilson
WHERE: Near the Police Station/Barn
WHEN: October 30, Day

Venting Frustrations )
booklegging: (⇆ of the summer clouds)
[personal profile] booklegging
WHO: Jess Brightwell and everyone!
WHERE: The inn.
WHEN: Sept. 28th to Oct. 11th.
OPEN TO: Everyone who lives at or would visit the inn during the non-stop rain. If you don't feel like making a log for the inn but want a place to tag around, this is the mingle post for you!
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.
STATUS: Open. Mingle away, comrades.

There's nothing quite like the sky opening up and releasing a torrential downpour to bring people together. With water coming down in buckets and the streets turning into waterways, it would be wise to seek shelter until this lets up...

If it ever lets up.

For those needing a place to warm up, the inn has a roaring fire and hot tea waiting. Pass the time watching the rain at the window, or telling stories around the main room's fireplace, or enjoying friendly company in the pub. You're even welcome to stay the night in one of the inn's spare rooms, just don't mind the leaks. It's an old building. Luckily there are plenty of buckets to go around.
paragon: (avengers | no kwds | 015)
[personal profile] paragon
WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: September 17th
WARNINGS: Will add if necessary.
STATUS: Closed

Even if Wakanda weren't as historically reclusive as it's been until more immediately recent memory, Steve wouldn't pretend he knows enough about it to say whether the fountain belongs there. He's hardly even been outdoors, for all that he's had quite a view from inside; as a guy who draws things in a notebook on occasion he doesn't really think it comes from the same school as the giant panther carved out of the side of a mountain, but what does he know? He and Bucky arrived bloody and exhausted, in no mood for sightseeing, no matter how much the hospitality of Wakanda might be considered a rare privilege. Hard to see it that way, after sleeping it off for a day or so only to wake up to Bucky having already made up his mind.

He's had a lot on his own mind.

Still, the fountain seems out of place with what he's managed to glimpse of a ferocious sort of beauty, in the midst of buildings that Tony would be more comfortable calling home. This is— well, this looks more like something from his time. And he'll just as surely end up calling the bottom of this fountain his home, if he can't get out of here, since he apparently has enough clothes to get him through a cold winter. At least mulling over architecture is as good a way as any to keep from thinking too hard on how much trouble it's giving him.

He hadn't made the first jump. He puts the sides at about fifteen feet, too high for a straight jump for the edge, but manageable with the help of one of the more horizontal cracks in the wall and a running start. He'd taken a few steps backward, used the momentum to jam the toe of one of his new boots into the crevice and launch himself upward. It'd been no good, the tips of his fingers reaching far below the edge. He'd felt it in his body before that, though, the unexpected effort of the maneuver, when it ought to be so much going through the motions. The second try hadn't gone any better, after trying it from farther back, and he'd looked around at the scattered debris in here with him, determining that the leaves and sticks and dirt weren't exactly enough to make anything of. Gives him an idea though.

Climbing up the centerpiece is easier, even if he can still feel the strain in his calves, his arms and shoulders. Steve ignores it as best he can for now, figures he'll get the answer to why his heart's beating harder in his chest to keep up with his exertion when he finds whoever brought him here. Pretty effective, whatever they gave him, to keep him unconscious long enough to move him, and to weaken him even longer — though he can't help but wonder why, then, he doesn't feel the least bit groggy. He reaches the top of the centerpiece and braces himself there, somewhat unsteadily — which he also ignores — and grabs for a branch hanging from the tree overhead. He's just able to reach the nearest one, though it's by no means the strongest, and it bows toward him. He sighs, mutters, "This part would've been a lot easier seventy years ago," and takes a look at his surroundings.
treadswater: (and the curl of the wave)
[personal profile] treadswater
WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: The Forest
WHEN: 14th-25th September
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: General warning for anxious tendencies and homicidal thoughts

NOTES: Feel free to catch Annie anywhere mentioned! Or feel free to have your character caught in a snare. If nothing strikes your fancy, just drop me a comment and I'll come up with something.

They'd had to move, after the earthquake. Branches had damaged their camp, and the only fresh water easily found was that spring, down in the south-west. So Finnick and Annie had moved, north to south, setting up another camp closer to the water. But not too close and not in direct line of the village - they aren't, after all, stupid. Setting up camp between water sources and the main camp of others is an excellent way to get killed. Neither of them intend to die. Even if there's been no deaths announced. Even if the strangeness is adding up and up to something not even Annie can puzzle out. They aren't dying.

But even with her paranoia whispering and sometimes shrieking, even with fear making her jump and startle and giggle, Annie is settling into a pattern.

She and Finnick take watches during the night, judging time by the moon and stars (and, by now, the howling of the wolves). Before dawn is when they gather water, using stolen water jars and the baskets they've woven tightly from grasses. Before dawn, which means before the others (the other tributes?) come down with their buckets. Food is more haphazard, and only cooked when it could conceivably be safe.

Safer. Not safe.

Nothing here is safe.

Annie fills her day with gathering food, which includes checking the various snares they've placed around. It's a jumpy time for her, because the snares aren't just for game. They are also protection. The area around their camp is booby-trapped, which is the only way she can stand for her and Finnick to be separated. If she stays in the camp, repairing their shelter and containers or just unable to move from her mind's self-sabotage, she's safer with the snares. With the traps.

But she does get out. She goes for scouting trips, the same as Finnick. Exploring the terrain. Trying to find traps, mutts. Trying to find some more water, preferably a stream with fish. The fish in the now polluted river have gone. Oh, there are some suspiciously floating the surface, all so obviously dead, but the rest are gone, gone, gone.

That nothing has resulted from this disappearance, nothing, nothing driving the tributes together, hasn't helped Annie's nerves at all.

She also spies on the water gatherers, and the village. Her uniform might have been white when she scrambled out of the fountain, but by now Annie's rolled in enough dirt and mud that she's dulled it to dirty brown-grey more than white. And she's a small woman, barely 5', who spends a lot of her time up in the trees. But she's got that vibrant red hair and it's not yet autumn, so she's achingly aware of how visible she can if anyone looks up.
abide: (pic#10301527)
[personal profile] abide
WHO: steve rogers ([personal profile] abide)
WHERE: fountain, police station, wherever really
WHEN: backdated to 08/16
OPEN TO: everyone!
WARNINGS: none for now
STATUS: open

Shaking, he pulls himself out of the water.

The clothes he wears aren't his own, the color sort of blurring with the grass for a second or two as he lays on solid ground and fights to catch his breath. Steve isn't sure how far down he'd actually been, but waking up mid-breath isn't exactly the best motivator in staying still to think about those sort of things. The bag he'd had on his back is gripped tight in his hand, deadweight as he continues to simply lay there, and when the world finally comes back to him, he sits up with a little more intensity than probably necessary. The last thing he remembers had been breaking into the Raft, so the water hadn't been too much of a surprise until he'd found himself crawling out of a fountain rather than in the middle of the ocean, and he's a bit unsteady climbing to his feet, taking the bag with him as he shakes out the green scrub top. It continues to stick to him, so it does little good to continue doing it after a few tries.

A sigh, and he turns to look around. The roads that split and separate, the houses in the distance and the few people can can see— Steve frowns. It's strange, disbelieving. He feels as if he's just woken up again in New York seventy years later, but the reality of it is that he's no longer in a city. He's... Well, he doesn't know where, but he isn't going to stay in one spot until he's found someone willing to answer the questions he has. Another glance at the road, and he decides to cut up right through the middle of the grass, sticking close to a few of the houses that pop up along the way until he sees someone close by. He does his best to look unassuming, but he's still soaked to the skin, dragging a hand through his hair before calling out to them.

"Excuse me." Because manners are important in strange places with strange people. "Do you know where we are?"

When he finds his way to the police station, his clothes aren't nearly as soaked as they'd been coming out of the fountain. There's still too much for him to process, and it seems as if no one's actually working in the building when he approaches the main entrance either. Steve looks through the windows and sighs, shouldering the bag he'd been carrying around before taking a seat on the steps just outside the doors. If there weren't any local authorities, that had the potential of being worse than some, and it's not as if he's actually seen many others around. It's as if it's deserted, much too empty to be a real town. What's going on is the thought just at the tip of his tongue, and he rubs at the back of his neck, expression drawn thin. It's not going to deter him though, and if no one's approached him while he's sitting, he's already off on the next stop down the road—wherever that might be.

Yet, he doesn't get too far. There's someone up ahead, and Steve throws out a low, "Hey!" before picking up the pace to run after them. If they happen to think he's chasing them... He might just keep going until they relent and talk to him.
justaghost: (pic#10517682)
[personal profile] justaghost
WHO: Bucky Barnes
WHERE: All over the damn place
WHEN: August 12
WARNINGS: The soul crushing heart break of Steve Rogers


The water is warm around him, or at least compared to where he just was it's warm. Anything is warm compared to the alps in the middle of winter time. His eyes open to the darkness around him. He nearly chokes when he tries to take a breath, but water fills his mouth. He coughs under the water, expelling air and bubbles through his mouth and nose. His first though is damn, did I fall into the river?

No way, he'd be dead. That drop is too far and the water is far too warm for the river he saw when they were preparing the zip. His head tilts up, he can see the light shining down through the rippling water. He feels himself sink to the bottom, his hands splay out and he can see how smooth the floor is. It reminds him of concrete...but how is that in a river? He doesn't think about it too long before his chest starts to burn from lack of air. He shifts so his feet are under him and he kicks up towards the sky. He counts the seconds it takes for him to rise. 5...6...7...his chest feels like it's about to cave in. His head aches from the pressure as his ears pop and finally he breaks the surface with a gasp. He spits out whatever water was left in his mouth as he stares wild eyed, catching his breath and treading the water.

This isn't the alps.

When in doubt...drink!!

After he finally claws his way out of the fountain he discovers that he is right. This isn't the alps, but where this is...well he still isn't sure. He sees trees, but that doesn't tell him much. Then he sees roads, they are dirt but it's something, and houses-- actual houses not shacks or some pieces of wood with tin over top of it. He moves slowly, looking around at his surroundings. He feels naked without his gun, he hasn't not had it in his hands since he was last in Brooklyn. It's odd now to be lacking the cold metal in his hand or the weight of it strapped to his back.

He makes his way down the road and then he spots a building that makes him ease just a slight bit. An Inn, and where there was an Inn normally meant food, drink, information. All the things he needs right now. He just hopes they don't mind someone coming in that is soaking wet (which has him stuck on the thought of where these clothes came from in the first place). He starts to think of a story about how he ended up in the fountain. Nothing really comes to mind. The last thing he remembers is zipping onto the train. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair as he nears the door. He really hopes he doesn't look like a crazy person right now.

He puts on his best smile as he enters and casually goes to the bar, sitting one seat away from the first person he sees. "Hey, how's it going?" Man, he hopes they speak English here.

Closed to Steve Rogers

At least the bar had some information, even if that information is that no one knows what's going on. He has food in his stomach now, so there is that at least. Apparently one of these houses also belongs to him. Funny, he didn't think he would ever be a home owner. Stuff costs too much and his little apartment in Brooklyn had been plenty for him. The more he thinks about it, the more he misses that old place. His mind starts to wander, thinking back to home. He hasn't written to his sisters in awhile, he needs to do that. He needs to do a lot of things, but he doubts any of that can be done from this place.

He fiddles with the keys in his hand as he walks down the road. This house is really out there. He gets more and more nervous with each step. His mind races and he thinks that this might be a trap. He wishes he had a knife or something with him as he nears the house. He stops in front of it, staring and studying it. It's nice, nicely than anything he could have ever hoped for. He actually found himself smiling as he places a hand on the railing and took the stairs. This house in Brooklyn...that would be perfect.

With the key in his hand he opens the door and takes the first step in. He whistles before his face turns into a grin. "Not bad...."


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