Sixth Iteration Logs

<div class="postheader">WHO: (Who is making the post)
WHERE: (Where the post takes place)
WHEN: (When the post takes place)
OPEN TO: (Who the post is open to tags from -- Specific characters, all, none, etc.)
WARNINGS: (Please warn for adult content or anything triggering) <hr></div>
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chirrutsluck

WHO: Baze Malbus
WHERE: The fountain where we all wake up...
WHEN: May 22, late afternoon
OPEN TO: Anybody!
WARNINGS: N/A
STATUS: Open

Baze didn't expect death to feel so... wet. The grenade went off, and the light was so blinding that he couldn’t see Chirrut's body behind him anymore. He'd expected pain, but really, it's over so soon he doesn’t feel much of anything-- until he feels something that seems very much like water. He'd rather expected to feel nothing at all or, in the desperate hope that maybe Chirrut was right and they’d be together again in the Force, a kind of glowy meeting of molecules on the ruined beach or even in the emptiness of space somewhere.

Instead, now, he feels wet and heavy and a bit like he's floating. The floating sort of makes sense. The urgent need to breath does not.

He opens his eyes, and below him is the ripple of sunlight through water on cobbled stone. He's definitely underwater, or floating on it. Startled, angry, he surges back, and out of what appears to be a fairly shallow... fountain? He's coughing, pushing heavy hair out of his face, and squinting at the fountain, because it is definitely a fountain. This... is not death. Is it? Not even the teachings of the old Jedi, who would have known if anyone had, said anything about waking up in a fountain in the middle of some sort of town square, wet and wearing different clothes and decidedly lacking in his usual heavy gun on his back.

"Chirrut?" he calls, once he has his breath back. If this is death, surely his partner would be here somewhere. They both died in the same time and space, mere minutes and yards apart. There would be no way for him to get far.

There's no way for him to be here, at all. This isn't Scariff.

"Chirrut!" If he isn't here somewhere, Baze is going to be unhappy.

unmakeme

WHO: Natasha Romanoff, Neil Mackay, Clint Barton, Jyn Erso, open for others
WHAT: getting sick on chocolates, reacting to the chaos of the obscurial, anything else
WHEN: 22nd for being sick, 24th for the obscurial stuff
WHERE: house 43, town center, the forest

WARNINGS: none yet
NOTES: if you want custom starter, hit me up on discord or plurk

( obscurial stuff )

mund

WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: Half an hour after the first sighting / hearing of the Obscurus
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Mentions of violence, abuse, hate, etc
STATUS: Something like a mingling -- feel free to post OTAs of your own. If you need Graves to respond, just put his name in the header / or in bold somewhere in your comment!

( the ragged they come, and the ragged they kill. )

repressings

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: All along the village, particularly his and Graves' house, the inn, and the schoolhouse
WHEN: 24th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Violence, mentions of abuse
STATUS: Open
( A moon-shaped pool )

enlisting

WHO: Cassian Andor
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, and around the village
WHEN: April 22-24 (Arrival and first few days)
OPEN TO: Arrival closed to Moana, everything else OTA!
WARNINGS: General warnings for this character/canon apply — mentions of war, trauma, death, all that cheerful stuff in the narrative
STATUS: Open

ARRIVAL (APRIL 22) — CLOSED

Cassian hasn't put much time into speculating about how he'd die, just lived with the knowledge that he would, sooner rather than later. If pressed, the scenario he'd come up with might be something like this: his luck running out somewhere behind enemy lines, without resources and his comlink gone dark, left to bleed out quietly, no one aware. (Ideal, if he's done his job well enough.) The presence of another person has never entered into the equation, nor has the feeling of a steady hand reaching for his, of holding onto something real and being held in return, of the warmth that comes with knowing that, for the rest of his life, he isn't alone.

In the end, he thinks, it's a good death. Better than he could've asked for, and, frankly, better than he deserves.

And then — it isn't.

He can't say with certainty what it feels like to be obliterated, just like Jedha, but he's sure this isn't it. There's only time to register that something isn't quite right before the wall of water hits him, knocks him backward with the force of an explosion. Reflex kicks in then, guiding him to push toward the light until his fingers grasp onto something solid and his head breaks the surface.

When he climbs out of the fountain, he finds no trace of Scarif — his feet stand on stone rather than sink into sand, the air is balmy and pleasant rather than hot and oppressive, the horizon is clear. There's no sound in his general vicinity other than the gentle bubbling of water behind him; blaster fire is as distant as memory. With a panic that starts in his chest and quickly spreads through the rest of him, he realizes that he's alone.

But panic, he knows, will do him no good. Even if it's difficult, almost impossible, because one name (Jyn) beats around his brain over and over again, he forces the next logical sequence of steps into focus. Take a breath. Regroup. Get a lay of the land. Keep moving forward.

He has no other choice.

RECONNAISSANCE (APRIL 22-24) — OPEN

Over the next few days, he does just that — he keeps moving forward, directs his efforts toward learning whatever he can about this place. Being idle has never suited him; that's still true now. A job is a job, even one that's self-imposed, and a job keeps his body moving and his mind occupied, keeps him from dwelling on what he can't afford to.

If there's a hub in this village, the Inn seems to be it. People continually filter in and out of the pub on the ground floor, and it's as good a spot as any to establish a base of operations, so to speak. As of right now, the locals are his best resource, one he knows how to tap into. He finds a strategic table in clear view of the front door, and employs various means of catching the attention of whoever happens to pass by — sometimes a nod, other times a polite smile, a conversational "What would you suggest?" for those who stop.

One location won't provide a complete picture, however, so he can be found out and about as well. He walks the streets, building a mental map as he goes, taking stock of apparent resource availability. Anyone in his vicinity may receive the same treatment as those who'd passed by him in the pub. He may not know who or what he can trust, if anything at all, but information is information.

He has to start somewhere.

[ooc: if you'd like a starter with another scenario in the timeline of these first few days, feel free to hit me up via PM or plurk, and we can hash something out! c: i'll add it as a top-level comment within this log]

3ofswords

WHO: Kira
WHERE: House 39 + 40
WHEN: April 21, during/after the feast
OPEN TO: Jyn
WARNINGS: Dealing with old grief and the loss of Casey, possible NSFW content
STATUS: N/A

( Read more... )

3ofswords

WHO: Kira
WHERE: Behind the Inn
WHEN: April 21st
OPEN TO: All, Spring Feast mingle post
WARNINGS: Please warn for content in comment headers for individual OTAs
STATUS: Open

He's hardly the first to arrive for a shift in the kitchens, but those ahead of him have sunk into the the search for the building's chairs and tables--the kitchen is open and empty, the tavern devoid even of stools. It's another wrench in the works, one of the smaller reasons for routine to fall apart to reactions, and Kira thinks they'll have a better time of solving it if someone gets the fire up in the stove and everyone eats first.

The damage assessment has people upstairs, people on the path wandered out of their homes. Kira hadn't come through his own dining room on the way out, so he can't say if he's missing furniture or not, and his growling stomach doesn't much care.

It's when he slips out the side door of the kitchen in search of fresh kindling that he finds it. Every missing table and chair standing in the grass, laden with platters of food, buckets of bottled drinks, carafes of what he finds to be coffee sending steam from their lids. There are pastries with the coffee, roasted fowl gleaming golden on the next table, between ham hocks shining with honeyed glaze, large fruits piled among wreaths of fresh flowers.

Dotting the tables are jars, more jars than they've had since he arrived, flickering with short candles. Garlands accent the tables, carry from them into the trees, a web of spring decoration with a feast at its center. Between the platters are smaller plates, small chocolates laid out under decorative drizzle.

"Hey!" he calls back through the door, blinking several times to make sure the sight doesn't shimmer away into the air. "I found the furniture, and I don't think we'll need to cook anything today."

humancatdroid

WHO: Kay Tuesso (K-2SO)
WHERE: The Fountain, Here or there…
WHEN: 19th
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Screaming. Mild freak outs. And then a ‘human’ who doesn’t know how to human… Aka: Droids don’t do Organic well...
STATUS: Open

( This didn’t seem right. )

womanofvalue

WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Inside the Town Hall
WHEN: April 3rd
OPEN TO: OTA - Mingle Style!
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open

The weather has taken a turn for the suspiciously lovely and while Peggy knows better than to think it's going to last, she does know that around here, if you don't take the good when it comes, you're stuck with the bad. She's had a bad few months, recently, between the lightning, the fireflies (she still feels worn down and exhausted, honestly), and the rash of disappearances that had taken their emotional toll on her. With the weather changing for the better, Peggy decides to put it to good use, quickly spreading word around town that she's going to hold herself a class.

It doesn't take very long to get the word out, thankfully, but even so, she doesn't expect there to be that many people who come. Lucky for Peggy, setting her expectations low means that she'll be pleased if even one person shows up and she knows that she'll at least have guilted Sam, Stella, or one of her other friends into coming.

Still, it would be nice to feel in control and useful instead of on the defensive. Carefully wrapping up her hands, Peggy finishes moving the last of the chairs to the side in order to give them some space, settling down blankets because she also doesn't want anyone to break a limb simply because she wants to offer some hand to hand training or, in some cases, simply practicing an old skill that might be growing rusty.

Eyeing the space and breathing in the fresh, fog-free air, she thinks that what she very much needs after her last few months is to hit something extremely hard and she does hope to find that opportunity now.

3ofswords

WHO: Kira
WHERE: Between house 40 and Ren’s grave just south of it
WHEN: April 2, after Casey starts ransacking Ren’s house
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Grief, memories of Ren’s death and body
STATUS: Open

He’d been in the house while it was still smoldering from the lightning damage. The month of damp had only set the skeleton of it groaning, a thing that played the wind each night so that he would wake and go to the window, watch the trees lash out at its beams in the light of the moon. It hadn’t occurred to Kira to go back inside, that anything beyond his and Jean’s initial rush to grab what they could carry was necessary.

Today feels the opposite of necessary.

The roof has started to sag into the structure, warping the symbol he’d copied one afternoon from their own roof, going over his notes--the crack, the fireflies, the remnants of the wendigo too old to be a threat. With the sunlight beaming down, there's the faintest impression of it, as if the materials have been thinned by the fire. He’d been staring at that when Casey takes the axe to a wall, startling him with a splinter of noise.

When Casey mentioned scavenging from the house, Kira hadn’t realized he meant to tear it apart.

He understands it’s just another building, to most. He understands it’s a practical source of materials, and nowhere that anyone is likely to take shelter. The charred beams should be broken down into firewood or smaller blocks and boards. There's plumbing and the makings of electrical work. There's a furnace to rip the parts out of. He understands Ren would likelier approve of Casey’s tearing the house apart than Kira’s fleeing it, banging back out the door with Aurora clumsily on his heels.

Fuck Ren, for that. Fuck Casey.

It’s only that understanding that drives him away, flight over fight. He pauses once at the tree caddy-corner to the back of the house, one hand out and leaning to catch his breath, a panic he can’t place the start of stealing it from his lungs. When Aurora runs into the back of his legs, the lurch of it turns his stomach, and he realizes--the valley of roots and earth he’s standing in is the one where he dragged Ren’s body, adding streaks of dirt to the violently purple bruises of the lightning strike.

They had to put it back in the house, after. Once the fires burned themselves out, once they were sure the walls stood enough to keep animals out. And then Jyn, and then the grave, and then—

He wipes a hand over his face, finding the dog sitting on his feet when he looks down. She shouldn’t annoy him, doesn’t annoy him, but he doesn’t spare her the movement of his feet when he pushes off from the tree and stumbles past. She barks at him once, but he hears the leaf litter crunching under her paws as she follows.

Kicked dogs, he thinks, and he wonders what that makes him, heading for Ren’s grave and venting the nervous energy by scratching his hands up through his hair, testing the bruise on his jaw, resisting the stupid impulse to slap it and see if it shakes the nausea out. It’ll just hurt, and nobody needs anyone hurting themselves out here. There’s plenty else to fuck with them outside their own lack of coping mechanisms.

Maybe the grave is one, some part of him calming when he sees it. Every stone intact, the star still neatly carved in the base of the tree.

Finding a seat on the gentle slope of stones and moss that covers the grave, he lets Aurora overstep her own growing legs, swaying up into his lap and snuffling at his hip before planting her ass back on his feet. “What the fuck do you want,” he huffs, not for the first time. She isn’t something he thinks of as his, and he wasn’t the kid who hated growing up without a dog.

When she tilts her head, he pulls his hands from his pockets, away from the knife he’d nearly lost, and rubs up the soft short fur of her ears. “Go bite that asshole on the calf for me, I’m trying to be pissed off at the world.”

[Feel free to find him anywhere between exiting Ren’s old house and at his grave, a very young black shepherd at his heels.]

goldsteins

WHO: Tina Goldstein
WHERE: The Fountain & Around
WHEN: 3/25 Onwards
OPEN TO: Closed arrival to Queenie, OTA threads to anyone else
WARNINGS: Nothing applicable at the moment
STATUS: OTA sans Queenie thread

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now this is ridiculous," She mumbles to herself unhelpfully deciding then that she's certainly had enough for the day and turns to find her way back to the village. Which is another thing altogether: Mapping a city she can do. A forest? Not so much.

kestreldawn

WHO: Jyn Erso
WHERE: By her cabin, Finnick/Annie's cabin, around town
WHEN: March 22
OPEN TO: OTA (Specific thread for Finnick/Annie)
WARNINGS: Mention of death/loss (will udpated as needed)
STATUS: Open

Note: You can find Jyn anywhere! She'll just be wandering, trying to see if she can find Cassian.

Something was wrong. Jyn knew it the moment she'd opened her eyes, found Cassian's side of the bed to be empty (and worse, cold). They'd made a promise, a pact - to always tell the other when one was leaving, wait for confirmation and response before moving. A promise to keep Darkness at bay, the one that lurched in and lived in and poisoned them both -

Darkness, which hissed and seethed and slithered around the curves of their ears and the beats of their hearts.
Darkness, which promised empty beds and forgotten memories.
Darkness, which predicted missing warmth and the bodies that went along with it.

It promised loneliness. It promised abandonment. It promised absence. It promised itself - darkness - enveloping and swallowing and encasing.

She heard its familiar jeering as she ransacked the cabin looking for any trace of him, or even a note, indicating that he'd gone out, that maybe what had happened weeks ago had happened again - maybe he had told her goodbye, had told her his intentions of leaving and going about his business for the day, but she'd forgotten. Perhaps sleep had stolen those fragments away from her, nestled them under the blanket of her subconscious. Perhaps he is outside cutting down boughs the way he had been back then.

She finds the necklace she'd given him, the one that so hauntingly reminded her of the one her mother had given her. She finds his pouch of seeds, his multi-tool, the flint and steel, the pocket knife. His toothbrush and toothpaste still in the bathroom. Why are none of these things in his pockets? Why would he leave to go cut down some branches for their furnace without his tools? She grabs the necklace, buries it in her grasp.

"Please," she breathes - a prayer, a dream - to whatever might be listening. "Please. Karking hell, please." The twisting, gnawing, nauseating convolutions of her stomach grow. Somehow, she knows; underneath the cloak of 'misunderstanding' and 'oversight,' underneath the near-paralyzing fear swiftly descending upon her, she knows. Something is wrong.

Jyn shrugs on her coat, slipping her feet into her boots without a spare thought to tie them, and bursts through the door, intent on rampaging around town to try and track him down.

// For Finnick/Annie //

The first thing she remembers as the cold air prickles her skin is the letters Cassian had been exchanging with both Finnick and Annie. He'd shown them to her as they'd arrived -

Annie's, full of fire and anger and distrust;
Finnick's, laboriously written and quoting some sort of document (the contents of which she can only vaguely recall).

She thinks to ask if they'd seen him out and about, or if they'd received any other letters from him she hadn't had a chance to see. Darkness whispers conspiratorial hypotheses into the growing hole in her chest, implicating one or both of them in Cassian's disappearance.

- No. No. There's no proof that he's gone (aside, of course, from the screaming voice at the back of her skull, her intuition, so rarely incorrect and so rarely proved wrong). She has to talk to them first. See if they know anything. There's no reason to panic, Jyn. He's fine. Cassian's fine. Once on their stoop, she balls her fist, raises it, and lets it hover in the air for a few moments. She wonders if it's pathetically foolish to ask, to jump to such ridiculous conclusions. But she remembers their rules, tacked up on the wall - she remembers the promise, the warm onyx of his eyes, the touch of his skin - and, biting back the tears gathering at the rims of her eyes, raps her knuckles against the wood of their door.

asklepian

WHO: Julian Bashir
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, also feel free to catch him wandering around looking lost
WHEN: 3/17
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None
STATUS: Open

( Read more... )

mund

WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Assorted places
WHEN: Mid-March
OPEN TO: OTA, with closed threads for Credence, Stella,
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery, epic paranoia, that's pretty much it for now.
STATUS: Open to new threads!

( and I'm straining to remember just what it means to be alive. )

kestreldawn

WHO: Jyn Erso
WHERE: By the fountain/Jyn and Cassian's Cabin
WHEN: Future-dated to March 16, late afternoon/evening
OPEN TO: OTA/Cassian (Separate thread posted for Kira)
WARNINGS: Mention of war, blood (sort of self-harmy?), violence (Will update as needed)
STATUS: Open

// OTA - By the Fountain //

It had been a mistake, realized too late: attempting to climb the precipice in the northern part of town. She hadn't been doing it for any reason other than pure curiosity - wanting to know first-hand whether the stories she'd been told held any truth ("no one can leave," "everyone who tries is struck down," "the only way out is by death").

Even more foolish had been her attempting to do it alone.

She'd reached about ten feet up when the first floating orb wafted by. She hadn't thought much of it until another one showed, then another, then another - until they practically congealed around her in a brilliant, blinding burst of light - and for a moment she thought, the air sucked out of her lungs -

Scarif. The Death Star. It's happening again.

And in her panic, she'd begun to flail her arms while trying to maintain her grip on the rock's surface, not realizing that this would agitate the insects - or that they would retaliate against her.

It had been one sting - a little zap of pain on the side of her neck. She swatted, bringing palm to skin with a resounding slap. Then it was another, on her left arm - then four more through the fabric of her shirt on the expanse of her back. She leapt down from the crag, covering the back of her neck as she tried to run away, tried to escape the incessant daggers masquerading as flying insects.

It's when she reaches the fountain that the hallucinations and paranoia begin to set in.

She is back at war, back in the jungles of Onderon. She reaches for the blaster at her thigh only to discover it's been lost - or worse, taken. She ducks for cover in a small patch of trees, heartbeat thudding loudly in her ears, breathing short and furious. She trembles, petrified of an unknown enemy, wondering where the kriff her comrades have gone off to; have they left her behind?

// Cassian - The Cabin //

She hadn't told anyone where she was going that morning - not even Cassian. Part of it was because she didn't wholeheartedly believe in the danger, despite the warnings she'd received. Part of it was because she knew the reprimanding sort of look he would give her if she had told him - the silent worry glittering like a galaxy behind the blackness of his eyes. She couldn't stand to see it. So, she'd ventured out alone - didn't lie or come up with an alternative excuse, just said she would be back later.

After the attack, she eventually finds her way back to the cabin - some dull, weak part of her brain remembers it - knows it's familiar. She still sees the jungle, still feels the oppressive heat and the stink of rotting vegetation, but there's something in her, underneath the layers of fever and projected surroundings, that knows this place is safe. Or safer than the rest.

She's crouching, hiding underneath their porch - taking cover from imagined enemy fire that feels more real than the dirt pressing against her belly. Mutters and curses to herself that she's lost her weapon and has been left defenseless, not realizing the volume at which she speaks.

candor1

WHO: the Starhungry Wargames soap opera troupe
WHAT: Ongoing follow-up to this. More correspondence possibly as top comments; other scenarios as top comments encouraged!
WHERE: their respective cabins, wherever else they wanna write or read
WHEN: -ever slips in comfortably with everything else (I defy continuity)
OPEN TO: Jyn, Finnick, Annie, Cassian. If Annie or Finnick actually want to involve anyone else they absolutely can.
WARNINGS: None planned; any comments can have own warning tags
STATUS: open
CREDIT NOTE: don't remember the origin of the story, but I learned it from a retelling by Jane Yolen.

~~~~~~~~~begin~~~~~~~~~

Cassian finished writing before turning to Jyn. He pulled her into his lap, leaned them both into the light, and held up the finished paper for her to read it.

Finnick or Annie would later find it folded and slipped under their door.

The sentence structure and formatting were hardly up to communique/report standard; but it was considered impiety to write it down at all, so he did so minimalistically. It seemed… that construct again… a worthy infraction.

The text:

parable of Naqshban passed by chain of transmission from the elders of Varadan through many generations to d'Djiera al-Terasu to Cassian Andor (tariq muttasila – unbroken) to Jyn Erso + Finnick Odair + Annie Cresta (tariq munqati‘a – approximation)

I was told this on a lifeless planetoid, by a woman with no memory, who somehow knew it anyway.

Azraa'vel shepherd of the angelic tribe went to a great mortal leader who was about to die
Azra. said: "you have served and protected many people with all of your life, you have earned your choice in death: eternal reward or eternal punishment" • Leader said: "can I see both before I choose?" • Azra. took her in his wings and they flew
Azra. landed them and said: "behold punishment"
it was a fertile land with many beautiful plants • hills and streams all the way to the horizon • beside their landing was a long table that stretched as far as they could see • piled with wonderful delicious food and pleasurable nourishing drink • to sit at that table should be to want for nothing but taste enjoyment forever
• all the people at that table were wailing with torment
Leader demanded "Why do they suffer?" • Azra. pointed to their hands • every person was shackled in their place • a person could reach food and drink but could not bring any of it to their own mouth • Leader covered her face in grief • Azra. took her in his wings and they flew
Azra. landed them and said: "behold reward" • it was a fertile land with many beautiful plants • hills and streams all the way to the horizon • beside their landing was a long table that stretched as far as they could see • piled with wonderful delicious food and pleasurable nourishing drink
Leader said "this is the same – we've gone nowhere" • Azra. pointed to the people at the table • they were still shackled down • but these people were talking and laughing in love and joy
Leader said "I don't understand they're still chained" • Azra. pointed to their mouths • these people could also reach the food and drink • they could also not bring it to their own mouths to feed themselves • these people did not try
• they raised their food and drink to either side and gave it to each other
Azra. to Leader: "it's for you to choose"

c.

chosenbytheocean

WHO: Moana Waialiki
WHERE: The School House
WHEN: March 7th
OPEN TO: EVERYONE [Feel free to make top posts!]
WARNINGS: None
STATUS: CLOSED

Moana had begun planning event about a month before the date that she had set. She told everyone she could about her and Jean's idea of having a dance class. She didn't know who would come but she hoped that some might find the idea interesting enough to peek their heads inside; if enough people were interested she'd have classes regularly or see if others wanted to teach as well. She'd love to learn dances from other places like the Moon Walk that Jean had taught her.

She got to the school house early and pushed the desks to the side, stacking a few on top of each other to make room. She had a drum that she'd made with her though she'd have to ask someone who didn't want to dance to beat it to a steady tune.

As the time she'd decided grew near she would stand outside of the school house, waving for people to come inside. If it was someone that she'd met or knew she'd grab their hand and pull them into the building without much prompting.

kestreldawn

WHO: Jyn Erso
WHERE: Jyn/Cassian's Cabin
WHEN: March 2
OPEN TO: Cassian Andor
WARNINGS: Mention of self-harm, mention of depression
STATUS: CLOSED

Jyn's not used to gifts, in any shape or form. There's something about them that makes her feel uneasy (if she were to examine more closely, it'd be linked to a deep feeling of "undeserving," but she's yet to make that connection). Galen used to bring her presents, when she was small - he'd come home with a new toy for her almost every week, slip it under her tiny arm while she slept so that it would be there with her when she woke. A poor substitute for Papa, but better than nothing, she always thought.

But that was different.

That was the least that he could do, even though his presence would've been the best sort of gift for young Jyn.

This - waking up to find boxes on the table with her name scrawled across in unrecognizable penmanship - feels intrusive, violating. She stares at them for a long while before she even reaches out a hand, letting her fingers skim the outside of it as though searching for a trap - searching for the wire that will electrocute her if she tries to pry it open, or the sharp end of a needle covered in poison.

Once she deems them to be innocuous, she opens the smaller one first.

Inside, she finds a small toothbrush and toothpaste - not enough to last more than a couple of months, if she's particularly careful of how much she squeezes at a time - and a black multi-tool. The former items get laid on the table while she spends a few minutes examining the latter, pulling and swiveling and discovering all of its parts, before slipping it into her pocket.

She lifts the lid off of the second to discover an assortment of useful items, pulling each item out one after the other, setting them aside on the table. When she reaches the bottom, it's then that she sees it - the necklace. Her fingers instinctively reach up to her throat, where the one her mother had given her had hung for so many years. It hadn't survived the fountain (or was it that it hadn't survived Scarif?), and she'd ached for the weight of it against her throat, the affirmation of it - even if she didn't necessarily believe in its power.

Jyn can see upon visual inspection that it isn't exactly the same - the crystal is a different shape, a different size - but it's hauntingly similar. Her eyes dart around, half expecting to see a mysterious figure pop out from behind a door, the giver of the boxes, wanting to capture her reaction. Of course, there's no such person - but it doesn't stop the tremor in her fingers, the percussion of her heartbeat inside of her skull, against her chest - as she reaches out, lets her fingertips skate the clear, hard surface of the thing. She removes it from its now-empty cradle, lets it rest against the flesh of her palm.

Trust the Force, she can hear her mother say - or at least she think it's her mother. She's forgotten the sound of Lyra's voice, and had long ago. She can see her face, see the pain and ferocity behind her eyes, see the silent agonizing goodbye in them. Her fingers curl around the pendant - eyes closing, breathing labored - knowing there's only one thing to do with a gift like this.

kestreldawn

WHO: Jyn Erso
WHERE: Northwest part of town, by her/Cassian's cabin and Finnick/Annie's cabin.
WHEN: March 1
OPEN TO: Finnick Odair (Cassian and Annie can come, too, if they feel inclined)
WARNINGS: N/A (Will update as needed)
STATUS: CLOSED

Jyn's been teaching herself (moderately successfully) how to fish - or, more accurately, how to puncture fish with her spear. She knows there are easier ways to do it involving lines and hooks and poles, but she prefers the more direct route of stabbing the creature with the pointed end of her homemade spear. She thinks it's more merciful this way, seeing as the fish doesn't have to flounder about with its mouth pierced but is rather met with a very swift, very direct end. There might also be an element of releasing misdirected anger involved, but she hasn't allowed that thought to blossom all that much.

Ever since her arrival, she's been silently brooding on how to best repay Finnick for what he'd done. He met her feral, crazed eyes with softness - met her shattered, broken soul with warmth. He'd helped her rampage through the town in order to find Cassian - without hesitation, without thought of reciprocity, without any expectation for himself. She remembers the strange light of guilt (or something close) that sparked across his eyes when she'd told him her name, when he'd put two and two together. She's wondered if that had been what motivated him to help her - if he had to make up or seek absolution from something he'd done before her breaking the surface of the water in the fountain.

Whatever it was, she thinks, it doesn't really matter. He followed through - he brought them together, he'd helped to make her whole again.

She isn't one for verbal thank yous or overt displays of emotion, but she'd figured out one thing she could do as she learnt the lay of the land - leave food on his doorstep. It's been a variety of things, sometimes a small collection of berries, sometimes fish, sometimes squirrels. It isn't every day - perhaps once or twice a week - and she's always been careful to do it under the cloak of night, so as to avoid being seen. She returns back to the cabin she and Cassian share with a handful of fish (all strung together on a rope through the hole she'd created in them with the spear) to determine which she'll keep, which she'll give to the Inn, and which she'll leave for Finnick. After organizing, she slips out of her cabin - a voice at the back of her mind reminding her that it's the middle of the day and she could be seen - to leave a fish on Finnick's doorstep before trekking to the Inn.

It's when the fish has just left her hand that she hears the door open, glances up.

She's been caught.

treadswater

WHO: Annie Cresta
WHERE: The Village, around
WHEN: 26th February
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Open | Ongoing

Auroras, snow, no snow, lightning attacks: a girl's still gotta eat and work for her living. Or something like that. Annie knows she could just stick to the river and fishing with Finnick, remain on the outskirts. But she's been making baskets, bowls, over winter and those need to be dropped off at the Inn.

It's not as bad as a blizzard, she tells herself and her boyfriend. It's merely unpredictable. She can handle that. She's handled waves and storms on a bucking, frightened boat, and even if there is another earthquake, as long as she doesn't lose her head she knows that the shaking ground will stop and then she can move.

(It's an unfortunate choice of words, even within her own skull. Losing her head. Well done, Cresta.)

Naturally, it happens when the small woman is half way between her house on the outskirts and the Inn. Her instincts, honed by Career Academy and the school of the docks, tingle, twitch, pull at her, and Annie hits the ground as a ball of lightening crackles into life where her torso had been half a second earlier.

She hits the ground, rolls, curls up into a ready crouch ready to run, roll, move again if she has to. There's the sudden smell of burnt hair and she's guessing the end of her braid got singed, and the mud is cold against her shin and hands, but she doesn't move.

Not until the lightening is gone.

Not for a long, long moment after, where she stares at where the ball lightening had been. Where it nearly killed her, yet didn't.

"Oh," says Annie. Quietly, Distantly. "Okay."

She'll move, soon. She should. It's not safe, crouching here. She's just going to catch her breath first.

And try very, very hard not to giggle.

Sixth Iteration

Logs

Entries tagged with star wars: jyn erso

Credits & Style Info

01. Death is... wet

late april catch all, focus on smoke monster reactions

obscurial event: town hall.

obscurial event.

01.

[closed] think of me and burn, and let me hold your hand

[Mingle OTA] Spring Feast

Robotic Breakdown

(no subject)

[OPEN] graverobber, you can't take me home

001 | arrival

i cannot seem to operate, and you, my love, are gone

(no subject)

[OPEN] we've got our wires all crossed, our tubes all tied.

i'm pinned down by the dark; makes my head pirouette

jannat al-ma'wa • sub rosa

04 We came here to Dance Dance Dance Dance~! [OPEN]

i can barely breathe when you're here loving me

you get a fish, and you get a fish, and YOU GET A FISH!

very unbottled lightening