open | leave the horror here

[castitas]

Who: Kate Marsh + you!
What: Making rosehip tea/syrup shenanigans; nightmares; feast preparations + more!
When: The month of October.
Where: Various places around Milton.

Content Warnings: Warnings in the individual prompts. As a general rule, themes of depression and suicide, possibly mentions of suicide attempt from last month from It Speaks prompt.




contact: heolstor / _heolstor @ discord for plotting!

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choir of furies in your head | rosehips

[castitas]

one cw: mentions of a suicide attempt, thoughts of depression

[ In the early days of October, the kitchen of the Community Hall is a busy little hub of activity. With a decent harvest of rosehips collected from in and around the town, Kate Marsh is cleaning and cooking the little red berries — with help and directions of a foraging book. It's... been good to keep busy, she thinks. The work leaves little time or space for her mind to wander into darker, sadder thoughts. Keeping herself occupied means she isn't thinking about back home, isn't thinking about the Voice — even if it's thankfully gone now. It means she isn't thinking of the view into the Milton Basin, how close her feet were to the edge, and how her cheeks stung with the cold against her tears.

Keeping busy doesn't mean she's a waste. It means she's... doing something good in the face of everything.

There's various stages in which one might come across her to see what all the fuss and noise (and smell — a delicate, sweet and floral smell filling the entirety of the Hall) is about. She might be in the middle of cooking up the berries into a simple syrup, stirring away at pots on the stove. Perhaps she might ask for extra firewood to keep the stove going. Or she's in the middle of the rather mechanical process she's going through of sterilising jars and glass bottles by washing them in hot soapy water before drying them in the oven.

Or towards the very late afternoon on one of the days, perhaps you might come in to find she's sitting on the floor in front of the stove, watching the ones drying on baking sheets within — waiting for them to be done so she can chop them up and sieve them to remove the pesky hairs. She's mostly looking forward to this being done — she's real excited to try out some of that rosehip tea. It might not be her and Max's weekly tea sessions, but it's something. It's hard to think of something to look forward to, but she'll grasp this one with both hands and cling to it as hard as she can. ]

two

[ With a bright red child's sled she'd found outside one of the many abandoned homes of Milton, she pulls the load of bottles and jars of rosehip syrup behind her as she treks through the town on one of the calmer afternoons. In her school satchel over her shoulder are little packages of the rosehip tea — too delicate to carry alongside the syrup. It's a slow moving progress, and she takes her time with it, trying to take care not to tip the sled, or fall in the snow.

Over the course of the afternoon, she'll go from house to house of the Interlopers of Milton. Knocking on doors, asking the inhabitants if they wish to trade some rosehip syrup or rosehip tea in exchange for something. Most of the things she'll ask for will be put towards Methuselah's preparations: canned goods, stocks, seasonings. But other times, Kate might ask for small things for herself: art supplies like colouring pencils, books, herbal teas.

Her sled parked behind her, she'll knock on a door. There's even a little sales-pitch rehearsed and everything: let her tell you about the benefits of rosehips! ]

Oh. Hey— [ There's a polite smile. ] I'm sorry to bother you. I was wondering if I could interest you in a trade—?

[ In all honesty, if someone doesn't want to trade, she'll likely give it out for free. ]

choir of furies in your bed | nightmares

[castitas]

one cw: mention of disassociation; nightmares; emeteo mention, but no actual throwing up; disturbing visuals of being bound, inability to move, non-consensual touching

[ She can't recall the last time she slept well. More often than not, she doesn't sleep much at all — the circles under her eyes darkening by the day. Instead, she finds herself turned over, away from the eyes of the others who live within the Hall — staring into nothing, somewhere far off within herself, tears dribbling over her nose and into her hair. But she does sleep eventually, when she exhaustion becomes too much and she'll shift into something quiet and deep for a while.

It's as if everything's underwater. Dark and terrible, but the light hurts her eyes and she can't seem to bring anything into focus. She feels sick and dizzy, like she might throw up but nothing comes and she's just lost to the sea of nausea, rolling with wave after wave. There's a voice, a man's — calm and gentle but... it doesn't feel safe. It doesn't reassure her, doesn't soothe her.

She can't move. Light and dark blur before her. The sharp flash of light: too harsh, too much. There's a soft sound that filters through the dream, a gentle whimper. The flashes burn into her, and she wants to turn away from them, but she can't. She feels no control over her body, her limbs won't move, her hands feel stuck. Her wrists feel tight, as if they've been smothered in super glue, and the skin might tear. And she can only stare blankly — she doesn't want this, she doesn't want this.

Hands reach for her, manipulate her. Her head shifts, a leg. Moves what she cannot. The nausea rolls within her once more and through the buzz of it, she thinks no, please don't. More flashes, the frequency growing in intensity — it hurts.

She wakes with a strangled noise, startling in the darkness. Her hands clamp over her mouth as she sits up and then curls forwards into herself — lights dancing in her eyes. ]

two

[ Some nights, she'll awake more quietly — with nothing more than a quiet inhale and her stomach curling with anxiousness. She'll lie awake, listening to the sleep-sounds around her, and her skin crawls with the images in her mind. She feels gross, and she wants to scream but she clamps her jaw tightly shut — tears in her eyes. The night outside seems calm, and she'll rise from her cot — dressing quickly and quietly. She does her best not to disturb the others, carrying her boots and an unlit flashlight until she's out into the entranceway of the Hall. It's only then she'll ready herself and step out into the dark.

There's a soft hush over the town. The night is still. The sky is void of light from the Aurora, but filled with countless stars — far brighter than she's ever seen them before. The air is quiet, the wolves seem to be sleeping. She stares upwards for a long moment. It's... beautiful, even if the cold is bitter. For a long time she just stands there, trying to shake off the dream and the crawling feeling that weighs on her. Or she might eventually start to walk — keeping close to the Hall but wandering the streets. No one should be around, she thinks. Not at this time of night.

But she's wrong, and she startles, shifting her flashlight with speed. ]

Who's there—?

forget the horror here | feast prep.

[castitas]

one cw: dead animals/game; some panic-attack related symptoms

[ Whilst there is some degree of animosity of Methuselah's return to Milton, Kate is one of those incredibly grateful and pleased to see the old man once more. Methuselah is kind and a gentle soul, and she gratefully appreciates the feast he had laid out to the Interlopers on their arrival into this harsh and horrible world. Truly, she thinks, a light amongst the darkness. She's in bright spirits, smiling a little more as she offers her help in preparations for the next feast.

She busies herself with whatever she can, heading into the kitchen for what she might be able to help with next... only to find the animals currently being butchered in there: rabbits.

Kate stares for a full ten seconds, frozen in place in absolute horror, before the smell of blood and raw meat hits her nose and she shudders violently. Rabbit. It's— Heaven, no. There's tears in her eyes, and she promptly spins on her heel and runs out of the kitchen. Her feet carry her with speed, and she's quickly dissolving into full-out hyperventilating sobs as she hurries out of the Hall.

She may end up careening into some poor soul trying to enter the Hall in her hasty exit, or find her as she quickly turns around the corner of the building to press herself against the wall, looking as if she might throw up, in a fit of hyperventilating cries. ]

two

[ Later, when she's calmed down a great deal — Kate will be helping out with setting up the canisters of tea and coffee for the feast in wait for the supposed newcomers. Does she believe Methuselah's notion that more of them will be coming? Of course she does. She might not understand how the old man knows more will be coming, but there's an essence of faith about the whole thing that she gently leans on.

Faith is such a fragile thing, as of late.

She carries plates and cups to the tables set out, along with the more heavier canisters — which she will gratefully accept help from in moving over. Things are coming together nicely, she thinks. Goodness knows how long it's been for any of them to get together for a proper meal like this. She's quietly looking forward to it all. ]

Even if no one does turn up, it'll be nice for everyone to get together to eat again.

future rust and future dust | wildcards / closed prompts.

[castitas]