it must be that old evil spirit

[singmod]

SEPTEMBER 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — PAINFUL REMINDERS: An Aurora briefly connects the Interlopers to their homeworlds, and with it are able to receive items from home — but these ones will bring no comfort to them.

PROMPT TWO — THE ENEMY WITHIN: Strange and familiar occurrences begin in Milton and Lakeside, growing in frequency and danger for the Interlopers. Who can truly be trusted among their numbers?

PROMPT THREE — BAD BLOOD: The Forest Fighters finally come to Milton, and with it: they bring the yawning grave.

PAINFUL REMINDERS

WHEN: 5th - 9th of September.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potentially upsetting themes; themes of loneliness/isolation.

For many, the sight of the Aurora is now one they have become used to. There have been plenty of them over the year that has passed since the Interlopers first came to the Northern Territories. Often, they have been a sign of great danger, with plenty of unsettling and unnatural things happening when the skies light up. Other times they have been the herald of aid — a link between Interlopers and Enola, gifting them with abilities to help them survive in this world. There is no real knowing what kind of force the Aurora is, truly. And there is a tension that holds amongst the Interlopers as the day turns to night and there is the soft sound that grows louder.

The ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds, is difficult to place. Perhaps it sounds like voices, or discordant strings. And with it, the low-drone of electrical buzz — punctuated with the echoing pops and sharp cracks. The sky is alive with sound, and with it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as time goes on — greens, blues, pinks and purples shifting and dancing across the night. And much like every Aurora before this one, the electricals of the world come to life too. Homes, streetlamps, cars long-stranded in the snow. Man’s world comes alive, buzzing and flickering precariously.

But there are no ghosts like there once was a year ago. No terrible weather, no poisonous fog. If one could call it a ‘normal’ Aurora, that’s what it appears to be. But there is something else in amongst all the light and noise. Snatches of things: whispers of conversations, names called, laughter and tears.

You realise you recognise these voices. They are the voices of home. Perhaps you hear your mother, your siblings or friends. Whoever they are, you can hear them. And although they might not be able to hear you — for one brief night, the Aurora has connected you, bridged the gap between your world and this one. You may sit for a while, simply listening to the voices, relishing in hearing those from back home. If others join you, you will find yourself compelled to speak of them: to share in stories about those from back home — the connections you share with them.

It’s strange, though. These voices do not fill you with comfort or joy. Instead you are left with feelings of sadness, anger, and isolation. The Aurora has connected Interlopers, but now you feel so cut off from home, cut off from friends and loved ones — reminded of everything left behind. Everything you long for. Everything you have lost.

Something strange skips through the sky, a warping of the sound. It’s unsettling. Something feels... wrong, somehow.

It’s not just the voices that will remind you of this. Something else comes through the Aurora after that night. A small token will be brought through. Whatever the item may be, when you go to sleep and next wake, you will find said item. It may be placed on your bedside, on your desk or dining room table.

The item, you will find, will bring you a reminder of pain. Of sadness. Of horror. Perhaps it’s something you haven’t thought of in some time. Maybe it is something that has lingered in the back of your mind. Perhaps it is a part of you, waiting to be uncovered. A sign of something to come. A painful reminder of your past, or an ominous omen of your future.

THE ENEMY WITHIN

WHEN: The month of September.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: kidnapping/attempted kidnapping; attempted murder; murder; vandalism; arson; assault; animal mutilation; corpse mutilation/manipulation/desecration; themes of peril/terror; possible character/npc injuries; possible character/npc death.

It starts with strange happenings at night, things left to be found by the next morning. Those within Lakeside many find themselves unsurprised by it, given their location, but the scenes found in Milton are a foreboding sight.

Mutilated bodies of animals: rabbits, ptarmigans, even deer — mangled and strewn about the streets, blood upon the snow. Some may awaken in the middle of the night to the sounds of their windows breaking, with houses on the Outskirts being targeted more than those in the middle of town. There is… a kind of unrest in the world.

It escalates.

Some may leave their home for the day and return in the evening to find the place trashed: items broken, precious foodstuffs thrown about the place and destroyed. Those within the Outskirts are once again particularly vulnerable, as are those within Lakeside. Fires are started in some of the abandoned buildings of Milton. Something, someone is targeting the Interlopers.

It is hard to pin-point who exactly, and it only puts the Interlopers on high alert. Nothing like this has never happened before. This is new, especially in Milton.

As the month progresses, the acts become more serious. Fires may be started in the middle of the night in Interlopers’ homes while they sleep. Some are attacked in the night, others are taken from their beds. Some killed within their very homes. Of the Interlopers that go missing, their mutilated remains may be found days later out in the wilds.

In Milton, soon enough, someone is bold enough to come out from the darkness, out from the gloom of the night. Interlopers may be attacked in broad daylight — by those they may recognise as newer Interlopers of the community, who appeared from the wilds: lost and shivering, with nowhere else to go. Some of them have been within Milton for a few months now.

Those in Lakeside will face something similar: Forest Talkers are making a move, rogue and isolated incidents — done with sabotaging attempts at hunting and taking a more direct approach.

They have no qualms about being captured or killed, only determined to get rid of as many of the Interlopers as they can. They whisper, they scream: “You don’t belong here. You should never have come here. It wants you gone, it wants us all gone. The end is here, it’s too late for any of us. Nature must run its course. The yawning grave has been opened.”

The attack is on two fronts: the first of Forest Talkers in Lakeside amplifying their actions. The second in Milton, enemies within the ranks of the Interlopers, Forest Talkers hiding as Interlopers.

Within Milton, newer Interlopers will likely be met with suspicion as being some of the Forest Fighters as a result of these individual acts of violence. As the numbers of Milton have been infiltrated, and it’s easy to have mistrust amongst those newer to the community. In-fighting is likely, and the entire town is stuck in some terrible, tense state — unsure of who to trust within their own numbers. In the days and weeks that follow, it remains like this. Acts of violence and vandalism — chaos and disorder.

BAD BLOOD

WHEN: The night of 27th - 28th September.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: attempted murder; murder; vandalism; arson; assault; mentions of blood; themes of peril/terror; possible character/npc injuries; possible character death/npc death; actual NPC death.

Towards the end of the month, the moon is full. They call it the Harvest Moon, but colour seeps into it — oranges and reds: a blood moon, partially eclipsed. The night is calm and cloudless, but there’s an uneasy feeling in the night.

The earth groans, the rumble of another quake that’s plagued the Northern Territories since the beginning of August. It is the only warning Interlopers will get — if they may realise it as a warning. To some, when they look back, it’s a omen, a starting pistol.

They do not come through the Mines. Thanks to the efforts of Interlopers to guard the entrances of the Milton Mines, they know better. They come to town from the south, not the north.
The quakes of August and September have opened a new way from Lakeside to Milton. They are led by their Leader: a man dressed in white, a large deer skull upon his head. And while their numbers are small in comparison, they come armed and with the determination to get rid of the Interlopers once and for all. As they come into town, they launch their attack.

More fires will be set, Interlopers will be attacked with abandon. Shot at, stabbed, beaten. It is a mass execution. They will not stop until the Interlopers, or them, are dead.

Well, the majority of them. There are just under a dozen teenagers and younger people amongst their ranks who have shown hesitance toward violence in the past. Perhaps they can be reasoned with. Perhaps there may be a way to convince them to abandon their cause. There is fear in their eyes. Some of them do not want to die. They fear the yawning grave.

What will do you then, Interloper? Are you willing to fight for your life? Are you willing to take another’s to save your own, or a friends? Will you hide, or run? What choice will you make? The Forest Talkers have long since made their own choice. Now you must make yours.

It is another night of chaos on a town already scarred by the events of June. Interlopers will note two familiar faces in the fray: at some point during the night both Methuselah and Young Bill will arrive. While Methuselah will concentrate on aiding the wounded and trying to shelter Interlopers the best he can, Young Bill will help protect Interlopers from the Forest Talkers with his rifle in hand. But fortunately, it is just for one single night. Ammunition runs out, sides are switched, and people are killed. As dawn approaches, Forest Talker numbers dwindle. Either killed, incapacitated or defected. In the early morning light, bodies lie in the snow both Interloper and Forest Talker alike.

Those trying to hunt down the leader will see him slipping inside an empty cabin, heavily wounded. Following after him, they will find him settling himself down to kneel on the floor. The white of his tactical gear stained red with blood as it blooms from his wounds. Slowly, he removes the deer skull from his head to reveal a clean-shaven man in his late twenties with a shock of white-blond hair. His eyes are blue, calm.

He sets the skull down, panting and sweating. He is dying. He is not afraid.

“My name is Mallory, not that it matters now. We are dead, you and I.” he says softly. “We exist in a dying world.”

He is in much pain from his wounds. He moves again to sit cross-legged on the floor. A hand touches the bloodied fabric of his front and he laughs humourlessly.

“You don’t understand, do you? The end must come. That is the order of things. The end must come so the world can be reborn. That is how it’s always worked. When the world is swallowed, it will grow again from the earth.”

It is a story. The story of the Darkwalker. Some believe it to be the end of the world, but Young Bill had once said there is another telling of the tale. A creation myth. The Darkwalker swallows the world and returns to its slumber within the earth. Within it, everything its swallowed grows again and the world returns.

“We fought against man’s actions to ruin this place, not knowing our true purpose. The Devourer has shown me the truth, and I sought to put that into action.” His head tilts to one side. “The yawning grave is opened. Does new life not grow from the decay? It is a cycle. The grave and the cradle.”

He finds it difficult to breathe, but he presses on.

“You fight to live. You come here and you do not see what you are. You are only delaying the inevitable, perverting the true course. Prolonging the suffering. You are the Interlopers, you are not part of nature’s design. The Darkwalker does not want you here. And where it fails, we have tried to succeed.”

There’s another laugh, something catching in his throat. He coughs, blood bubbling from his lips.

“And failed. For now. The First Cursed cannot hold it forever. She, too, delays the inevitable." Even as he is dying, he still have the energy to sneer. He speaks of Enola. "A woman who plays at being a god. What right does she have? All must go into the Long Dark. ... As will I. Return me to the grave.”

Mallory’s head dips, his body sagging. He inhales once more and then stops.

FAQs

PAINFUL REMINDERS


1. Players must sign up for items. See the toplevel on the plotting post.

2. Items will face the same warps/nerfs as everything else that is brought into the game.

3. Items can be no bigger than something your character can reasonably carry.

4. While items do not have to belong to your character, there has to be a good reason why they’d receive such an item — ie. something related to your character.


THE ENEMY WITHIN

1. The Forest Talkers within Milton are a number of NPCs that have been pre-selected from NPCs who arrived in April and August. Not all of them will show their true intentions as the month goes on but will continue to stay hidden.

2. Two NPCs killed in the June Event were also Forest Talkers. … Good… job?

3. The following NPC Interlopers will out themselves as Forest Talkers at this stage: Devon Busswood; Rita Yee; Realm Lovejoy.


BAD BLOOD

1. Following the events of this prompt, Interlopers now have an additional way into Lakeside. It’s still rather dangerous: it’s through a partially collapsed cave system that ends into abandoned bunker on the Lakeside side. The game map will be marked accordingly in due course.

2. Some Interlopers may recognise a familiar face in the Forest Talker ranks: the man who was kidnapped by Interlopers previously in July has returned. Looks like he made good on his promise. He's come back to cause problems.

3. The following NPC Interlopers will out themselves as Forest Talkers during the attack: Jackie Blackmore; Ross Huguet; Jennifer Kitchen; Daniel Kresco.

4. As a reminder of numbers: around fifty Forest Talkers will show up for the attack.

5. There is an OOC vote on the fate of the remaining Forest Talkers, the link is here.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

Louis de Pointe du Lac | For The Love Of God Don't Interview Those Vampires

[flambeaux]

Painful Reminders

5th - 9th, evening/night, Milton

cw: s1 spoilers, depression, familial abuse (mentioned), grief for one's child, hallucinations, vampire starvation as self harm

Louis can't really bring himself to run the store properly, but he wants to be anywhere but the house he made dismal and messy. And the wiring is better elsewhere. So he comes into work at the Marché du Lac, the General Store he fixed up, and he plays some jazz on the record player as the Aurora picks up. The wood stove heats the front enough that he can hang up his wool coat and remain comfortable in a cable knit sweater and pleated slacks. The coils of his hair are free of their usual pomade. He's pallid and sickly and looks like he could do with a good meal.

He's sitting at the small round cafe tables at the window and looking at the cover of a little journal bound in pastel patterned paper, the kind a young lady might own. Occasionally he looks around, as if he's just heard something. Whatever it is, it brings a stricken expression, but he's not upset or confused enough to rise from his seat. Really, he almost expected this.

He continues staring at the cover, knowing it contains Claudia's memoirs of life being raised by "Daddy Lou" and "Uncle Les", her frustration about being trapped in a girl's body and unable to find companionship, and the last words of her victims collected as trophies before she drained them of blood. Normal teenager stuff. This is the only diary of hers he ever looked at, yet he's afraid to open it again.

When someone comes in, he hides the diary away in his inner coat pocket (over his heart) and turns his bright green eyes on his guest.

Bad Blood

27/8th, night of the attack, Milton

cw: arson, assault/battle, burning alive, dissociation?, fire burning down a house, murder, tobacco use (cursed), vampire feeding, vampire starvation as self harm, the violence is pretty brutal

Louis lives on the north end of town on Greene St. He wakes where he was dozing on the couch to the sound of breaking glass—once when his window is smashed in, and a second when a bottle is thrown through it to crash on the rug. Claudia's diary clutched in his hand, he bolts to his feet as a conflagration spreads quickly across his living room, already consuming their possessions.

Something numbs inside Louis. At the same time, something breaks. Nothing matters. He pockets the diary, moves to the front door, throws on his coat and deerskin boots, picks up his cane knife, and exits his house with purpose. Nothing matters, so he does the one thing he can do, the one thing he can be good at in this moment when all else has failed and he has failed all.

He bares his fangs as he marches around to the window and the tracks leading away in the snow. In the space of a breath he follows them with Free Runner and fells his unknown attacker in the distance. Blood in his mouth... He hasn't fed properly in weeks, and human is the best. He sits up, gasping at the blood moon, red dripping down his chin and out of the man's neck onto the snow. He doesn't know how long he remains in the heady thrall of the meal in his veins.

Louis scoops the dying man by the collar and drags him the way he came. Flames are creeping out the front door and licking up the sides of the house. Louis tosses him without ceremony onto the burning porch, and the arsonist briefly comes alive one last time as he reflexively jerks and shrieks in pain. With dead eyes, Louis mechanically fishes out a cigarette and lets the fire on the banister bring light to the tip before putting it between bloodied lips.

"You're lucky my daughter wasn't here, or you'd be in for a worse time." He's so goddamn tired.

Wildcard

Aftermath? etc. Plotting comment

Painful reminders

[lestercraft]

It's the jazz, funny enough, that draws him in.

Green eyes meet brown, flecked with unnatural streaks of yellow (gold?), in the slightly alarmed face of a stranger to Louis - there's an unhealthy gauntness to his cheeks, the chestnut hair sticking out of a knit cap is dull and streaked with white, and a rough friction scar across his right temple nearly reaches his eye - but when the surprise passes he draws himself up, and he's of a height with Louis.

"Ah- I apologise," he comments with an embarrassed huff - his posh English accent is strong, barely tempered. "I should have realised someone was here playing that, i-it wouldn't have just- turned itself on."

Edward Little ⚓ The Terror

[fidior]

CLOSED STARTERS

⚓ — PLOTTING POST

— Francis Crozier.

[fidior]

It feels a lifetime since he last spoke with Crozier. Memory of that day is hazy and strange, blurred a little at the edges. There was an anger that belonged to him — oh yes, it belonged to him — but it found voice in the wrong shape. Warped by the effects of this place, catching hold of every hurt feeling and making it feel like a weapon he needed to use against the one man he vowed to always stay loyal to.

Since then, Little has killed someone. No punishment is enough for it. No amount of self-inflicted hunger, no discomfort, no driving physical labor, though he does all of those things, for weeks. The only punishment that comes close is the beast-form this place cursed him with, the one that tugs at his spirit most when the moon is full. He falls into that horrible form, lets it take over him, keeps himself that way more often than he'd ever want to — a beast. But the empty place inside of him grows bigger, and it's exacerbated by so many other guilts, and he cannot forget one man he'd surely hurt deeply.

One morning in early September when he wakes, there is a single pocket watch chain curled at the bedside.

What he initially feels is confusion, and some faint ache. He recognises the fob — most of the men had pocket watches, an item carried even when time lost most of its meaning. Hours, days, weeks, months; all bled together, in the end. An item like this was a reminder of everything lost, everything separating them from their homes, and yet simultaneously a precious familiarity to hold onto. To cling onto. Edward, of all people, knew the value of such importance. He was one of the last to remain holding onto such concepts.

He keeps it with him now, constantly. Tucked into his pocket or sometimes held in his hand. He can't decide if it's a comfort or another emptiness, but he accepts whichever it may be.

One day he seeks out Crozier in the direction he knows he lives now, but has never visited personally. His heart is tight and strained; he keeps the watch chain curled around his fingers, brushing against it almost in some attempt to self-soothe. He comes across him outside first — perhaps the other man is up to some chore in the woods, or heading to or from his home. It isn't difficult to spot one another, two solitary moving things in the stillness. Little hesitates only a moment before he begins to approach him.

"Good day," he calls, more softly than he meant to. Even now, he feels smaller, like a child.

eren jaeger | attack on titan (all prompts in milton)

[dreamsofwings]

A - PAINFUL REMINDERS Blanket TW for war, murder, death, unreality, violence.

i; the aurora
The Aurora itself doesn't immediately freak Eren out, but it shakes his sense of time and reality. To him, the swirling colours in the sky remind him of a place out of time, a place where he had control over too much all at once.

He wonders again if this is, somehow, his own doing. The only person he's voiced that to at all is Reiner, and only because Reiner brought it up first. But Eren would never give up his own power, not as long as he lived, and as far as he knows he hasn't actually died yet. He can't see past his own death; even his power never extended that far. Though it's not really about his death. It's about the after, the end of the titans, or maybe the end of everything.

He stares up at the sky, hands in his pockets, blank and distant like he so often is. Catch him doing this, just…standing there staring. He might shake himself out of it when the electric things start up, tense like he will run or fight (he would always pick fight before he would pick run).

"What the hell is that noise?"

ii - the voices

Later, the voices start. Again, it's almost something familiar for Eren. He can see across time, after all. Or rather, he can exist there. He had conversations with most of his friends that he will erase/has erased from their memories. He thinks they might remember when he is dead. He sees all of that now, Armin and the seashell (Eren has the seashell on the shelf in the house he claimed). Reiner. Jean.

Mikasa and the grief he inflicted on her, a wound that may never heal. She was left with the hardest job, the final decision that Ymir waited 2,000 years for.

He sits on a busted up shell of a car — one too torn apart to come to life with the other electronics of the world — and listens to her voice. It makes him sad, not for the first time, but he can't cry about it here. He still has some awareness that he's in public, that there are other people around whose memories he can't erase now. This isn't home, even if it reminds him of it.

Join him here. A couple things he might say, when he finally decides to speak:

"I grew up surrounded by walls."

Or maybe,

"Have you ever seen the ocean?"

Alternately, bring your own stories!

B - THE ENEMY WITHIN blanket TWs for animal death, gore, heavy violence, murder, probably gaslighting idk

i; the house on wolfjaw road

Eren hasn't gathered too many supplies, so there isn't much for anyone to raid in the little house he claimed. He was actually on a supply run, he and someone else (you?) scavenging some necessary items to bring back. He might be thankful for the help, but that's about to be disrupted. Instead of finding his things ruined, he comes back to some horror strewn about the porch. It was some kind of animal, a deer maybe.

Anger flashes onto his face. He forgets about whatever he's carrying, shoving the unlocked door open and just dropping his little pile of things onto the floor. The house itself is fine, though there might be another window he'll have to board up or somehow fix now.

"Whoever did this better not still fucking be here," he says, his generally monotone voice lacing with anger. Eren isn't all that scary on his own, but there's clear menace in his tone now. Talk him down, or don't, or a secret third thing!

ii; the attack

He learns to lock the door. Maybe he's lucky that none of the attackers comes to the house; he has something of a history of being kidnapped. But not this time! This time, a man approaches him in the middle of the street as afternoon fades into evening. Eren doesn't know most people here, so he doesn't really think anything of it.

The man doesn't even say anything before he pulls out some sort of blunt weapon — a pipe or something; Eren doesn't have the time to really register what it is — and swings.

Eren has spent most of his life ready for a fight, and this place shouldn't be any different. The big difference here is that he can't heal from an injury. He's aware of that, which means he'd really rather not take a metal object to the face. His dodge isn't as smooth as it could be, but the man isn't expecting it so his next swing goes wide. The fight doesn't last long. Eren only takes a superficial hit against his upper arm. It will bruise, but it's not a big deal.

It ends with the man dead on the ground and Eren holding the piece of pipe. Feel free to fill in the blanks; it was fast and it was brutal. When Eren stands up, there's blood spattered on his face. He doesn't bother wiping it away as he turns to leave the dead man there.

He will be hostile to anyone he doesn't know who comes up to him. If he does know whoever approaches, he will be…less hostile, probably. He won't attack immediately, but after that display, it's pretty clear he could be a threat.

iii; uneasy alliance CLOSED to Reiner

Eren joins in whatever effort there is to track down the Forest Talkers and get rid of them. He doesn't engage them in conversations. He has nothing to say. He knows what they're doing; he's done it himself, after all. Maybe they really are protecting something, but it doesn't matter.

They're here hiding among people who didn't ask to be here, waiting to ambush them? He can't abide that. He's just here for the violence of it, his revenge drive always strong.

It becomes harder for Eren to tell who is against them and who isn't. He's not exactly paranoid, but he's certainly on edge. He doesn't tire of violence but his stamina is no longer infinite, and he can't stay out in the cold forever without his titan power to warm his blood.

Early one morning, restless and agitated again by the scarf he shoved into a drawer to avoid looking at it, he goes outside. He found a gun the other day and tucks it into his coat. It's just a little handgun, but it will do.

The first person he encounters who he feels like interacting with at all is…

He thinks of how often he made sure to avoid the Warriors in Marley. Only Reiner and Pieck knew his face, but that was enough. He couldn't be seen interacting with Zeke outside the hospital anyway. He saw Reiner only from afar, how he needed it to be, until he had Falco bring Reiner to that basement.

They meet in the street where it could be a standoff. Eren still has the pipe he got when he killed that one guy, held in one hand, resting against his shoulder. At least he's not all bloody today. Yet.

They're both traitors, and they both know that. What does Reiner make of all this? Eren could guess, because he knows Reiner well. But he also can't guess, has no idea, because this is the world gone sideways. Neither of them belongs here, like these people say. But neither of them had any choice.

They have never had choices, not really, despite all Eren's talk of freedom.

"Reiner," he says, unsuccessful in keeping the threat entirely out of his voice.

C - BAD BLOOD blanket TW for death, murder, violence, non-fatal injury

i; CLOSED to Michonne
There's a circle of a few of them fighting. He catches sight of one of the few people he's met here engaging them and he's all too ready to join here. He's got his pipe and a gun he found somewhere. He's an okay shot, though unused to handguns, so he favours the pipe.

He jumps right into the fray alongside Michonne and ends up back to back with her.

"These assholes picked the wrong people to fuck with," he tells her, and swings again.

ii; CLOSED to Levi Ackerman

Whether hubris, carelessness, or simply forgetting how long an injury takes a human being to heal, Eren doesn't make it through all that unscathed. He blocks something incorrectly and takes a sold fist to the face from a man bigger and stronger than him. It jars him enough that the fight doesn't go entirely his way.

He wins in the end, but it leaves him with a gash along one arm that just…bleeds. He doesn't have first aid supplies on him. Why would he need them? Oh, right, because not a titan. It's not bad enough to be fatal or anything, but it annoys him. His head spins and he just kind of sits there in the snow.

There are a few dead bodies nearby, not all of them his doing. Dissociating and bleeding are not a good combination, especially when more of them might come along at any time. Luckily, the person who comes along and finds him isn't a Forest Talker.

He looks up from where he sits there in the snow and blinks slowly. He'd know that silhouette anywhere.

"Captain," he says.

D - WILDCARD

[ want to try something else, including before/after the event? throw something at me or feel free to peep my plotting post! as a reminder, eren has marks on his face that will always be there and be very obvious. ]

[thesamurai]

Killing isn't fun for her, Michonne wouldn't say that. She takes the time to think about her kill count, how high it is, who she's become in the last thirteen years. She doesn't always like it, tries to balance it out by being a loving mom, a decent leader.

That doesn't mean she isn't good at it though, and it far from means she won't take someone out when her community is threatened. For all the words she said about not getting involved with these unorganized people, it was bullshit. She's here, was a part of it the second she touched ground, and she wouldn't have seriously considered letting people who just want to go home, get slaughtered.

When she sees Eren fighting toward her with a pipe, she naturally gravitates closer to him and they become an easy team. So, she can't help but grin at his words. They weren't the cocky ones first, and it's satisfying to watch the other numbers dwindle, the looks of panic being passed back and forth.

"I'm thinkin' we can finish this right fucking now."

Arthur Lester | Malevolent

[lestercraft]

Painful Memories

CW: Allusions to suicide, drowning, child death, death in childbirth; Malevolent spoilers

Arthur's never seen an aurora before. He's seen black-and-white photos of it, he's seen illustrations and heard tales, but he's never quite been able to visualise it.

(Until recently, he didn't see a lot of anything.)

But when the lights suddenly flicker into life in his claimed house, and he hears the crackle of static and voices outside - well, of course he's going to run outside and stick his head out to actually see it. And overhead past the crackling, half-lit street lights, there's that massive, beautiful aurora.

He has to admit, it's still utterly breathtaking.

Until he realises he recognises the voices. A woman laughing, moaning, screaming in pain with the echo of nurses encouraging her. An older man, English and blisteringly furious. A Scotsman, begging through pain, A New Yorker choking on his own blood, a Southern bastard soliloquising, a Bostonian cackling with laughter, choking his name out for the last time.

A little girl, giggling as she plonks at the keys of a grand piano.

He keeps his head down, for the rest of the time it's up. Hoping that ignoring it might make them go away.

The Enemy Within

CW: Dead/mutilated animals, fire

i. The Animals
It's easy to find Arthur squatting down in front of some of the mutilated animals, when they first start appearing. He's got a black dagger in hand, but there's no blood on him - at least no further than the tips of his fingers, and the knife - there's an intensity to his gaze that clearly suggests he's fully in the zone, but his movements are slow and deliberate, doing nothing else to the animal except study it.

It's something to focus on. Something within his control. Easier to deal with than the follow-up later on.

ii. The Fire
Fire doesn't strictly bother Arthur, but it's not fun to wake up in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke, either. For a moment in the haze of sleep he's worried he left the fireplace alive downstairs, but then it gets stronger when he moves towards the window, and - then he can see the rubble next door, that he's been using for supplies, smouldering - not the low burn of something going out, but the licking flames of something about to get worse.

"Fuck, shit damn fuck-!" He's running outside immediately, boots immediately slapping through the fresh layer of snow - and immediately doubles back to grab the shovel sitting on the porch, to try and pile snow onto the flames spreading closer to his own house.

Bad Blood

CW: VIOLENCE, death, panic attack

i. The Attack
With the chaos rising, Arthur's on high alert. Which means falling asleep in his clothes, which means changing locations to sleep most nights in a fit of survivalist paranoid pique, even if it's just in the community hall sometimes. Presuming someone wouldn't attack him in a shared space.

He's proven wrong, but he's not harmed, not really.

But when the earthquake rumbles through the place, he feels the shift, a deep gut instinct. Whatever this is, is coming.

And then it hits all at once.

Arthur finds himself in the fray - not that he's trying to escape it, but it descends upon him before he can realise which, if any, direction is safe to run. He has a knife, at least, already drawn, and when one of them rushes towards him - it's singular, bloody-minded survival instinct that takes over. The figure half-tackles him to the ground, holds him by the throat as a hunting knife plunges into Arthur's chest - and stops, aborted, with an abrupt clang of metal. And before his attacker can focus on that, Arthur's moving too, jamming his own dagger into the gap between their jaw and throat, and rips it out with feral panic screaming in his veins.

He wrestles out from under the limp body in seconds as it slumps off of him, and takes the new knife (a trophy, maybe, or just practicality), and stays low, whipping his head around to try and take in the panic of the fray. He can hear his blood in his ears and his own heavy breathing, but the rest of the world feels... quiet.

There. He focuses on another one, bearing down on someone he recognises, a hunting rifle raised, and Arthur launches towards the Forest Talker with all the energy of a trapped predator unleashed. "Hey!"

ii. The Survivors
He knows there's people running after the last of the Forest Talkers. Good for them. There's people here still injured.

Arthur is covered in blood, but to his private, perverse satisfaction, very little of it is his. His hands ache, his head is ringing and there's an itching trail of blood from his hairline somewhere - but the chestplate, as much as the sight of it made something less physical ache, had done its job beneath his layers of clothes. And despite his own exhaustion, he doesn't stop. He can't, not when there's other people injured.

So he stalks the streets, still holding onto that predatory energy like a second wind, the last of it in his sails keeping him going, as he finds people to help drag them back to the community hall. The injured, he tries to keep talking, keep them awake so they can get back to the hall in one piece to be helped.

And every time he drops someone off, he lingers, for a little bit longer each time, as exhaustion weighs him down. Watching the other people here, watching to see who else is closer to the edge than him.

The dead... he's not ashamed. But he's not proud, either. He'll start rifling through pockets, taking knives, ammunition, shouldering rifles and bringing them back to the hall as well. Every bit helps.

Wildcard

CW: TBA, potential Malevolent spoilers ofc

If there's any other prompts you wanna go for, or something I didn't include you'd like to fuck around with, go for it!

the fire;

[obscurissime]

"Do you think that's gonna work?"

Where Arthur is frantic and urgent, Scratch is nonchalant. He appears calmly unaffected by the fact there's a fire on the verge of raging, hands in his pockets as he watches the way Arthur tries to drown the flames in snow.

Venat | FFXIV

[he_shall_walk]

PAINFUL REMINDERS(5th-9th)

[cw for mentions of genocide, apocalyptical threats, etc. ]

It isn't hard to assume Venat's association, and were aether as plentiful on this world as it on Etheirys, no one would miss it: Light is a part of her, whatever this place has suppressed or taken. If all was right, the Aurora would call her. As it is, when the it brightens the sky and she awakens from her sleep at the sound of the ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds that accompanies it, she is up and moving to see this strange event for herself without delay. She yearns for a moment for her senses to return to her, for the Light aether or even the dynamis to flitter across her perceptions. But instead, she hears a soft voice, mocking and final that rises into a horrifying choir, a song she has dreaded for so long, that has drowned out civilizations and left only ghosts, that has haunted the edges of the universe for as long as she can now remember.

She hears the Scions, her hope, her faith, hears their voices as they fade away into nothing, as they surrender themselves. And of course, she hears that last voice, her sweet protege, her warrior and champion as they shout their defiance against the dark.

It is while she strains to hear the last of the conversation, that voice, that she sees it drop through from seemingly nowhere, the bright yellow-orange stone that she could never mistake. She makes a horrible noise as she pads towards, unable to deny what is in front of her eyes, what is soon enough between her fingers:

The constellation stone. The Sun constellation stone, the Stone of Azem. The stone that she had not held for millennia.

She is not sure which is worse: the fact that it is here, no longer lit, or that she could swear it is still warm, even pulled from the chilly ground.

It's easy enough to come upon her with it, after all. She won't move for some time, her eyes closed and her fingers curled against the stone like it might give her answers, like it might answer her prayers, like even a scrap of aether might yet reside within it to give her something.

Eventually, whether someone speaks to her or no, she will go back into the house. She will not sleep, however. And that stone will not leave her person. Ever.

THE ENEMY WITHIN (all September)

[no CWs to start]

She is lucky that her home is not one of the first attacked.

She imagines, perhaps, that it is because she picked a place that had been vacated by another. Perhaps their information is old, or perhaps it had been deemed a less important target, empty and unnecessary to destroy as a resource for themselves later, once the 'Interlopers' had been removed. She hasn't heard enough or come to understand enough of these Forest Talkers to understand why they might be doing what they were doing other than pure zealotry.

But it does mean that she finds out about it and decides to try and take action.

She'll be looking for people to share her nights, one of them standing watch and the other sleeping until midnight and then switching to allow for proper, safe sleep. She'll propose that they switch up where they're sleeping if they can, between their two (or more) homes but she'll be glad enough for even one person willing to allow her the guard for rest that she'll probably agree with anyone's suggestion.

She'll be offering weapons training to anyone who might want it, primarily in the sword and shield she brought with her which are both still entirely functional weapons despite their lack of magic and for the occasional quick-footed sort, her chakrams for something more spritely.

Most importantly, she'll look to anyone who might have had a fire in their home or an attack and ask if they need anything. She has precious little, but even an open ear or an arm to lean on or a companion to go on a hunting or fishing trip with can do so much, or so she hopes.

She has ever been one who cares for her community, for her people. Being here has not changed that in her. If anything, the changes that this place has wrought upon her might have only made her more vehement.

[ closed to the Doctor ]

It was bad night.

A few different buildings went up near where she was and something in the light of the fires, the trees, the way the clouds have settled into the sky, how red it makes it look-

It has her stumble as she moves to help, stop and shake and swallow at the thought of what this looks like, what it almost seems to be.

BAD BLOOD (night of 27th-28th)

[cw mentions of bloodshed]

One might expect Venat, with her old fashioned speech and her almost ethereal presence, would be all for seeking a peaceful solution, would view a leader's entrance as an opportunity for a swift and bloodless resolution. Imagining her brokering a peace or offering just the right words to make the attackers see reason, the defenders choose to end the conflict... it's almost too easy. She was, after all, a politician for longer than most of the people here have lived. She was one of the Convocation of Fourteen.

She has done much more since then, however, and the most important of these had used her sword.

The weight of the constellation stone, an aetherless husk of a thing, bounces in her pocket as she runs, as her beautiful sword, no longer lit from within, now catches the light of the fires, the light of the stars, the sparks as it collides with other weapons.

Darkens with blood when it doesn't.

Without her power. Without her world. Without her allies. Without her champion. She has chosen a new people, found a new tribe of mankind, and made them her own. Even missing all else, this is still her purpose. She will defend their homes, their lives, even their hopes and dreams. Their right to answer all the questions still bubbling within their hearts.

And she will cut down any who stand in her way.

[plotting comment | battle soundtrack | yarnzipan]

Painful Reminders (cw allusions to domestic violence)

[sukeltaja]

The aurora is beautiful, so much bright lights in the sky, swirling, painting the inky blackness like a canvas. Tom had truly missed the colour, missed the beauty of it in ways he didn't fully realize until now.

It's the voices he can do without. His wife, his beautiful Barbara is wailing at him, crying, tied to a chair and pleading with a version of him that he's not entirely sure is real or not at the moment. It takes him a moment of staring once he has the photo in his hand to realize that it's not just in his mind. It's real. She's not real, but the voice is--most likely thanks to the aurora, like he's heard.

Tom doesn't want to be in the house. He paces instead, and pacing moves him outside, stopping only for coat appropriate for the weather. He holds the photograph close to him, the little reminder of his wife that doesn't even belong to him, her face scribbled out in a fit of envy. It doesn't matter. Not anymore.

It hurts, though.

There is a beautiful girl in the snow covered street, hair as white as the flakes falling, magnanimous in both elegance and height, clutching something as tightly as he's clutching the photo. Tom speaks softly, uncharacteristically still.

"A memory?"

Cornelius Hickey | The Terror

[friendsfordinner]

painful reminders ; skill issue ; OPEN
Oddly enough, Hickey's not hearing voices.

He's not complaining. Why the hell would he question a gift like that? Everybody else seems tense, off, listening to people that aren't there and Hickey just...isn't. He knows whatever is happening is due to the Aurora. Whatever happens always has something to do with the Aurora. But why is he spared?

Hickey comes to the obvious conclusion that whatever is behind the Aurora (maybe that woman? Probably that woman) is malevolent as hell. After all, the voices, the fog, the weather, that all's pretty obviously bad. And he's got a thousand theories as to why he's not affected, none of them he's willing to say out loud.

That being said, Cornelius Hickey is still a nosy bitch. So anyone who's obviously lost in thought, obviously listening to the voices, is going to get Hickey sauntering up to them like nothing's wrong as he asks, "Mind telling me what they're saying?"

bad blood ; time for stabbin ; OPEN
Now this is more like it. As far as Hickey's concerned, the more people that incite violence? The more destabilized things get? The less others will look at him with suspicion when he inevitably has to take drastic measures to keep himself and his own safe.

Plus, these assholes are trying to burn down his house. He lives there? That's rude?

Hickey takes point by his house. Any Forest Talker who comes near is getting fought and they're getting fought dirty. Hickey takes every cheap trick he can: elbowing people in the face, going for the eyes, kicking them in the privates. He fights quick and dirty, not for show, but more for ending the fight as quickly as possible. And he fights with his knife, knowing full well how to use it.

He's having the best fucking time, and that shows in the shine of his eyes.

closed to kieren, just cw for gore & body parts for this entire damn thread

[friendsfordinner]

What the fuck is he supposed to do with a severed tongue?

Truthfully, Hickey knows why he has a severed tongue. Ever since seeing what happened in his future, when he drunk that tea, the image of his own death has been playing in the back of his mind. Cutting his tongue out, offering it to the bear, getting torn in half, it plays over and over again like a film strip on repeat (not that Hickey would know that metaphor). It lingers in the back of his head like a half-remembered song.

This is just another sign of that. This is just another way this place is trying to tell him that really happened. You're really going to die. It didn't work.

Which is...something. But Hickey, as always, is pushing behind any metaphysical nonsense right now to focus on the practicals. He has a severed tongue that he has to get rid of. How the hell is he going to get rid of it?

He finds himself knocking on Kieren's door, tongue safely stored away in a ziploc bag in his pocket. Zombies eat flesh, right? Maybe Kieren wants a snack?

Michonne Grimes | TWD: TOWL

[thesamurai]

[ ooc: open + closed top levels | ooc plotting comment ]

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙾𝚃𝙰

[thesamurai]

𝚌𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛: 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍
𝙸. 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝟻-𝟿𝚝𝚑, 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛.

[ Michonne was told what it was like. She's seen different versions of an aurora back home, didn't think much of it. But when she's outside looking up and her walkie-talkie screeches to life, it nearly takes her out at the knees. She knows the chances of reaching all the way to Alexandria are slim to none, knows that this might not even be the same version of the world, but she has to try. She makes her way past the cabin she's sharing with the Doctor, hoping to find more of a clearing. When she does, she looks up at the sky, holding the walkie up and pressing the button, speaking around a lump in her throat. ]

Shoto? [ Michonne closes her eyes, wets her lips, and begins again. ] Shoto, it's Daito. [ She uses their code names, releases the button. No response. But that doesn't stop her. What if they can hear her, but she can't hear them? ] I'm coming home as soon as I can. Maybe not—maybe not with the Brave Man. But I'm coming home soon. I promise.

[ She doesn't know if she has any right to promise it, but she does anyway. ]

𝙸𝙸. 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛

[ It's a different day, walking into Milton when she begins to hear a muffled voice, a small child's voice, that makes Michonne pause and listen. Then her breath catches when she hears The Brave Man. It's Judith, telling the story to RJ; how many times has she told him by now?, and her son's small questions. Walking until she finds a place to sit, she does so heavily, one hand around her own throat as if she can keep her emotions at bay. She hears Judith explain Carl to RJ, the big brother she can hardly remember and RJ never had the chance to know.

For as long as she can hear them, Michonne listens, unmoving from her spot. Until, unexpectedly, a voice she hasn't heard in almost a decade. ]

We can make it. I'm not giving up.
I tried. Please know I tried.

[ Rick's voice is the breaking point, and she leans over with her head between her knees. Knowing her would be to know she doesn't get to this point easily, but she's alone here, and it makes the ache that much worse. ]

𝙸𝙸𝙸. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 - 𝙼𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝙾𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙳𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗

[ She wakes with the note in her hand, balled in her fist as if she already read it once and rejected it. When she does read it, it doesn't process, not at first. She reads it again, then again and again. ]

𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘨𝘰, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘐 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘑𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰.

[ He wouldn't. Does this mean she'll find him? Where the hell are they, that he's abandoning an escape? Why didn't he mention RJ?

𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰.

Michonne dresses, the katana going onto her shoulders as the final touch, then goes outside. She walks around the cabin, once, twice, pauses to reread the letter, then walks until she's at the edge of the water. There, unaware and uncaring if she's alone, she lets out a scream fueled by confusion and hurt.

𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨.

She screams until she sinks to her knees, refusing to believe this note, even though it's his handwriting, the name of their daughter, she refuses. ]

No. Do you hear me? No.

[ Michonne screams it into the dark, daring the universe to respond. ]

Holland March | The Nice Guys (usual alcoholism tws apply)

[questioningmermaids]

PAINFUL REMINDERS;

The aurora rolls in and March doesn't think much of it, sans the fact that he wants to smoke his last cigarette on the porch of his place as he watches the colours shift and dazzle. The place is spooky as hell, but a large part of March is just sort of used to it. Whatever bullshit that it's going to bring their way, he's going to at least have had a cigarette. He can take it.

The voices, warped but distinct, immediately disprove that notion. He hears his wife asking about a gas leak, hears Holly calling him the world's greatest detective just as much as he hears Holly claim he's the worlds' worst one. He misses her something terrible, but it's his wife that cuts him to the core, whispering things to him, causing his blood to feel ice cold despite his fire starting abilities. It doesn't matter that the voices are warped, or that he'd been mentally preparing--March knows that even if he does make it home, which is unlikely, she won't be there. That's the part that hurts the most, cuts the deepest, and makes him want to escape.

He heads inside, slams half a jar of pine wine by chugging the disgusting taste as fast as possible, and passes out so he doesn't have to deal with it.

When he wakes the next day and opens his door, there's a ring placed right in the middle of his porch. It matches the one he wears on a chain around his neck, and March's heart sinks. He doesn't move--he's not sure how much time has passes, just that he can't bring himself to look away. Snapping himself out of it is temporary, leaving only to grab that half-finished jar of pine wine and a single chair from his house. He'll set it on the porch like he did with the cigarette during the aurora, and he'll drink.

His eyes never leave the ring. He barely blinks.

BAD BLOOD - RESCUEE;

This is not great. This whole thing is not great. There is a house across the street, and it's on fire, and March is still reeling from his wife's voice and the other wedding ring he now has, and, fuck, is it so much to hope for for a month's rest? What happened to that fucking boar around Christmas? He wants that. Not whatever this is.

"Jesus!" He's barely got his winter coat on, one of his snow boots' laces are still undone when he feels a woosh of wind from a weapon. Leaving his home has earned someone on his doorstep--an interloper? Who the fuck is that?--the opportunity swing an axe in his direction. Sheer panic is written on his face, the thought of using fire fresh on his mind until he remembers her, her voice asking if there's a funny smell in the air, and it doesn't matter, it's Thanksgiving, hon, turkey smells great--

March does his best to dodge, sobering fairly quickly. His gun is still inside. He needs to get to it, but right now he's a little occupied. The squawk he gives out is just like his scream: high, girlish, and utterly ridiculous.

"Fucking Christ give me a goddamn minute!"

The forest talker lunges. March, in an attempt to scramble away, jumps back. He hits the railing of the porch of his house and proceeds to lose all balance, flipping backwards and landing directly into a pile of snow.

"Shit!"

BAD BLOOD - RESCUER;

After being rescued -- thank God -- March has double backed for his gun. Adrenaline has made the alcohol practically evaporate from his bloodstream, feeling far more sober and alert than he has been in since the auto show bullshit back home.

The streets are chaos, and March barely knows what he's doing or where he's going but he knows he has to help. An alarming conclusion to reach =given who he is on the best of days, but he's not questioning it. He'll pistol whip someone from behind, wanting to be conservative about his bullets. Sometimes he's able to use his lanky frame to physically pull someone off of a fellow Interloper than needs help.

By the end of it a scrawny looking wolf with blue eyes and tawny fur leaps at forest taker, jaws snapping and teeth gnashing.

Painful reminders

[knightbynight]

Bruce has been here long enough to get mostly settled on a practical level - find somewhere to use a house, have a proper coat and more or less have worked out the clothing situation - but that's about it.

The aurora isn't a thing that strikes him as anything but interesting, until there are voices. At that point, it's a problem. At the point he walks out and finds a blood encrusted Robin Uniform (or, well, part of one) there's a bigger one.

He just... walks away.

Which leads him to finding March on the porch, staring at the ring.

He doesn't have the emotional bandwidth for this.... especially not right now. He has no intention of doing anything but walking by.

He's oddly surprised to find himself approaching and sitting on the edge of the porch - and as far away from the ring as he can get. "On a scale of 1 to 10 how drunk are you? Not drunk enough isn't an answer."

Tom Zane | Alan Wake/Remedy Connected Universe

[sukeltaja]

For Scratch;

[ The noise is cacophonous, chaos and mayhem startling Zane out of whatever reverie he'd been deep in. He'd been inside himself, internal, feeling, but a broken window and the embers of a soon-to-be-fire causes him to stir and return back to Milton. He watches the smoke curl up into the sky for a few seconds before his scrambles to his feet and begins to run.

Normally, he'd be skittish. Paranoid, even--he's not a fighter. The idea of physical harm -- this body without any of his skills -- is frightening. He can kill, has before, but it's best to leave that to the experts.

He knows one of them, too. Nearby. Close. He has Darling's hunting knife on him when he bursts into Scratch's door, hair as wild as his eyes. He lifts the hand that doesn't have the weapon to punctuate his next words, breathing heavily. ]

Do you hear that?

[ It's an invitation. Scratch can do what he does best: the other can be unshackled, free from remorse he doesn't have in the first place. A release on a pressure valve. Zane, caught up in the euphoria, hurriedly begins to strip off his shirt. If he's going to join in, he needs the right aesthetic. Everything has to be perfect. ]

It's time.

For Darling;

[ Scratch does what Scratch does best and Zane watches, deeply regretting the fact that his camera doesn't work. Eventually, though, the excitement ebbs. He feels the cold at the same time his mind slows, sharpens, slams back into reality with a few blinks and a swift shake of his head.

This is good. This is art, yes. This is beautiful. But beauty makes him think of one person, and he quietly slips away from whatever Scratch is doing. He's positive the other doesn't care - he has a Doctor to find.

He knows it won't be hard to spot the man he's completely and utterly obsessed with, even in the dim light and among the chaos in the streets. Not with how Zane has memorized everything from his silhouette to the sound of his footsteps. Covered in blood that isn't his clutching an old wooden table leg and with the euphoric wave of frenzy dissipating, his smile is gone completely. He has to find Darling. He needs to. ]

PAINFUL MEMORIES; OTA

A photo appears to him one day, causing a slow, sleepy realization to occur to Tom. The voices he'd been hearing hadn't been his imagination. Barbara's voice hadn't been real, he'd been correct about that, but it had been this place reflecting her back at him. He picks up the photo from the nightstand, stares at it, runs a hand by his Barbara's face, scratched out in hatred.

This isn't his photo. It's Cynthia's. It has to be hers. He sincerely hopes his new friends won't mind that he skips his morning fishing routine, and instead begins to pace as he figures out what to do.

He wants to get rid of it. He doesn't want to get rid of it. Zane is of two minds, but wherever he wants to do it, it's not going to be where he sleeps. Maybe he's close enough to whoever's house he winds up going to, maybe he's overheard where someone lives and invites himself regardless of if they know each other, maybe he's just found an unlocked door and broken in: either way, there is a man by a fireplace that isn't his, fire warm and comfortable (he supplies his own firewood, of course), staring at the picture in his hand. Movement causes him to turn around, a soft smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his face, eyes glassy with tears as a few run down his face. ]

Hello. Did you get a present, too?[ He'll hold up the picture to illustrate. ]

BAD BLOOD - WONDER + THE THICK OF IT; OTA (tw corpse mutilation)

[ The world seems to be on fire. Everyone is lost--everyone is panicking, rightfully so, darting to and from, fighting, and endless stream or violence and anger and confusion and oh, it's here that heat, that wonderful mess that human beings have inside of them, all tangled and warped and beautiful.

He's on his way from Scratch, shirtless and unconcerned with the cold or current danger as something catches his eye. There is a body of a man on the ground, blood thick and dark among the whiteness of the snow, and Zane falls slowly to his knees next to it, tilting his head. He takes in the angle of the other's neck, the way he'd fallen, how beautifully posed this dead man is. Still. Quiet. Fascinating. ]

We are the sharp rocks under your knees
In front of the altar
Where you are kneeling

[ Yes. That's what this is. That's what this must be. Another spiral. And it's marvelous. There is a knife by the dead body, and Zane picks it up, shifting on top of the corpse to straddle it. ]

This is the ritual to lead you on.

[ Tom, eyes wide, physically here but mentally elsewhere, holds the knife with both hands high above his head and swings down, right at the heart. Messily, he begins the process of cutting the organ out of the dead man with an alarmingly honed sense of focus and purpose, uncaring of the world around him. His hands are shaking not from disgust, but excitement.

Whether he's shoved off or snaps out of it himself, he'll scramble to his feet in a panic, the actual reality of the situation hitting him immediately. He scurries like a rat, wide-eyed and visibly afraid, trying to make his way towards some form of shelter to avoid the fighting. ]

BAD BLOOD - LALO'S CABIN; OTA

[ Most of the blood on Tom isn't his at all, which is good considering there is a lot of it. They got to the basement--a basement? Who's basement? He doesn't know--and he has a chance to rest as violence erupts around them. All Tom cares about is that he's safe, Darling is safe, he's fairly sure Alan is safe, and there are two dogs that seem to sense that he's not doing so well to put it mildly, and that's more than nice, that's fantastic.

He'd been stabbed in the stomach and is lounging, still completely shirtless and curled up with one of the dogs to the best of his ability. He dozes on and off, waking up every few minutes, completely drained and paler than usual. When he's alert, he's happy to chat. ]

Some place this is, huh? Some night.

BAD BLOOD - CREATION; OTA (cw - corpse desecration)

[ When the dust settles Tom gets to work. He's a film auteur, not a sculptor or carver, but he's still an artist. He still knows exactly what he wants.

Tom moves with confidence. Not to rebuild, not to assess, but to make. A few bodies get tossed into a pile and the filmmaker gets to work. He's manipulating them, posing them like mannequins, setting up the perfect shot and humming to himself as he does so.

It doesn't matter that they were once people, one not even a Forest Talker - what matters to him is the final picture. What matters to him is art. His own health isn't of much concern to him, wincing as he moves a particularly broad shouldered corpse around, bundled back up in winter gear. Despite the gruesome act, he seems happier than he's ever been. ]

bad blood - creation, just keep that cw for this entire thread

[friendsfordinner]

[ Hickey's still running on adrenaline. The fight, the combat, it's whipped him up in a way where he's finding it hard to calm down. He feels like he's buzzing, so full of energy that he has to step away from everything for a bit, just to catch his breath.

It's when he steps to the side to take a moment to himself that he sees someone moving around a whole bunch of corpses. Hickey's immediate thought is goddammit Wake, they're not going to let you get away with this now. You got away with that previous mutilation, something that Hickey suspects he would have done anyway even without the Darkwalker's influence, don't push your luck.

He goes over there, announcing his presence with a loud, ] Oi!

[ Before he catches the eyes of the person making the weird corpse tableau and recognizes the mania that he's taken to believe as Zane's. Goddammit. ] Fucking hell, Zane, you lot all need to change up your hair or something. Anybody ever tell you that you look eerily similar to Wake?

[ Or to the other guy, the actual Alan Wake, that Hickey met at the hot springs. ]

Konstantin Veshnyakov 🛰️ Sputnik

[sputnik]

PAINFUL REMINDERS

a. VOICES
cw: this thread will involve themes of parental loss / possibly themes of being abandoned by parent (father)

[ Konstantin typically goes out of his way to avoid being in the discordant thick of Aurora Nights. The alien entity inside of him is extremely sensitive to them — to the sharp crackling pops, buzzing static, hums of electricity. Loud sounds and bright lights have been used to hurt it, before, and it doesn't forget. It's afraid.

He finds no pleasure in that knowledge, no matter how much he might loathe the thing that has made him its home. When it begins — a car alarm blaring in the distance, streetlamps popping on, the sky flashing with brilliant, fluttering colours — Konstantin starts heading back home. But he and Vasiliy live on the outskirts, and it takes some time to get there. He's still walking down the street when he hears it — whispered, but out here in the stillness, so easy to detect. To recognise.

His mother's voice. Konstantin freezes, turning quickly around, alarmed. She's been brought here? The thought horrifies him, but he can't help an instinctive yearning that makes him immediately feel like a child. He wants to see her, misses her— ]

Mom?

[ There's no one there. Of course there isn't. It's just another trick of this place, another ghost, another memory, or dream, another ache. But Konstantin's drawn right to it, unable and unwilling to walk away. His mother speaks to him — or about him, he hears her mention his name, so many times. Kostya. He's all she has, and he's left her.

There's an old bench nearby, just under one of the streetlamps, and Konstantin slowly eases into it. And there he stays, listening to her, eyes soft and wounded. Occasionally he replies in Russian, voice quiet. She doesn't seem able to hear him, but he still speaks back. ]

b. ITEM
cw: this thread will involve themes of child loss / child abandonment

[ A few days later, Konstantin stands in the Community Center, near the fireplace. It's very early in the morning, and things are very still and quiet. He thinks anyone who makes this place their home will still be sleeping, and he doesn't expect to bump into anyone else here right now. He wants to be alone for this.

In his hand, he holds a nevalyashka doll — small and wooden, its rounded body meant to swivel, a fun toy for children. In space, they had used them to test gravity. He holds it very close to the fire, staring down at the flickering flames.

He could have done it somewhere else — but his heart couldn't bear the thought of burning the thing in his own cabin, and he didn't want to risk starting a fire anywhere else. The Community Center has the best flame to warm a large space with; a small wooden item would burn in seconds.

But even now, he hesitates, his chest tight and aching, his throat feeling too thick. He gasps quietly, softly, and his other hand reaches up to his jaw, fingers spreading over his mouth to stifle the sound. Enough. Enough of this.

On a little coffee table nearby, another item glints: a small, shiny medal, shaped like a star. His back is turned to it, his focus on the doll in his hand. ]

THE ENEMY WITHIN

cw: dead & mutilated animals / mention of human death / drinking blood

[ The first dead thing he sees registers as mildly alarming, but not terribly odd. A rabbit, torn apart in the snow: there are a number of wolves in this place (including people who can turn into them now...), plenty of predators that might make a mess out of a small animal.

The second one makes him freeze. A different animal in a different location, but close enough that it could have been done by the same predator. The mess is certainly the same — the deer is only barely recognisable from what's left of it. There's blood everywhere.

It could be the wolves, or it could be any number of the people here with... odd diets, odd behaviours, he's learned about many of them. There's Bigby, Kieren, Chloe, Louis — there's also himself, and the fact that the alien inside of him has been emerging without his knowledge or memory, and he's always known it's just a matter of time before it starts demanding more food, to hunt the way it needs to. It's only a matter of time before he's finding humans torn apart like this, instead. He still remembers the way the prisoners had looked after the thing was done with them. Pulpy messes slumped against the ground. This place gave him back his Hero medal, some ironic gutting gesture to remind him that he's not that man, anymore. He's this — a dangerous monster.

The smell of fresh blood is sharp in the crisp chill. Konstantin takes a step back right as he remembers he needs to, but he feels the alien in his gut reacting to the wet coppery scent that he breathes in, or maybe he imagines it, but either way his heart is suddenly racing.

Hands fumbling, he pulls something out of his pack — a large thermos; he hurriedly unscrews the lid, which is meant to be used as a cup to drink nice and neat from, and it falls. He ignores this, forces the thermos itself to his mouth and takes deep, ungraceful gulps. Some of what he's drinking spills out and down into the snow, and it's as red as what's pooling around the deer, smells just as sharp and metallic.

Everything's unraveling. Every careful thing he's kept safe and contained and secure. ]

BAD BLOOD

a. THE COSMONAUT
cw: no alien appearances here, but Kostya is Not Well and so might at some point get ill and spit up some.... fluids. blood or alien goo. it's fine

[ It's like what happened in June — the sounds of screaming in the distance, the loud crack of bullets going off, the billow of black smoke coming from burning, ruined buildings. Last time, he'd managed to stay away from most of it, kept to the safety of his isolated little cabin tucked way out. And he needs to go there again, to find Vasiliy in all of this, make it safe for them, but—

—this time, he won't abandon others along the way. He's trying to make it back, but as he does that, he's helping anyone he can. Maybe it's stupid, considering how ill his condition perpetually makes him, maybe he's a fucking time bomb waiting to go off, but he remembers who he used to be, and that man drives him forwards, refuses to die in him, not yet. He has to help people.

So as Konstantin makes his way towards the outskirts, he'll jump in to assist anyone being targeted by Forest Talkers, try to pull others in to safe areas, or team up with others to help rescue someone else or safely make their way around the bloodbath. ]

OOC. open-ended prompt for folks to have fun with whatever they're most interested in writing, so feel free to wildcard a situation and I'll roll with it! Or poke me at my plotting post if you'd like to plan out something specific; I'm happy to whip up a starter for you.

b. THE ALIEN
cw: nondescriptive brief mention of seizure / alien parasite horror / head gore & NPC death offered in later parts of prompt

[ With all of the chaos, the bloodshed, the violence, it was only a matter of time before this happened. There's nothing Konstantin can do to stop it. Maybe you actually see the process — how the cosmonaut's body abruptly goes into seizure and crumples to the snow, unconscious and unmoving for several long moments before something comes up from inside of him, spilling out from his mouth in a wet, slimy heap. Usually, the thing forms a protective membrane around itself, but this time it leaves him in such a hurry that all that emerges is a pale worm-like creature, body writhing uncomfortably in the cold of the snow.

Or maybe you come across the alien after it has exited him — you might spot Konstantin's body several feet away, lying motionless on his side, seemingly either unconscious or dead. By now, the creature has grown, though just a little; this harsh environment keeps it weakened, tempered down. It's formed two skinny arm-like appendages that it uses to pull itself clumsily around with, and a couple of smaller vestigial pairs curl up uselessly against the sides of its thin, snake-like body. Its little head is hooded, much like a cobra's, but the cluster of eight glittering black eyes registers as very spider-like.

Maybe when you come up, the thing's attention fixes on you. If it recognises your smell or voice, its reaction will be very different to a stranger's appearance.

Maybe, instead, you're fortunate(?) to come across it when its attention is on someone else. The alien doesn't know or care about the categories of Interloper and Forest Talker. All it knows is that people are screaming and blood is being spilled, and when it smells the fresh wet injury of a man nearby, it's rounding on him. Some might recognise Gord Marriot, an Interloper with a deep gash in his shoulder, almost as though someone's taken an axe right to it. The poor man's arm is hanging oddly too, and his other is wrapped around it as he grits his teeth in pain, gasping sharply. There's a trail of blood behind him, bright red against the snow.

Maybe you see the attack happen. Gord's injured enough that there's no chance of defending himself against the small creature that lunges for him, no matter how weak and slow it may be in this place. It rams into his legs and starts crawling its way up his body, causing the man to lose his balance. As soon as he's down, it's on him, long tail lashing wildly as it goes for his face, his head — tearing through skin and then right into his skull with surprising force; its mouth is designed for this. It won't be a quick death, and certainly not a painless one. The man's screaming, blood gushing from his head and face as the alien rips violently through.

Or maybe you come across the scene after the man is finally, thankfully dead — or mostly dead. In any case, he's stopped screaming and gone completely still, and the alien is no longer in so much of a frenzy, its long tail stopping its whipping movements as it feeds from its victim. Judging by the slurping, sucking sounds, it's drinking more than truly eating, swallowing back blood directly from the man's ruined mess of brains. ]

---

— ETC.

plot post / wildcards welcomed / happy to toss up specific closed starters / will match format

Bad Blood Aliens!!

[lestercraft]

Arthur is not trying to look for anyone specifically, just on high alert for anyone that might jump him, or someone else that needs the help.

So when he sees a collapsed body with a familiar face, his stomach clenches unpleasantly, and he skids to a halt next to Konstantin to grab the man's shoulders. "Konstanin? Konstantin!"

He's ripping one glove off to try and find the man's pulse, when the sound of the other man groaning suddenly catches his attention, dropping his glove in favour of whipping his black knife out to point it at him - but then he pauses, eyes widening with open shock and horror at the sight of the man's arm, limp and obviously agonising, with an open wound at the top.

"Fuck-" he's not doing those fucking bugs again he can't he can't-- so he grabs his glove, shoving it in his pocket and grabbing Konstantin's limp body to pull him upright. The sooner they can get away from that thing, the better. "Come on, w-we have to go--"

Benton Fraser | Due South | all prompts OTA

[maintiensledroit]

Painful Reminders

[ He knows this color. Verdemist green, a particular shade of light forest green with just a hint of olive, one of two greens used on the 1971 model of the Buick Riviera. It coats one side of the twisted piece of steel he'd found next to his bedroll when he awoke. Fraser runs his fingers lightly over the bullet hole punched neatly through the metal, thinking about the voices he'd heard the night before. His father, his grandparents... Ray Vecchio, loudest and most insistent of them all.

He has no context for the piece of Ray's car that has found its way here. He takes it out onto the porch and into the weak winter sun, forgoing the steaming cup of coffee beside him in favor of studying it. There are a few facts he can determine with relative ease: the bullet came from a .38 caliber pistol, consistent with his own sidearm. The warping suggests the car had exploded, not simply crashed; that assumption is consistent with the scorch marks that leave smudges of residue on his fingers. When he brings his fingertips to his nose, touches them delicately to his tongue, he can smell, taste the acrid fumes of gasoline.

He's careful with the metal, treating it as gently as he might a delicate photograph as he turns it over and over in his hands. Normally, he'd be alert and responsive to anyone stopping by for a cup of coffee or a chat.

Today, he sits on the porch, deep in thought, not noticing any new arrivals until Diefenbaker shifts, makes a small sound, and brings him out of his reverie. ]

Bad Blood

[ Milton is chaos.

He hears the sharp report of gunfire, the crackle of flame; smells smoke and blood on the air. Diefenbaker has already tackled one Forest Talker; the wolf snarls as the man yells and struggles. A quick kick to his jaw outs the man out, but Diefenbaker is still loathe to leave him behind.

He must, though, because that man was hardly the only intruder, and the people of this town need help. Fraser runs through the hubbub, stopping here and there to help an Interloper up and to safety, his voice calm even as he pitches it louder to be heard. ]

You're alright. I have you.

[ Diefenbaker guards their backs, then leaps into a run when Fraser gently deposits the person down and turns back to the fray. Everywhere he goes, he tries to calm, to assure, a cardinal-bright figure attempting to stem the flood of violence. It doesn't wholly work — soon enough his knuckles are bruised and bloody from Forest Talkers he's forced to subdue — but some of them back away from fighting, skittish, their eyes huge and unsure. These younger Forest Talkers seem less inclined to mindless violence, and to them he lifts his hands, open, placating. ]

It's alright. You don't have to do this. I can help you.

Wildcard

[ plotting post | repeatandfade | blueofthebay @ disco ]

( painful reminders )

[webshootings]

[ It's just a bottle of milk. That's all it is, a bottle of milk that's probably expired and gross and absolutely not fit for consumption.

But, when Peter had gotten up this morning, it had been the first thing he'd seen and now, he can't seem to let go of it. He's just been wandering aimlessly around, bottle of milk in hand, throat tight and images ping ponging around his mind.

He doesn't even know where he's walked to when he comes up to a somewhat familiar man on a porch. He stops, knowing he has to say something instead of just staring.

Peter swallows and his eyes feel gritty, like they're about to well up. ]

Hey, man. Everything okay?

James Fitzjames | The Terror

[gildedlife]

[open and closed starters below | plotting comment | wildcards welcome!]

[gildedlife]

Painful Reminders [OTA]

[i]

The aurora had always been James' favorite thing about the arctic. Watching the lights dance across the sky had never really lost its wonder, and unlike so many of the other beautiful things--the ice, the snow, the water--the aurora had also never become a threat. It was just something beautiful.

And so when it flares to life one night, he doesn't hesitate to go out to look at it, and it is truly spectacular. The colors are intense and bright, and even if the strange sound that accompanies it is unusual and slightly ominous, he can ignore that. It's nice to just be able to enjoy something, if just for a little while.

He is also soon distracted from the natural lights to turn his attention toward the unnatural ones, and then toward the radio in a nearby broken-down truck. He's gotten used to the vehicles by now, as strange as they still ultimately are, but had paid little attention to the radios; now, however, they're fascinating, even if the one he's messing with is only emitting static.

It's probably clear he's never seen a radio before, turning the knobs at almost random, an although most of his focus is on that, he is paying enough attention to notice when someone approaches. From where he's half-sitting in the truck, he turns to glance at the new presence, then gestures toward the radio.

"Do you know how it works?"

[ii]

After a little while, something shifts.

Maybe it's that he's less distracted, maybe it's that he's wandered a little further from the hum of electronics, but whatever it is, he begins to hear what sounds like a voice. At first, he thinks he's imagining it; as it becomes more clear, he wonders if he's simply hallucinating. It's entirely possible it's the latter, and if so, he should probably go back to the cabin where he's been staying.

As he begins to return, the familiar voice doesn't fade, even when the hum of electronics kicks back in. Not only can he tell who is speaking, he can hear the individual words, and the clarity of it is what prompts him to ask the first person he sees--

"Do you hear something?"

He should be more specific, but if he is hallucinating, the last thing he really wants to do is ask someone if they hear a voice.

Harry Goodsir | OTA

[bestsir]

[ Plotting comment for reference. ]

1. Painful reminders (WARNING for animal death)

When the voices start, all of Harry Goodsir's carefully developed equilibrium crumbles in a matter of days. People will see him pale and under-slept, snappish at times, and melancholy. He hears them constantly: the voices of those he tried and failed to save. Their names rattle around his brain and keep him awake at night, and he noticeably retreats at the sight of Gibson and Irving.

Then one morning, he opens his front door to find a small, crumpled form curled up right at the doorstep. Dark-furred, with a long tail and gangling limbs.

He doesn't recognise it at first. He goes and fetches a pair of gloves—he has learnt well the lessons of modern hygiene—and carefully picks it up, and as he does so, its little head lolls back and he sees it clearly: Jacko, Sir John Franklin's unfortunate pet monkey, sacrificed in the name of science. His knees buckle and he sinks to the ground, still holding the monkey in his hands.

Later he will go in search of a jar and some manner of spirits that might be used in preservation.

2. The enemy within

Thanks to the aurora, Goodsir is well and truly on edge when the mischief begins. This month he doesn't go to Lakeside at all—he stays in Milton, watchful and nervy, and he never leaves the house without a stout walking stick in his hand. When the attacks begin, his door is open to the injured, but there's a desperation to his manner, and if he loses a patient, he will not react well.

He's hanging on. Just. God forbid anything happens to anyone he cares about.

3. Bad blood

And when the attacks come, some may see a side of Goodsir they've never glimpsed before. A man capable of coldness and hard decisions, but who does not run (this time), and who will stand and fight if he must.

4. Wildcard

[ If none of these suits, feel free to answer with anything! ]

the enemy within

[friendsfordinner]

Someone tried to attack Hickey.

He doesn't live in the Outskirts—he and Billy live in Milton proper. But he'll often go out there for hunting and trapping, as well as to just indulge in being a wolf, away from civilization. Whoever's causing this mischief must have thought him an easy target.

He didn't kill that person, a mistake that Hickey will come to regret later. But you've got to take care of yourself first. And, having been knocked about and having a fucking glass bottle thrown at him, after a certain point, Hickey decided to let the man bleed out. If he died, he'd die. If someone came by and patched up that stab wound he gave the man on the leg...well, at least it'll hurt.

His good coat took most of the impact from the bottle. But a few shards scraped up the back of Hickey's neck. He could feel the blood, he knew he was bleeding, but he couldn't tell how deep they were. So, time to bother one of the two physicians here who he knows can't stand him.

Goodsir first. Hickey makes his way to Goodsir's house, hand on the back of his neck, as he calls out, "Hopefully this should be an easy treatment for you." Hickey removes his hand briefly to show that it's covered in blood, before placing it back on his neck to try and halt the bleeding. "By the way, if a man about a foot taller than me with short blonde hair comes by? Best to let him bleed out."

Jane Margolis | Breaking Bad

[copacetic]

Content Warning: Blanket cw for non-explicit references to drug use for all prompts. Other cws will be noted by prompt.

[ Painful Reminders - Open ]

[ Jane has been making her way into abandoned houses and buildings, one after another. She can't hunt. She's not sure how she'd even learn. And she doesn't know who she can trust here. She's not even convinced this is real. It feels like it has to be some kind of trick, or a dream. A bad trip. The last synapses of her dying brain firing.

It doesn't feel real anyway. But as Jane discovers when she tries to pinch herself when nobody is looking, it is.

She's hunting around the post office when she finds it. A bright red duffel bag, stuffed behind a counter. On instinct, she runs to it, and practically rips it open, grabbing the zipper and tugging it open. There's stacks of money inside, but instead of being a relief, it makes Jane's stomach drop. The money she'd tried so hard to get is completely useless here.

Fuck.

In frustration, her shoulders drop. She digs around in the duffel bag and finds one useful thing. A fresh pack of cigarettes. A lighter. She grabs them.

The common sense part of her brain tells her that the duffel bag can be used to carry things she needs. It's a bitter pill to swallow that the bag has become more useful than the money inside, but that's just the reality she lives in. She dumps the money on the floor, and takes only the duffel bag, the cigarettes, the white lighter.

She's ambling down Main Street when she sees someone looking at her. She raises her shoulders, hackles up and irritated by seeing the money, but not actively hostile. Yet. She eyes them, and says in a husky voice: ]

Hey. You need something?

[The Enemy Within - Open]

[ The place: Your Residence or Place of Business
The time: anytime!
The situation: You know how a bunch of people have been breaking into places to cause destruction? Right? Well, guess what! Here's one now! Or is it?

You come home or come to your place of business to find a girl with rocker bangs and jet black hair in your house. Jane, not expecting anybody to enter, looks up at the new arrival and stares, wide eyed. ]

[Bad Blood - Closed to Chloe; cw: eventual gun violence ]

[ The greenhouse seems like a safe enough place to be, to Jane. The fighting is nothing like anything she's ever seen before. It's like watching Jesse play Call of Duty, but it's real. It's not like she's never seen violence before. Jane has lived a rough life. She's seen guys beat the shit out of each other. She's seen someone get shot. She's seen people OD.

This isn't like that. It's everywhere, and it's constant, and it's terrifying. But nobody would be dumb enough to torch the greenhouse, right? Besides, there's gotta be something to eat here.

She's so hungry, her belly feels empty. So far, she's been subsisting on cigarettes and whatever scraps she can find. But maybe there's vegetables here.

A rustle, and she jumps and looks around. ]

Hey! [ Her voice is shaky. ] Who's there???

enemy within.

[afterdrop]

[Fortunately for Jane, the resident of this (absolutely trashed) house is wide-eyed for a completely different reason than she might expect. He freezes in the doorframe, backpack hanging off one shoulder, and raises his gloved hands as if in a gesture of peace.]

This your house? [It didn't look like anyone's house when he found it the other day, to be honest, but he's not about to say that.] Sorry, I can take my shit to another one.

[Whatever reaction Jane was anticipating, this most certainly isn't it. Charles doesn't even realize it's a break-in.]

Restocked the firewood for you, at least.

Thomas Jopson ❄️ The Terror

[lieutenantsteward]

I - The Best Double Date (Closed to Doctor, Crozier, Raju)

There isn’t a lot of food, but there is enough. He sent the invitation down to Milton with someone traveling down there, inviting them up in a few days’ time. Things have been fairly quiet around Lakeside, enough that he doesn’t see the harm or danger in bringing the two men here.

Besides, he has a lot of faith in Raju to keep Crozier safe.

“Ah, the stew should be finished, sir. Would you mind?” he asks the Doctor.

He gestures to the table, which he has reinforced and set with mismatched plates and tin cups that may as well be fine china in such a place. He’s rather pleased with the state of the place, though he cannot get over the thought that he’s missing something or that something terrible might happen.

Thomas isn’t one for anxiety, but this is his calling. If nothing else, he knows how to put together a dinner party. He just wants it to go right, even if there is fish stew and flatbread crackers instead of stuffed pheasant and fluffy bread. But now all he can do is wait.

II - The Voices (Closed to Michonne)

It’s odd, Thomas thinks, that the first person, aside from Wynonna, that he wants to see, that he wasn’t to find comfort in after the strange voices, is the Doctor. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking that this man he had come to appreciate, that he calls Sir, would have been a source of comfort in turn.

He crosses around the perimeter of the lake and knocks at the door. It’s late, it’s cold, but he doesn’t even have his coat on. He’s too distraught.

III - The Lake (Closed to The Doctor)

The shoe seems smaller than he remembers, but he remembers it all the same. His brother had come home with it, with his mother in tow, her hand wrapped in a messy, bloody bandage, and had given the shoe to Thomas. It was like he was in a dream, like he was swimming underwater, fighting for air.

The shoe he holds now seems nothing but poison. He had made a fishing hole in the lake earlier that day and opens it up, shoving a rock in the toe of the shoe to sink it.

But he hears his brother cry. .He hears his mother’s laughter. He hears them all again and it turns his stomach just as soon as the shoe hits the water.

He doesn’t have another choice. He jumps in after it.

IV - The Mistake (Closed to Wynonna)

It’s just after midnight or so when Thomas smells the smoke. It’s not from inside, not yet, but that smell is one that he will never forget. He jumps out of bed, hoping that their little fireplace hadn’t betrayed them and allowed any stray embers to escape.

There’s a flicker of flames outside, though, not inside, and the creak of a door opening.

He immediately grabs the fire poker.

“Wynonna!” he calls out, and as soon as that stranger’s face peeks through the doorway, as soon as Jopson sees the flash of a knife, he swings that poker across the man’s face.

double date~

[thedreamer]

The Doctor is absolutely delighted by the prospect of meeting anyone new at all, he always has been. It's one of the many inherent joys in his travels — the chance to know so many others from different timelines, different places and universes all tumbling about together. This place is, of course, nothing like any destination in his usual travels, nowhere any of them had chosen to be; yet even with all of its not pleasantness, he finds hope and good things to cling to. Something as simple as their shared meal tonight, for instance. A very important meal with very important guests. As the moment of their imminent arrival draws near, his own energy is enthusiastic, operating under the assumption that it will be a lovely time shared in good company. That's his baseline, though; start with the optimism, adjust accordingly if the situation shifts.

"Would I mind," he smiles under his breath. "Delighted, Thomas." He carefully maneuvers the small pot to the table, setting it in the center, to be dished out as soon as they arrive. He does take the lid off, though, inhaling the aroma before replacing it. "Hang on, just a moment though — one last check." He doesn't explain himself before he moves to the front door, leaves and stands outside for a brief count of five seconds, and then comes back in. The moment he enters, he smiles, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, it's with a bright smile that he announces —

"I knew it! Just as I thought. As soon as you come in, it's the most brilliant, delectable aroma. We're in for a treat thanks to you." He goes back towards the table, making sure everything's ready to be dished out.

Sandor Clegane | Game of Thrones

[dogmeats]

( closed starters; hit me at paingravy for anything! )

→ ᴅᴀɪsʏ

[dogmeats]

( The sight of this sky is different than any Sandor's ever known. The colors rippling across it paint an impressive picture, even he can concede to that. Not that anybody asked. Not that he goes out of his way to engage with anyone about it.

Mainly, he just slips out of the community hall into the quiet of the air outside, while most folks are still finishing up their evening meal. He's adjusting well-enough to the cold now, enough that it doesn't bother him to steal twenty or thirty minutes out there if it means getting some peace and fucking quiet.

There's a fire burning, but it's a ways off. Distant enough that he can ignore it and still find a tolerable heat. Easy not to stare into it, when there's all that color up there to stare at instead.

And maybe he's gone soft in the head, maybe he's finally fucking cracked, but... he also comes out here to listen. There aren't many voices he wants to hear from back home, most of them he's more content to tune out, but a few have their place.

That's where Daisy will stumble across him, on accident or on purpose, whatever her design may be. Either way, she'll find him perched in a chair just barely large enough to acomodate him, a rare somberness in his countenance, and no sharp words for her for the interruption. Just a long, quietly assessing look. )

makoto edamura 》great pretender 》ota [ cws: see prompts ]

[edamamepon]

》I — painful reminders | cw: loneliness, parent issues including abandonment, lying, and potential mentions of illness/death

[ Another Aurora comes and Makoto doesn't think he'll ever get used to them. Beauty in the unknown was a thing Makoto used to enjoy back home. Where he couldn't transform into a wolf and had never known how to hunt or trap. He can't really say that he'd never seen violence or carried a gun before, but here Makoto has found that the brutality tended to be a strange and twisted thing. That, along with the first signs that something dreadful is coming next put Makoto on edge. Blood on the snow, a broken window in the distance. His own house on Greene St. is spared in the beginning.

Makoto falls quieter through the streets, gaze darting quicker. He slips away from Milton less and less as September days march on and the quiet sounds from home draw his attention from the array of blues, pinks, and purples painting the sky. It isn't hard to find him standing somewhere he's never stalled before, looking off with a soft expression. If caught, he can't quiet help himself from letting slip a wistful thought: ]

You know, there's still no way she was happy. [ A blink, like he didn't mean to say it. Again, he can't help himself when he turns to face whoever's stumbled upon him here. ] Before she...

[ Other times, he can be found frozen in place looking off into the distance. His fists and jaw clench, unclench, followed by angry muttering. When he believes himself alone, he kicks at the ground. There's a thud, followed by a pained hiss. Wood is unforgiving, even when hidden beneath snow that falls away from the force of his shoe. It only seems to make him angrier. ]

Tch. Freaking liar. You never believed a damn word of that, did you?

》II — the enemy within | cw: kidnapping/attempted kidnapping, attempted murder/murder, vandalism, assault, blood/injuries, smoking cigarettes, more loneliness

[ Things escalate. Luckily, Makoto saw the happenings for the warnings that they were, setting up makeshift alarms around his house and sleeping in places in his house that were not his bed. But eventually, even this close to Milton, he is spooked enough to abandon his house for now. What is the final straw? That much is easily evident by the slashes and stabs cut into his puffy jacket. They've been patched with duct tape, but there's no hiding what they are and there's even less hiding the new splatter of blood stains on his sleeves. Peaking out from the top of his scarf are the faint edges of blue, hinting at bruising beneath it.

Newer still, is the lit cigarette he doesn't bother to hide as he walks along taking deep drags from. The slight and very tired smile he greets anyone that he's seen around enough makes him wince from the split in his lip and the soreness of his bludgeoned cheek. His priorities lie with neighbors, long time residents, and especially friends. Being alone is too much, but he seems steady enough. ]

Well, I'm glad to see you're alive too. Hey, do you need help with anything?

[ He would ask if they're "okay", but is anyone lately? And if they look believably over twenty, he even holds up a crumpled pack, shaking it once so one of them sticks just enough for them to easily grab.

Of course, any new arrivals that he hasn't met get a smile that's somehow more polite. Cigarette between his fingers, he sounds casual for such a serious matter. ]

If you're going to attack me too, mind if I finish this first?

[ Beyond that, as things escalate he'll be regularly dropping in on his Greene St neighbors, his friends on Bear's Bend, and salvaging what he can of the animals he finds. [ addl cw on this one for the animals ]. Stockpiling, hiding things, but increasingly, he spends less time alone when he can help it. ]

》III — bad blood | cw: violence, attempted murder/murder, blood, some injuries, death (not Makoto's)

[ Makoto never considered himself a killer. Not even when he believed himself to have blood on his hands.

In the heat of things, his aim is steady. There is no hesitation in the face of aggression. At first, he aims for limbs and the nonfatal, but in the end adrenaline rushes quickly as blood on snow. The heightened fear of the people he knows around here getting hurt gets to him sooner rather than later. Protecting others becomes the focus of his swings, his fire. None of them chose to be here. Real interlopers don't deserve any of this. He can mourn the rest later.

Those that are used to his optimism, his smile, won't see much of either today. His jaw is set, expression numb, and hair shoved out of his face. When the Talkers are on him, when they are too close and his handgun is out of bullets, there is certainly less flailing from him than the last bout of violence around here. Makoto does his best to remember everything he's learned since. And he executes it with a focus that is more impressive than his actual skill. If there is one thing in his favor, it's that he can take an impressive amount of damage for someone that's only been learning how to actually fight for a few months. Being a quick learner doesn't make up for not actually enjoying any part of it.

At dawn, in the aftermath, he finally slides down the wall of the closest building. Bruised, cut, and a little bloody, but alive. Alive. He rips his gloves off to press his bare palms to his closed, dry eyes with a cracked, humorless laugh. His knuckles are even more bruised than the rest of him, split in places from the force he recklessly threw into them before.

He doesn't have the energy to chase after their leader. Others have got it. Anyone returning from that empty cabin will find Makoto openly seeking them out, offering them water or rabbit jerky in one hand and solemnly asking-- ]

So, did you get him?

ii

[solitarysoul]

You too.

[Things were tense enough that even in town Levi was wandering around patrolling with his rifle in his hands. In response to the greeting, Makoto gets a smile and a shake of the head.]

No. Do you?

Ragnar Lothbrok | Vikings | OTA

[givefarmore]

ᚢᛁᚱᚴᛁᚾ : ᛘᛁᚾᛅᛋᚴ
[ cw: death of a child, religion, murder ]

a. Aurora

[ The sight of the Aurora brings Ragnar yet another piece of home that he's familiar with and not in a good way. When he turns his eyes to the night sky to watch the flicker and dancing of colours and lights, it isn't joy that he gets from it and he's reminded of what the phenomenon means to him because it brings bad luck.

Feeling uneasy, Ragnar retreats back to the Community Hall and sits in his usual spot at the fire place when odd things start to happen; lights begin to glow brightly and unusual sounds are heard and he can't help but get up and investigate. ]

b. Voices & Receiving Something From Home

[ Ragnar, after falling asleep in his chair, wakes to the sound of a nearby giggle, soft and recognizable -- a young girl's laugh. His eyes open wide and abruptly and he turns his head in the direction of the voice, blinking fiercely. She calls out to him, further away and he chases it outside. ]

Where are you, my daughter? [ Ragnar calls out, voice faltering. Wondering if he is going mad since he realizes he sounds very much like he is. ] My beautiful, Gyda.

[ As jarring as it had been hearing his dead daughter, it's a certain piece of jewelry that takes Ragnar by surprise when he wakes up a couple days later. With it, comes an overwhelming sense of foreboding dread and a feeling of inconsolable sadness that leaves the Viking vibrating with anger that he is there, stranded and unable to get back to protect his priest from Whatever Evil is threatening.

Ragnar holds the cross in his hand, his jaw twitching and his blue eyes more vivid than ever while he quietly mumbles to himself: ]

I will find a way back. I must get back.

ᚢᛁᚾᛦ : ᛁᚾ

[ Things around Milton are getting more and more tense and it is only feeding into the anger that Ragnar feels about being so helpless in knowing how to get back to his world and his people. But everything going on around him serves more as an unwanted distraction from doing that.

So, he helps people he doesn't know instead, where he can and whenever he happens to be somewhere when it's needed. And until then, he keeps on rummaging through abandoned places, waiting to find anything that will help him leave, or hear a voice asking for help. ]

Who is there?

ᛁᛚᛦ : ᛒᛚᚢᛏ
[ cw: violence, blood, death (not his) ]

[ When the attacks start happening, Ragnar is ready. Though he doesn't jump into the fray until there's a personal reason to do so. He doesn't know many people, but he knows who he will aid if he sees the attackers going after.

At some point, after using his axe to defend himself and wearing the blood of their enemy all over his face, Ragnar hears a loud pop of sound before feeling something hit his chest hard. He thinks it's an arrow but there was no arrow shaft sticking out of him. There was, however, blood and a lot of it.

Ragnar slips and lands on a knee, suddenly dizzy and breathless, looking at his blood soaked hand. ]

[wingbound]

[ It's a shitshow out there. ]

[ Levi knows he needs to reach a defensible position of some sort, but it's pretty damn hard with hell unleashed around them. Twice now he's forced to make a detour because someone finds him behind cover, and this last spot he takes, between a broken fence in front of a house and the ruins of a contraption that looks vaguely like an "automobile", isn't much better. He's assessing his path into the building when some shots are fired closer than the rest of the current chaos, and it draws his attention. ]

[ He ducks, instinctively, and peers through the space between the fence planks. He sees a man nearby, an Interloper he recognizes, seemingly victorious -- a bloodied body or few strewn around him -- and he sees another person further away. Someone he doesn't know, with a rifle in a position mirroring his own, just across the street, taking aim at the lone figure between them. ]

[ Faster than he can really think, he lodges his own rifle between the fenceposts and pulls the trigger; the Forest Talker falls backwards. ]

These assholes have guns. Take cover!

[ It's... probably not the best idea to raise his voice, lest it draws someone else's attention to him, but he's not going to watch one of their own get riddled with bullets if he can help it. ]

Wynonna Earp | Wynonna Earp

[pacificator]

open & closed starters
[ plotting | repeatandfade | blueofthebay

& The Doctor

[pacificator]

[ She had one thought in her head when she woke up and found Ward Earp's deputy badge sitting innocently on her bedside table, and that was to get to Milton and March. She can't explain why she doesn't bring it up to Tommy. There would be a wellspring of sympathy and warmth waiting for her in his eyes and voice and arms if she showed him the badge, if she told him what it meant, if she confessed the worst thing she ever did to him — but she doesn't, only leaves Jackrabbit cabin as soon as she dresses for the trip.

These woods have never been safe, and lately they've seemed more threatening than ever, thick shadows spreading over the ground in the low slant of the sun, a reminder that their brief moment of light is coming to an end. Even so, she's not paying as much attention as she normally does. It isn't until a twig snaps nearby, the sound cracking through the air and startling her back into awareness that she realizes she's been moving on autopilot.

Her hand drops to Peacemaker's ivory grip with the flashing speed of a striking snake; she unholsters the gun with a slippery sound of metal against leather. ]

Who's there?

Levi | Fear & Hunger 2: Termina

[solitarysoul]

plotting comment | ConectiveTrick | Levi's general content warnings.

Painful Memories

[solitarysoul]

1
Waking up was often a sudden thing for Levi. Some nightmare or another reached a point where his guilt or fear or whatever forced him awake. This morning it was different, one of those where he lazily drifted into awakeness. But when he opened his eyes he found the nightmare was in the real world. Next to his pillow sat an effigy, a large object depicting an open mouth. Something Levi thought he'd never see again. He jerks backwards, away from the thing and rolling off the bed. What the fuck?

After he hits the floor his kitten emerges from under his cot to lick at his leg. Maybe she's worried about him, or maybe she's just hungry.


2 cw: blood and sacrifice used in a ritual manner
The effigy was a familiar, but strange thing. No one really knew what it was made of, but Levi assumed some sort of stone. It was big, requiring both his hands to hold it, and the weight brings back memories. During Termina they picked this place up from the worst part of Rher's realm and returned it to the church in order to progress further into town. How it had gotten into Rher's realm, or the area of the Orphanage he grew up in in the first place wasn't clear. And he hadn't cared enough to find out. One of Rher or Per'kele's games. Something stupid, probably.

But the festival wasn't the only time he'd carried this thing. It was a familiar thing that he saw at church every sunday until he went away to war. A huge, gaping mouth, representing hunger, it stood in a place of honor under the stained glass windows and before the congregation. On the right hand altar, next to the Matyr effigy and across from the Fellatio effigy. Every sunday before the service began the three effigies would be taken from wherever they were kept in the basement and brought to the altars. Each week different people, children usually, were tasked with the chore. And since the orphanage was run by the church, its residents were often picked to help. Levi'd done it himself a few times. He couldn't help but remember it as he made the solemn trip from the Community Hall down to the basin.

He stands up straight as he carries it, replaying memories of the harsh lessons the children would receive if they didn't treat the effigies with the utmost respect. It was a sacred thing, representing the very hunger that drove much of human advancement. (He always thought it was associated with the God of Fear & Hunger more than Alll-mer, or maybe it was just a representation of the times they lived in. He wasn't sure which god the Fellatio effigy was tied to...probably Sylvian.) While all the reminders the thing brought with it were unwelcome, he still felt respect for the object. Part of him wondered if getting rid of it was a bad thing. But there was no place for it in this world full of people who believed in a kind, loving God. People who'd think the rituals he found familiar--not to mention the archaic ones that he'd seem when he returned to Prehevil--were barbaric and cruel. Who's God was not one for blood. (Though he's sure the Darkwalker must be and he's no idea what Enola wanted for sacrifice, magic, fun or whatever gods used offerings for.)

He couldn't bring himself to destroy the effigy (if it even could be destroyed), but he could see to it that it rested out of sight and mind of anyone. The bottom of the basin seemed fitting or at the very least somewhere he wasn't going to ever see it again. (The lake was right out. Not only was it too far away he's not sure what the Beast there would make of or do to it.)

orson krennic | rogue one & sw lore

[primaryignition]

[ plotting comment | app | warnings/notes on interpretation | redmaresociety @ discord for further plotting! ]

for @vallt.

[primaryignition]

WELL, I'M A GODDAMN COWARD, BUT THEN AGAIN, SO ARE YOU.
painful memories. warnings for discussion of dead bodies & immolation.

[ A lock of hair on his bedside table, immediately recognizable in its flat brown shade and impossibly fine individual strands. One hundred years could pass, Orson thinks as he sits up in bed, and he would still recognize it on sight. Gingerly, he takes it in hand, holding it by the band that binds the ends together between index and thumb. The last time he touched Galen was to slap him across the face for twenty years of betrayal, until now. Slowly, he runs the backs of two fingers on the opposite hand down the smooth strands. He'd never liked men with long hair, had thought, even as a teenager, that it looked unkempt, an impression that had only grown once he was immersed in a military environment in which it was, with the exception of the Jedi who operated above all of the rules that governed ordinary military men, strictly prohibited on human males and required to be kept confined in a neat bun on human females. But it hadn't made Galen any less handsome; even when they were teenagers, he'd been striking, able to hold his attention like nobody else ever had or ever would.

He'd wanted to know everything about him. His childhood, his family, what motivated him, what he was thinking at any given moment, what he wanted from life, what made him happy. What his hair would feel like if he'd let him reach out and brush it from his eyes as he sat hunched over his datapad in the library, what it would be like to wake up beside him and roll over to wake him with a kiss on the cheek. No amount of sexual partners, none of the ongoing stream of first-time visitors to his bed, ever brought him any closer to the answer to that question.

And then he had enlisted. Galen went into his studies, and met that woman, and, while Orson was in the Army, married her. Maybe, deep down, he never forgave him for that. For coming so close to him, and making him want so desperately as to doom him to a lifetime of emotional solitude in his absence, and marrying her anyway.

The construction of the Death Star had stalled. He had offered him, again, a good life, one by his side. It had went unspoken, as it always did, but no less emphatic than it had ever been: I could make you happy. And again Galen had declined, had lied to his face. No matter; Lyra was found anyway, and at the small price of a burn scar to one shoulder, he at last saw the woman who took the future from him die. Her death didn't return it.

They went back. For some near twenty years, they worked alongside each other, and he enjoyed Galen's company, even if the tenor of their relationship had been permanently changed. They still had isolated moments of genuine fondness, when the backdrop and the precedent for their being slipped away, or so he'd thought.

So he'd thought.

Galen had lied to him for all of that time, and—still he hadn't wanted him to die. That, too, was taken from him by others, and, in the final death knell that immediately preceded his arrival here, the Alliance had taken a proper burial from him, too.

There is still no body to burn. Just a single lock of hair, presumably taken off of his dead body, hardly requiring a pyre, or anything at all. When he burns it, Galen's last traces will be reduced to nothingness in a matter of seconds, not hours. The fire will rise and die out before he has a single moment to watch it consume some thirty-six years of his life. This wasn't ever how it was meant to be. Even as an atheist, hardly a believer in unintellectual concepts like fate, he feels the wrongness of this end: this wasn't how it was supposed to go.

He's been sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at it for some time now, despite knowing what it is he has to do. Orson swallows, slowly exhales, and sets the thin sprig back down on the cold surface of the bedside table. He dresses mechanically, donning his uniform as opposed to a proper coat and long underwear, as though he's the body being prepared for funerary rites.

He takes the strands of hair, passes into the kitchen, grabs the small tin device they call a butane lighter here, and puts on his boots. He doesn't make it further than the front steps before he sinks down to sit atop the thin glaze of ice covering the wood, allowing the deep chill to creep through his skin and deeper into the muscles of his thighs themselves. He stows the hair in his pocket and sets down the lighter.

He can't do it.

Not yet. ]

« Orson. You know what you need to do. »

[ His head snaps up at the familiar voice. There's no way. There's just no way. There's only empty space where the words emanated from. But he's heard of force ghosts. He's overheard people talking of it. Galen believed in them. ]

« Does it matter what I am? »

[ Tears well. He swallows. He says the only thing he can think to say. ]

Why did you do it? [ Krennic squints against the tiny pinpricks of snowflakes as he looks up at the indifferent gray sky. ] How could you do that to me?

« I could ask you the same question, my friend. »

I offered you a good life. So many times, I—

« I had a good life, the one I chose. I made decisions I could live with. That was never something you understood well, although I suppose it's not your fault. »

[ Orson tries to swallow back the lump in his throat, tries to blink away the hot tears burning in his eyes. The fury spills over anyway. So do the tears. ]

You didn't say goodbye! [ He yells into the cold, empty space around them, breath materializing in front of him, the wet skin beneath his eyes stinging in the frigid air. ] You son of a bitch, you didn't even say goodbye!

[ He doesn't notice the figure standing in his peripheral vision, presumably listening to the very same words. Right now, there is only him and Galen and the breeze rustling the thin naked branches of the tall white birches around them. ]

Ruby Rose | RWBY

[guidemyway]

[Open Prompts Below or feel to write your own starter. Hit me up at jjabarrett on plurk or discord for other plotting.]

Painful Reminders

[guidemyway]

[CW's mentions of death and grieving.]

[Ruby missed her world terribly. It wasn't that she didn't like this place, or that she was afraid of the looming threats the seemed to pop up here. It's just that sometimes it felt like she had traded one end of the world scenario for another, and this one didn't have the friends and family she was used to fighting with by her side.

On the flip side, this place also didn't have an abundance of people she felt like she had let down, or failed to save. It was a little easier to push those feelings down when the reminders weren't right in front of her face.

That is until she woke up and found a gold crown sitting at her bed side. She felt a lurch in her stomach and as much as she wanted to run away from it there was a sense of obligation to it that she felt and so she carried it with her.

Later on in the day she can be found by graveyard the crown idly resting by her side. She hears a rustle in the wind and the voice of the girl who the crown belonged to.

“I was the best and brightest that beacon had to offer, I traded my life so my friends could live.” The memory wasn't even of her- Just the last time she had heard the voice. She curled up uncomfortably as she tried to focus on something else, anything else instead.]

Hornet | Hollow Knight

[weavered]

PAINFUL REMINDERS

It was a wonderful, terrible thing, the Aurora. She has seen it a few times now and has watched it in wonder. She knows not what it will bring this time, but she steadies herself, prepared for whatever may come their way. She sits with her needle watching the colors as they dance through the sky. When they weren't dealing with whatever they brought... they were quite pretty.

She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she just listens to the world around her. The quiet of Milton was comforting, something she now could get used to. Yet something in the air gives her pause. The skittering sounds she had not heard in some time - the voice of Midwife clear as a bell, chatting away to who she did not know, but hearing her voice was enough for her emotions to rise to the forefront.

She does not cry, but her heart feels heavy, thinking about her home. What will she find if she returns? What is left of her home?

Hornet looks up at the Aurora, unsettled by this, and wonders what else it might bring.

THE ENEMY WITHIN

She does not like this feeling of needing to look over her shoulder at night. She's left Milton a few times, finding the wreckage left behind, the gore strewn about making for a gruesome picture. Hornet is not normally paranoid, but just stepping out into the night has her vigilant. She clutches the handle of her needle tight, walking back into town, tracking the blood in the snow to the mutilated remains of a deer.

What a waste, she thinks as she stops to examine it. Blood staining the snow as it shines in the moonlight, she wonders if the deer was slaughtered here, or brought here as a warning. Whatever warning it is? She does not like it.

Suddenly, a crash, a window breaking nearby, as she readies for an attack - only to find none. Just the broken glass of a window glistening in the light.

"Do not move." She raises her needle, glancing around her for a sign of life. She hopes for another interloper but has grown suspicious of their actions.

"Come out from the shadows." She suggests, ready for a fight.

BAD BLOOD

The projectiles were new.

She is blessedly quick, moving across the snow easily as she rushes towards her attacker. The loud bang bang bang as the Forest Talker continues to pull the trigger, trying to aim but failing. She leaps at him, needle poised to go clean through him when he abandons his attempts to shoot her and leaps aside. She doesn't manage to run him through, his ability to dodge her saving him from a more fatal wound, but she still connects needle to skin, blood staining the white snow.

"You do not have to do this." She turns to face her opponent as she lands. An older gentleman, one who snarls and lifts his gun up once more to aim. "You will fail."

She readies herself once more, waiting for him to make the first move. When he doesn't, she swings her needle wide, slicing across his chest as he stumbles backward from the attack. She does not hesitate, does not wait for him to regain his balance, and rushes forward to leap onto his chest as he falls to the ground.

She quickly knocks his gun aside, stabbing her needle in the snow by his head. "Perish."

the enemy within

[wingbound]

Levi's sleeping habits have not improved any since coming here. So while he does often stay indoors for the night just because it gets even colder, he also often bundles up and goes out anyway, especially if he figures it will save him some travel time in the light.

He's headed back to town from setting a few rabbit traps in the surrounding area when he notices someone moving and stills, ducking behind a tree. It's -- someone, or something, he's not entirely sure. A weird cryptid, probably, because while he's sure he's seen them somewhere before it was never from up close or in broad daylight, the both of them having mysteriously avoided introduction so far.

At least, this being looks nothing like the Forest Talkers Levi has observed in the Old Hunting Lodge, so he's quite certain they're not working together. That doesn't mean this is good news, however. He's not quite sure whether this-- person? is one of the Interlopers either, and this place certainly has plenty of ghosts and oddities.

And they've noticed him.

He swears under his breath and raises his rifle to aim at eye level before slowly turning around, partially coming out from behind the tree.

"You don't move," he says evenly, quickly taking in the scene. There's a large carcass with darkness around it. A deer, perhaps. Were they hunting? But he also heard that crash earlier. "What are you doing?"

peter parker — tasm — ota

[webshootings]

01 PAINFUL REMINDERS

( he can't escape her voice.

it's not all that unusual for peter to wake up with gwen's voice in his head but, for once, he can't push it down and ignore it. he can't escape it. and, he realizes, this voice is different than what he hears so often. it's vivid and loud, like she's right over his shoulder, like he can turn and he'll see her face.

or see her falling while he's too slow to do anything.

the thought makes his heart seize in his chest and he starts repeating apologies over and over to himself while gwen's voice torments him and taunts him with it's sweetness nad kindness and love.

he walks away from the voice, then runs, knees thick into the snow until he can't run anymore and he just falls down onto side while still chanting apologies.

gwen's dead. she's dead but all he can hear is her voice and it's making it hard to breathe.

if that wasn't enough, when peter finally returns home, he finds a bottle of milk on his porch. his heart catches in his chest and he just stares at it, pain and anger lancing through him.

gwen's voice, his uncle's memory, the bottle of milk. pain pain pain PAIN.

it hurts. peter just stands there, cheeks reddening from the cold, fingers numb because he doesn't want to get any closer to the bottle of milk. he doesn't want to touch it.

he doesn't want anyone else to die. )

02 BAD BLOOD

( for the first time in awhile, peter actually wants to fight. there's a spark of dark anger in him that's grown steadily as everything had happened, as he'd heard the voices of the woman he'd killed and remembered what he'd done to his uncle.

it's his fault, it's all his fault but his frustration and his ferocity grow and grow, nurtured by the sounds of fighting and the smell of fire in the distance.

Peter's out as soon as he can be and he's tackling the first Forest Talker he finds, rolling into the snow with them and using his fists as an outlet for all his pain. Blood smears on his knuckles but he does stop before he goes too far.

Panting, he stands up and heads further into Milton to try and find someone else to fight or something to do to help. He hasn't completely lost his head. )

03 WILDCARD

( for anything that doesn't fit above. feel free find me at jortles for discussion. )

02

[guidemyway]

[If Peter is looking for someone to help. He doesn't have to go too far into town to find it. Ruby being Ruby had dived headfirst into action to fight off some of the Forest Talkers, but she still wasn't exactly at the top of her game without her abilities from home. She might have bitten off a little more than she can chew at the moment when there's a handful of Forest Talkers trying to circle her, she's able to keep them at bay by swinging around her big scythe, but she can't really go on the attack either.

She could probably use a hand.]

kate marsh | life is strange

[castitas]

☮ I'LL TAKE THE FLAME OVER DESECRATION | not open to new CR
cw: disturbing images under links; threads will cover mentions of kidnapping, drugging and the generally disturbing ordeal of Kate's Dark Room experience.

[ It's the absence of her that's most notable. Those who know her well know she's always one for being around in public but in the days and couple of weeks following the Aurora there's no sign of her. The lack of Kate found in the Community Hall, like she is almost every day. Nor can she be found out and about Milton, in the church or just on the outskirts foraging.

The Aurora had left something behind the next morning, met with open confusion at the red binder with her name on the spine. But she's opened it only to stare at its contents in open horror: photographs of her, bound at the wrists and ankles and looking completely out of it with glazed eyes, confused expression and tear-stained cheeks. Other photographs of her show her completely unconscious, along with handwritten notes. She doesn't remember this. She's sure it's not real. They can't be. She'd remember it if it was real.

But then something niggles at the back of her mind. Something she's wondered for a year now. Something she'd once asked Max about. But know she knows: Nathan didn't help her. Nathan hurt her.

Those who come the cabin she shares with Edward Little and John Irving will find she is home. She hasn't disappeared like so many Interlopers in the past year. But it isn't as if all is well. Visitors can certainly try to check in on her — Kate isn't forthcoming in leaving her room.

Merry can be found lying on the floor outside of her bedroom door, looking forlorn and snout sniffing sadly at the gap under the door. Inside, the room is dark. Kate can either be found sitting with her head in her hands at her desk, scribbling furiously some macabre looking artwork. Sometimes she's found curled up in her bed on her side, as if she's sick. Either way, she looks withdrawn and dishevelled — unable to meet anyone's eyes when they enter. She's quiet and still for the most part, but will violently flinch away if someone tries to reach out to touch her. ]

Don't—! [ Her voice cracks. ] Please, just— don't.

☮ DARLING MOONBEAM, DO YOU EVER WANT TO SCREAM? | ota
cw: blood, injuries

[ In the wake of the Forest Talker attack, the Community Hall is a mess with Interlopers trying to steady themselves again. Methuselah is busy, tending to injuries where he can. More serious injuries are being picked up by Interlopers gifted with their new ability from Enola — to heal. Kate's in the thick of things, another set of hands to mend the damage done.

She pauses to wash her hands in the bathroom, looking pale and clammy and exhausted from the effort — before moving on to whoever next is brought into the Hall. Kate's quick to hurry over, running on nothing but adrenaline at this point. But she throws herself into it, looking for the injury, uttering soft words of assurance: 'It's okay. I'm here to help, you're gonna be okay.'

Alternatively, as things begin to wind down, Kate can be found sat at one of the tables with her head resting on her arms, falling asleep. She's a little feverish, exhausted by the night and all the healings she's done. She hurts in ways she's never hurt before, doesn't feel great. ]

☮ WILDCARD

wildcards fine with plotting, hmu! | plotting post is here | contact: heolstor / _heolstor for questions/plotting

Darling Moonbeam

[guidemyway]

Ruby had been out in the thick of it, doing her best to fight of the Forest Talkers, protect the people from harm, and she had got her fair share of cuts, scrapes and bruises along the way. Unfortunately she had been terrible at just stopping there and had done her best to use her own powers to heal others on her way over way over to the community center. In her defense, she just wanted to make sure that everyone else could make it here too.

So there's a limp in her step and she's leaning heavily on her scythe when Kate approaches. She gives a weary lopsided smile at the other girl's words.

"Yeah- Yeah- Just give me a second and I'll be back in the game, coach." She was terrible at accepting she was injured.