» THIS IS THE STORY OF YOUR RED RIGHT ANKLE; AND HOW IT CAME TO MEET YOUR LEG.

[extramuralise]

Who: Edward Little, John Irving, Kate Marsh, Wynonna Earp, + open to other CR drop-ins in need of temporary shelter!
What: STORMED IN (Winterstille).
When: January 24th - 28th, and/or potentially just before / after
Where: The 41 Mackenzie Street cottage
Content Warnings: 'Does one not bring his habits [aboard]?' — which is to say, all of these characters have their own canon and in-game baggage, shared or otherwise, so please label all threads accordingly!

✒︎ how it whispered ❝ Oh, adhere to me⨾ ❞

» ARRIVALS; GETTING WARM; SETTLING IN FOR THE STORM.

---

The bear-beast alone would have been bad enough (and no question, knowing it was out there somewhere made actually preparing for this storm a beast in itself), but at least the looming presence of such a monstrous creature was sure to drive people indoors before the weather really turned.

As it happens, the cabin on 41 Mackenzie Street (home to Lieutenants Little and Irving, and Kate Marsh) is well-kitted out to weather (ha ha) the coming — now imminent — storm that's been circling, or at least as insulated as possible without knowing precisely how bad the storm will be yet. The windows and doors have been protected, reinforced; candles, matchbooks, and oil lanterns abound throughout various parts of the house; there's plenty of firewood, and food to last about a week if needed (which is not to say plenty of food, but hopefully enough to get them by).

So if you're passing by and need some shelter, come in and warm up by the fire! Have some tea, stay for supper! And hopefully you can be on your way again before the snow really begins to come down, or else you may be stuck here for the foreseeable.

✑ For we are bound by symmetry⨾

» FUN AND GAMES?!

---

If you have been trapped here, never fear! There are still ways to keep occupied, especially for those would appreciate a distraction from the concerning colored strings that have mysteriously appeared on everyone's fingers (because seriously, what's that all about? Well, if you know, you know, or maybe you at least have developed a suspicion or two...), because don't you know? Victorians simply adore parlour games, and surely there are even a few old board games lying around that had been left behind back whenever the great Milton exodus occurred.

So, if you're feeling bored and not yet quite up to socializing about the weather (or, again, especially not those threads which seem to be connecting everyone to each other), take your pick! Gotta pass the time somehow, after all.

Blind Man's Bluff—

Blind man's buff is played in a spacious area, such as outdoors or in a large room, in which one player, designated as "It", is blindfolded and feels around attempting to touch the other players without being able to see them, while the other players scatter and try to avoid the person who is "it", hiding in plain sight and sometimes teasing them to influence them to change direction.

Charades—

The basic object of the game is for a player or team of players to act out clues that will allow another player or team to guess a secret word. Most people today are familiar with the basic concept of the game, but there are different ways to play it. During the 1800s, Charades was played very differently from the modern form of the game. Mohr describes this older form of the game as "complex theatricals" and cites Cassell's Book of Sports and Pastimes (1881), which describes players staging a short play with two scenes in which the actors gave their audience clues to the word they were supposed to guess. This is different from the modern form of the game in which a single player mimes words for the other players to guess instead of speaking out loud and uses certain common gestures to help the other players understand the clues, like holding up their fingers to indicate the number of words in a phrase they want the audience to guess or tugging on their ear to let the players know that the answer is something that "sounds like" what they are about to mime. The only props used for the game are some basic household items that might be lying around, such as items of clothing or furniture. From there, it's just a matter of being clever and creative and acting things out. ( Read more about Modern Charades vs Victorian Charades! )

Forfeits—

One person (called "the judge") is chosen to leave the room. All the other players must place a small personal item into a box. This might be an article of jewellery, or an item from the pocket or handbag, or a small item of clothing such as a tie or shoelace. The "judge" is brought back in to the room. They pick up an item and describe it. The owner must identify themselves and pay a forfeit — do something amusing/embarrassing — to win back the item. The judge chooses which forfeit to award the player. If the player fails, or refuses the forfeit, then the judge keeps the item.

( Suggestions for forfeits: sing a song; dance; stand on your head; tell a story; bark like a dog, do jumping jacks, imitate the person on your left, hold your breath for as long as you can; hug the person sitting opposite you; tell everybody something embarrassing that happened to you; walk around the circle backwards; etc! Many and more ideas can also be found here! )

Yes and No/Twenty Questions—

One person picks a person, place, or thing, and commits it to memory (Mount Rushmore, the ocean, an item in the room). They do not tell what this item is but they say, for example, "I'm thinking of something large." The guests are then allowed to ask yes or no questions. "Is it a building?" "No" "Is it an animal" "No." "Is it a monument?" "Yes." "Is it in Europe?" "No" and so on until one person guesses the item correctly. If the person guesses incorrectly the game still ends and the wrong person must chose a new "something." Players should never guess until they are completely sure they know the answer.

... Not to mention other (more modern!) classics such as Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, and Two Truths and A Lie (if you can convince your hosts, that is!), or card games, or the much beloved campfire tradition of scary storytelling!

( OOC | Feel free to include in your prompt games that are NOT mentioned here; these are just a few examples, but anything is on the table! If it's a board game, you're welcome to assume your character can find it lying around in a closet or on a shelf somewhere.  )

✒︎ And whatever differences our lives have been⨾

» TEA & FOOD; SHARING CONFIDENCES; OTHERWISE PASSING THE TIME.

---

However long it's been by now, know that there is an ample enough store of tea, biscuits, and sandwich fixings to help keep a person from going too stir-crazy... not to mention a reasonably well-equipped bookshelf, and whatever other elements of personal entertainment the hosts may own, or that a guest may have brought along. Music, radio, handheld TV? Let's not succumb to cabin fever yet here, people!

Or maybe it's finally time to take someone aside and speculate amongst yourselves (or God forbid, even gossip) about the bear-monster, or even the strings... likely you've noticed some very telling colors and/or connections by now between others that you'd like to discuss in private, if not yet necessarily — or maybe exactly that! — with one of the concerned parties yet themselves.

✑ We together make a limb⨾

» WINDING DOWN; CONFRONTING THE UNSPOKEN... (OR NOT).

---

Some people may end up having to shelter overnight, or possibly even more than one night, so make sure you know what your sleeping arrangements will be if it comes down to that. Not a problem, if so; these things happen, and there's a comfortable sofa, plenty of blankets, and (maybe?) even a spare room for guests to avail themselves to.

But let's also circle back a moment, because maybe this will also demand confronting your string situation head on in some way; if you're sharing a room with someone you're connected to, for instance, that's a hard thing to miss, let alone ignore. Maybe it's time to talk about it, or talk about something else that you hope can eventually lead into talking about your threads in a more casual, natural way— if such a thing is even possible.

It could also be that you're struggling to sleep, and find yourself "alone together" with someone else who is experiencing the same problem... offering, again, the ideal moment to confront the connection privately, or else talk around it until you finally build up the courage to address it, talk about it by not talking about it, exactly, or simply avoid the subject at all costs. Ultimately, in the end, that part is up to you... but remember the storm, remember that privacy is hard to come by in such a claustrophobic situation; maybe it's not the worst idea to take advantage of it while you have it.

Comments

john irving | ota!

[extramuralise]

✒︎ NATURE CHEWS ON ME⨾
『 † EARLY STORM / HOSTING. 』

---

[ The storm, when it comes, is no small thing, subsuming the landscape so entirely that at many points in time, the windows show nothing else but pure whiteness— a tempest in a teacup, the world beyond the ark submerged below too deep for salvation. Limbo. Or all of the above.

It gnaws and gnaws at Irving, the anxiety does, whenever his mind even considers idling, so he monitors the windows constantly, checking their integrity and looking for cracks; he's dug out every blanket, quilt, and spare linen in the whole cottage and piles them in the spare room, ready to be added atop already laden beds, or offered to anyone who might drop by in need of temporary or overnight sheltering here; rarely is there not a fire roaring in the hearth or a kettle on the boil, be it by hob or by brazier depending on what still works or not, and candles have been already stationed like sentries in nearly every room.

It's tiring, but preferable to letting his mind wander. At times like this, it's hard not to be pulled back into memories of the Expedition at its very worst— hard not to recall how his faith had wavered and guttered like a candle itself, fighting desperately to remain lit through the violent winds and storm and rain. For a while, in fact, it did go out, but in Milton he took care to reignite it again, has striven tirelessly to nurture it back to a bright golden flame. Because without his faith, what else is there? He has nothing, is nothing, without it. ]

Are you sure that you're comfortable enough? Can I get you anything? [ he'll ask, whether it's to someone who normally belongs there, or to one of the sheltered guests. He's still too restless to get settled, in a troubled, anxious frenzy he can't quite define. ] It'll likely be getting worse out there long before we'll begin seeing any signs of improvement.

✑ Such is the consequence of audience⨾
『 † (THE MORTIFYING ORDEAL OF) GAMING! 』

---

[ Over time, he'll eventually have to settle down at some point. Not for long, probably, but being stormed in means one can only continue pacing around in circles for so long before driving both themselves, and everyone else around them, to distraction.

Ergo: games. Irving would much rather sit and read, actually, but he can't seem to stay focused enough on the page whenever he's tried to; parlor games will make for a much better diversion, in any case. Victorians love them, so Irving must surely be willing to tolerate them enough to participate. ]

A⨟ YES AND NO—
[ Irving's always found this game a bit silly, yet strangely addictive— when played correctly, of course, never mind appropriately. If nothing else, it certainly helps pass the time. ]

I'm thinking of something soft.

B⨟ NEVER HAVE I EVER—

Never have I ever— [ (What does this even mean, though; that Irving hasn't or that he has? The grammar here is atrocious.) ] ... Believed in ghosts.

( NOTE: Any games are fine! Take your pick if/when tagging in, and I'll respond in kind. ❤︎ These two were just easiest to write open prompts for in a vacuum. )

✒︎ I am what I am but we are not the same⨾
『 † STRING THEORY. 』

---

[ The biggest problem with being trapped in prolonged close quarters with even a small handful of people during this storm is that, unlike with any more typical natural disasters, so many of them currently appear connected to one another via strange, intangible strings.

Worse yet is that these strings are so clearly not meaningless; while they do appear to vary in color, texture, and quality, it's with a consistency that seems suggestive of some kind of deeper meaning behind each connection, which Irving can feel hanging over the cabin like some terrible portent, a sword of Damocles dangling precariously over them. His anxiety has returned fully-fledged, bringing with it a heavy brick of dread that sits densely in his stomach like an anchor ready to drag him down and down.

His own: Dirty gold threaded with grey which connects him to Wynonna; a firm, if faded and vaguely tarnished-looking, gold string connecting him to Kate; gold speckled with reddish, rust-colored freckling that leads to Little, turning to a more solidly bright, shining gold along the way; and then several others, as well, all leading out into the storm (unless whoever they link to also happens to be sheltering there)...

Whatever they mean, it can't be anything good, Irving feels certain— or at the very least, it surely can't be anything he'll be happier for knowing. Still, if anyone approaches him with discussion, gossip, and/or speculation in mind, Irving won't immediately shut them down — will go along with it, even — so long as his threads aren't the subject du jour. ]

✑ It is no good bearing false witness⨾
『 † BEDTIME / LATE NIGHT / AFTER HOURS. 』

---

[ Not knowing — not wanting to know — what the threads truly signify is not a concern that grows any milder within Irving as the hours and the days slowly pass. Seeing however others are and have been affected only, if anything, makes him feel more unsettled, more exposed, without even knowing exactly what it is about him that's being revealed.

He just has a bad feeling.

Whatever it means, his anxiety continues to eat away at him more and more relentlessly, until he manages to settle it for a time by pushing the twin beds — his and Little's — apart, which somehow feels merited for now, even if he can't quite say why, or even speculate without his anxiety quickly beginning to climb again.

Not that he gets much sleep as it is during most of these nights, too hyper-aware of the howling wind outside, and however many guests are currently in residence, to read or to simply lie still no matter how long he tries, or how many times he kneels to pray.

So, he makes compulsive rounds throughout the cabin periodically, making sure everyone is comfortable and has what they need, that the doors and windows all remain intact and uncompromised, and that any errant candles have been extinguished, but that matches are still in reach for anyone who may need to get up and try navigating the darkness.

It's tiring, and tireless, but at least while everyone else is (ostensibly) asleep, there is a certain degree of privacy in being up and about at these late hours; even a seasoned Royal Navy man like Irving, who's used to living in close, crowded quarters aboard ships of varying sizes, or at school, or even at home, can relish the solitude and (near) silence of being relieved, at least temporarily, of any judgement and scrutiny from others.

If you're also awake, just try not to startle him...! Maybe a bit of tea and conversation will help put everyone back in mind for sleeping soon enough. ]

🌊 w i l d c a r d｡

[ Choose your own adventure! Hit me up with anything else not already covered above — although please assume these prompts are all pretty flexible / open to a certain amount of interpretation as it is! — and/or PM / plurk me @ reggiemantle to discuss in further detail. ]

b. never have I ever

[pacificator]

This game is really a lot more fun with alcohol.

[ But she drinks her tea, because: shit, yeah, she believes in ghosts. Who wouldn't, after the crap she's seen? ]

Never have I ever, uh... learned to play an instrument.

[extramuralise]

[ Irving isn't even familiar with this game, and he still has to agree; even just some cheap lagers or ale could do the trick in helping provide them the right kind of social lubricant they need to carry on the evening more comfortably and naturally — break the ice, as it were — even if the game-playing itself is meant to try accomplishing more or less the same thing.

He cups his tea, confused all over again about how the rules work. ]

Sorry, do I still drink if I have done it?

after hours

[pacificator]

[ He's not the only one up.

That red string that ties her and Little together has proved pretty useful in some ways; it's taken out the need to say everything that needs to be said in order to be understood, which has been helpful during a time like this, when she's never felt less like talking. He just... knows, the way she just knows, like they're in some weird unending mindmeld. She doesn't hate it, surprisingly, though she feels skittish and raw at being so perfectly comprehended. It's the same feeling she gets when March squints that too-knowing look at her, like she's a bug under a microscope lens, even though this power has fortunately been handed to one of the kindest — and, more importantly, most circumspect — men she knows.

But it does mean that if she wants some time to herself, to lightly touch that faded, fraying thread that feels like Willa, she has to wait until he's asleep — him and Kate and John, really, thanks to the emotional telegrams those gold threads send around to each other — before she can creep downstairs and let everything she's been packing down rise to the surface.

And this is where she is when she hears a quiet step: on the couch in front of the banked fire, her legs pulled up to her chest with her arms around them, wearing flannel pajama pants and a sweater over her tank top, a pair of wool socks pulled over her feet. It's not Edward who's come down — she doesn't even actually need the strings to tell her that — and the steps are too heavy for Kate, which leaves — ]

Lieutenant Irving.

[ She sniffs, quick and casual, and shakes her hair back over her shoulder in a gesture that maybe disguises the way she brushes the back of a finger under one eye.

Like it matters; like she doesn't have a gold-and-gunmetal thread twisting to the guy, telling him exactly how much sadness and guilt she's been wallowing in. ]

If you came to check on the fire, it's fine. I pushed the log to the back, it's mostly coals now.

[extramuralise]

[ Her presence is felt even before she's been seen or heard, which is helpful for not startling Irving when Wynonna does speak out of the darkness, although he can't quite control the way his body clenches reflexively with tension to be caught awake at this hour, and alone, especially by her— never mind he's just done the same thing.

He tries to shy away from whatever emotions he's feeling be transmitted to him from across the room (which remains no less jarring now as it had been the very first time he experienced it), but his hand twitches idly like a lever on a receiving telegraph, picking up whatever microscopic vibrations might be traveling between their connected fingers. A sharp twist of discomfort cramps in his chest.

He nods briskly in acknowledgement, although he wasn't exactly coming down to check on the fire. Whatever has her awake right now is clearly, much as it is for Irving as well, more than just mere insomnia, but he has no intention of prying into what's troubling her unprovoked... not that he can't still feel the general shape of her melancholy, despite his better attempts not to feel or focus on it. ]

I thought I'd put the kettle on, if you'd like anything, [ he offers efficiently, more as something to do than because he particularly wants or needs tea himself. ] Aren't you meant to be sharing Miss Marsh's room?

[ Irving's tone is careful, though casual, eager as always to deny that anything might be strangely amiss. ]

gaming — A

[fidior]

[ A nice, safe game to provide a nice, safe distraction! ]

Is it something living?

[extramuralise]

It's— [ Wait, right: Yes or no. ] Yes.

a. yes or no

[castitas]

[ Well, then the natural thing to ask is: ]

Is it Merry?

[ To which the wolf-dog in question will lift his head at the sound of his name, tilting is slightly? Yes, me? ]

[extramuralise]

No.

[ But that surprises a mild laugh from him. ]

Something other than Merry.

Wynonna Earp | ota

[pacificator]

here we lie waiting for something to startle—
storm + strings

[ The very fact she let Little convince her to come and stay here, with him and Kate and Irving, without putting up more than a token fight about it should be more than enough evidence that she's not really, completely, herself right now. She feels fragile and a little chipped around the edges, and her focus isn't what it could be, which means she occasionally trips herself up over a thread she's accidentally focused on, or finds she's been broadcasting her own emotions to god knows who through her own: the guilt and swallowing sorrow attached to every thought of Willa, the frustration at being trapped inside during a storm, again.... every confused lurch of her insides when Little wanders by, when they talk; the thread of panic that inevitably follows.

She barely knows what to do with all that, now that it's in her hands and in her head and filling up her chest with a strange warm buzz of affection jolted now and then with stabbing want and a similarly sharp desire to flee. This is... dangerous.

Maybe it's for the best it's almost impossible to get time alone.

She helps out with preparations for the storm, and when it comes she spends some of her time as the wolf, curled around anyone who might need the extra warmth, especially if they've come in from the cold, seeking shelter. The rest of the time she hangs out with her temporary housemates and does her best not to pluck too much at that gold string between her and Kate, the muddled gold-and-gunmetal that leads to Irving. (She can't always resist the temptation to let herself fall into the connection offered by that one steady, scarlet string that leads to Edward. After everything, after he found her in Lakeside, he feels like a lifeline.)

It's only a few days. She can get through this. ]

to shake us from gravity's pull—
games

[ Victorian parlor games are... fine, if you're the kind of person who really missed children's birthday parties.

(She was never invited to those kind of parties.)

For her part, Wynonna digs out a deck of cards she'd brought back with her for just this sort of occasion, shuffling them with an easy motion as she sits at the table and tries not to think about how she did this during the last big winter storm. ]

Look, the game doesn't have to be poker, but at least let's go with gin. Rummy?

... Go Fish?

wildcard!

and so the sleeping hours are through— kate marsh (cw: blood, injuries)

[pacificator]

[ The land around the Homestead is bare, swept clean by the prairie winds. They smell like smoke and smoldering underbrush, but there's the sharp bite of winter lingering beneath, teeth nipping when she expects a kiss.

Willa is next to her, not in the white dress, but in the jeans and t-shirt she'd been wearing the day she was taken. She doesn't look a day over thirteen. I told you you couldn't do it.

When she looks again, Willa's face is dark with blood; glass shards are embedded in her arms, her hands, her back. You let them take me. You let them torture me. You left me there to die! And now you won't even get them all. And when you die, the Seven will walk free again, and this time the one screaming will be you!

She wakes in a startled glaze of sweat, breathing hard, and only the flash of gold at her fingertips keeps her from bolting out of bed before she remembers: she's not here alone. Kate's next to her, a soft warm lump under the covers, and Wynonna sighs as she runs her hand over her face, trying to slow her pulse, her ragged breathing.

Carefully, she shifts to sitting, slipping her legs out from under the covers as quietly as she can as she reaches for the coat she'd slung over a chair back, fingers searching for the flask that's tucked into the pocket. ]

[castitas]

[ The storm keeps her from sleeping too deeply; the howling winds battering against the windows and walls of the cabin. As sturdy as it is, sometimes it feels like the storm might rip the place apart. It's a shallow, fitful kind of sleep, the kind that makes her twitch when an uncomfortable prickling of fear jolts through her.

She's slow to stir, the sensation still dulled by sleep, but she does pull herself into waking. Kate groans softly, head lifting from the pillow as she squints through the dark. Her own concern startles to prickle: is something happening? But it's like the urgency has passed, somehow. It doesn't temper Kate's worry. ]

Wynonna? [ Her speech is slurred, clumsily pushing herself up a little with her arms. ] What's going on?

[ployboy]

It's that uncertain time between hell and Hell where any dummy can tell shit's about to hit the fan. There's already a hurt in his joints like no other, make Tim believe he's old as dirt and brittle as porcelain. The roar of that bastard of a winter storm is still droning on in his ears; frankly he wonders if he's caught an infection or-- or, well, whatever. There's not much time to spare on dilly-dallying: oh my skin hurts awh my scars are feeling like they're opening up again boo my balance is off-kilter. There's not much time to spare at all, if Methy is to be believed.

And it's an unfortunate truth that well, yeah, Meth Man is to be believed. At least in the matter of weather. Always.

So:

Tim's got a thing to do before he gets his stupid ass locked outside the Center, aching bones or not. The eye of the storm won't hold forever, and all Tim needs to do find out whether his feeling matches the truth.

Kate's fine. She's fine. She's freaked, she's stressed. She's fine.

He doesn't even need a red string (a burgundy now) to trace her. Tim's made his way to her cabin (shared with-- roommates who-- but whatever) too many times, all undetected, to think twice about what he's doing until he's picking open the window in Kate Marsh's bedroom. Again. No wolfdog this time.

And Tim wonders why he doesn't act to track down the other people who haven't been accounted for in the Center, the ones who don't pulse warm emotion through their ties to him, the ones who don't have a veritable army (sorry, navy) wrapped around their little finger.

Tim's panting when he finishes slinking inside: his bones hurt, his lungs hurt, his head... and there's... not a vibrant-color on the string, the singular string, that's now pulled taut between him and...

So, really, it doesn't matter what fangs Wynonna's brandishing at him: Tim feels gunsmoke and the vertigo of teetering on an edge, the whisper of wind that he's felt in Smallville of all places-- something grand and important and noble that can turn to destruction--

but won't.

So Tim, shutting the window behind him, with all the ease of someone who knows how to jiggle the window so it doesn't creak or catch before it locks, says-

"I just want to know if she's okay."

-but what exactly makes him think she'd tell him if she wasn't? so Tim ducks his head just enough to suck in a warm(ish) breath from the fabric of his coat, from where he's lifted the crook of his arm to his mouth and nose.

Damn.

Damn, damn,

of all the fucking times to not throw a goddamn pebble, but if Kate can't get to the-- and why isn't she in-- this isn't Wynonna's space to--

(ah, blessed hypocrisy)

"And I'm going to see her whether you want me to or not."

It's not even said hot or said cold or-- god damn it, it just is.

[pacificator]

Jesus Christ, she really doesn't have it in her to deal with Tim fucking Drake right now.

Her own little walkabout had calmed some of the flight instinct that's been rising steadily throughout the last few days, but only in the sense of having smoothed the surface. She still doesn't know if she really should be here. She still knows that she doesn't want to be any further than a few rooms away from Little. She's still working through all the shit that's broken through her damaged and cracked emotional dam.

And she doesn't have the goddamn energy to deal with Tim's assumptions and defensiveness today. As if she hadn't been the one to reach out to him, back in Lakeside.

She doesn't have Peacemaker aimed at him, but that's more a function of having felt an exasperated sense of familiarity with the feel of this thread, once she'd breathed through the electric shock of touching it. "You know there's a door downstairs, right?"

She gives him a flat, utterly disinterested look. "What is this? You think just because I'm in the same house as her I'm gonna start acting like a parent from the 1950s? Why should I give a shit one way or the other? See her, don't see her, I don't care. But you better hope Little and Irving don't find out you've been climbing through her window."

Wynonna eyes him. "How many times does this make, huh? Because I seriously doubt this is your first attempt."

for Little, blanket cw for Tim Drake's self-diagnosed ocd

[ployboy]

[This cabin does have a front door. Whodathunk.

Somewhere along the line, that thin and quickly-consumed wick of time had spurred Tim into identifying that familiar prey-animal spark of fear and the need to move to evade the burn-- from the hunter's perspective, not the rabbit's. The wind had picked up, and Tim has the confirmation that he needs that Kate (Miss Marsh) is alive and kicking and, by most metrics that matter, doing well. But he's a stubborn and stupid and selfish son of a bitch, a son of a Bat, and he can't just wait for her to hide up in her room when he can, like,

just rip off that bandaid and

like,

-so anyway, at some point, Tim had abandoned ship. Had bit the bullet because otherwise he'd be getting Kate into trouble, would be inviting all of that abuse from the officers she's chosen to live with but who have no business muttering a damn word about her and her decisions. Her wants, tangled and thorny but red and there.

Tam would slap the shit outta him all over again, Tim knows, but Kate... won't. And they're connected, and they know this now: he hopes she puts some distance between her and this front door because Tim Drake pounds a fist on it. He hopes she tells him off eventually, because he's not leaving until he sees she's okay. (Not just 'knows' or feels or senses or hears or thinks-- he hates it too, this obsessive, possessive part of him. He's sorry, he can't not.)

His sway against the gust of bitter and hard cold is as unwelcome as feeling sea-sickness in his already untethered anxiety, imagined and on the burnt-ash thread growing stronger (it's like a cable tie, a garrote) between him and the Lieutenant. Or maybe the hurt on Tim's skin is just that merciless freeze, or the cattle-fence shock of wondering why this has to happen at all.

Winter's hell on scars. And Tim's everything hurts.

But goddamn it, he's coming in through that front door

and at least the blink of surprise at seeing the inside of the cabin proper, once the door opens ajar just that tiny bit, will be all genuine.]

--Sir.

[-is all he can say, really, otherwise he risks dying and

so is he welcome in or not-?]

[fidior]

[ One of the black-ish threads pulls tauter at his fingertip, though Edward doesn't immediately notice this. It's not that he's ignoring the collection of tethers, but that he tries not to open his mind to them — or push into anyone else's — too much. They're.... personal intimate, each one bleeding right into someone else's spirit.

He doesn't know what the black ones mean. There's a dull grey one now, frayed and flickering, vibrating like a disturbed spider's web after a brush of movement. A knock sounds at the door, hard enough that it startles him a little.

He gets up from where he was sitting (lieutenant's manual in hand, thumbing through pages and trying his hardest to keep concentrating on them) and moves that way. He's a much less severe sight than he normally is: greatcoat hanging on the wall nearby instead of swallowing him up, leaving him in his jumper and some other man's cardigan that he put on over that for warmth. No officer's cap, just messy locks of brown waves, outgrown enough that his right eye is nearly concealed by the bang that hangs over that side.

But he has, noticeably, trimmed back his facial hair a bit, made it neater — muttonchops still thick but not such a mess. Slowly, slowly, he's been trying to clean himself up a bit again. ]

Mr. Drake.

[ He realises with a surprised, but not unwelcoming, exhale. Immediately he's pulling the door open wider; it's cold and getting colder still, outside. ]

Come in—

[ It's only then he realises, catching it out of the corner of his eye, that grey thing that connects him to the boy. Little blinks, surprised and unnerved, takes a step backwards to let the other through. ]

—out of the cold.

[ployboy]

[Tim knows about the threads. And so he's ducked his head, presumably against the chill, the collar of thick jacket (frozen- thawed- refrozen and now borderline ice) held up against his mouth and nose. The longer he can concentrate on the misery of icicles having replaced his bones, the less he's at risk for... oh, but the last time Little was on his mind, it had been because Kate had been so weak because of her gift to the man, something she had been so proud of and that the Lieutenant had easily accepted and--

Tim frowns, and his blue eyes blink against snowfall for the quick moment it takes him to see the man doesn't have a rifle in hand. Or slung over a shoulder.

It must be the first time they direct words to each other like this, without the man having his props of austerity to steer Tim's delinquent ass straight; he wonders what that must be like.

(Tim was never supposed to be a delinquent but he was also never supposed to take up residence in fucking Canada, so-)

-so he does as told. Because Tim's always eager to follow orders and he's again without a master and he's trying...

...to not stare, to not get all emotional again because inside this cabin is warmth, and abandoned card games on coffee tables, and a messy tidiness that Tim can only remember from living under Alfred's roof. Inside the cabin is Spinal Tap (sorry, Wynonna) and the images of sweet vanilla macarons dangling from a path that shines red-red, for a second, before dulling again into gray-red, because everything in Tim's life is now washed gray. And Tim knows he doesn't fit in, not here in this house where there's safety around a fire and no one comes out howling and burned.

He's standing (shivering, really) to one side, head still turned away from Little. A primitive gesture he might recognize: the futile attempt at appeasement. Then Tim breathes (shallowly, sorta) and nods; his mind made up.

He's not here to try to fit in. He just needs--]

Kate was helping at the Community Center earlier. She's not there.

game time with Edward Little

[fidior]

( a collection of games with a man who has never once had fun! )

— blind man's bluff

[fidior]

[ Truly one of the more nerve-racking of the games, but Edward does want to be a good sport, and so, when he's chosen to be the It of it all, he readies himself as he's blindfolded, giving a few steadying breaths to let the others scatter before setting off on his blind journey.

Given the threads that connect so many of them these days, the It might have an unfair advantage; even with one's eyes covered, the ripple of those threads can be followed blindly, if one tries enough. Edward's of course determined to be as honest as he can be, and so he mentally blocks out the sensation of each thread, at least as much as possible. Some things still might flicker through, potentially skewing the game experience. It should be an interesting time, at least... right?

Nevertheless, he'll move slowly through the cabin, feeling his way around various corners and into rooms. The others are given free reign to move about, not confined to one room in particular, to lessen the chances of him finding them more easily with any assistance from the threads, no matter how inadvertent. ]

[pacificator]

[ Children's games, the kinds she used to play with Waverly and Willa and Mama to pass the time during storms like these, or when they were waiting for Daddy's temper to blow over. Blind Man's Buff isn't one they used to play, but tag and hide and seek were both old favorites.

Not having a barn to hide in makes things a little more challenging, but there aren't many people in the house, and they can all scatter pretty easily. Wynonna makes for a small room off the main living room, that was maybe an office or a den, and injects the teasing grin into her voice when he comes carefully feeling his way through the door. ]

Seems like you should get another handicap. You're too good at finding me.

[ But he has to touch her to get rid of the blindfold. She moves silently away from the corner by a bookshelf where she'd been standing, putting more space between them. ]

[extramuralise]

[ This has never really been among Irving's preferred games of choice, to be honest, but it's an easy one and an obvious one, so of course it ends up getting played. Manageable enough, at least, so long as Irving doesn't have to be the one playing "It"— the very idea of being blindfolded and surrounded by people without knowing where they are or what they're doing seems borderline nightmarish to him (he imagines, for example, removing the blindfold and discovering everyone else has left).

Though he doesn't stray too far, not even leaving the room (Irving being ever the traditionalist at heart) he makes a point of trying to avoid the other players, not wanting to interfere or be jostled, or to make any sort of noises that might clue Little in to his whereabouts.

None of which does stop him for doing his best to move anything out of Little's way that he might knock over or hurt himself against. ]

Careful how you go, Edward— this room holds no shortage of obstacles for you.

[ Physical obstacles, he means. Physical... object obstacles. ]

— yes and no

[fidior]

I'm thinking of something small.

— two truths and a lie

[fidior]

[ Once it's explained to him by some of the more modern members of their little party, Little finds himself not so sure about this game. Talking about himself is difficult, but so is thinking up a lie wedged inbetween the truths.

Still, during a more quiet lull, perhaps in some attempt to stave off the... overarching awkwardness and so much that threatens to overwhelm, he actually starts up a round of this himself. He fixes hot chocolate (rare to find in this place, but not impossible) for anyone interested in joining in and settles comfortably down at the sofa; this game could potentially go on for awhile, as they take turns coming up with truths and lies. To start— ]

Let's see—
I have eleven siblings.
I am the eldest of my siblings.
I always intended to join the royal navy.

you can't stop me from doing two!!!

[pacificator]

[ Finally, something other than tea.

She curls into the other corner of the sofa, sockfooted and wearing a cozily overlarge sweater, and squints at him. ]

No way it's eleven siblings.

kate marsh | ota

[castitas]

☮ i've got troubled thoughts
— catch all for early-storm things / string stuff

[ The storm rolls in, just as Methuselah says it will. Kate's already helped out at the Community Hall, trying her best to help those sheltering there be ready for the storm. But she returns to the cabin she shares with Lieutenants Little and Irving — choosing to wait out the storm there instead.

Kate keeps herself busy however she can, but there's long periods of time where there's nothing else to do but will the hours to pass. In the scant daylight, she watches from the windows, keeps an eye on the blizzard roaring on in the gloomy half-light. There's a kind of anxiousness about her, distracted and hit with strange pangs of— well, it's hard to really put words to it. A little wistful. Some complicated twangs of something in her chest. Longing. She massage one of her fingers in particular, one where there's a maroon-coloured string attached to it. There's another one, frayed and golden with faint flecks of red in it.

Thank goodness no one can see them. That'd be awkward. ]

☮ and the self-esteem to match
— catch all late-storm / late night option

[ In the late evening, she reads by the light of the fire or takes a lantern to come little corner with blankets out of the way of everyone. Merry's usually close by, curled up next to her for silent company and a little extra heat from his fur. She's even crept out of bed just to sit alone on the floor by the dying embers of the fire for a little while just so she can breathe for a little minute — nodding off here and there.

It's hard to get any kind of privacy here, not with them all stuck here in this place and Wynonna currently bunking up with her. Not that she begrudges Wynonna in the slightest— she's actually pretty awesome to have a sleepover with, and real nice to cuddle up with during the freezing, howling nights.

But she's a little frazzled. For a lot of reasons. ]

☮ i'm the one who charmed
— charades

[ Honestly, this would be the kind of thing she'd be doing with her family back home. Video games aren't much of a thing in the Marsh household, but board games? Or these sorts of party games? That's absolutely the kind of thing that would be on the table.

So, she'll start: pressing her palms together for a moment and then opening them out. ]