logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: october 9-17.
content: the hallucinations begin...
warnings: psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

it's probably something that shouldn't be said out loud

October 9 feels like a normal day at first, save for the red lighthouse beam cutting through the darkness overhead. You know by now—or you've heard—that the lighthouse is only active during ferry arrivals and events... And there's definitely no ferry docked at the, er. Beach. The town is quiet, the forest spirits behave business-as-usual, Rastus doesn't know what's up. Whatever's going on, you'll have to figure it out for yourself.

And you will, though the hallucinations are subtle at first: objects moving when they shouldn't, people's proportions looking just a bit off, voices in an empty room, and so on. Is it just your mind playing tricks in the darkness? Might be! Will did warn you all about the effects of living without a sun and a proper day/night cycle.

As the days go on, the hallucinations are harder to ignore, no matter how much you may wish to wave them off as flukes. What's wrong with everyone's faces? When did all the howling start? Who do you hold onto when the world drops out from under you? And those hands...

While you might know it can't be real, it certainly feels real. But at least it can't last forever!

...Right?

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[The first few days had been brushed off to a number of excuses, mainly his lack of sleep and the quiet beginning to play on his mind. If his lantern wasn't where he left it or seemingly moved places, it was because he wasn't keeping track properly. His blankets being near the edge of the forest instead of in his tent? That was fatigue getting to him. The smell of rotting flesh or the flash of a shadow out of the corner of his eye? He was simply being jumpy.

But the week wore on and things seemed to continue, not relenting or easing up, but fully making him feel that his mind was slipping out of his control. Faces no longer looked like faces if the light of the fire hit them in a certain way. Empty sockets gazed back at him where eyes should have been. The color of the skin changed to an almost putrid gray, peeling away and revealing bone beneath. Sometimes when they smiled, he had to look hard and reassure himself that there wasn't blood on the edges of their teeth.

He stopped sleeping after that, not sure what was coming but not feeling safe to sleep on his own. It was around that point that the hands started to appear, flashes of them against the trees or reaching behind someone. Something was grabbing for them in the dark and he couldn't shake the image from his mind.

He stayed close to the fire, but as the night wore on, that didn't seem to do much good. Something would tug at his cloak or he'd feel a brush of something against his arm. By the third time, he was already getting to his feet, his eyes wide and fearful, the feeling of a hand gripping his ankle before he looked down and saw nothing there.]

Do see them too? The hands in the dark?

ONE

[ It’s difficult to tell night from day in this place and Kettara distrusts her tablet too much to try the timer feature that was mentioned on the network. She hasn’t been sleeping well and her dreams are fragmented and strange when she does manage it. She’s been training constantly as a result, forcing her body to adapt and endure.

This might be the afterlife, in which case it’s likely a trial in which she most atone for her failings. The least she can do is be prepared.

When she’s not training, she wanders. There’s a spark of light in the distance that catches her eye, and she’s been following it from a distance.

She can be found by the lighthouse, staring into the forest. ]

Someone has lit a fire.

[ She can see it flickering through the trees. ]

I hear voices.

[ There is nothing there. ]

TWO

[ She has been seeing things in the dark. Pale hands reaching, clenching at something. Sometimes she thinks they are pulling strings, like some strange puppeteer, and other times Kettara is convinced it is her mind playing tricks.

It’s been several days since she’s slept.

She’s standing ankle deep in the water by the lighthouse, trying to commune with the elemental spirits. Surely the Spirits of Water, known as great healers, would have some wisdom to offer her.

There is no response. Nothing but the gentle press of water against her legs. ]

Something is wrong here.

[ Her eyes are wide and bright in the dark. ]

You can tell, can’t you?

THREE (cw for gore, description of bodies)

[ She’s been told it’s dangerous to go into the trees, so Kettara hasn’t gone far. Just a little ways off the path.

It’s enough.

It’s the smell that gets to her first, the acidic scent of burning meat. The sound comes later, the soft crack of bones giving way to the heat.

There are bodies in the trees, blackened and slumped. Some of them wear armor and carry familiar weapons, symbols of the Earthen Ring scorched alongside their sorry bones. Their faces are gone, burned down to the bone, their teeth bared in awful grins. All of them are dead.

One of them used to be a woman with long hair and curved, elegant horns. Her staff lies broken by her side, still curled in a charred hand.

Kettara has been weeping. She’s kneeling before a tree, head bowed and surrounded by pulsing totems. Fire burns all around her, red and hot.

You need to fight, my student.

Master Muln’s voice is low and rough, a constant promise in her ear. He’s concealed somewhere in the dark, trapped just beyond her reach, but still able to guide her hand. ]

I know.

[ Be strong.

There is pain in his voice. He sounds like he’s been inhaling smoke, like he’s been burnt.

Kettara stands slowly. She can hear someone approaching.

Avenge them, Kettara.

She only nods, and turns to face the approaching figure. It’s a warrior, face blackened with ash, and body wreathed in flame.

She offers no warning. She only lunges, summoning lightning to charge her weapons.

There is no fire. There are no bodies, no ash, no voices in the woods. There is only a young orc woman with tears running down her face and the power of the elements at her command, charging forward. ]

WILDCARD

[ Hit me! ]

Early in the Event

1. [When Ignis woke up that day (normal), everything seemed normal. He went around doing his stuff, from making coffee and breakfast to taking a stroll to the library and Bonfire. It was unusally calm... or was it just him? The spirits acted normal, although not many wandered around the edges of the Forest. That's fine, Ignis figured. They were probably wary of new arrivals, and vice versa.

Still, as he takes a seat at the usual table in the Library, he could have sworn he heard a giggle. Not just any kind of giggle- a giggle of a small girl. Or was it a boy? He lifts his gaze and looks around but refocuses on the pages once again.

But when it happens again, he places the book down and straightens, frowning. The Librarian never giggles. They hoot and hum and and chew on the pages and glide over the bookcases. He lifts his lantern as exits the bookshelf row.]

...Hello?

[...could be nothing.]

Middle of the Event

2. [To say that Ignis is a clean freak would be an understatement. He really appreciates when everything is in order. Yet somehow everything in the house seems to be misplaced.

And those cobwebs! They are driving him insane!

He's on the porch, in front of his house, with a broom, cleaning up the corners and the walls of the wooden cottage of the webs... that don't really exist. After dusting off his broom from "cobwebs" he "cleaned up" he returns to wiping windows from (non-existent) dust and ash.]

3. Isn't this a bit excessive...?

[Ignis' question is quiet and mostly to himself, as he stares at, well, nothing. Just an empty space between the trees. But his hallucinating mind sees a lot of hands and bones hanging on the nearby branch. Are spirits trying to freak out the newcomers? Because they are doing a hell of a good job because Ignis almost got a heart attack. He seriously hopes those hands aren't real and just made from a lot of very... convincing-looking material and ketchup.]

Excuse me, [he stops the first person that comes his way,] would you mind helping me take these off the branches? Spirits are being a bit too playful tonight.

End of the Event

4. [It happened again. Only this time on his way back from the Bonfire and just as he stepped onto the bridge. At first, Ignis didn't want to believe what he was seeing, that it was mere trick of the light. But now he can't deny it. He is here. And standing on the bridge, bolcking his way.

A tall figure with ragged attire; long, tattered scarves, drenched in filth of the scourge, mud from the battle and water; skin so pale with demonic liquid dripping down his cheeks, grinning toothily at Ignis as he raises both of his hands, as if beckoning Ignis to come closer.]

I knew you would come here eventually... [Ignis says and gets into fighting stance, summoning his blades and infusing them with lightning. The shadowy figure cackles, tilting the hat up with finger-]

How the mighty have fallen, [Ardyn speaks in his ominously silky and sickly voice. The figure charges at him from the bridge to where Ignis is standing near the forest, and Ignis' blades strike the ground, making it explode loudly, sending rocks flying everywhere. In his vision, he had pushed Ardyn back- for a second- and he's getting ready to do it again.]

Wonderful. I get to kill you this time.

WILDCARD

5. [OOC: If you have any idea or you want to plot something up, hit me up at

WindsongWitch ]

[Jason had adapted a schedule for himself and it was the time of day that he had dedicated to odd jobs, though recently those jobs mostly seemed to consist of repairing broken buildings. First the church and then the docks and now the boat house. He wondered how he could live in a camp with hundreds of demigods and their legacies with hardly a dent and yet a building seemed to be destroyed once a week around here.

At least it kept him distracted from the most recent strangeness. Well, most of the time, he hadn't given it much thought but he was pretty sure it was starting to get worse. He stops walking when he hears a familiar voice and notices Ignis standing near some trees and looking kind of worried.

Jason's eyes drift to the branches, glancing over them.]

Take what off?

I. 10/9 - 10/11 CW physical/mental abuse, flashback

The first time the Soldier sees a cattle prod coming for it out of the corner of its eye, while on patrol passing the bonfire, it shies violently sideways, only to find there's not actually anything there. There's the echo of laughter in its head, the sound of a voice somewhere distant saying, Hold still, Soldat. I order you not to move. But there's nothing. The Soldier stands still, trembling, for a long moment before picking up its patrol again.

Memory malfunctions. That's all it is.

The second time it sees a handler it knows isn't in Beacon swinging a fist for its face, while in the middle of a lesson at the gymnasium, it flinches but doesn't stop, and just tries to ignore the voice that comes with it. Fuck, this thing is useless. Throw it back into cryo, maybe next time it comes out it'll be more compliant. It's not very steady for the rest of the lesson, though, doesn't practice any more holds with the students that session, and requires twice as long walking around the gym to calm down afterwards.

The third time it sees a handler, pushing up from a chair in the Invincible after a quick meal-- suddenly it's pushing up from the Chair, after a wipe and a briefing, and its on its way to kill someone. ((If anyone wants to be the Target, feel free. Otherwise the Soldier will be stalking ghosts.))

II. 10/12 - 10/13 CW medical experimentation, extreme disassociation, potential violence

It's getting worse. It actually feels the cuts in its skin when the scalpels come (wipes helplessly at the blood not actually on its flesh arm and chest, feeling bare skin and not the layers of clothing its bundled up in), the grip of hands on its face and arms and one memorable occasion on its ass (lashing out with a knife in each hand at nothing, or at any unlucky passerby), the press of the Chair on its face and arms and back as the electricity starts and takes everything away (stops stock still in the path between the village and the bonfire, and will stand there until someone literally moves it somewhere else, gentle or otherwise).

And now... now the Soldier knows it's not the only one this is happening to. It's not just memory malfunctions. Other people are seeing things, too. And worse, it's seeing things happening to other people. Half the time it sees someone sitting down, it's seeing them pushed into the Chair themselves and it launches forward to yank them back to their feet with an expression of panic. Half the time someone comes around a corner, it sees them walking into a hand with a gun that it has to desperately swat away.

To say the Soldier is on a hair-trigger to violence at the moment is understating it.

III. 10/14 - 10/15 CW disassociation

(You do it! You're less likely to fucking kill someone! Wait, what--)

And from sometime early in the day about four or five days into this mess, the twitchiness suddenly downgrades to something a little more manageable and a little less violent, eye contact actually happens for more than a split second at a time, and the Soldier's voice goes from a vaguely middle-American mixed liberally with actual Russian, to powerfully Brooklyn from the 1940s. The actual Soldier is hiding and the Sergeant got booted out to play.

Not much really changes, aside from demeanor, and the fact that the Sergeant actually takes a little time with his hair and clothes, and might call somebody "pal" or "doll" if he's not paying attention. And half the time he forgets to answer to "Soldat", because that's not his fucking name (not that he knows what his fucking name is, but still).

Well, the hallucinations change. Sometimes it's explosions and gunfire in the background, flares of blue light at the edges of his vision, a table with straps on it... it can mostly deal with those. Just ignore them and it's fine, really. But then it's Words. Out of nowhere, he'll hear a word in Russian (a language that the Sergeant doesn't even fucking understand), and flinch into a freeze, something painful happening in his head, something echoing and bouncing around the spaces the Soldier part of his brain is hiding. Never more than one at a time, never in any kind of sequence, but at least three times a day. It leaves him feeling a little tender around the brain.

IV. 10/15 Closed to Crowley

The Words are too much. The Soldier comes rushing back from the spaces where the Words have slowly been building up into some kind of avalanche waiting to fall, in the cabin it shares with Crowley and Aziraphale, and makes a grabbing motion in Crowley's direction. Doesn't quite grab him, but comes close. "Make it go away," it pleads, fists opening and closing. "You said you could make the fear go away. Please. Please try. Before we hurt someone."

V. 10/15 - 10/17 CW only mild disassociation and Utter Fearlessness

And now? Now the twitchiness is gone. The Words are gone. The fear is gone. The Soldier stalks around Beacon with a serious expression, ready to protect people from each other, and from themselves if it must. Crowley left behind diamond-hard purpose, infinite protectiveness, and the ability to shake off phantom sensations like the ghosts the are.

It stops by anyone who appears afraid or unhappy, staring at something that isn't there or isn't like it should be, and says, "Tell me what's frightening you. I'll protect you from it."

Crowley hasn't been sleeping on the couch, but that's basically where he lives now, with his fantastic broken leg. He doesn't know much about what's going on in the town because he's utterly cut himself off from them in his little sulk following the ferry incident. And he doesn't expect the sudden arrival of the human soldier person----in this level of distress.

"What is it?" he says. "Did you----did the Sergeant person come back or something?"

Where the hell is Aziraphale? Why is he having to be the nice guy again? He is fucking terrible at this!

I. First half of the event

Stone doesn't really see that well, except at a distance, and distance vision doesn't do shit when everything's dark. So, it's probably not surprising that for several days, he doesn't know what the shit has gone wrong with everyone else in this damn village. He perches on roofs and in trees in an attempt to get a better look from higher up, he calls down, "Hey. You okay, kid?" Even if the person he's talking to isn't actually a kid.

II. Second half of the event

Then the hallucinations ramp up a little, and the hands are more like vaguely distracting fluttery things he swats half-heartedly at, occasionally one worms its way into his own hand and he spends a few minutes holding a wrist no one else can see and... smiling a little. Because that feels right, holding somebody's wrist as he eats dinner or walks down the path.

But the worst part is the scent. Stone is sitting at the shoreline, minding his own business, when the wind lofts the scent of Fell at him. He surges to his feet, and into his full winged form-- spines all flared like a giant dragonic porcupine, tail lashing, wings mantled like an angry hawk. The water and vegetation next to him literally vibrates with the depth of his growl.

After that, smells keep popping up at random times, and sometimes he realizes they're not real and just growls low in his (still groundling-sized) throat, but sometimes they send him prowling through town in search of the source. Just in case something needs tearing apart to protect the town. Once it makes him stop short, hitch a breath, and make a low, keening sound in the back of his throat.

Most of the time, though, he's fairly steady, and ready to say to anyone who looks like they're having a hard time, "What do you see? I'll tell you if I smell it, if I don't smell it, it can't be there. All right?"

What, you mean you didn't notice your housemate's nuclear twitchiness the past few days, Crowley?

"What?" Surprise, then a swift, short headshake. "No. Well, yes, but he's been helping. He can't help anymore, it's too much, there are too many Words." With a capital letter and everything. "Something's going to happen if we don't stop it. Please, Crowley." It actually drops to its knees by the couch where Crowley is sitting, not touching him, but close enough for Crowley to touch him. Its expression is for once clear as day: upset, afraid, more than a little desperate.

No one ever said Crowley was the most observant person on the planet. He wasn't even aware Australia was a thing until Aziraphale pointed it out to him, and Earth had been around a good thousand years at that point.

As it is, he holds his hands up, and then puts them back down, not touching the human soldier person.

"Stop what? What do you want me to stop? I don't think I can stop the memories from coming back...?"

The Soldier gives a little shudder, trying to pull itself together, looking off to one side of Crowley's face. Crowley doesn't remember. Does that mean the offer is off the table? Fuck, it hopes the offer isn't off the table... it's desperate for this. Terrified it's going to kill someone, next time.

"You said before," it tries to explain. "That you could take the fear away. Not the memory malfunctions, the fear. If I'm not afraid, I won't be about to. About to shoot anyone that startles me."

1. Oct. 9 - Bonfire

It's in passing the bonfire that he sees it first - that faint reflection, that glimmer of light off a strand hanging in the air. Someone walks by, heading this way or that, but they're not moving of their own will for from the center of their shoulders sprouts a string that shoots upward into the sky.

It puts him immediately on edge and he stares, watching. He's seen this before. The village was destroyed soon after as his brother tested the limits of his powers. But surely if Doflamingo had arrived here, he would have known already. Wouldn't have missed him coming off the ferry. Doffy doesn't make subtle entrances.

He waits, he watches, then eventually he calls out "Hey," and waves his good hand. The other, his left, remains in its sling at his side from his earlier injury. He sounds casual, despite the fear seizing his chest. Wouldn't want to tip anyone off that he's noticed, after all.

2. Oct. 13 - Library

By now, Rosinante is certain he's going mad, but at least he's not alone. Enough of the people here have seen strange things that make no sense, things that shouldn't be happening, and it brings the jellyfish spirits to mind. Trying to read and shut out everything else is a new attempt at escape, but it hasn't helped, because the hands keep turning the pages of his books. Keep picking up books off the shelves and throwing them violently at him, causing him to duck or fall right out of his chair. Finally, frustrated, he grinds his teeth and throws his own book at the nearest sign of movement, which might just be you. Better dodge fast, he has good aim!

3. Oct. 15 - Boathouse ruins

Maybe there's something here worth salvaging. Maybe it can be rebuilt. He'll do anything at this point to avoid being around other people, because the hands and their puppeteering strings and the laughter ringing in his ears, too familiar for comfort, have him in a foul mood.

He's overtaken by the stench of blood and gunpowder as he passes a collapsed section of the former wall. Had someone been shot here? Shit, is it too late? He leans down and sets his lantern on the ground in order to free up his hand and lift the wood panel from where it leans on another, and reveals a body. Headless, dressed in patched and decaying clothing, once fine linen now soaked with dark crimson. Recognition rocks through him, sends him sprawling backward with a clatter of wood and a strangled cry before he claps a hand over his own mouth and silences every sound. But even silenced, he can't hide the visible anguish as he turns sideways and his chest contracts in a dry heave.

4. Oct. 17, outside the Invincible. Closed to Kuai.

Staying locked indoors isn't helping. He tried that already. His room smells like wood smoke and the hands reach up the walls and fill the space with pitchforks and stones, swords and arrows. They slice and carve at his skin, and even though by now he's satisfied that the blood isn't real, sometimes the scars linger long enough that he fears they'll become as permanent as the rest.

He staggers down the stairs and out the door, rounds the corner of the building and finds himself merely feet away from the very person he's been running from this entire week, dressed in his finest suit and sunglasses, shrouded in feathers, and it no longer matters if this is real or not because Rosi only knows how to react. He's too exhausted to think his actions through. In one swift motion he drops his lantern and palms his flintlock, sweeping it up in an arc to aim at his brother, his killer, finger already twitching to squeeze the trigger.

Edited 2019-10-10 03:14 (UTC)

early half of the event.

[ honestly, the day seems mostly normal to him. Yes, he's seen the hands-- but they blend in well with the visions he sees every day whether he would like it or not. taking a dip in a lazarus pool changes you. something he had fought and denied at first, but eventually had to relent on if he ever wanted to make up for some of his... less restrained actions. So, for Jason?

None of this seemed weird.

But he notices others acting strange, and he might follow, partially out of curiosity, partially out of concern. you don't just ignore when someone is obvious distress. ]

a little exploration. (locked to Bruce)

[ honestly, everyone's acting weird. maybe it's best to duck your head a bit, while you try to figure out exactly what the hell is going on? and also, put to use that glorified alarm that Will had mentioned. Jason's circadian rhythm had been fucked up for far too long, but the mention of a psychotic break actually managed to shake him a little.

to convince him it was probably worth trying to be a little more 'normal' than usual.

but it doesn't mean he's going to just reveal what he's found, in the basement of the invincible.

but he pauses when he realizes someone else is already there. ]

the end.

[ towards the middle of the month, it's impossible for him to not have realized what was going on. what was driving people to nervous, raging fits. even his own hallucinations had grown in severity-- to the point of actually feeling a hand on him, or the whoosh of a quickly dodged crowbar-- even though he knows that none of those things are real.

So, comparatively, he seems calm. And he'll try to remember every trick that he learned at Arkham, if he notices someone struggling near-by.

part of that is just talking. ]

You okay?

[Bruce doesn't spend much time at the Invincible if he can avoid it; there's too much traffic and privacy is a valuable commodity. But he's come by enough to identify a pattern- to gauge times of high and low traffic, to figure out which faces are fixtures and which ones aren't. Sometimes he comes near just to listen, or to watch.

He's been staying in the museum because that's what he's studying right now and without the routine of a sun and moon Bruce had made a counter for himself- a mechanical clock to record the hours. He's drafted a calendar of sorts to mark off the days. He'd read a book once as a child, about men in submarines needing to train themselves to a similar standard- and while they all seem to need less sleep than they once did, while Bruce still has a habit of stretching that to the absolute limit- it helps.

For all of these reasons, his trip to the inn isn't wholly out of the ordinary. Bruce comes at an hour when the bar isn't usually populated. There isn't much noise in the common areas and there are few shapes milling around in town square. He has a small bag over his shoulder and means to use the kitchen briefly, pack what he can, and leave again. He's done it just enough times that there's a kind of muscle memory that's developed- so maybe that's what it is, in the end, that leads to the discovery. Bruce has enough empty space that he can divide his attention and he isn't actively looking. He just- hears.

It sounds like a conversation though all he can hear is one man's voice, very softly. Bruce's hand lowers, folding a tin can into his pack as his weight comes to rest on the balls of his feet- and then as it carries him further. One step. Another.

The voice never seems to get louder though Bruce has the sense that he must be getting closer to it. He moves down a side hallway where the floor slopes almost imperceptibly. And then he crouches, presses his palm to the wall and leans his ear towards it. There's something almost familiar, about it- that's lost as the wall gives. It yields only an inch, but it's enough. Curiosity piqued Bruce wiggles his fingers beneath the small gap and when he pulls it doesn't creak, it just opens. A false wall. There's enough light from his lantern that Bruce can see narrow stairs.

Instead of turning back Bruce hesitates for just a moment- and then closes the door behind him- descending into the dark. It doesn't go on forever, he finds a floor waiting for him at the bottom, a basement that looks as if it was always part of this building. And that also looks... lived in.

There's no more voice down here, but there is a blanket. There are signs of life.
There's more than that too when Bruce comes closer, because there's a small shift in the air current, in the dust motes that drift by the light of his lantern. He isn't alone.]

content warning: graphic descriptions of bodily harm + body horror. possible third-person description of child neglect.

i;; we broke the looking glass.

[ when the first dew days roll around, daylight, slowly but surely, notices that something is... off about his frame. he notices it whenever he sees his reflection on something. something is... off. he isn't sure what it is because- he's used to the weirdness of this world by now, he thinks. after all, he's now used to the fact that the colour grey replaces where gold and yellow should be on his armour or on others. it's a struggle still but he's no longer shocked by it.

but when he looks down his arm one day as he's making his way to the general store for some minor art supplies, he's horrified to see a large crack beginning to form on his forearm that is now suddenly an unsettling hue of dirty greys and eerie blues. it's a lot to take in: the sight of the ungainly fissure exposing his protometal. the way his armour has taken on the colours of a dead mech.

it causes day to stop dead in his tracks and scream out of fear and surprise, not realising he had hit someone in the process. ]

-Oh! Hey! [ thankfully, daylight comes to his senses and focuses his attention on whoever he hit. tries to, at least. the arm and the whispers(?) are kinda distracting him. ] Oh my gosh- I'm so sorry about that. I was... distracted. You're not hurt, are you?

ii;;; and it deserves our pity.

[ in the middle of the event, daylight is definitely feeling off and, more importantly, looking off. he can barely stand the sight of his own body these days; his colours have mostly faded into an upsetting palette of blues and greys. thick, foul-smelling ichor is now beginning to leak out of his torn joints and from under his cracked, exposed armour. he tries to keep it together, tries to tell himself that this isn't happening despite how much everything of him hurts now, how much it feels like somethings or someones are trying to tear him apart, piece by piece and armour by armour.

but it really comes to a head when he's speaking with someone one day. one minute, everything is fine and he's trying his best to keep his cheer as he explains his ideas for a possible memorial and to further figure out the spirits' language. but in the next minute, he hears his words begin to dissolve into static and white noise, nonsense and screeches. it isn't long before he sees and feels a hand breaking through his neck and closing in on his vocoder, cracking the delicate mechanism under their punishing hold.

to whoever he's speaking with at this time, daylight still sounds absolutely normal. but to daylight? to him, it sounds like he's losing one of the few things that keep him as, well, him during this awful occurrence. to say he doesn't take it well is an understatement. ]

No! No, please! No no no! No no no no no- [ daylight is practically shouting at this point, optics wide in fright at what he thinks is happening. he grabbed at his neck and he tried to hook his fingers under the cables, tugging at it in a frantic attempt to clear his vocoder. ] Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Hello?

iv;;; the pages won't stop turning. (locked to kol, unpredict.)

[ he isn't sure how he got here. during the middle of the event, he finds himself stumbling towards a door and banging on it with enough force to make a racket but not enough to break it down, thanks to the hands and servos gripping at his limbs and neck. is this someone's home? someone's apartment? a building's door, now locked up for safety's sake? daylight isn't sure and he really can't bring himself to care.

what's important is him trying to get this door open, to meet face-to-face with someone while he can still talk. ]

Hello? Is someone there? [ with this being one of the rare few times he can speak clearly, daylight is frantic to take advantage of the situation. ] Please- I need help! Please!

v;;; wildcard!! + info

[ want to do something else? feel free to do it here! also, you’re welcome to hit me up/plot with me via my plurk prognostic if there’s something specific you want.

prompt iii will be added as a bonus toplevel on the 15th, when daylight's final fate has been decided depending on his interactions in his toplevel + threads. :> ]

MID-EVENT

It is only now Misty begins to quite understand what she has undoubtedly heard murmurings about. Fleeting things, ones she can largely dismiss as impossible as they come - because none of you could be walking and talking so plainly with viscera hanging from your open midsections, and the phantom death throes, phantom screaming ringing in her ears are unmistakably her own, long past. With restraint, she tries not to react physically beyond panicked double-takes and slipping into a thousand yard stare when left to her own devices.

It is with no pleasure she will have to occasionally ask, looking vaguely pained, "You don't smell that, do you?" Burnt hair.

And as events continue, people begin disappearing. Simply failing to register in any notable way, until and unless contact is made - intentionally or otherwise. It's only then she notices the infamous hands, and will bodily, violently wrench or duck away from whatever poor soul has been going about normal business. Were it anything more deliberate-feeling than a brush, that same soul may expect the heaviest, nearest thing she can support one-armed to be swung their way.

END OF EVENT

Everyone disappears. Surely some trick, though the blank tablet screen that greets her is especially unnerving. Holing herself up further begs something to snap, but she takes a valiant stab at it anyway that lasts all of three days. Several subsequent hours are spent pacing around town, grateful to the downpour if only for providing some stimulation. When this has been milked of what little value found in it she takes up residence on one of the benches by the bonfire.

And doesn't leave. Not once, as this still must be some kind of trick. On the off chance everyone's been physically relocated, she assumes the only thing worth doing is watching over the fire. (That whatever civilization returns, when and if it does, would surely pass by this hub is a point in its favor.) Slumped forward, headphones on and blaring, broken arm carefully cradling her functional one, Misty remains statue still through all dismal weather, lack of sleep, and complete lack of any outside influence her mind will process. Even the hands, by and large, seem to be absent.

She'll be quite happy to see whoever finally happens to be nearby when she's permitted her full senses, needless to say.

STANDARD WILDCARD OPTION/GET YOUR OWN (EARLY EVENT) CALM HELPER

Edited 2019-10-10 05:49 (UTC)

[ooc - please fill out permission / opt-out if you want to. Warning, possible suicide.]

« « « Grit your teeth [Event, early days]

[Quentin sits close to the bonfire, the blazing flames close enough to keep him warm, even without a coat and it brings enough light for him to read by. Better, so much better than the lantern still clipped to his belt and just watching the flicking firelight feels soothing. Not that he needs soothing, as such.

But he couldn't stay at the cabin right now. Not today, not when waking up slowly, stretching his arms and looking briefly as Eliot opens his eyes and seeing the horrible orange light flashing through them before Eliot closes them again. He's losing it, and he knows it. Maybe it's the stress of staying here, maybe it's the ferry going down with Eliot on it. Whatever it is, it's making Quentin see things. Making him hear faint whispering when he walks through the woods on the way to town, and sometimes even here.

He thinks it might be Julia, her face flashing before his eyes in the faces of strangers and Quentin keeps his head down on his books until the antsy feeling creeping under his skin becomes too much to bear, and he looks up, watching everyone at the town square. Gentle hands pushing at his head until he turns it to look up. A soft voice, whispering You're having an episode, Quentin. Come back to me]

Excuse me? Hey! Did you just--

« « « let it hurt [Event, middle] cw: suicidal ideation, blood

[He's spending more and more time at the bonfire, letting the flames warm him and letting himself get lost in the books in his lap, carried all the way from the shared cabin to here in his make-shift bag. Made from a pillowcase he stole from one of the unused cabins close by and using as little magic as possible, he made a strap, so he could sling it over his shoulder and still have his hands free and carry things at the same time.

Hands.

There are more of them now.

Sneaking up on him from out of the dark; sliding softly, too softly through his hair. Trailing down his neck and over his chest. And the fucking thing is, he knows these hands, and he hates himself for it. Hates that the touch makes him go still, go quiet and limp, hiding in his own skin, shivering from the ghost of a breath over the side of his face.

Hates what this means, that the Monster isn't gone. Isn't locked away in the Seam that Quentin gave his life for, but here. Somewhere around here, always just out of sight and his heart pounds like a jackhammer in his chest, beats so hard and so fast it leaves him breathless with it. Terror, cold and dark and endless slithering like creeping vines through his mind.]

No. No, please, you don't have to-- please, don't. We, uh, we can play a game?

« « « it will not last forever [Event, the final days] cw: suicidal ideation, bodily harm, gore, blood, possible suicide

[It doesn't end. From he opens his eyes in the dark underneath his bed in the morning and until he falls, crawls exhausted, scared, terrified back under it at night, it never stops. Julia is shouting at him now, her voice coming from the very walls themselves -you need to wake up, Quentin! Come on, Q, come back to me, her voice calling from the drains in the cabin and Quentin stops going in to the kitchen or the bathroom. He can't stand her pleading, tearful voice coming from the tiny black holes- This isn't real, Quentin! Trust me, come back to me! You NEED TO WAKE UP!.

He's avoiding the thing that's pretending to be Eliot. The flashing flames in its eyes a dead giveaway, but Quentin isn't fooled. Not again. Not when he doesn't have the axes or any bottles to push the spirit in to. He lies low, hides even when he knows, knows, knows that hiding is never going to do any good. Is never going to save him, not this time around. The hands, you see, that's how he knows. That's how he knows he's been found again, when they slide softly, so softly, so gentle and carefully over his body, over his head, his face, his hands.

But he still runs, rushes off to read at the bonfire again, fleeing in to his books again like always, this always worked before why not now? Why not here? Forcing his eyes to follow the lines, the words, the plot and it all slips away from him again, his eyes tracking over the people around the fire - walking, minding their own business WAKE UP and lost in their own WAKE UP worlds.

Hands.

Hands on him.

And Quentin leaves his books by the fire, fear coloring everything in a red haze. Leaves them by the large bonfire at the impossible town square, leaves them and follows the voice, follows as Alice, Niffin and terrifyingly beautiful, shimmering with blue fire in the dark in front of him, her hands reaching. But I saved you, he wants to say, wants to know. I saved you and Alice laughs, words spilling over her lips - with Julia, calling for him, soothing and loved- walks away from the light and in to the dark, in to the forest, following his own path as the Monster follows whispering I like you, play with me, always just a step too close, the scent of burned sugar, fresh blood and cinnamon churros heavy in the air.

Quentin walks, keeps putting one foot in front of the other as hands wrap themselves around his neck, squeezing, cutting off his breath. Beyond terror, beyond the helpless slippery fear of losing his life, of this being the fucking end. Too tired, too ground down and torn up too many times in a row, and Quentin grits his teeth, clenches his jaw.]

Do it. Just fucking do it, because I'm too tired to care.

Edited 2019-10-10 16:19 (UTC)

beginning. open.
[He's due to make a trip into town square. Bruce doesn't spend much time there if he can avoid it, he keeps himself occupied near the village instead and lives inside the museum. When he does cross the bridge it's to visit the general store or use the facilities at the Invincible. It's to check whatever records he can get his hands on or it's to go to the lake and wash up.

It's on his way out that something seems... amiss. What sounds like a conversation on while he's at the threshold of the bar. Bruce pauses momentarily. He makes a point to come here during off-peak hours, where traffic is at it's lowest and the risk of coming across others has decreased. It isn't just the sound that gives him pause, there's a quality to it that feels familiar.

Bruce doesn't want to recognize it right away- there are too many emotions that come with it, too many sensory memories. He tells himself instead that it isn't possible. He monitors the network and registered usernames. He hadn't come in on the ferry. It's statistically unlikely. But where anyone else might shy from knowing, turn back or convince themselves that this is the truth- Bruce can't be satisfied with the question. He comes around the other side of the wall in two quick strides and looks.]

middle. open.
[Alcohol. It won't solve anything, but if he drinks enough of it he'll probably be able to sleep through the worst of it. He fits one bottle, two, three, four into his bag from the shelves. Their medical supplies have always been slim and though Bruce has a collection to meet his needs and tend to emergencies, there are a marked lack of sedatives. This will have to do.

The bag goes back over his shoulder and Bruce pushes his fringe back from his face, where beads of sweat have begun to gather. Strange. Given the gradual change in climate. He heads for the door of the bar only to be stopped short once he reaches it, wrist caught by a- hand.]

end. open.
[He makes a second trip earlier than he'd wanted, but that isn't the only reason that he pulls a mask down to cover his face. It isn't the first vision he's had- he knows that he's hallucinating because this has happened before. Not just beneath Ivy's toxins and not solely from the work done by Ra's al Ghul's men- their attempt to change him.

He makes notes in the earlier days- a way to keep track of what he hears and smells, the sensations that he experiences as reality even when he can't rationalize a cause. By extension it becomes easier to recognize it as it happens and to force his attention away. He's afraid that at some point, he'll hear his mother or father.

But fear doesn't change anything.

Bruce is careful to stay outside of the warm light of the bonfire and to conceal his lantern- both of which have become habitual with practice. The hands that reach out are another story entirely because there is no predicting them. One pulls him across the ground along the way- another shoves at him. He walks carefully and takes his time, an attempt to equalize around the constant yanking and pushing that's escalated as the days have passed.]

end. closed to riku.
[They've only met once, if it could be called that at all.

They'd coordinated briefly over the sinking of the ferry which had left no room for pleasantries, and then they'd spoken again over the network. He keeps himself busy and his activity on the network suggests that he'd been one of the first to arrive. Bruce hears his voice outside the museum one night, talking about a kind of cloak for the torches, and he pays closer attention. He comports himself well when he engages with others- goal oriented and polite.

It stands at odds to his character, the boy he sees now.

Bruce watches from between the trees, nearly invisible for his clothes and his mask- as his pale head turns. Looks from one direction to the other. As if he's searching for something no one else can see, or following it.]

▶ 01 BEGINNING

( he doesn't really pay that much attention to things at first. maybe he put that book on his bed and maybe his shoes were shoved in the rubbish bin and he just didn't remember.

it's small things, things so insignificant that he barely pays attention to them because they're not really affecting his daily life.

the first time he realizes something is amiss is when he's sitting at the bar, not drinking, and he hears...something. a whisper. his name in a voice that slithers, that smothers and he can't stop himself from whirling around and saying accusingly: )

All right, who said that?

▶ 02 MIDDLE

( the voices only get worse. soon enough, he's hearing them constantly, insidious and overwhelming. he tries spells, he tries shoving cotton in his years, he tries everything but nothing works.

even getting so drunk that he passes out doesn't stop them so he just...doesn't drink. he tries to keep busy, visiting the general store, the church, the beach, anything to keep himself from going out of his head.

but that doesn't help because the doors appear smaller, the shadows larger and ambrose is really starting to hate this place. )

I'm already dead. Don't I get to do the haunting?

▶ 03 END

( staying in his room has become the best way to limit what he sees.

the walls bleed, the voices howl and every time he lays down, it feels like there's hands grabbing him, holding him down, sliding over his mouth, keeping him from screaming.

he opens his door at one point, peering up and down the hall and immediately backs away when he sees something. something that looks like his cousin but she's off.

she's melting. she's falling apart, limbs trailing behind her. ambrose doesn't scream but he absolutely throws a chair out the door. )

▶ 04 WILDCARD

( feel free to throw anything else at me. i'm at

spoonishly for plotting and these are all ota! )

[Head down and Quentin is doing his level best to ignore the simmering, nauseating fear churning in his stomach. There are whispers from the fire, from the trees and hands trying to pull the book out of his grasp. Not people, just hands and he answers without even looking up at first. Just a carefully neutral nod as fingers brush over his ear.]

Sometimes. I think maybe--

[And he snaps his mouth shut, looking up and seeing the blue fire flashing underneath the man's skin, shimmering just under the surface for an instant before a hand snakes out of the dark to brush the man's hair out of his face. Quentin swallows hard, fear leaving his mouth dry.]

Yeah. Sometimes. You, too?

Kuai has been trying the same strategy: if he stays in his room can he pretend none of this is happening? As it turns out, he can't. He can hear people long since dead speaking from beyond the walls, he keeps catching glimpses of those he lost out of the corner of his eye. But the final breaking point is closing his eyes to steady himself and when opening them he was briefly back in his room in Arctika.

He darted out of the building after that, staring pointedly at the ground and clenching his fists as he goes... Anywhere really. It doesn't help as he can see the hands reaching out of the ground, some of them look shadowy like his brother's clone had multiplied and was trying to physically drag him down to the Netherrealm.

He's so distracted by that he doesn't notice Rosinante until he nearly walks face first into a gun. He can fight his way out of a lot of situations, but being shot in the head from two feet away isn't one of them.

Reacting immediately he dodges to the side, shooting a barrage of icicles at Rosinante's chest, expecting the trigger to be pulled any moment.

"Rosinante?"

His eyes widen. Maybe this isn't Rosinante. Maybe its whatever he fished up on the beach and it's finally reformed and gotten the ability to walk. And it's going on a killing rampage? That sounds plausible.

Edited 2019-10-10 19:50 (UTC)

Oh, Crowley remembers. He'd offered to take away the human soldier person's fear. He'd done that loads of times on Earth. Gotten boys to ask the wrong woman out on dates by taking away their fear, made warriors on the battlefield stronger by taking away their fear. It was really minor, in the way of miracles. But for the human soldier person, it could be everything.

And he looks like he's absolutely terrified right now.

"What happened?" he asks. "Why do you need this now?"

"Seeing things, hearing things. Handlers, hands, the Chair...." It looks sidelong at Crowley, gaze half-hidden by loose hair. How has the demon not noticed? Even just the Soldier itself, but everyone else? (I mean, he hasn't left here much, has he? Hasn't he? Right, you weren't paying attention. No, he hasn't.)

"Not a memory malfunction-- or not just a memory. It's not just me. Almost everyone is." If Crowley hasn't noticed... "Not you?" Lucky bastard.

"Not yet."

Crowley isn't putting anything past this town. He's been hallucination free so far, at least. He's not about to just sit idly by and watch the human soldier person---his friend---suffer, though.

"All right," he says. "All right, we'll---I'll do it. I'll take your fear away."

[ Aziraphale reaches out and places a hand on Ambrose's shoulder, trying to be reassuring. ]

It's alright. Whatever it is, it's merely a vision. No need to be afraid.

I think-- I think they might be affecting us all. But whatever you are seeing, I don't think it is real.

It just about sags with relief, shuts its eyes briefly, before shaking itself a little and looking at the demon's face again. Crowley hates being thanked, but unspoken gratitude is obvious. "I just-- I don't want to hurt anyone. What do I need to do."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 72

EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

Jon Snow | Game of Thrones | OTA (CW: for descriptions of corpse features, blood, etc.)

Kettara Bloodthirst | World of Warcraft | OTA

Ignis Scientia | Final Fantasy XV | ota | Event CWs

3

OTA - CW on each prompt

IV.

OTA

no subject

no subject

no subject

OTA + 1 closed | CW: injury, gore

jason todd | ota

it's bnb not b&e

daylight vis lornlit. | original. | ota.

Misty Day | OTA | CW: I mean just the usual warning for gore/fire injury mentions

Quentin Coldwater | The Magicians|open to all (cw; blood, gore, suicidal ideation, possible suicide)

no subject

ambrose spellman ( chilling adventures of sabrina )

no subject

4. Time to bring the trauma

no subject

no subject

no subject

middle

no subject