logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

EVENT LOG:
ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

characters: those who signed up as defenders for the event
location: all around Beacon
date/time: november 16-29
content: the defenders attempt to drive off a spirit invasion
warnings: lots of horror! body horror, psychological horror, gore, violence, etc.. please cw all threads where appropriate! mods will do the same

in your closet, in your head.

It all happens in a matter of moments. Your friends, your companions, and even some people you aren't all that fond of; everyone who took so much as a bite of the spirits' feast suddenly collapses into a comatose heap. Which is bad enough already, but the worst, by far, is yet to come.

Before anyone can really figure out what's happened to the sleepers, the woods surrounding the town come alive with sound. Rustling, screeching, clicking, howling, and under it all, the characteristic hoots and whistles of the forest spirit tongue. But these aren't the friendly creatures that set up the banquet in the first place, and they aren't the familiar faces (or masks) from around Beacon. As they begin to emerge, bursting forth from the trees, these spirits reveal themselves as a horrifying army of terrors. And sprinkled among them, distinguishable by the emerald glint in their sockets, are the infamous "green eyes", the dangerous spirits that appeared once before.

Attempting to talk to these spirits is a moot point, made obvious by their immediate assault on anyone they get close to. They attack with claws and teeth, with limbs far stronger than they have any right to be, and the green eyes, as they are wont to do, will try to get into your head. Somehow, they seem to know what it is that scares you most, and they don't seem too hesitant to use it. It's not clear what they want— are they here to eradicate you? To frighten you? To send a message?

Whatever the case, one thing is very clear: you and everyone else, sleeping or waking, are in serious danger. Are you ready to defend Beacon?

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Yeah, considering the barricade had been built to keep out even the smaller spirits, it's a bit of a struggle for Rosinante, who sighs as he dismantles some of their work, then lets whoever else is standing by downstairs that they're going up, and to seal it back off if they're not down in a few minutes. It's just not worth the risk to those asleep downstairs to keep their defenses down for the sake of two people.

But once doors and bedframes and tables have been rearranged so he can get through, Rosinante stumbles the rest of the way up the stairs, lands on his palms instead of on his face (good catch, for once) and then keeps both his gun and his light high, watching for any movement as he follows Cao Pi.

He winces when Rosinante hits the deck, but all that noise doesn't seem to make any difference and it doesn't seem to have harmed Mary at all. Good lord man can you please get it together. Cao Pi's room is near the end, 209, so there's a ways to go to get there but nothing comes at him on the way, so. Quickly! Into the room and snatching the pad from the makeshift desk near the door, and back out again, not even bothering to close the door fully. If things are breaking in upstairs, that door isn't going to slow them down even for a second.

"There, that's it," he mutters, waving for his comrade to turn around and lead the way. They're not here to hang around and see whether or not the place is crawling with killer spirits, that's not a problem for two to solve.

"Good." Quick and easy, and solves Cao Pi's questionable choice of leaving his tablet anywhere unattended in the first place. He's eager to head back and restore the barricade, which he sets to working on once both of them are back through. No point hanging around on the other side of it.

And once that's finished, he's quite content to slump back into the seat he'd left moments ago, spinning Mary around to his chest again first so he can lean against the wall. A shame the fall hadn't woken her up, but he hadn't expected it to. And right now, he's kind of jealous, anyway. If this ever comes to an end, he wants to get all that sleep he's having to miss out on.

There's always torn-up bedsheets for bandages, and Crowley has kindly stayed out of the drinking-alcohol, so they still have some of that. And the Soldier is pretty good at stitching. They lead him over to his table, let him ease down onto an actual chair rather than letting him take the floor. "You need a damn bath. And to wash your clothes," they say, first of all, while giving the cut over his eye a critical look to determine if it does need stitches. "Can hardly tell how much of that is new." Head wounds always bleed a lot, but might not always need a lot of help closing up. It will definitely need cleaning, though.

Ankle will come next. It can wait until potential bloodloss is dealt with. Though they do say, "Prop your foot up on the table, it will help with the swelling."

[Prompto doesn't need to be told twice, taking off in that same direction as soon as the word is out of Akira's mouth. It's good, because it gives a slight head start as the horse rears up and prepares to give chase.

He's pretty sure he can't outrun a horse, and this horse can clearly outrun them...but maybe four legs can't turn as fast as two, and so Prompto's going to attempt to take a hard turn when he thinks the spirit's going to pass them.]

[ There's no replacing Sora. That's as futile as their combined attack, so easily shrugged off by their inscrutable and inevitable opponent. Riku doesn't try to replace him, he isn't trying to place a slap-shod bandage over the sucking chest wound that was losing his best friends.

That doesn't mean teaming up with others has no merit. It's not just about strength in numbers, because in deadly fights like this one greater numbers can only swell the amount of casualties, can limit their mobility.

It's about the connection forged from their months here, tested by the times they've clashed, strengthened by the quiet of the museum and weeks in each other's company. Time and struggle bonded them. Sora called his friends his power. Riku would even hazard to say their hearts are connected by a dark thread, inextricably linked to Sora's absence.

Vanitas is knocked back an inch and Riku is already swinging around from behind him, a steadying hand retreating from the center of his armored back. He blurs, slipping away into a mere smudge of black-violet as he tries to surge around, to flank the spirit, bringing his own broadsword to bear.

Their opponent doesn't seem to reel when struck, it requires very little time to recover from its own attacks, as well... that makes finding an opening difficult, so Riku relies on an attempt to stagger it, striking on the heels of its own attack on Vanitas. To force an opening, or to at least test if it can be done. ]

[The Soldier stops hammering to listen, and inclines their head in as sympathetic an expression as they can muster. They are sympathetic. They're just... not great at showing things, sometimes.]

I'm sorry. That had to be. Hard.

[Not having anyone to come back to. They can actually imagine that. The Soldier doesn't exactly have anyone, either. Even if they remembered anyone but Steve, that life was most of a century ago. Anyone else would be long dead.]

What happened to them?

"I know," he grumbles in reply to what feels like accusations. There's just been so little time. With his foot in this shape though, not much else to do but rest and clean up and let the others handle things for a couple days.

He sits rather heavily on the chair, happy to be off his foot at least, and props it up as suggested, though he slightly resents the way he's being told to do things as if he's a child and not someone who does have basic first aid knowledge. This isn't the first extended battle he's been in and it won't be the last. He's just tired, and all right, he does need help with his bleeding face. Or at least, it's easier with help than managing it alone.

Sorry, Rosi, the Soldier's bedside manner hasn't had much practice. Giving instructions and making obvious comments is the best they can manage. "Let me get some water and I'll clean your face. It might need a couple stitches. How long has it been bleeding?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes. Thought I'd put the last one down when one more leaped at me from a tree."

He had finished it off and come back in afterward, once he'd confirmed his surroundings were finally quiet. Hopefully that gives them all some safe downtime. Before he completely leans back and closes his eyes, though, he shuffles the strap of his bag around his shoulders, bringing the dozing Mary to his chest, then folds an arm around her. Maybe he's completely paranoid, keeping her on him rather than leaving her here, but so be it. She hasn't received a single scratch and he's determined to keep it that way.

That's a long time for a facial cut to still be bleeding. Definitely needs stitches. The Soldier gives Rosinante's shoulder a brief touch, a couple fingers of squeeze, then hurries to the kitchen for some clean rags and a bowl of water. The needle and medical thread are already in their pockets, habit ever since the time they shot Scarlett, kept up during this mess in case they ran into someone injured or had to stitch themselves up.

They're back in record time, already soaking the rag. "You should have waited for a partner," they say flatly, standing over Rosi because sitting would put them too low to get a good look at the wound. "You could have avoided getting this hurt with someone to watch your back."

Edited (pronouns blah) 2019-11-28 03:26 (UTC)

"Quieter alone." And he prefers working alone. Always has, always will, he figures. Every time here he's had to work with someone else he's found it irritating on some level, even when the others are genuinely helpful and often perfectly capable. It isn't that he thinks he's better than anyone or that others hold him back; he just really struggles with other people sometimes. Needs time away from them.

"Just get on with it." Or he'll regret letting Soldat help and will shove him aside to figure out how to do this on his own. He can find a mirror, and most of the other stitched scars around his body were his own work anyway.

That's an order, and the Soldier takes orders. (Most of the time, anyway; sometimes they don't, these days.) They set about cleaning the blood away from the wound without another word, and getting out the needle and thread from the sterile packet in a pocket under their jacket.

It isn't as if they can really talk. The Soldier makes a solo mission outside every day, themselves, to visit Misty and check on a handful of other locations, in addition to the official patrols they do with a partner. But the Soldier heals. Nothing's happened to them yet that required stitches, and between Crowley's attentive (worried) miracles and their own healing factor, nothing has kept them down long enough for it to matter. They don't even have a concept of a situation where their own strength, training, and healing factor wouldn't be enough, but they're aware it still makes them a bit hypocrtical.

That doesn't stop them from worrying about some of the others, going out and taking risks by themselves. Rosinante is even more noticeable than someone like Javert or Kuai. More of a target. (Also, you like him. Well. Yeah. Just making sure you're aware why exactly you're worked up, buddy.)

That's better. When he's had time to rest and take a break from all this, he'll have a little more patience with other people. Right now, injured and exhausted, is just not a good time. Admittedly the longer this goes on, the less a chance there will ever be a great time.

He sits and waits, patiently, only wincing a little but mostly trying not to move. Having a needle this close to his eye is not his favorite thing in the world and the only reason he's tolerating this is he has some measure of trust in Soldat. The man is certainly strange, but he seems to mean well on top of being competent.

[ Riku knows the feeling.

In the wake of much of what's happened prior to this? Riku feels the absence of his own Keyblade keenly. His heart is still too raw, too broken, for Braveheart to answer its call. Considering what Kairi and Sora meant to him, how they formed the real core to his central goal, the driving force that kept him on the path to improving, ever stronger each day, it doesn't surprise him when his heart is broken enough that even his keyblade rejects him.

He needs to be stronger. To protect what's left. The way Akira is, gathering up what he can to take back. Perhaps... that's why he says anything at all. So Akira can do what he can't.

Save them. ]

You got it.

[ That question, though... ]

Too many points of entry. Too obvious. You noticed the camouflage practically makes the armory invisible, right?

[ Riku exhales after a time, after holding his breath, of thinking about their situation for a while. ]

I kept thinking about what might happen when it got attacked. I guess... I didn't want all our friends taken down at once.

Three stitches are enough. It's not a big gash, just a very bloody one. The Soldier ties that off, snips it with a knife blade, and replaces the rest of the thread for use later, most likely on themselves since they don't have to worry about potential infection. They use an economical amount of gauze over the gash, just enough to cover the stitches, and one of the aforementioned torn sheets to tie it in place.

Gotta save the real thing for places that actually touch wounds, right?

Then they step back just a little. "Do you want me to look at your ankle, too."

Riku wouldn't have blamed him if he did. He's caught his own share of naps in the Gummiship with His Majesty, the King Mickey at the helm, he knows how important those little, stolen moments of reprieve are.

It's enough that he clasps around his middle without complaint.

It isn't about what Prompto needs or what Riku needs, individually. Together, they can stay warmer, they can go longer. They can fight harder, when the moment demands their best. So Prompto quips that he might get some sleep and he'll hear no complaint or protest from Riku, who will keep steering them straight for the armory.

The only time he stops is to take the torches along the way, and finally, to disembark at where he believes the camouflaged armory is, to find their way in and deposit the torches there.

"We're here."

A stupid thought enters his mind that he's glad the attack missed so that he won't wind up wearing an eyepatch. A little too pirate for his liking. And simultaneously he feels a surge of bittersweet nostalgia. Home feels so long ago, so far away.

As Soldat pulls back, Rosinante fishes for his compact in his pocket, where it's crammed up against his poor mashed pack of cigarettes, then has a look at himself finally. Yeah, he'll have to push past the barricade and grab a shower at the nearest room, that's for sure, but the wound patching looks good.

"If you want," he answers as he pockets the mirror. "Not sure there's much to see though." He's pretty sure it's just a sprain from a bad fall, but he's already here and doesn't much feel like immediately getting up and walking on it again.

Prompto ultimately doesn't nap. it's nothing against Riku, but while he's certainly warm and suitably snuggly, he's not Noctis or Ignis or even Gladio and they're not riding in the Regalia, so he's not 100% comfortable taking even a power nap at the moment. He does take advantage of the shared warmth while it lasts, tightening his grip just slightly with the lack of threats.

The area around the armory is vaguely recognizable--he's been here only once so far--and he detaches himself from Riku so he can take one of the torches himself, leaving Riku with his jacket.

"You think they'll try to attack here, too? They--mm, nevermind." The trip's been uneventful so far, and he doesn't want to be the one to jinx it. "We should get them inside first, right?" Their cargo. They're the most vulnerable.

The compact earns a very slight brow-raise, unsure whether that was to make sure the stitches and bandage are secure, or if Rosinante is worried about-- what, scars? They don't comment, half-sure the marine's mood would just get them snapped at if they do.

Better to focus on injuries. Sprain or not, still needs examining to make sure. "I can make sure it's not broken or dislocated. And the shoe should come off before it swells too much." If it isn't already too late. It's going to hurt like hell to get it off, at this point, but at least the Soldier has learned from past experiences, and isn't going to just yank the thing away, or rip it in half, like the sweater. They're careful about it.

"How many did you take on?" they ask as they pick at laces and try to ease the footwear off without making things worse. "Spirits. What kind were they?"

The Soldier nods, hums the "I come in peace" phrase, then backs off a couple crouching steps before straightening up to follow Misty again, over to the chairs. They absolutely understand needing space and being gentle, and even having a rough time. "I can't use the instrument, so I'm trying to learn their language. By singing it. I learned how they refer to us."

A weird, automatic instinct has them pulling a chair out for Misty, then blinking at the chair like they're not sure why they did that. (Spoiler: they're not.)

[It's a near thing, getting the door shut before he finds himself with an arm full of monster, but Quentin manages to kick it closed, bracing his back against it, just waiting for the inevitable end when the monster figures out how to open doors or that windows are fragile glass-things.

Braced and waiting, Eliot still in the bed upstairs and why? Why isn't any of this waking him up?

Minutes pass and there's no loud thump on the door, and there are no spindly arms reaching for him through the tiny window just beside his head like something out of a horror movie.

There's wet, squishy sounds, though. Coming from just outside and hands ready, Quentin sneaks the door open to look.

The spirits with the impossibly long legs is dead, in pieces on the ground just outside the cabin and there's someone standing over it like a hunter over a fresh kill, swords in hand.]

Hey! Thanks! I don't know what happened, but it came out of nowhere!

[Rushing through his explanation, chest almost heaving because he's not stopping to breathe before he gets it all out.] What the fuck? It was trying to get in to my house?

[Shield holding, Quentin shifts his fingers and moves it, forcing it behind the spirit in the split-second it takes for Cao Pi to get his blades out and for the ice to fly. Trapping the thing between the shimmering web of his shield and Cao Pi's ice shards, just like they tried in the woods.

The only problem is, that with the shield behind the spirit, it has a clear run towards them but it's also going to get a face full of freezing ice-magic. And Quentin hopes, hopes, hopes that whatever it is, is going to run away or die instead of getting back up to charge at them.

He keeps his hands and the shield up for as long as he can.]

Get ready!

Sometimes, Riku leaves off of patrolling and fighting and slipping out in search of people or something useful, sometimes he comes back with new injuries and more rarely, he comes back with supplies. This is one of those times when he's taking a break - and even as far as breaks go, this isn't restful.

He sits with their slumbering friends, carefully unwrapping one from the blanket they're swaddled in, to start easing one of their limbs into moving. A leg to bend, an ankle to rotate, a hand to flex, like he's ever had comatose friends to deal with and, somehow, knows what to do.

"The closest is the river," he says quietly as he finishes, wrapping one sleeper in a moth-eaten blanket, "If we boil it long enough, we can drink it. It's just..." Dangerous? It's all dangerous. The river, getting to the Invincible... the last attempt he made, the spirits were too thick, prowling the well-known paths. He had to double and triple around just to make sure he wasn't followed to the Armory.

"Try to make it last in the meantime."

Riku doesn't drink the alcohol. He rarely sleeps, his appetite hasn't been great, either, he forces it so there's one less way to wear him down and dull his ability to do what drives him: to protect.

When he returns, he bumps his shoulder into Quentin's, sympathy in the fleeting sidelong glance he gives him, "They'll wake up," is an unconvincing encouragement but he makes it anyway, "That's not what's bothering you, is it."

It hasn't gone unnoticed. The way his hair is in disarray for all the times Quentin's fingers have raked through it, the worry that haunts his glances, his restless pacing and the sighs he makes. Quentin probably needs to get out.

He thinks of the dead, of the dangers out there, and hesitates to make such a suggestion.

You've seen them? Do they seem that smart to you? This is an honest question, by the way? And not just. Nevermind.

Most of the spirits I've seen so far, seem to just attack if they see any of us? Or, maybe it that we're fighting back? I haven't seen any of them attack a sleeper, not even one that's left alone outside. What I'm trying to say is, that a grand unified attack on one place, just doesn't seem that likely? But, yeah, I get your point. What if you're left defenseless - but, there are already people at the armory. They need help too.

Someone to help me get the sleepers to the armory? Keep them safe. Someone to help drag supplies, because I can't carry it all on my own? Not when I have to be ready for an attack or. Worse.

[It ticks in a little later.]

If I die. I need someone else there, in case I die.

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EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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