EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

[inthenightmods]

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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Comments

[worthallthis]

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?"

[callada]

"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.

[worthallthis]

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."

[callada]

"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.

[worthallthis]

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.)

[callada]

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.

[worthallthis]

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."

[callada]

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.

[worthallthis]

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?"

[callada]

He braces himself with his hands on the table as Soldat pulls off his boot, and slowly exhales through his nose as he fights against the pain of his ankle being handled - though yes, he does appreciate that he's being careful this time around.

"I saw six. Sounded like more but the others fled. They didn't seem as coordinated as some of them, just a group looking for easy pickings." And he made sure that he wasn't that. Might've taken a few blows but nothing compared to what the spirits suffered - not that suffering was his goal, and he was glad several of them ran. Better to intimidate a bunch of them into running than to have to kill more than he needs to, but he'll do whatever it takes to keep the others safe, and he doesn't feel an ounce of guilt for the deaths of a few spirits when it's a matter of their survival.

[worthallthis]

"No green-eyes," the Soldier guesses from that, gingerly feeling around Rosinante's ankle to feel for a break or dislocation, but if it really is just a sprain, all it will need is wrapping for support and some ice. There's water out in a bucket beyond the relative warmth of the inn's walls left outside for freezing, that the Soldier can smash to make pieces small enough to use on swollen ankles. "They never run if there's a green-eyes."

[callada]

"Didn't see one. It might have goaded them toward me and then switched targets and left them behind. Or maybe they're starting to feel the losses."

But he kind of doubts that latter possibility. The spirits probably aren't infinite in number but there are so goddamned many of them that it's hard to imagine they've put a dent in their numbers. If a week and a half or so of fighting back was all it took to make them worry for their own lives, a reset wouldn't be nearly so much of a threat.

[worthallthis]

There may be lots of spirits, but not all of them are here fighting. Maybe not even most of them are here fighting. The Soldier shakes their head a little, dropping their hand from Rosinante's ankle. "Not broken. Once you're clean, I can get you ice." Then: "Where did the attack happen?" If it was near one of the other fortified places, the Soldier might cut their break short, even if Crowley might worry more, to check on them.

(After lunch. Yes, Sergeant, I'll eat first. Quickly.)

[callada]

He points toward one of the windows along the side of the room, near the jukebox. "Quarter of a mile that way. Was just making my way back, past the church. They were in the trees."

An annoying spot, since it meant they'd crept in behind him or someone else at some point, like they had been keeping an eye on The Invincible and its comatose guests themselves - but probably lots of them do that and he just happened to come across them. Some luck, then, that he was able to drive them off, at least temporarily, but he knows they and more will be back.

Since Soldat seems to have finished fussing with his ankle, he carefully lowers it back to the floor and makes to stand. "Anyway, I'll see to that shower."

[worthallthis]

The Soldier nods. They'll have to investigate the space, see what they can find, and tracks or signs of other spirits watching. For now, they offer their metal arm and shoulder in case Rosinante needs support at a better height than the table, to help him stand with.

And says, haltingly and maybe actually a little shyly, gaze fixed at the wall rather than on Rosi, "I might. Have a different shirt you can wear. That might fit. While you wash and fix the tears in that one."

[callada]

The metal arm is nice and sturdy, thanks, as he carefully stands back up and tries not to put too much weight on the sore ankle. Before he can hobble upstairs, though, he does actually have to take his bag full of Mary off and leave her here. The people awake and defending have done well enough that he'll trust their watchful eyes, so he goes to lay her down a couple feet away, next to Will.

Soldat's offer takes him by mildly confused surprise, and he fixes him with a flat look for a moment before shaking his head and making his way toward the stairs. "I have other clothing," he responds. He'll have to walk all the way to his room to get it, but he can manage that.

[worthallthis]

Not that the Soldier had been expecting much at sharing they'd found (or in this case, remade) a new item of clothing for Rosinante, but being completely rebuffed had been a fairly small possibility, in their calculations. (Should've just left the damn thing in his room without saying anything. Like with Eleven's birds. Maybe.) "Okay," they say, slipping back into their usual perfectly neutral expression, and decide that maybe they misunderstood their role here. They never did exchange the word "friend", after all.

They let Rosinante do whatever he needs to on his own, this time, and just head off to carefully retrieve the ice bucket from outside the inn door, smashing the solid ice into usable bits with the metal fist and setting it beside Rosinante's usual table so it's ready when the guy is done showering and needs to ice his ankle. With a pillowcase to wrap it in, and everything. Then retreat to the kitchen for refueling. Gonna just... let him be, for now.