Welcome to the test drive and thank you for your interest in The Village. This test drive is not game canon but will allow players the opportunity to experiment with game mechanics, the setting, and the flexibility of choice allowed by this game. The following prompts are examples of typical situations characters might face in the game. At least one thread from the TDM is required as part of the game's application process.
The setting details and locations are still being unveiled in the game, so prospective players are welcome to play with established locations or create their own within the general setting of Mathias.
Winter has arrived in Mathias. Snow falls steadily, big puffy flakes that pile up quickly in drifts as the wind blows them around town. The trees in the forest are covered in it, the branches bending under the weight and shaking when the piles fall from them to the forest floor. The roofs of buildings become solid white and drifts form in doorways as the wind tries to rush inside anywhere it can.
New arrivals wake in the forest, with its winding paths twisting back on themselves as they branch in either direction. It isn't safe to stray from the path, there is a menacing fog that waits just a few yards inward in any direction, but for now, there is nothing impeding movement along those snow-covered paths that cut through the trees. Continue stumbling in one direction and you'll reach the small town, coming out near the mishmash of quaint houses that nestle beside crumbling ruins that used to be homes. But choose the other and you'll seem to stumble on forever, huddling against the wind until there seems to be a clearing up ahead—
And then nothing. The earth opens up before you in a ravine so deep that the bottom cannot be seen. The other side can be seen, tantalizingly out of reach, and there is the sense that safety is just beyond, if only you could get there. But with that sensation is also the knowledge that if you stay here, you will die. The edge seems unsteady, like getting too close would set it crumbling and send you tumbling into that dark endless nothing that waits below...
BODIES WITHOUT SOULS
Benedict Books is nestled quaintly on the square surrounding Mathias's Town Hall, a thick layer of dirt covering the front windows. Looking through those windows provides a much different view than looking directly into the shop through the doorway — vague shapes and forms of figures seem to be inside, though no details can be determined through the streaks of grime. Flickers that resemble flashlights can be seen passing along the windows from time to time, and on occasion there is even a muffled tapping sound that comes from behind the glass, as if someone is trying to get your attention. The same distorted figures can be seen looking through the windows from the inside outward, but moving from one side or the other reveals... nothing. There is nothing there, and perhaps it is all in your imagination.
A portrait hangs at the front of the store to illustrate the namesake of the little shop... that may, in fact, not be so little. Dust covers everything in sight and detritus litters the wooden floor, as if someone left the door open and allowed half the forest inside.
The books are mostly familiar titles from the 1990s and earlier, but close examination will reveal that key details seem to have been changed. They fill shelves in neat lines along the walls and rows in between, the building almost seeming to stretch on forever until, finally, a small office can be seen tucked away in the back. A glance back toward the front door gives the impression that the room isn't that big, after all. Strange that you previously thought so.
Prying the door open is the only way to get inside the small office; the hinges have rusted and are caked with dirt and grime. Search as you might, there are no interesting bits of information to be found here beyond a few inventory lists on the little desk. There is, however, a green and gold safe in the corner that, no matter how many times one turns the dial, simply clicks and clicks. Scratches around the safe indicate that someone tried to get in at one point, though there's no indication as to whether they succeeded.
THE END APPROACHES
Standing at the center of Mathias, the town hall is a modest two-story building that would be welcoming if not for the faded sign, chipped paint, and deafening silence within its empty halls. It's a typical government building, with a reception desk at the front and rows of identical offices within, the names half faded from each door. But what catches the attention is a large bulletin board on the main wall beside the reception desk, once meant to hold flyers or announcements for the community.
What it holds now is decidedly different. Tacked onto the board are scraps of paper covered in an assortment of handwriting styles — requests for supplies should anyone find them, pieces of information shared in the hopes of someone understanding the strange symbols and mathematical equations, notes about those missing or recently deceased. And over the center of the board, tacked on top of other papers, is a map discolored with age. Mathias Township can be read in the corner, a stretch of forest displayed beneath it, but everything else has been smeared to illegibility with red... ink? Upon close examination, a keen eye will realize that the ink is actually blood, though whether it is human is unknown. And scrawled across that forest, nearly covering the illustration of a clearing and a large house within, are the words
he is coming
A number of tarnished metal pushpins are scattered around the edges of the board, waiting for future messages to be shared, and a stack of pristine white paper and pile of cheap ballpoint pens rest on one of three chairs beside the board. The chairs are clearly meant for those waiting for meetings and are covered in the same layer of grime as everything else in the building — everything except the pens, paper, and bulletin board.
[ ooc: canon point is late S5, just before the musical episode. ]
The Endless
[ Her first thought is that George Ball is after her again, until she remembers she already gave him what he wanted, and he's not the type to waste his time. Alice sighs shakily as panic loosens its hold on her. It's certainly some kind of spell, or a world yanking her in, or someone who remembers her as a niffin— something or someone malicious, who pulled her into this foggy, snowy forest.
Getting to her feet, Alice dusts the snow off her clothes. There's a path, and anything beyond it just gets foggier, until it's so thick she can't see her hand in front of her face. (Yes, she tried it, and about faced and got back to the path.) Okay then. She'll stick to the path. She might be feeling like she should just quit everything altogether, but she's not willing to let herself get killed (again). She won't just throw away her life, Quentin's last gift to her.
The chasm reminds her of the endless well on the mountain of ghosts, and so it doesn't scare her. Most people aren't afraid of heights so much as they are of falling, and that's the primal fear that snakes down Alice's spine. She steps back from the edge and thinks about levitating herself to the other side. Could she do it? Would her right hand be able to steer magic correctly, stabilizing it for the duration of the crossing? It's more likely to make the spell launch her up into the air and fall to her death one way or another, and given this is a new world, it's not worth the risk.
She tries (and fails) to cast something with her right hand— a little ball of light. It comes out like a bright, brief flare that feels hot against her palm. She shakes out her hand, then flexes and clenches her fingers. A new, nervous habit she's picked up, courtesy of the Couple. ]
Shit. [ Muttered, under her breath.
After a moment, she sighs. ] Okay. Backtrack and take the other path.
[ And damn if this doesn't feel like some fucked up fairy tale. ]
Bodies w/o souls
[ How could anyone expect Alice to not spend time in a bookstore?
The selection is frustrating, but at least it gives her some information about what year it is or may be. The inventory lists in the back office helpful in that regard, but otherwise this proves a largely useless endeavor.
Until she sees the safe.
With a new goal, she forgets about the lights and the tapping in the windows. This right here, it's actually achievable. She tries several different spells to try and unlock it, and then goes and sits at the desk, grabs a pen and paper, and starts to work on probability problems. There are only a finite amount of possibilities for the combination. Easy stuff, if time consuming.
Eventually, she needs light, so she works with what's in the office and manages to get a little fire going in a mug. It's warm, and the glow casts dancing shadows on the walls. The light spills out into the store. ]
The End Is Near af
[ The bulletin board couldn't be more unsettling if it tried. Blood, a cryptic, threatening message— a warning?
By this point, frustrated with her lack of success at finding anything out so far, Alice is glad to find some stray math problems to puzzle out. Taking some pen and paper and one of the equations on the board, she sits down at the reception desk and starts to solve it. What a nerd.
When she's done, she pins the equation and the solution on the board. ]
Hope that helps someone. And whoever's blood this is, I hope you're okay.
"Nobody knows whose blood it is," a man's voice says from behind her as he emerges from the offices just past reception. "But the people here before us - if there ever were people here before us - seem to be long gone."
lifting her hand to the right side of her neck, she feels blood coat her fingertips. the tear of her skin aches. thankfully, the forest is cold enough to distract her from the throb of her torn and slowly mending skin.
snow clings to her long hair and her clothing, and elena stumbles in the thick of it. she's hardly wearing the right shoes for this, but that hardly matters. she'll find her way out of the forest—it doesn't look like the woods of mystic falls.
she's not home. she knows that. but that doesn't stop her from letting out a frustrated, thick and guttural scream from deep within her throat. wiping the frustrated and angry tears from the corners of her eyes, elena's chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath. ]
Okay, Elena. It's just a forest… with a lot of snow. You've got this.
[ she knows she doesn't have it, but a little cheerleading has never gone astray for her before.
sucking in a breath, she holds it deep within her chest and tells herself she's not afraid. she's not afraid of the big bad wolf and she's hardly afraid of an unknown forest thickly coated in snow.
when she falls, she gets back up, her jeans covered in snow and her hands feeling like ice. tucking her hands into her sides, elena trudges on. nothing will stop her from getting home. she falls a few times, her legs tired, her entire body aching. all she wants to do is sleep, but she keeps pushing herself onwards and upwards. she's elena gilbert. she'll get through this. she'll get out of this forest and into someplace warm and she'll be fine.
except, you know, the thick snow and not knowing where her left and right totally makes her nowhere close to being fine.
when she spies a shadow or silhouette in the distance, her heart spikes and her hope flares with it. ] Hey! Hey! [ she does her best to run after the figure in the thick snow, arms tucked around her sides to stop herself from being overcome with her shivering. ]
BODIES WITHOUT SOULS.
[ her mom used to tell her that a lot can be learned about a town from a bookstore. elena has always enjoyed disappearing between the shelves, running her fingers along the spines of different stories. she had always wanted to pull every book off the shelf and hold it in her arms so all those stories could one day be hers.
benedict books is nothing like the bookstores she's seen in virginia. it doesn't appear to be a multiverse tucked away into the corner of a universe waiting for someone like her to explore it. it's a touch disappointing in size, but that doesn't mean there isn't a lot to learn.
wiping her hand against the dusty surfaces, elena peers at the portrait in the hopes it'll reveal its secrets (or speak to her—literally) and she tries to glean some familiarity from the titles along the bookshelves. they're neat and well-sorted, and she's afraid to even dust them off in case she disturbs them. ]
Open up.
[ shouldering her way to the office door, it's difficult to nudge it open. she grits her teeth and pushes against it with all her might, and when it seems to give (either beneath her improved strength or out of pity), she doesn't hesitate to slip inside.
pressing her ear against the safe, she tries her best to slowly turn the dial. elena is absolutely no safe expert—she hardly knows how to set a code—but that doesn't mean she won't try. tongue poking out from between her lips, she concentrates as hard as she can… so hard that she may not hear whoever might be in the bookstore or trying to wedge that stubborn door of the office wide open. ]
WILDCARD/ OOC.
[ Feel free to hit me up with anything! I'll match prose or action spam. Elena is from 2x21 (please don't spoil her beyond that point). ]
( Dean keeps his pace up. The further away from the chasm, the less like he feels like he's going to die. Unless he's already dead. Maybe that chasm is permadeath. Empty death. It was quiet. He makes no effort in trying to be stealthy. He doesn't comb through the forest and the snow with care. He's like a bat out of hell that makes it to the surface and keeps flying.
He hears a voice - one that echoes around him having been picked up by the trees.
Hand on the nearest tree trunk, he slows enough to listen again. Is this a trick? A trick to lure him back to the cliff. Is someone else here?
Making a choice, he stops, that stick at his side, gripped tight. He even lets himself catch his breath.
If only he knew what direction the 'Hey!' came from.
( He wakes on the ground, pushing away the more unpleasant memories. He's not dead. Or, he is and he's back in Purgatory. That's what the towering trees and fog remind him of. Of course he wasn't good enough for Heaven, everything he and his brother did, years of trying to fight the good fight landed him back here.
Maybe Purgatory just missed him.
First thing's first. Arm himself.
All he can find is a jagged enough stick he breaks off, keeping it close and at the ready.
He doesn't go in the right direction first. (When does he ever.) Instead, he pushes through the fog and the trees to reach the ravine. He squints, approaching the edge. Peering downward, he quickly hops back. No, he will not be doing that.
Backing away, he faces the chasm. Something about it, if he turns, he's deathly afraid he'll lose his footing. Once he's gotten far enough, he turns tail and runs back the way he came. He feels with every bone in his body that something is after him, that he could fall, that he could lose his soul along with his life. If he's even dead. )
WITHOUT SOULS
( Still armed with a sharp stick, Dean comes upon the town. It reminds him of a certain town his brother was left in, with all of Yellow Eyes' kids left to battle to the death. It's an unwanted memory, getting there at the very last minute, just in time to see Jake stab his brother.
It was the first time he lost Sam. Maybe this isn't Purgatory.
Passing the bookstore, he thinks he sees the a light in the corner of his eye. Was it the beam from a flashlight? Approaching, carefully, the windows are too dirty and smudged to make out who's inside. But there are people inside.
He doesn't know what to make of it. If wherever he is has lost souls, trapped people, demons. Take your pick on the hunter roulette wheel. The only thing he can do is go inside. What he finds is nothing. Nobody. No flashlights. No people. )
Friggin' haunted bookstore.
( He checks the counter, tries to find a phone in case he's not dead, not in Purgatory, not separated from his brother, from anything he knows. Everything is covered in dirty and dust. Using two fingers, he tries opening a drawer, checking for anything else, a flashlight, another kind of weapon. Something iron, perhaps. Maybe this bookstore has a fireplace for burning books.
Just a giant portrait.
And, what looks like a back office.
How big was this store again? What feels like a journey to the door he has to force his way into, isn't when he looks back. He knows things aren't right.
The safe is his next bet. Setting the stick down on the ground, he crouches by the safe. He runs fingers along the scratches. Leaning forward, he attempts to break into the safe, listening closely for clicks. Clicks ... that never come. He's all too focused on this to hear anybody else. )
THE END
( Everything, everything Dean finds is covered in dirt and grime.
At least the bulletin board's intact. He pulls his phone out, ready to call a John Constantine, but keeps walking along. Getting close, there's no mistaking what some of the words are written in.
Blood.
He knows a Daisy Johnson is missing. Or, was missing at one time.
There's a community here - currently, or there was. He's not Sam, he can't make out how old writing is. Good luck understanding some of the scrawled notes, though, he thinks.
Taking a piece of paper and a pen, because what could it hurt, he himself uses the wall. Pen to paper, he leaves his name, Chris Campbell, a member of the Silver Bullet band in case Winchesters carry a heavy price here, and the number to the phone he has on him. He tacks it up, something that isn't covered in dust and disuse.
Stepping back, he contemplates Constantine's number again. What are the chances this guy brings answers.
[Well. One person. But he was in between a couple of shelves, flipping through a book when he heard the door shut. The stranger was in the office by the time Malcolm tracked him down.
[ reviving this ancient muse!! ya'll find me at whisperstars, yeah yeah? pls be gentle as i work back at her voice! ]
i. into the endless
[ Being trapped in snowstorms certainly doesn't bring the best of memories to mind. Although, perhaps she should be grateful that this time there was no crashed plane. Being without her gun, radio, or even a way to contact her team... that is something to cause for worry.
Helen Magnus pulls her coat tighter as she dredges through the snow. The weather is certainly disorientating with paths that seem to go nowhere. Could it be a dream? Some sort of hallucination state brought on by an abnormal's defense mechanisms? There are so many probable explanations, yet... none seem to quite line up as to what she has seen before.
The new and the unknown has always been exciting.
She stops just in time to see the chasm below. ]
Bloody hell.
[ It is a far drop below. One that gives her vertigo by simply leaning forward to see. The brunette haired woman sighs before turning to look back the way she had come. Perhaps there was another road to try? The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It's dangerous. Her instincts tell her to run... ]
Hello? [ Maybe it's something that simply has a defense mechanism that naturally causes things to be pushed away. ] Is anyone there?
ii. bodies without souls
[ A small bookstore. It's been so long since Helen has visited anything near the northeast of the United States. In fact, it gives her a rather nostalgic feeling. Most might say that would be hard for her not to feel after living as long as she has.
The flashlights are what catches her attention. Still donned in her business suit and heels, Helen opens the door to the shop to look inside.
... No one.
Her eyebrows curl together as she looks behind her, then back inside the shop. Curious. She steps around the branches and leaves on the ground as best as she can. ]
And me without a torch. [ She sighs and starts browsing the bookshelves. ] Dear Stephen King would love to vacation here.
iii. the end approaches
[ Town Hall. One might be able to find a thing or two there.
Hopefully.
Helen steps into the hall. The wood floor creaks under her feet as she takes note of just how ... well, Maine it all looks. It would bring a smile to her face if not for the fact that it seemed entirely deserted.
Her eyes stop at the bulletin board. An arrangement of notes is what catches her attention. Numbers, requests, a list of the dead? ]
It would seem this town isn't quite as empty as I thought. Good.
[ She nods to herself, unaware if anyone else is there with her. ]
[ elena's expression is a little hopeful, hoping that helen is a friend and not, well… something she's merely imagining. mathias is a strange little town that only gets stranger by the minute. the bookstore had felt so large and spacious before she had dared to glance near the door and found that her imagination had been playing tricks on her.
in her hands is a dull-looking book. elena has every intention of putting it back in its spot on the shelf.
sheepishly, ] Sorry… I couldn't help but overhear.
[ If it hadn't been for the snow, Rook would never have realised she'd left Hope County. She'd taken a dive into the river to escape John's hunters and the next thing she knew she was coming to on the forest floor, snowflakes melting on her cheek and a thin layer dusting her jacket. Picking herself up, her hand instinctively goes to her belt, and she's dismayed to find her gun is gone. ]
Not good.
[ She picks herself up, brushing the snow off and looking around frantically for anything familiar, any sign of which direction to go. In the end there's nothing more she can do than start walking and hope she hits Fall's End before too long.
Instead, after what seems like an age of wandering, the blanket of snow covering the forest floor suddenly drops her way in front of her and she loses her footing, grabbing onto the trunk of the nearest tree to stop herself from tumbling headfirst into the ravine. ]
Is anyone there? I could use a little help here!
[ She's sure she's entirely alone, or that anyone who came across her wouldn't exactly be friendly, but she doesn't see that she has another option than to call for help. ]
the end approaches;
[ Tired, bedraggled and shivering, Rook eventually trudges into the village, arms folded tightly around herself, looking for any sign of life. The town hall seems like a good bet in terms of finding information and making a phone call, though when she enters she just leans against the wall for a few long minutes, glad to be out of the snow and to have the chance to catch her breath.
The bulletin board quickly catches her eye - firstly for the relief of actually having a map to study, though this is quickly replaced by the bad feeling that settles in her stomach when she sees the blood smeared and the ominous words scrawled across it. ]
This feels like it just went from bad to worse.
[ OOC: Happy to write up another starter if preferred, please hit me up at viridianwings. Prose and brackets are both fine! ]
[ John Constantine will one day stop scaring the bejeezus out of people by just sitting in random places and waiting to see if new clues arrive. However, today is not that day. Sorry, Rook.
He sits on the desk of the reception room, cigarette in his mouth, flicking the lighter in his hand. It's almost a debate if he wants to light what he has. Not that he is in any danger of actually being out of these things. Though, he does look up at the sound of the doors opening. John tilts his head back as an unfamiliar face stumbles in and goes to the bulletin board. ]
Trust me, luv. It's been worse long before we showed up.
[ Where he took a wrong turn, he doesn't know, but he feels as though he's been walking for hours. Peter Parker has never been much of the rural type, growing up in the heart of Queens, but he's no stranger to difficult terrain. As he walks, he can't help but wonder if this is some strange fever dream, if going dusty back home was some wild magic trick that knocked you clean out until someone reversed the spell. He's seen stranger things, but he hadn't expected to open his eyes and be here.
(He thought he was dying, but maybe not, after all).
The wind is brutal, and even though the path ahead of him looks straight, he can't make out where it's leading. Looking behind him does nothing either, his own footprints starting to fill in with new snow dropping from the heavy branches overhead. But he looks over his shoulder anyway, and it all happens in slow-motion.
The ground caves underfoot, the snow cracking, the cold earth splintering and his stomach drops sickly into the deep of his cut. ] Whoa! [ He throws himself forward, scrambling for purchase, fingers digging into plush snow, feet kicking and sliding in prickly, icy mud. He skids to a stop the moment his fingers sink into the dirt, but it's so cold. And when he looks back, he's left hanging at the edge of the ravine, sticking to frigid, damp earth, and slowly sliding. ] H-Hey! Can anyone hear me? [ The ravine echoes his voice back to him and he tries again to pull himself up, to no avail. ]
bodies without souls;
[ The book shop is the first building where he sees movement and, for a brief moment, feels a rush of relief that he's not alone in this place. Peter knows better and can feel the way his senses rankle the closer he gets to the building, but he leans in to peer through the dusty windows. He even knocks, and when the light and movement inside disappears, he stills. ]
What the—? Hey! Hey, wait!
[ He hurries to the door and pulls it open, wincing as the knob crashes against the siding, but he freezes in the doorway. The place is empty. The smell of dust and mold and something else on the air sticking in his throat, and he turns to cough against his elbow. ] Hello? I swear I just saw...
[ Peter steps inside and wanders past one shelf of books, reaching to pick one off the shelf, turning it this way and that. But he whirls when he hears the tapping, seeing nothing but his own finger prints left on the glass from before. Everything in him tells him to run. ] Is anyone there? [ Foolishly, he keeps the book raised in one hand, as though it might make the most ideal weapon for this situation, and walks slowly through the rows of books. ]
Uh, my name's Peter, and I'm pretty sure I'm lost. I just need some directions and I'll be out before you know it, I swear...
wildcard/ooc;
( peter's from the end of avengers: infinity war! feel free to find peter anywhere your character might be, or throw him into any spooky/dangerous situation. i'm happy to write other starters! i'm easy! hmu, reply here or pm me for anything. )
[ creepy shit in mathias was starting to be commonplace. and walking through the little streets that have been revealed to them - a quickly forming habit. the cold clouds his breath, and he stares into the overcast sky with a bleary lack of enthusiasm.
it's a scarce population, so any flicker of movement catches five's attention quickly. especially when it is accompanied by the cacophony of a racket the kid makes in trying to enter the bookshop, thin windows rattling as a door swings open with a creak.
five lets out a long sigh. he shouldn't be on any proverbial welcoming committee, but the quicker the new guy gets his answers, the better for all. that's what he reasons, anyway.
a blink, and five stands at the shop's threshold, hands shoved into coat pockets from the winter chill. ] Yeah, you and everyone else in this town, pal.
[ the last thing harley remembers is the grenade - well shoving sionis who had the grenade in his pocket and watching him blow up after cassandra had pulled out the pin. harely really likes that kid, maybe she'd take her for sal's breakfast sandwiches after this. gotta celebrate blowing up a bad guy somehow.
except she's not on the pier and the last time she checked it wasn't snowing. or anywhere near a forest. ]
Huh. Well, this is new. Hey kid? Ya here?
[ it's cold but harley isn't really bothered by that, even though her gold jumpsuit isn't warm. she's more bothered by the idea she might be seeing things. but she's never hallucinated from an explosion before (and it was one of her grenades and she had made sure to just get the explody kind) and she's actually taking her meds.
it isn't easy rollerblading in a forest because somehow she's in a forest because that makes sense. but she keeps going because either she's going to wake up or something else will happen. ]
Romy, if you're here nothing personal about blowing you up, yeah? Except it kind of was cause you messed with the kid and I ain't about that. I...
[ her words die in her throat when she nearly skates into the ravine. it's huge and the other side is oh so tempting. too bad she didn't have something so she could vault over to the other side. or rockets on her rollerblades ohhhh maybe she could get those added later. that would be fun. ]
The fuck is goin' on here?
THE END APPROACHES
[ the town is cute. kinda creepy but also cute. all the charm of a small town right before a crazy clown jumped out and killed you. even though harley was very much over clowns. she rolls through the mostly empty streets, now grateful that she's on rollerblades. it's quicker to make it through the tiny creepy cute clown murder town.
she skids to a stop when she spots the red ink on the bulletin board. ]
He is coming?
[ harley groans and makes a face. great, just fucking great. she spins in a circle and then yells: ] If this is some sorta Jesus intervention you're goin' about it all wrong. Pretty sure kidnappin' people is a sin too, I'm speakin' from experience here.
[ she makes another face that there's no reply. as if she expected someone to yell back at her. seriously, what the fuck was going on here? this wasn't the weirdest thing she'd seen but at least she usually had some sort of idea what she was up against. or a weapon. maybe she should of kept the baseball bat.
she waits another moment before she skates back to the bulletin board and grabs one of the blank pieces of paper and a pen and makes her own flyer.
𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑒𝑦 𝑄𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐴𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝐵𝑎𝑑 𝐴𝑠𝑠 𝑀𝑜𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑟𝑠
she adds a doodle of a hyena - oh no, if she was here then where was bruce. the thought of losing him again is enough to make harley stop for a moment. nope she was going to find out who ran this place, bash their brains in and then get back to the kid and bruce and her new friends because she really wanted a fancy margarita and to celebrate kicking roman sionis' stupid black mask ass.
harley pins her flyer to the board and then stops. then she scribbles out 'and associate' and changes 'fuckers' to 'fucker.' cassandra wasn't here, she knows that somehow and now the flyer just looks stupid. ]
BRING YOUR OWN BOOZE
( ooc: if there is something else you'd like to try with harley lmk. she's coming in from towards the end of birds of prey, right after she blows up sionis! )
[ You know who's already 100% done with all this nonsense? This girl right here. Her nerves are too jangled thanks to all the absolute bullshit going on back at home, and to make matters worse, she's been swept off to wherever the hell this is.
Obviously, it's a forest, but it's a forest she's never seen before. ]
Whatever's happening here, it's really not okay to just sweep someone off to wherever without asking.
[ Sure, there's some irony there because of all the years she spent being pointed in a direction and programmed to go there, but now no one's calling the shots but her. Or at least, they weren't until right now.
The woods stay quiet, except for the sound of her voice and her footsteps crunching through the snow, and of course she knows she has no choice but to find a way out of this.
There must be a house, a town- something. But rather than finding any of those things right away, she realizes her path is leading her towards a steep drop down a giant chasm. ]
Okay, note to self: don't go walking around at night.
[ Because falling down there would most likely not end well, and she'd rather pass on falling to her death. ]
II. Talking to yourself
[ Echo's moved on to Benedict Books, and while she's not really an avid reader by any stretch of the imagination, she's methodically working her way through each shelf, reading each title and leafing through ones that catch her attention.
Eventually, though, she gets tired of browsing row after row of shelves and finding nothing of interest. As she's turning to leave, she spots the office way in the back, and deciding it's worth a look, she decides to go check it out.
It takes a moment to pry the door open, but once it is, she doesn't hesitate and steps inside. ]
Hey, anyone here?
[ The layers of dust give the answer pretty clearly, but Echo quickly loses interest in waiting for one anyway. She's just spotted the safe in the back corner, and if anyone follows her into the office, they'll notice her bent over in front of it, trying to work on getting it open. Now would be a good time for that expert safecracker imprint to kick in, but for reasons she's not understanding just yet, nothing seems to be happening. ]
III. The end approaches
That's cryptic. Who's coming?
[ Now Echo's at the town hall studying the bulletin board and the various notes that it contains. ]
I'm guessing it's not Santa Claus, and he'd be about a month too early anyway. Guys like that probably don't come around weirdo towns like this one.
[ She moves onto the next note about a missing person. ]
Daisy Johnson. No idea who that is, but I hope she gets found soon.
[ And then she just falls silent, reading the remainder of the notes. ]
IV. Wildcard
[ Feel free to hit me up with anything, if you'd rather do something else with Echo. \o\ ]
[This has been equal parts familiar and decidedly off-putting. Walking through the town were, in some places, a bit like walking through a lot of the smaller villages near the Manor. Still war-ravaged and still being put back together by whatever Ministry-officials could be bothered to show up and, most likely, by the poor people living there.
In the rubble.
Right.
But this place, for a lack of a better word, had other houses. Houses that looked more like muggle London than Mould-on-the-Wold or Tutshill.
It all seemed rather deserted as well, the streets empty and the windows dark, but Draco had kept pushing on until he got to the... this place. The bulletin board and the girl next to it, was the first sign that he'd had, that he wasn't alone here.
Which might account for half the reason why he didn't say anything for the first few minutes.]
[ i. the endless ] [ It's a shock to the system, to go from a sunny, hot beach in California to a frozen, snow covered forest. Simon is dangerously underdressed for it - t-shirt, jeans, no socks or shoes. He's shivering almost as soon as he wakes up. ]
Hello?
[ His voice calls out, but the only reply is a heap of snow falling off a nearby tree. It's fine, he thinks, he's endured worse, right? All he has to do is fly above the tree line and - he can't. With a feeling of dread, Simon comes to realize that the dragon wings he'd been sporting for months now are gone. When he shivers this time, it's not from the cold.
But he's alone here, his magic long gone and now his one lifeline gone, too. Simon does what he supposes a rational person would do, which is start walking. He stays on the path because it seems like it might be the most gentle on his numb feet, and by dumb luck, he's chosen the way that brings him to the edge of town. He feels a sense of short-lived relief when he appears by the houses. ]
H-hell-lo?
[ His teeth won't stop chattering and he can't feel most of his body, but surely someone must be here that can help him out. Right? ]
[ ii. the end approaches ] [ By now, Simon's found boots and a warm jacket. He's keen to explore the little town, especially now that he knows there aren't many here and those that are here aren't the original residents.
Absolutely wild, really, like the stuff from films.
He finds his way to the Town Hall. At the center of things, it seems like a reasonable enough place to check out. Simon's not unnerved by the empty halls. He's ready to start walking them when he stops to absently read the bulletin board. It takes him a moment to let his gaze wander to the map, and the cryptic message it displays makes him shudder. ]
No chance they mean Father Christmas, yeah?
[ He's been involved in one prophecy already, thanks, he's not looking for any more. ]
[ iii. WILDCARD ] Choose your own adventure! Encounters at any known locations are good by me, or whatever else you might want. Hit me up at blackspire if you want.
[Klaus hears someone calling out, sounding downright frozen to the bone if he can tell anything from inside the boarding house. He frowns and heads to swing the front door open to find a younger guy standing outside shivering in a decidedly summer outfit.]
Oh, my god. Come here, get in here. You're probably fucking hypothermic. [And he'll check. He knows the signs. He knows a lot of weird medical shit, because his father insisted they all learn the weirdest fucking lessons as kids.]
[Waking up is a chock, to put it mildly. Not that Draco was all that unused to waking up in cold places- the past year and a half had been rough. Azkaban and the Ministry holdingcells were never warmed up and really, spending several years living most of the year in a drafty castle in Scotland hadn't really been all that warm either.
Facing the wide expanse of snow in front of him, Draco clenches his hand around his wand in his robe pocket and allows himself a minute to miss home. To miss the Manor and the roaring fires his mother always demanded be built in the heaths as soon as the temperature fell. To miss hot chocolate and warm blankets and his own bed.
And then he sets off down the convenient path, watching the trees on either side out of the corners of his eyes. The shadows on the pristine snow and how the only sound was the crunchy sound of his own footsteps and the rasp of his breathing.
Once he hits pavement, Draco looks around and calls out-]
Oi! Hello there!
BODIES WITHOUT SOULS
[Draco had never been the adventuring kind. Not personally. It had always been far easier to get either the houseelves or Goyle to do the exploring for him. That winding, dark path leading in the forest at the edge of the property? Goyle had been the one to walk through those and report back on what he'd found. Mud and a few frogs, nothing noteworthy. Or that time when Draco had wanted to be like Martin Miggs (those few short months until he learned proper behavior) and had sent an house elf out to get him a none-moving news paper and a rubber duck.
Trying to not find adventure in this, and failing to summon even one house elf, Draco found himself forced to search through the town on his own. The snow crunching under his boots and really, the Point Me had been no help at all. It had flared to life and everything went swimmingly, until it dead-ended at a brick wall that refused to move.
But.
This book shop. Just walking through the open door, and it felt more like home. The wide expanse of books, reaching up impossibly high and stretching down endless corridors. So much more like the library he grew up in, and Draco clears a little of the trash away from the middle isle before going from row to row, just looking at the books. Most have unfamiliar titles and pictures that fail to move, but this is the closest thing to home he's found and even the ... was it screaming?... face in the grimy window felt a lot like being back at the Manor.
Singing softly under his breath, Draco keeps looking through the books, enjoying the feeling of being out of the cold.]
You stole my cauldron. My favourite black hat- mmm mmmm- You claimed that you loved me...
THE END APPROACHES
[The bulletin board is a sure sign that other people have been, or are here. The messages tacked up with tiny pins show that other people are also looking.
There's only one that catches his attention, the only one that might be from home. From someone he knows, or who knew his father. The message is followed by a string of random numbers, and even if it was some regional sort of owl address, Draco had seen no owls. Or rats. Even a toad would do, but he hadn't seen any of them either and had an inkling that maybe they went in to hibernation during cold spells. That, or they just died.
He's in the middle of writing a short note to put under the message, scribbling clumsily with a wooden pencil he found at the book shop.]
[ Simon's already been through the town hall. It had been the first place he went once he'd warmed up enough and started looking around. He's wandered the halls and found nothing, and he'd read the bulletin board. None of it had much significance to him. He noted names and addresses and the faded map.
But that had been it.
He decides the next day to return. Maybe there's something new there on the board, or maybe he should add something (what that might be, he doesn't know), but fortunately he doesn't have to think about it. There's not new information on the board. There's a new person entirely. ]
[ ooc: CW and opt-out post - likely will not be necessary, but just in case. Canon point is season 5, episode 7 in the greenhouse at Brakebills ]
- into the unknown endless -
[ There'd been a bright flash and then nothing. The cube shouldn't have worked, but she had no other reasoning for why she was suddenly in a forest. They'd replaced the cinnabar with cinnamon, the magic shouldn't have even worked. Her mind spins as theories fly through one by one, trying to quickly rationalize what the fuck just happened.
The wind whips around her as she just stands, a little dumbfounded, dark waves of hair tangling as it moves with the gusts. Pulling at her salmon colored duster, she tries to protect herself from the chill as the snow hits her exposed skin. White flecks turn pink as the snow hits her chest, mixing with dried blood.
Leaving a small trail of footprints and the occasional drip of blood as she wipes at her chest and neck, she tries to navigate the paths -- making choices rather indiscriminately with no idea what awaits her at the end. As she walks, she calls out occasionally, accepting the risk that whatever answers may not be friendly. ] Hello? Anyone out there?
[ The colder she gets, the faster she walks, eventually finding herself shivering in front of the chasm. The hair on the back of her neck stands on end the longer she stays, an impending sense of doom quickly closing in around her. ]
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
[ Sighing, she gives the chasm one last look over her shoulder before scanning the area around her as she retraces her steps. She wouldn't be dying like this, not today. And fuck anything or anyone that tries to help her along to her death. When a twig snaps nearby, she holds her hands up, in the beginning position to send a missle of magic. If she's afraid, it doesn't show -- her voice steady and firm. ]
Show yourself.
- bodies without souls -
[ Julia is a researcher through and through. When she needed guidance on something or wasn't even sure where to begin with figuring something out, she often started by throwing herself into a book or five.
But, this likely wasn't going to be a very fruitful trip -- at least not for the information she actually wanted. She wasn't in the mood to be left with more questions than answers, but sometimes that was just how shit went down. Either way, she needed somewhere to start, beginning her hunt for any sort of Dewey Decimal system or even just a list. Given the age of the books at a cursory glance, a computerized inventory was probably out of the question.
Getting into the office was easy enough, using leverage and a thick book to help the door along. She looks through the office for a candle or a flashlight, knowing she saw some shining lights when she'd initially walked past. Although, the odds of it all being real was continuing to stay in question in the back of her mind.
Eventually, she gives up, sitting in front of the safe in the darkness. Pointing her hands towards the ceiling, she lets out a small prismatic spray of light, the small specks lingering above her as she holds them in suspension with another spell -- illuminating the room for a few minutes before they all fall and fade. She'd need something more long-term, but it was enough to at least give her a chance to take a closer look at the safe before the room returned to darkness.
Something about lighting a fire in a bookstore seemed sacrilegious, but it might be her best option -- her body already feeling a massive drain from the first suspension spell. Shit. ]
- the end approaches -
[ After taking a day to settle in and get cleaned up, she'd set back out to explore, starting with the bulletin board in the Town Hall. The symbols and equations catch her attention before the blood, picking up a few pieces of paper and copying it all down. It was something to work on and that was better than nothing. She also takes note of the name in the upper corner.
Her writing stops when she sees the note from Quentin, her fingers lightly passing over his handwriting. He was here and it was still a lot to wrap her head around. Seeing him living and breathing... It was just. It was a lot.
She sits on the floor in front of the board, the temptation of using the desk coming and going. It somehow felt like an invasion of privacy, as if everything else she'd done so far wasn't. This was apparently the hill she intended to die on when it came to lines she wouldn't cross.
Julia wanted to add something to the board, something that could possibly help someone, but she didn't even know where to start. She scribbles out one of her favorite poems before quickly crumbling it up and setting it down next to her. That was a cliché and stupid move and wasn't going to help anyone with anything.
She sets about with a different tactic, pulling out a triangular piece of blue glass and looking through it at the board. Nothing stands out magically, not even sure if it would given how unstable her own powers have been. If there's any sort of enchantment hidden well enough, she might not even see it. Not like she was still surrounded by bright beacons of magical landmines anymore. No, this was far more dangerous. Sighing, she sets the glass down and just stares at the board for a few more minutes, especially the map, not even sure what she was doing anymore. ]
Fucking christ, I need a drink.
[ Not going to happen, but hey, a girl could dream. ]
- wildcard -
[ Anything goes, feel free to pm me or hit me up @ hoopskirts if you have any questions/want to talk something out before doing it. ]
Ellie only comes to the Town Hall to periodically check the billboard. That's how she met Eliot, and it's how she herself got a guitar from...well, she's not sure where it came from, really. She still has to find whoever found it and thank them.
Today, she gets here when there's someone else. Someone else who is apparently looking through some piece of glass? It's not a magnifying glass. Ellie has no idea what it is, but she's willing to bet that this isn't nearly as fucking nuts as it appears at first glance.
"Uh, hey?" she calls out from a few feet away. "What are you doing?" She ends up sounding more accusatory than she means to be. She's genuinely curious, but she's just jaded about literally everything.
[ the first thing elijah becomes aware is that he's cold. he's very cold. when he opens his eyes, all he can see is thick covering of forest. he squints, trying to figure out where he is and what he's doing there. he can't recall being in or near a forest and it had been sticky hot in new orleans before.
so, what happened? it's the question that pings around his head as he finally gets to his feet. there's no one around as far as he can see and the only sounds that he can hear are the sounds of the wind and his own breathing.
this isn't right but he can't stay here so he starts walking, feeling the snow dampen the slacks of his suit.
he is really not dressed for this. ]
ii. the end approaches
[he is coming.
elijah reads the three words over and over like repeating it in his head will tell him what it means, who 'he' is and what it has to do with him being here.
he stares and stares, hands in the pockets of his trousers and suit jacket open. it's a little worse from wear due to the trek in from the forest but he has nothing else to wear so it will have to do.
when someone appears, elijah's heart beats a little faster, hoping it's someone he knows. but when it's not, once the person is close enough, he asks: ]
Who is 'he'?
[ his voice is firm, authoritative, showing that he clearly expects an answer. ]
iii. wildcard
[ if you'd like to do something else, feel free to throw it my way. ]
[ It has not been the best day for Daisy Johnson. Or the best month, really. The hits just keep coming and all she can do is hang on and try to weather the storm.
If only it were that easy.
Huddling in her black coat and grey sweater, hands deep in her pockets, she can't seem to get warm even as she enters the strange dusty sanctuary that the Town Hall has become. She's spent more hours here sifting through boring municipal paperwork than she has in the room she'd claimed as her own at the boarding house. It feels a bit strange to find someone else there, and someone new at that, but then she's apparently been gone for a while... ]
Good question. [ That authoritative tone registers but doesn't have much effect; she's too used to being the one using it on others and he is not the one in charge. She focuses on the map that definitely hadn't been there before, frowning at the message. ] To which I do not have an answer...
[ by the time zelda spellman makes her way in any direction, her anger has spiked to infernal levels. she has spent the last fifteen minutes making her way through ankle deep snow in heels and a pencil skirt and the wind has ruined her perfectly coiffed hair.
she is displaced, arms folded around her. her magic feels weaker here, that link clinging thread-thin. still even now, zelda is a spellman. now and always and that means, she will claw her way out of anything that she's been thrown into.
it's harder to cast spells when there is so little to draw from. she is about to keep walking when a shadow dashes across her path and she stops. was that a shadow? her hand is outstretched in front of her quickly, as something shimmers across it. ] Hello? [ when/if there is no answer, she will start gathering dried branches.
Should anyone come across her at this stage, they will find her drawing a sigil in the snow with charred wood, smoke starting to slowly coil from the writing in the snow, her hair a golden mess of a halo over her shoulders. As soon as she hears a creak, she'll snap her head up, eyes sharp. ] Who is there? [ somehow she manages to make it sound like a command rather than question. ]
☽ BODIES WITHOUT SOULS
[ a bookstore seemed to be as much of a good place to start as any in this drab, lifeless and confusing place. especially when she catches movement, and a flash of light, somewhere beyond in the stacks and the hazy windows.
she strides there with purpose, a sharp click of her heels on the snow-dusted road. even cold, and frazzled and flushed, she still manages to cling to a modicum of composure and the door swings open with a flick of her wrist before she strolls inside, to a very empty bookstore.
she's incredibly unimpressed, flipping through a dusty old book, before proceeding into further exploration. ] Terrible what passes for literature these days.
☽ THE END APPROACHES
[ zelda stands at the bulletin board, overlooking the jumble of notes with a passive sort of interest, a cigarette alight in a delicate holder. she stops to note john constantine's name, and she cannot help the scoff. exorcist, demonologist, dark arts specialist. really.
she only stops at the smudged map, smeared red with dried blood. ] Satan in hell. Is everything here steeped in melodramatics?
☽ WILDCARD
[ seriously, anything goes! if you want anything specific, hit me up on berezka or in any other preferred way!! ]
[ John is leaning against one of the bookcases, cigarette in his hand, eying the stuffy looking woman. Ah, socialite? Maybe even a bit of a high society chaser. Bloody hell. There goes the middle class of the town. ]
There’s a hard second where Josh thinks he’s in Fillory. It doesn’t look like Fillory per se, but that land was so vast and twisting and seemingly endless sometimes that he doesn’t discount it out of the realm of possibility.
And then he remembers he’d done no drugs the night before (except weed, which obviously doesn’t count.)
Josh gets up and starts walking, the fog thick and seeming to keep him on a path--he’d fucked around with enough gods and monsters to know to maybe stay away from creepy fog and do what it wants. “Hello?!” he calls out, trying not to let on how nervous it’s making him to be suddenly out in the snow and surrounded by (creepy) fog. Fuck, he just wants his bed.
He rubs his own arms, the cold making everything numb and he tries not to think about how long a person can survive in the snow. He’s walking and thinking and looking to see if anything looks familiar, a sense of dread growing exponentially in his stomach until it reaches something bigger than himself and he see is--
“What the fuck?”
It’s a chasm, but the fear for his own life that he’s immediately overfull of keeps him from dallying here too long. He turns the other way and runs, hoping that the other path is less perilous.
( BODIES WITHOUT SOULS )
Josh breathes a sigh of relief when he catches that there’s a building with lights on, and what looks like shadows moving inside. Finally. He rushes inside, the change in the air warming his face but his heart sinks as he realizes he’s still alone. Or at least, no one’s in the front.
“Anyone here?” He asks, peeking around a shelf. It seems to be deserted and he sighs again, brushing the snow out of his hair and off his shoulders. The shop is smaller than it looks on the outside, so he’s pretty sure there isn’t anyone else here unless they’re hiding (which he wouldn’t even discount because where there’s a creepy town there’s usually creepy people creeping along) so he paces around the shelves, also idly looking to see if there’s anything of use.
He’s humming softly, fingers pausing at a book about making sugar decorations. Not particularly helpful, but the pictures on the cover are a welcome and whimsical distraction to the current variety pack of what the fuck is happening?
He holds onto the book and keeps walking, approaching the door to the office and looking inside. Still no one. Josh frowns and distracts himself with the book once more, mostly in an effort to prolong his stay out of the snow.
( THE END APPROACHES )
...Alright, well that’s not a good sign.
Pointedly, he ignores the ominous blood-ink-whatever, because that’s not a problem for now. The first thing that catches his eye is the map of the town--Mathias, a place he’s never heard of, but between the setup of this seemingly-government building and what else he’s seen in town, he’s getting more and more sure that he’s on Earth.
He’s about to take a picture of it when he realizes that he doesn’t have his phone. Great.
It’s not exactly warm in the building but it’s better than it is outside. Josh isn’t exactly rushing to go back out there, wanting to think through what his next move should be before subjecting himself to more snow. Maybe there’s something here that could be of use.
Josh squints and scratches his head, humming as he looks over the rest of the information that’s readable. It seems like there are at least other people here it’s just a matter of finding them.
He’s reading, and that’s when he sees familiar handwriting--
Eliot
“Oh thank god,” he says to himself, taking a pen and a piece of paper. He tears it in half and writes down the address before writing a note of his own.
( OOC )
canon point is post-s5 as a default, but if you're also magicians and would rather set this during a different point i'm completely flexible, just let me know. i'm super new & getting everything set up so feel free to pm me with questions or anything!
He was ever the escape artist, always ready to bolt outside the door given the first opportunity, it wouldn't be the first, nor would it be the last time Will has chased the dog out into the open field, through dense walls of pine trees and shrubbery, knee-deep in the snow.
That was Wolf Trap, a town in the middle of nowhere, a place where someone like Will could isolate himself from the rest of the world. All he needed was this, vast open wilderness, his dogs, and a stream.
It took him all but a moment to lose his train of thought, he was doing that more and more these days...seeing was difficult, and in that moment he lost the trail and his path. Not that it mattered, he knew these woods, as he knew himself and he knew himself very well...or so he liked to think. It was a mantra he parroted over and over again in his moments of doubt.]
Buster!
[He shouted into the void, but rarely did the void answer him back, not between the nightmares that often occupied his unpalatable thoughts. The further away he drifted from the beaten path the colder it became, Will tucked his jacket around him and pressed on doggedly. A sane person would have left the dog to its own devices, but some would argue his sanity.
He wouldn't dwell on the state of his own mind, he knew exactly where he was with himself.
Eventually, he found himself in the clearing that gave way to an endless chasm, and then there was the other side.
Normally Will wouldn't be tempted, but he could see the waxy haunting figure of a man he knew to be dead, suspended out of reach as if on dust.]
Hobbs...
[The figure was in his head, he knew it, but he could still hear his voice, a hiss that visits him in his dreams...see...see...
Ignoring his instincts Will reached for the apparition that existed only within his imagination and there was nothing after that...
...like waking from a dream Will finds himself standing in front of the small town not knowing how he got here, but from the gray edges of his mind he could hear a voice, muffled at first, as though his head was submerged underwater, then clearer as he finally came to.
Perhaps the owner of the voice snatched him from the edge of the cliff and steered him this way, perhaps he found his way on his own and the voice was merely that of a concerned denizen, whatever the case Will finally acknowledges the presence with a...]
Sorry...what did you say...?
BODIES WITHOUT SOULS
[Book shops, not a normal haunt for Will as he had shelves upon shelves of books in his farmhouse preferring at-home reading over the potential for social run-ins. Still, his feet brought him here, if he was going to wander aimlessly anyway he might as well have wandered here.
Anything that can happen has to happen.
And if there was information to be had one could always find it in books.
Not caring about the state of himself or the state of his clothing Will raised a forearm to the glass and rubbed away the dirt, clearing away some of the obstruction so that he could see inside and the figures dancing out of his view. Will was used to the phantoms his imagination could conjure, the faces of the dead, the circumstances of their death, and things normal people didn't dwell on.
Normally one would be disturbed by figures out of the corner of one's eye, noises that could not be accounted for, flickering disembodied lights, Will merely spoke to them...or to no one in particular...he knew they didn't exist. He was so damned certain of it.]
One day we'll all be ghosts.
[There was a song that came to mind and for a moment it was entertaining, a way for him to take whatever fear he might have normally felt and push it down. He could be the ghost for all he knows, it's entirely possible.]
THE END APPROACHES
[With the book store providing him with more questions than answers Will winded his way around town a creature who appeared just as hollow as this deserted town. Finding his way to town hall he trod lightly through the vestibules and the reception hall, driting through offices where he combed through whatever scraps of paper that were lying about, anything that might clue him in to what was going on.
He stopped at the bulletin board puzzling over the scraps and notes for quite some time as though trying to see the people who wrote them, posit their intentions until he came upon the map. Will didn't need a keen eye, unfortunately, he knew blood by the sight of it, he'd seen enough of it now to know what it was without thinking too hard about it...but it was also a point of interest, it made the map stand out as something that required his attention.
His eyes stopped on the words:
he is coming
He mulled over this before turning his gaze back to the notes, zeroing in on the names.]
Johnson...Coulson...Constantine...
[It was like like he was looking at a Crazy Wall, but there were no pictures of sad, dead faces, just names and notes.]
Sinthia had followed the path--no sense trying to navigate another, rougher way when one was laid out for her--and come to the edge of the abyss, looking intently down into the impenetrable fog. Visually, nothing can be seen, and she supposes it isn't entirely outlandish that nothing is coming to her in any other...less conventional ways. She's loathe to try teleporting here: she could materialize inside a rock face or something equally inhospitable. But the near siren-call of the darkness below is enchanting. At least until she breaks away to find her way into town.
Bodies Without Souls
From any distance away, the calm, studious expression on Sinthia's face is hard to see. She's watching the window, looking into the shop with a faintly furrowed brow; the figures moving inside look all too real, but they're not there. She can't feel them the way she can the presence of the others here. It's curious, and the tapping only makes her more so: eventually she's made her way as close to the glass as is possible, holding one bare-fingered hand up as if to touch it and see what the tapping noise is. Startle her and you might see something very interesting: she simply reaches through the glass before turning and pulling her hand back into her coat pocket.
The End Approaches
Since reading as much as she can of the map, and the rest of the bulletin board, Sinthia has sat down on one of the chairs, with a piece of the provided paper. She only writes something simple: the date (as she remembers it), her name, and a reply to the person looking for someone with plant knowledge. I have some knowledge of poisonous plants and fungi, and can identify them. She has no address, or she'd give it: as it is, she feels fairly certain someone who posted a message will eventually check on it.
It hadn't been his intention to startle her, but he was light on his feet and the dusting of snow on the ground wasn't enough to crunch.
He startled back a little himself at the display.
"Sorry," he told her, raising his free hand. His other hand had a cheap tote bag in it, about half full by the way it bulged. "Just. People get kind of spooked out by the bookshop. If you go inside, there's nobody there."
[Alec is not expecting to wake up in a forest. Hell, he isn’t expecting to wake up at all, given that he and Max have just been exposed, caught up with the mass hysteria sweeping through the city and held hostage at Jam Pony. Although, he figures, he doesn’t know what Heaven (or any other form of afterlife) looks like; maybe the afterlife is supposed to be a forest, after all.
Regardless, there’s a sweeping fog lurking that makes Alec feel deeply uneasy, on top of the fact that the entire forest seems to be whited out with snow; he doesn’t know where he is, nothing about the landscape is familiar to him, and he seems to be alone, so far, from what he can gather. He winces, but decides to press forward.
No use giving into fear; no use winding up dead just from standing still.
There are many winding paths to choose from, but Alec doesn’t want to stray too close from the path that he’s currently on. He moves slowly, cautiously, keeping an eye and ear out for any kind of surprises. This kind of forest, with all this snow and fog? Looks like it should be full of them.
Except that, apparently, he chooses wrong; he marches on, teeth chattering and his arms wrapped tightly around himself, and then…]
Shit!
[Alec jumps back, having nearly walked right into what looks to be an endless abyss of a ravine. He keeps cursing as he backs up, angry at himself for being so stupidly caught up in his own thoughts so as to nearly get himself killed.]
ii. The End Approaches
[Alec doesn’t know what to make of this place, this Mathias. It seems to him like something out of a storybook, one of those old tales they use to scare children into behaving. All the chipped paint and fading signs remind him a bit of Terminal City, only…much more decrepit and skin-crawling, if he’s honest with himself.
The Bulletin Board seems ordinary enough, at first glance. Alec approaches, curious, and he reads the various messages that are pinned up in place. His eyes widen as he takes in what he sees.
Requests for supplies, requests for aid, notes about missing people, and notices about those recently deceased. Alec doesn’t read them all in depth, but he does skim the surface of most of them, trying to pick out a pattern or something connecting them all.
And then he gets to the creepy map of Mathias, the one with all the blood on it.
He stares, trying to make sense of it all. His unease increases, and, without thinking, he’s rubbing his shoulder, a way of trying to keep himself calm as he tries to make sense of it all.
‘He is coming,’ it says.]
Who is coming? Who is he? What the hell is with this town?
iii. Wildcard!
[Alec here is from the very end of the show, from the series finale of season 2. He also does look like bb!Dean Winchester, if your character would recognize him. If you’d like a different prompt or have a different idea, let me know either here via his journal or at afaeryschild.]
[ max stops by the bulletin board once every few days, checking over messages from other new mathias citizens and trying to keep track of what's happened, as well as trying to find clues on what might have lead them here or caused others to leave. the form she can only see the back of, even out of the manticore uniform, looks familiar enough to make her stomach seize up. even though she's mostly sure, it's not until he speaks until she's positive of who it is, and she considers leaving once it registers, but a memory makes her stay put.
it's been a few days and she's yet to actually live through it, since she hasn't left the town. but she still remembers the tone of that voice when it had revealed her escape had been a trick, that she was the weapon meant to kill eyes only; manticore's last attempt at breaking her in order to rebuild her. he'd been playing her the entire time.
she probably should leave, turn and leave him to whatever, but she doesn't. instead she stalks up to him, tapping him on the shoulder and decking him in the face with a right hook when he turns around. ]
—INTO THE ENDLESS (Wanda awakes in the woods, shivering. Confused, she stands and starts to march through the snow. She figures, one direction, she'll reach something.
She's thankful for her big ol' boots, flats or canvas shoes would be soaked by now. When she comes out to the houses, she wonders if she should knock on a door. Wanda walks along, arms crossed across her chest, wondering if anyone is home in these houses. One has a light on, so she trudges up the porch and knocks.)
Hello? I don't know where I am!
—BODIES WITHOUT SOULS (Wanda peers inside the windows, unsure of what to do. After gnawing on her thumbnail for a few minutes, she enters the building. The books on the shelves aren't too familiar for her, some she remembers from English class in Sokovia. Not a lot of American titles made it to them. The Outsiders, she remembers. Flipping through the yellowed pages, she hears a bang.
She follows the sound to the safe. Wanda ducks down and starts to spin the dial. That's when she hears the bang again, but it's in front of her. She bolts upright and shouts,) Why are you being so sneaky??
—THE END APPROACHES (Wanda looks at the bulletin board for several minutes before grabbing a pen and paper. She writes:
WANDA MAXIMOFF, looking for ... what?)
—WILDCARD (anything goes, if you're not sure, maybe you should ask gnomeskull? )
The last thing Melanie remembers before she wakes up in the ice-cold tundra she's in now is pain. White-hot searing pain. And the sirens of the ambulance ready to cart her off to A&E. The pain has dimmed to a dull throb, but the ache is easy to ignore when she feels the snow under her cheek. She pats blindly against the ground, only met with more of the same. The icy wetness does nothing to help her figure out where she is.
She scrambles to unsteady feet, hands stretched in front of her. Chances are, there's still blood around her injured eyes, but Melanie can't really tell. She's new to blindness, and it's obvious in the way she carries herself, steps so careful, hands a little wild in trying to find something to touch to guide her. But there's nothing.
She has a deep, sinking feeling that, wherever she is now, she's going to die here.
She's wandered for so long that the ends of her hair have frost on them, her legs feel like weights and her fingers feel absolutely frozen to the bone. She had done the only thing she could-- picked a direction and kept walking forward. She could hardly navigate herself in some unfamiliar place in her current state, so it had felt like the only option she had just to keep moving.
The longer she walked and came to seemingly nothing at all, she more she thought that somehow, she'd been captured by The Vast.
Melanie finds herself too exhausted to keep going. She seems to have been getting nowhere, despite all her efforts, and she hasn't come across a single other person yet. She isn't the giving up sort, but everything feels too big, too open, too hopeless, and she can't see. How in the bloody hell is she supposed to get anywhere? So she just drops where she stands and instead sits on the snow-covered ground, hoping like hell someone might find her before she freezes to death.
[ So. This is a new one. Gabe wakes up quick like he always had, adrenaline kicking in before his conscious brain kicks in with the program and realizes something's very off here. For one thing, he can't hear the hum of Contrix's security system through the walls. For another, the air tastes strange. Too clear, too cold to be recycled.
For another, there are no walls at all. He's outside. He smells trees. There’s snow crunching underfoot. And he’s been dressed in what Gabe’s come to call his work uniform, the clothes that Contrix graciously allows him to don whenever they want him out in the field. Dark BDUs, a combat vest, stomper boots. Holster at his side with nothing in it, not even his combat knife. And just for the fun of it—or maybe just to fuck with him—a jangling set of cuffs hanging off his left wrist.
No rifle, either. Not even a pistol. Because fuck him.
Gabe exhales, then toggles on his nanotech. Scans reveal that yes indeed, there are a fuckton of trees around.
Well, thank fuck. At least that’s working. He scans the area carefully, trying to pick up movement, but there’s nothing. Or at least nothing his tech can pick up, which is a real fun thought.
He tips his head back and whistles out his team’s find me signal, a piercing two-tone note.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. ]
Fuck me.
[ Guess he’s walking. ]
The End Approaches
[ Apparently somebody’s playing mind games. Whole lot of empty-seeming buildings around, zero pings on his comms, zero responses to his whistling. Whole lot of snow and weird vibes.
There’s probably something written on all the bulletin board flyers. Might even be important. Some of the papers felt old, and caked with something suspicious and flaky. Without help, Gabe’s got no way of reading the damn things.
So, he’s planted himself on the ground and is currently folding an origami cat out of a piece of paper he snagged.
Suck on that, mind games. ]
Wildcard
[ Hit me up at mirrorfaded if you’re in the mood for something else. ]
[Beth's a little taken with watching what he's doing. She hasn't seen anything like it in years. Not since she was back in school and girls would write and fold notes to trade after classes. But this was different, it was a way to help calm her nerves and help her relax.
She politely keeps her distance until his paper starts to take shape. When she recognizes what it may be, she finally speaks up.]
I haven't seen a cat in years. A real one, I mean. [It's not like she sees paper origami cats often either.]
[joel comes to on the ground, easy as stirring from an afternoon nap. it's too gentle even with as cold as it is. waking up in the afterlife seems like it ought to be meaner. more raw.
because he knows he must be dead, and this is hell or purgatory or whatever comes next. it sure as fuck ain't heaven – he knows that much — and he sure as fuck hadn't survived what happened in the lodge; he knows that too. this is — well, it's not the fire and brimstone he'd have expected but it's notably lacking in cherubic choirs and pearly gates, too.
he staggers to his feet in the snow with a wince and has to catch his balance on a tree, bracing himself fully against the trunk. a terrible ache thrums deep in his skull, and it almost turns his stomach.]
Goddammit.
[he takes a few steps and has to catch himself on the next tree before he stumbles. his knee is stiff and a little sore where he'd been shot but seems to be mostly healed, somehow, but his head — apparently it's going to be a minute before he can walk without feeling like he's going to pitch sideways.
but damned if he isn't going to keep trying anyway.]
» the end approaches
[this place is... different. difficult to put into words. joel doesn't trust it, not for a minute, and even if it's some kind of afterlife he still can't shake the feeling that infected might be around every corner.
so he does what he's been doing for years — he picks his way carefully and quietly around town, scavenging supplies where he can find them.
by the time he hits the bulletin board he's armed with a baseball bat. not ideal, but better than nothing.
enough that when he hears movement behind him as he's studying the message scrawled in blood — he is coming — he feels comfortable enough to address whoever it is before he tries taking their head off. ]
Ellie doesn't spend much time in the woods because they're fucking pointless, just like most of the places in town. There's nothing to learn there, not really. But someone told her that they'd woken up out there, and not on the beach like the others. So she checks sometimes, just to see, though there still hasn't been much to find.
She finds Joel at the edge of the woods and the world goes sideways. It feels like all the air leaves her lungs, sucked out into the cold. The last time she saw Joel...
God, that's too much. She does everything she can not to think about that day and with him in front of her she can't think of anything else.
He walks a little weird and she stares at his knee. There's no ragged hole, no gaping wound. His face is...just his face.
She covers her mouth with her hand to keep from screaming. This can't be real. He can't be here. This town is a piece of work, and apparently people don't stay dead here, but Joel didn't die here. He'd been dead for...she's not sure. A few months. And she's been here, what, two weeks? Something like that?
She realises she's just standing there staring at him, hand over her mouth like a crazy person. She forces her hand back down, but it takes her another few seconds to manage to speak.
"...Joel?" she calls out, knowing better. He can't really be there. It's like the voices in the fog or the other weird shit. This is probably another dream somehow, and when he turns to see her he'll disappear. Right?
I. INTO THE ENDLESS.[ground control to major tom — the snow is what wakes dr. casper darling — the way it falls onto his cheeks, his eyelashes, the wetness forming at the collar of his shirt. the night ( is it night? the snowfall, the fog, the thickness of the trees; he can't seem to discern the time ) is freezing — beyond cold, the way the wind seems to cut him to the bone. darling stands, shaky on both legs, before he decides that setting off in any direction would be better than waiting for someone to pass, especially in this weather.
the last thing darling remembers is hedron. the communication that had settled between them — the warnings she gave. he wanted to see for himself what her protection meant, and the night before the outbreak of the resonance — he was gone. is this where she has sent him? the cold, the wind, the ruthlessness of the fog that seems to be endless? he doesn't understand, and he might never. darling is fine with that, for the most part, as he's learned not to question hedron and her guidance. in this moment all he wants is to find warmth, to find someone to ask what day it is, month, even year. he feels so distant from the bureau — he could be anywhere, at any time. while that's an exciting prospect, he can't help the overwhelming sense of dread that wraps around his mind and tugs.
when darling approaches the fork in the path — his eyebrows contract over his eyes. there's another pang of glacial anxiety; the unease that drops into his guts. which to choose? the fog continues to roll in, the condensation of it making the air icy but humid, and it gathers on his forehead in a thin sheen. thinking feels fuzzy, feels strange and far off. maybe it's the apprehension, maybe it's the strange environment — but finally, after a long period of thoughtful consideration, he takes the left fork. the dark seems to press against his eyes, his glasses on the end of his nose, fogged-up and hardly useful.
walking for what seems like miles, darling notes that the trees seem to bend into his path, the wind carrying the leaves across the dirt. it's a strange thing, the way that this path seems longer than the last. there's no fork this time, no signs or other form of markers. the snow flurries crunch under his shoes, the sloggy weight of the wetness that eats at his socks miserable. as darling pushes his glasses up, trying to make his way through this endless barrage of horrible weather — a clearing seems to be ahead. he welcomes it with a sigh, an airy laugh that bubbles up from his chest. rest. stepping into it, the break from the trees, the fog — he can hardly believe it. the moonrays ( night! winter! two things he's gathered on this strange journey ), illuminating the small patches of grass and rocks. he continues, and then —
— the ground is split, a chasm so deep that darling could have walked right into it. he swallows, thick and scared, the pebbles around his feet causing him to slip right to the edge and almost over. he's taken the wrong path, that much is certain. shifting his weight backward and away, slipping all the time, he gains traction by digging into the dirt with his fingers.
then, darling runs. ( from what? the ravine? or the adrenaline pumping through his heart that he wants to escape from? ) the chilly air enters and exits his lungs quickly as he cuts back down the path back to the fork. ]
II. BODIES WITHOUT SOULS.[ the tapping on the glass of the bookshop is what catches darling's attention. he pauses, adjusting his frames before trying his best to see through the dirty film that coats the windows. there are lights — flashlights, maybe? — flickering inside from what he can tell. ( which, honestly, isn't much. ) he taps back with a rap of his knuckle, but no one responds. the lights continue to weave in and out of his scope of vision, the way they shudder this way and that — there's a sense of strangeness to it. almost inhumanly so. the fine hairs at the back of darling's neck stand up, and a shiver runs up his spine, straight into his brain.
investigating is either a very smart idea or a very stupid one — but darling hopes against hope that smart is what it pans out as. opening the door to the bookshop, mind braced for whatever he's about to see, and — nothing. not one light is flickering, not one person is present ( at least he thinks ) to tap on the glass. out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the lights seem to have moved outside. he quickly ducks his head, checking, one foot inside, one foot out. again, nothing. no one. not a single soul but himself. how odd. deciding that perhaps being inside would be safer, darling closes the door behind him. the portrait is the first thing he notices — the way it hangs stiffly against the wall. he observes it for a moment, the eyes following him as he steps fully inside. it's creepy, of course, but once he takes his eyes away from the picture, he feels more at ease. stable. alright.
it's just a bunch of dusty books. where is the harm in that? he walks through the aisles, fingers dusting off certain titles, and he hopes that he can find out what year it is, exactly. paperbacks of horror authors, sci-fi, romance — none of them resonate with a sense of solid, concrete dates or times. disappointed, he glances over to see that the aisle is longer than he had previously ascertained. it stretches, and darling can't help the dread that washes through his chest. a sneeze rattles his insides, his dust allergy rearing its head, but he's determined to keep forward, to keep looking through this store for any semblance of normalcy.
down the path darling goes, following the floorboards where they creak under his feet. the books pass, each and every one of them caked with years ( years and years, maybe ) worth of dust and grime. he can see the specks floating before his eyes, sticking to the lenses of his glasses. darling continues despite it, and as he finally reaches the end — there's a door. the hinges are rusty, even more so the knob, and he reaches forward, trying to jimmy it with a rustle of his palm. there's no avail to that exercise, so instead, darling pushes his weight against the door, shoulder pressed to the wood. on the third try, the door gives way enough that he ends up forcing the hinges to open.
the papers on the desk — that might give darling a date. he shuffles through them, the yellowed leafs stained, but without information of any use. with a sigh that leads to another sneeze, he turns, only to have the safe catch his peripheral. scratch marks stretch across the green-painted face, and curious, darling approaches it. he kneels down on his haunches, giving the lock a spin, but he hears nothing but old, worn-out clicking. again, again, again — time passes, and a sheen of dirty sweat gathers at his brow. giving up, darling stands, looking down at it, brows inched toward his hairline. this isn't going to work.
with a short huff, he leaves the office, but darling's feet stop in their tracks. the front door is right there — the aisles are no longer stretched, the books no longer in rows that seem never-ending. he blinks, then turns back to the office, then back again. he does this twice more, chest rising and falling with unease, with anxiety. without wasting another moment, he leaves the store, shutting the door tightly behind him. ]
III. THE END APPROACHES.[ what darling doesn't like is the fact that the building is so quiet. his footfalls are the only sound that fills the hall, his worn shoes creating a solid thump with every step he takes. he had initially entered the building in search of answers — anything that might give him a better sense of where, when, and most importantly — why. the reception desk is covered with a thin film of something he can't quite place, so he decides against looking over it for clues. the chairs are also coated in the same filth, so waiting for someone to show up is out of the question as well. with a brief sigh, he feels the pull in his gut to leave, to not investigate further — but that's when he catches sight of the bulletin board.
the map is sprawled across it, the name mathias township in the upper corner. mathias. the name scribbles itself across darling's mind, the importance of where he is stored away and locked. this is where he is, but the two other questions still remain: when and why. darling leans in, pushing his glasses up his nose, and he examines the words: HE IS COMING. that alone makes his heart pound, the way that it's written in — what is that? against better judgment, he reaches up, rubbing his index finger gently against one part of the smeared substance, and that's when it hits him — it's blood. darling practically jumps back, dusting his hands off quickly. he doesn't know if the blood is human or animal, but does it matter? his lips purse, and as he glances around the board for another clue as to what's going on exactly — he sees the scribbles in different handwriting.
needs for supplies, needs for services, those offering services — darling doesn't know where to begin. he sees a mathematical equation, one that's easy enough to solve — but there are other symbols, ones that he doesn't recognize. this is odd enough, but the paper and pen catch his eye next. darling snatches a piece up, then a pen, his handwriting a bit desperate as he leaves his own note:
dr. casper darling — physicist. former govt. employee. open to information of any kind.
darling then backs away, placing the pen atop the stack of papers. he stares at the board, eyes darting again from message to message, and suddenly he doesn't feel as defeated. there are others, and they've all been here, at this exact point. his heart attempts to slow, but still there, big and bold — HE IS COMING. who? he? what does it mean? darling shivers, swallowing thick, unsure of what to do next. ]
[ helen steps into the town hall only moments later. she glances around the small but quaint area, crossing her arms from the cold. her brunette hair tumbles over her shouulders. it's only a few steps before she stops at the bulletin board.
her head tilts.
it's certainly an interesting display, isn't it? names of all sorts. messages, even some languages she can't read. a hand raises to touch the message written in red.
( i. ) INTO THE ENDLESS — [ air floods his lungs, sticking the landing with a sharp blow of intensity. it's a quick, piercing jab — not unlike, he imagines, the throttling sensation of one's soul and the jet-propelled insertion of it being forcibly reinstated to the human body. neil clutches at his chest, fingers crushing against material, and the orchestra of his heartbeat blasts back at him in the rushing of his ears.
snow. cold. they are the first few words that work their way back to him. there is no hesitation — the words followed by feelings, the clear and concise cutting of them, touching over his skin and soaking him to the bone. neil inhales again, his chin rocking backwards slightly on his neck as he allows a deeper flood of chill air to fill him. he shudders, glancing around himself, at the white floor of the forest, at the magnificence of the trees. ( trees. winter. more keywords. ) another deep breath, but there is no pattern here. he takes those gulps he has with purpose, but there are still questions. questions that begin to worm their way into the black holes the haze of newness and enigmatic volume have left him with. questions that require answers. but, he thinks, he's not certain to find them sitting here.
he doesn't know how long he travels. minutes, perhaps hours. his arms are clutched to him, frost sticking to his hair, his cheeks. there is the odd pause, standing in his tracks, peering back at the divots his boots have made in the snow. he touches his hands to his mouth, exhaling on them, trying for some semblance of warmth — little comes, and he tarries on, alone, confounded. walking, daring not to run, aching with bitterness brought on by the unyielding freeze.
( a part of him — the part growing more keen to surrender to the inevitable with every step — wonders if this is hell for those lost in the inversion. not to perish in fire, but to wander aimlessly in an eternity of ice. )
he can hardly believe his eyes when he sees it, a convenient give to the trees, as though something, somewhere, were insisting he continue. that this is, in fact, not the end, but the beginning ( had he started all over again? what might he be now, at the finish of it? ) of a far thicker plot than he'd presumed. neil swallows thickly, narrowing his eyes at the spread of a path. ( near-madness provokes a hysterical idea — illustrations of white rabbits, red pills, blue pills, and the backwards world he knew so intimately. if he takes a prong of this fork, will he see a mirror-image of himself, traipsing alternatively to the genesis of the path in the shape of the other? )
a flicker of movement catches his attention. one more curiosity in an impossible world. neil's head yanks towards it, the suddenness sprouting pain through his cold-stiffened body. he doesn't call out to it; instincts are kicking in, familiar, turning his mind again — they turn him suspicious, paranoid. considering his movements carefully, he presses on, following after the figure, and beginning his descent down the rabbit hole, stepping lightly, all the while. ]
( ii. ) BODIES WITHOUT SOULS — [ what's happened's happened. which is an expression of faith in the mechanics of the world —
he finds himself thinking often of the past, and of the past that had once been his future. to anyone, it might sound entirely inconceivable — but that had been a world, and a lifetime, away now. things were different here; this didn't take a master in physics to surmise, but it reminded him just how little he knew. of the mechanics of this world, and of the truths that lay hidden. the problem is, however, that it's often so easy to get carried away by thoughts, one is ill-prepared for the tap-tap-tapping against a shop window.
neil peers toward the bookshop, his brows pulling upward and into a thoughtful crease. he shouldn't — he shouldn't possibly, but there is a time for curiosity and a time for safety. neither of which make themselves prevalent in a place like mathias. ( tap-tap-tap ) he moves forward, prying his hands from his coat pockets and cupping them around the sides of his face. setting to the glass, he stands upright again all too immediately. his heart jumps in his throat. the sight of what moved beyond made him ill: an optical illusion, movement here, gone again. ( hadn't he seen lights? ) neil steps again, peering further, trying to swallow a better look.
he could go in, of course, but there is a definitive lack of numbers that mean security. ( and yet, there remains the ever-curious part of him, the eager-to-know bits and pieces that furiously slam against the walls of his mind ) neil purses his lips, starting around the corner of the unthinkable windows, and tilts his head at the sight of the door. left open, left inviting. pale fingers hook around its edge, and he recognises a dampness to it.
no movement comes, save for the wind whistling through the cracks and the open doorway. he takes an account of the things inside, of the world that seems to have grown in a place doomed to abandonment. the shelves of books offer an aura of something misplaced, the familiar texture of future-stuff, out of time, out of reality. he strokes his hand down a few spines, moving his chin to observe a few titles. all wrong — all of this, somehow.
there are slow, steady strides. dirtied hands falling back into his coat pockets, boots moving thoughtfully. he finds the door on his path, reaching around the edges for a key, but coming up with only filth. it's a simple enough device, nothing worth contemplating. strength alone should do it, and strength alone does. ( forceful thrusts of his shoulders and the right amount of leverage. )
he spends minutes there, perhaps even longer, combing through paperwork, searching for any detail that might give him an answer. he might have missed it, though, if he hadn't been looking. if he hadn't thought there was no more reason to spare this room, this old office, another thought. the safe stares at him, smiling back as though one more thing to lure him in. ]
Well, hello there.
[ neil says, turning on the weight of his heels and canting his head at the shape and size of it. it's unlike any he's seen before — and he's seen countless. ( past and future ) he can't help the grin that sprouts on his features, crouching down on his knees as he settles in front of it. fingers work their way over its face, feeling, appraising. the scratches are touched over and he moves his other hand to his jaw, rubbing thoughtfully. ]
What have you got for me?
[ by the looks of previous attempts, nothing, but he's not one to shy away from the challenge.
— not an excuse to do nothing. ]
( iii. ) THE END APPROACHES — [ he had never minded the quiet. but there is a weight to it here, isn't there? neil thinks he can feel it everywhere, in the in-between moments of this place, of this time. it grows louder, louder still inside, as though it's been caught and tethered in an unholy place of four walls and an unrelenting roof. a prison, or a cage — for the silence to repent.
everyone's visited a town hall, just once, in the fabrics of their lives. how often it bustles, clerks in flowered blouses and their pencil skirts, judges moving quickly from one courtroom to the next in a flurry of robes, miserable fucking people waiting in the queue for their number to be called. here, there is nothing — and quite a fat lot of it, too. more dust. more quiet. a thick and hungry grime that threatens to swallow the earth whole, should the few of them remaining here let it.
there's no one to shout his being next, of course, so he takes it upon himself, walking through the halls and spinning around in place to capture the impact of such loneliness. he's understood the nature of a haunted house for some time, of a house left to isolation and the wilderness. blimey, that must make mathias a proper ghost town, then, and the thought makes his tired expression slightly less so.
the bulletin board is what he's come for. he's heard tell of it, and came with an anxiety to establish his own piece of personhood. notes fill the expanse of it, in cursive or a desperate scrawl. names. names without faces, without answers. but at its center-point, ah — the main event. it's what captures his eye first, cluttered around its edges as though emerging from the lost souls calling out. the map. no one's touched it — and who would? no one's taken it from its place. this is its home now, and the thought makes him frown. fuller still as he edges forward, observing the red. ( he's seen his fair share of it; there's no mistaking the sight — blood. ) he is coming.
neil lets out a punctuating sigh, going for a sheet of his own paper, a pen. his head shakes to himself. ]
About as comforting as everything else here.
[ settling on his own descriptors, he sticks a pin in the thing, tacking it alongside the rest of the thrall:
𝑁𝑒𝑖𝑙 𝑊. 𝑃ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑡, 𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑡ℎ, 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑡 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛.
when he's finished, he sets back the pen, giving a final glance to the map. reaching without a thought, he definitively flicks a corner of it. come on. ]
Cheers, then.
( iv. ) WILDCARD —
( don't feel the need to match length; i'm a bit of a tone-setter. i'll adapt to whichever style you use. and if you're interested in something else, please feel free to contact me by dm or at bangflag! )
into the endless! also damn, your writing is beautiful
[ five wasn't sure when he had grown into the habit of patrolling along the forest path. he was the least suited to be on the goddamn welcoming committee.
but it was a habit nonetheless, a conjuring of memories and gravestones and family and the tricks this place seems to be so devoted in playing.
truthfully, he's looking for people he recognizes. he has the advantage of teleporting in and out of spacetime and even with the restrictions set upon his arrival here, that hasn't stopped him much. so he keeps pushing, ignoring the harsh sweeps of cold and snow in favour of a daily check.
he sees footsteps before he catches sight of neil. has to blink himself further into the bowels of the barren, grey forest than he thought, until he is finally able to make out the figure up ahead.
there's another pop of temporal blue, as he lands behind a tree, driven by survivor's instinct learned over too long a time before stepping out, shoes creaking in the snow. ] I really wouldn't keep walking that way.
[Castiel, in the midst of repairing another flaw in Heaven’s design, doesn’t expect to suddenly find himself in the middle of a forest, awakening as if from a nap, as if he’s suddenly turned human again. And yet, here he is, surrounded seemingly by an infinity of white and white covered branches and trunks, a cold and beautiful sort of wonderland, the kind they sing about in human Christmas songs.
Fog lurks at the edges of the path that Castiel can see, a menacing sort of fog that feels as unnerving to him as the lack of others in the forest with him. Castiel rolls his shoulders back, glances back and forth, and tries to determine if there is anything within these woods he should be afraid of. When he can’t detect any one particular threat, he begins to walk.
He slips out his angel blade into his hand from the sleeve of his trench coat, just in case.
He walks. He walks for what feels like hours, but he doesn’t know how time works here, or where here even is; it both feels like Earth, and it doesn’t. He wonders if this is some kind of alternate dimension, perhaps one that Chuck missed in his vengeance for destroying all worlds but one. (He doubts it, but he also supposes it’s still possible; nothing, in his experience, is impossible.)
Eventually, he reaches the edge of the town, lonely, crumbling, and abandoned. He keeps his angel blade by his side as he considers the landscape before him, trying to keep himself steady and resolved despite the fear creeping along the edges of his thoughts. He’d found purpose after leaving the Empty; he’d found Jack, and they were repurposing Heaven for the betterment of all. (Though, Castiel knows, deep in his heart, he’s always been tailoring Heaven specifically for one Dean Winchester, for an eternal rest that he can actually enjoy.)
Castiel stops, glancing around.]
What…is this place?
ii. Bodies Without Souls
[The bookstore is charming, in its own way. Old-fashioned looking, and very much as abandoned as every part of the rest of the town, Benedict Books draws Castiel in as soon as he approaches, from the shadows he thinks he sees moving inside to the flickering flashlight in the windows. He makes his way inside and wanders throughout the aisles, taking in the sights and the titles of all the available books. Everything seems to be covered in dust and dirt, and the books themselves…well. There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of modern titles, nothing more recent than the 1990s, at least.
Castiel finds himself curious the longer he wanders; he makes his way to the back office, prying open the door to make his way inside. He doesn’t know if he’s looking for a ghost, or if this is just some sad story of another abandoned building, left to rot to time and ruin. He passes by the desk, makes note of the various inventory lists he finds there.
The safe in the corner is interesting; all scratched up on all sides, Castiel can see that someone is clearly trying to break inside. But for what, he wonders. And what has happened in this bookstore to seemingly attract symptoms of phantoms?
He isn’t certain about any of this, but if he cannot currently serve his purpose as a renewed angel of Heaven, Castiel feels it’s only right that he tries to get a better understanding of what’s going on in this town.]
iv. Wildcard
[Castiel here is from the very end of the show, from the end of episode 15x20, “Carry On,” so there will be spoilers in his threads. If you’d like a different prompt or have a different idea, let me know either here via his journal or at afaeryschild.]
( Dean got stuck in an old copy of a Vonnegut novel while ventured further into the store. He was right there next to him. )
Cas?
( No, he did not lose him, not so soon after finding him again.
The only thing that's different is the door at the end of the store ajar, pushed inward.
It takes longer than it should to get to the back of the store. He hates this part, and hates this store because of it. But, he makes his way to the back again. Like a freakin dream the store stretches to its limit and sure enough when Dean looks back, it's normal sized. This store.
He forces himself inside behind Cas.
They have different timelines and versions, but all that matters is Cas is here. But they can talk about things after they get answers. )
Gotta say, Cas, if this was your idea of my heaven you missed the mark. Not nearly enough pizza.
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