Entry tags:

!tdm

test drive — spring

SPRING TEST DRIVE
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.

Prospective players are welcome to play with any of the established locations within Mathias.

( Recommended listening: ♫ )

GHOSTS OF THE LIVING
The fog moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. It is not a soft blanket enveloping the town, but a heavy weight pressing down, threatening to suffocate as the sky is blotted out and no one can see more than ten feet in any direction.

Those who are outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, hoping that a randomly chosen direction will lead them to shelter or another living soul. There are perhaps even those who were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in. Wherever they are, the residents of Mathias will soon notice that they are not the only ones in the fog.

Anyone out in the fog is left disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

With all of these elements at play, the first strange apparitions encountered may be assumed to be figments of addled minds, tricks played by psyches struggling to cope with the strange reality they've found themselves in. But before long, there will be no denying that the Others in the fog are real. Appearing almost wraithlike and startlingly recognizable, these figures even feel a bit like ghosts to those who can sense such things, though everyone will feel that there is something wrong about them. Truly, there are many things wrong that residents will begin to notice as they encounter more and more of the spectres that do not acknowledge their presence in any way. They simply exist, silent and subtly terrifying like so many things in this town.

Like misty ghosts of those who have been in the town at one point or another, the Others appear as those who have died or disappeared and even those currently within the town. The likeness is truly uncanny, to the point of being completely terrifying, made even more so when they realize there is no way to communicate with the Others. They do not acknowledge anyone's presence nor anything said to them. At times, they may be only one in an area, or there may be a dozen existing in the same space. There is no limit to how many people can see them — if they are there, they are seen by all.

The Others do not enter buildings and cannot be contained in any way. They can appear at one moment and be gone in the next, or they can exist in one place for hours on end. Whether standing stationary or slowly wandering throughout the town, there is no discernible purpose to them. There is something absent and distant in the way they hold themselves, the way they walk, and their expressions, as if even they cannot grasp what is happening.

A BIT OF EXPLORATION
There are plenty of places in which to get one's bearings and hide from the fog.

There are businesses on the square, nestled around and extending out from the Town Hall. There is a schoolhouse nestled by the southern treeline, not from the rather expansive makeshift cemetery at the end of Jackson Boulevard that is courtesy of a few kind residents in town. To the far north of the square is a sprawling garden, now covered in snow, and a greenhouse that once supplied the botanical shop. And to the east and west, beyond the business square, is are residential districts.

The eastern district sprawls all the way to the beach, with some houses in perfect condition and others beginning to show significant signs of age. The western district, however, is nothing but decay. From the beginnings of rot to completely collapsed and little more than a pile of proverbial bones, none of these homes are anything resembling livable. Well, as far as one can tell, at least. For between the streets of Hill Lane and Stine Road there is a crack in the earth. A dozen feet across and fifty feet down, there is no way across.

TO SEE AND BE SEEN
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. Covering the board are tacked-on 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 painted directly across the center of the board, visible in the gaps between the pieces of paper, is a symbol in dark red. While peering at that obscured symbol, a strange breeze ruffles the papers, revealing a little more, just enough to—

An eye. A strange, ornate eye with three lobes, painted in still-wet red. And upon close examination, a keen eye will realize that the paint is actually blood, perhaps even human.

The longer someone stands there, the more it will feel like they are being watched, even studied, with great interest. It's a sensation that lingers and stays with them even when they exit the building.

navigation | faq | locations | setting | mod contact

Threaded | Flat

Use this space to ask general questions about the TDM. Please direct more broad game questions to the FAQ.

➼ i. ghosts of the living

[ Diego, it seems, is one of the unfortunate people who happen to be outside when it happens. It's not by any real choice. Yeah, sure, if he hadn't just shown up here, he'd probably have still gone outside anyway because no one wants to stay holed up inside - so it's likely he'd be caught in it anyway.

But because he didn't have the choice, he's understandably frustrated that he's somehow ended up somewhere again, and this time, the weather is fucking shitty. ]

Hello?

[ It's all he can do. The fog descended quickly, and even Diego, who considers himself incredibly observant (thank you very much), can't see for shit in it. He tries to remember what he'd seen before it happened. He thinks if he just turns a bit to the left and walks, he'll eventually hit a building, and then he can find a door. Or maybe another person. So that's what he does, but as he walks, he gets a strange sense of something like vertigo. Like the white wall of mist around him is spinning with the world, and Diego finds that he has to stop every few steps.

Fuck all of this, he thinks.

But then - That has to be a person, there's no question about it. Someone vaguely silhouetted by the fog. ]

Hey - Hey! [ Pushing through the dizziness, Diego hurries forward, glad to see someone else. Except that they're ignoring him, and the closer Diego gets, the more clearly he can see. ] Hell no, this is some Klaus bullshit.

[ And the last thing he honestly needs to be dealing with right now. ]

➼ ii. to see or be seen

[ He doesn't expect to find anything in the Town Hall. He doesn't expect to find anything anywhere in this stupid town, but Diego isn't really the passive type, so he may as well go check it out. Imagine his surprise when he sees the shitty jokes. Honestly, he should have known that at least one his siblings would be kicking around. It's not as if they can catch a fucking break.

Diego takes the jokes down. He won't admit it out loud, but he actually finds some comfort in it, in knowing that he's not as alone as the last time they ended up somewhere they shouldn't be. And at least now he has something to do, and that's find Klaus.

Except now that he's taken the paper down, he notices something painted behind everything. Probably some sort of town symbol, but curiosity draws Diego back in, even despite the way something is making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. ]

➼ iii. wildcard

Choose your own adventure. Anything goes. Canon point for TDM purposes is post-season2 because I'm lazy (just like I'm too lazy to upload s2 icons at the moment). Feel free to hit me up at

blackspire for plotting or questions or w/e.~

To see and be seen:

Tim was not a happy camper.

Luckily his resting bitch face was such that whether he was a happy camper or not his expression was usually the same. He had little recollection of how long it had been since he woke on the beach, assessed his situation and then headed up towards the town.

His right hand worried the empty holster on his hip. Part of assessing his situation had included finding himself completely disarmed. Service weapon, back-up weapon, knife. All gone. Some people might be concerned about these circumstances, particularly as Tim remembered carrying all of the above, plus his beloved rifle at the time things went ... fuzzy. But mostly he was pissed.

Tim had learned early on in life that when you found yourself being afraid it was better to get pissed off instead. He inwardly joked that he was the walking embodiment of better to be pissed off then pissed on.

He found himself in the middle of town at the bulletin board, staring at the notes and the creepy eye.

"What is this shit," he said in a flat tone. "'Cross words'? That's worse than Art's goddamn foot puns."

ghosts of the living

[ The fog is bad. The town had been bad, before, because it's a new place and she doesn't know where she is or why she's there or what's happening. Parker had broken into a few houses, but they'd all been empty. And old. Creepy. No computers, no way to try to find out where she was or contact Hardison or...anything.

So she'd gone back outside, and now she regrets it, because she's seen plenty of fog before but it's never been like this. It's dense, almost like...like it's real, not that fog isn't real, but this is real in a way fog shouldn't be. Too thick to see through, almost too thick to move through, and it disorients her almost immediately. If she could just find a building, she could scale it. Get above the fog. See where she is and get inside somewhere where it's safe.

Seeing someone else should be a relief, even to Parker. But it isn't. The first impulse she has on seeing another figure in the fog is to get away, and she does, backing up until she hits a tree - too small to climb, not helpful. She switches direction and goes a different way until she sees another figure, setting off the same mental alarm bells as the first, and before she knows it she's almost running, almost panicking, just trying to get away from the figures that she would swear are closing in on her.

She's so freaked out, she doesn't even notice that they're not chasing her, not even looking at her. It doesn't occur to her that maybe she's finding more of them because she's moving faster. And then she sees another one right in front of her and suddenly she's not moving at all, skidding to a stop with eyes wide open in equal parts hope and horror. ]

Eliot?

[ It is. It's a very distinctive Eliot. She pushes aside the feeling of danger, of wrongness that he gives off as much as the others, and runs for him. ]

Eliot!

[ But he doesn't turn to her, doesn't reach for her or even scowl in annoyance or bark out a where the hell you been, Parker? He just keeps moving, slow, almost drifting in a way that Eliot never moves, and his eyes don't seem to see anything at all.

It's too much. It's not fair. She feels so scared now she's almost sick, but she forces herself to move, to get right up in his face and scream. ]

ELIOT!

exploration

[ The fog doesn't follow her indoors, thankfully, and neither do the...people. (People, because they can't be ghosts, because that would mean that he - )

But they don't follow her in, which is something. She ends up in the movie theater, which is as small and empty as the houses she's stumbled on before. She wanders through the empty rows, pausing to stare briefly at the stale popcorn underfoot before shaking her head briefly. No. She's not quite there yet.

The theater is also as out of date as the rest of the town, it turns out, if not more so. Parker's never tried to work a film projector before. But it's either try to learn or think about everything else, so.

Movie time it is. Or maybe break-the-projector-so-no-one-gets-movies-ever-again time. Might be good for someone to stop her before she finds out which one it's gonna be. ]

to see and be seen

[ The signs on the board are fascinating, especially the ones she doesn't understand. Parker reads them all, standing stock-still in front of the board and completely focused on the scribbled notes and pleas and offers. There's a lot to take note of. People asking about magic. About...creatures attacking. Cryptic warnings about the fog (a little late, but thanks for the effort). Offers of help she immediately disregards because she's not an idiot.

Eliot's name. She's trying not to think too much about that.

Suddenly she stiffens, eyes darting to the side as she frowns. The feeling's been growing for a while now, she realizes, and she should have noticed it earlier. But whoever's watching hadn't taken the opportunity to try to shoot her while she wasn't paying attention, so rather than just disappearing she whirls around, glaring suspiciously in every direction. ]

Hello?

wildcard

Post a starter or hit me up at

butteredcups for plotting stuff!

ghosts of the living

[The fog reminds Callisto of the underworld more than anything else she's encountered here, and she doesn't much like it. Anyone running into her now will find her wandering aimlessly, arms hugged around her middle, woefully unsure as to whether she's still headed in the direction of the building with the food. She looks for all the world like a lost, lonely child, and she'll even let out the occasional gasping whimper. She'd been wrong, she thinks; this is still Tartarus. This is a trick, and she'd fallen for it, and any second now, she'll feel rock under her feet and the walls will start to close in--

This pitiable impression, however, will be somewhat undercut when she first starts seeing the ghostly figures. These, too, feel reminiscent of Tartarus, and so her first instinct is to strike out at them, roughly shoving and kicking and punching. When this goes unacknowledged, she gets up in their faces and yells in Greek, and when this goes unacknowledged, she lets out a wordless piercing shriek of frustration. Apologies to the eardrums of anyone who might be nearby - though maybe for someone who's been desperately searching for another living, sentient person, it'll be a blessing in disguise.]

to see and be seen

[Callisto has never seen a telephone before. She's not familiar with these numerals, and in fact does not even realize that they're numerals. But when she comes across the phone directory, she's able to match some of the markings on the pages to the markings on the dialpad, and despite having no real idea of what she's doing, she'll call up a few, pressing each symbol on the machine in the order that it appears on the page. Nobody she might manage to reach should expect a productive conversation, though: whenever she's faced with a mysterious voice that she can't understand, she'll just snap something in Greek (speaking into the earpiece, not the mouthpiece; likely it'll sound a bit muffled) and hang up on them. Or she'll leave the phone off the hook and walk away. It's a toss-up.

That's all before she notices the bulletin board, though. Once she does, she brushes past the unreadable notes and zeroes right in on the eye. The sharp, rusty smell is very familiar to her, and just to be sure, she unflinchingly dabs a pinky onto it, bringing it up to her mouth to taste. It's absolutely, unquestioningly blood.

She'll stand there for a good long while, the feeling of being watched a draw rather than a deterrent, because she's pretty sure she knows what this means: finally, finally she has the gods' attention again. She addresses Aḯdēs, who's gotten sick of her troublemaking, and she addresses Árēs, who's started to show interest in her in a way she hopes will be useful someday. Sometimes her tone is pleading, as one might expect from a mortal talking to the gods, but other times it's hostile and threatening - the words of a mortal who has nothing left to lose, and who can't bring herself to care about divine retribution or consequences for insolence.

Eventually, after a long enough time of getting no response, she'll leave the building in disgust. But over the next few days, she'll keep coming back, trying in vain to make contact.]

anything else?

[OOC: Callisto is from ancient Greece and I am in love with the fact that this game allows for language barriers to stay intact if players wish them to, so she has not been magically granted any English-speaking abilities, and she'll have to figure out language and communication stuff as she goes along! SHE WILL NOT HAVE FUN WITH THIS, BUT I CERTAINLY WILL.

Other than that, standard TDM stuff applies: feel free to shoot me a wildcard option if you want to thread but none of the above starters are doing it for you, message me on this journal or

Ihdreniel if you need anything, and check out my content warnings for this dumpster fire of a character if you're so inclined!]

A Bit of Exploration

All she wants is a bottle of something hard; to remove her from the present because nothing made sense anything anyone tried to tell her sounded so impossibly farfetched and... totally not. In her mind, this place hardly compares to Purgatory.

Then again, she's only been here a little over a day.

Her search for liquor takes her to some of the abandoned houses where she goes through cabinets and drawers aggressively, rambling mostly unimportant things (nothing no one would understand) to herself before finally hitting paydirt. Tucked deep into a corner cabinet is a full unopened bottle of something deliciously amber-looking. Jackpot.

She continues on, guzzling mouthfuls along the way as she slowly but surely makes her way to the next building, which so happens to be the Town Hall. Wynonna spends a bit of time there, looking over the bulletin board, snorting as she reads some of the messages because, upon inspection, half of that bottle is almost gone.

After rifling through some offices, she finds a cool pen and an empty flask that she pockets and moves along to the library before finally finding herself out of booze and at the Grey Gull looking for more.

[ Wildcard! Got something else in mind? Set it up and I will follow or contact me at

lilbeejack and we can plot something out. ]

A BIT OF EXPLORATION.

She’s cold. It’s what wakes Caitlin on the beach, the bone-deep chill that’s set in from her head to her toes, soaked through the pajamas she’s wearing. She’s cold. She doesn’t feel the cold, not since her powers emerged. Not since Frost. But that’s far from her only concern. She woke up on a sandy, rocky beach with crashing waves, and she doesn’t live anywhere near a coast. She’s in her pajamas. No shoes. And this fog has set in. She can’t see anything around her as she gets to her feet and brushes the wet sand from her body.

Maybe it’ll get better if she’s somewhere that isn’t… here.

She picks a direction and heads off. She makes note of the roads as she goes: Phillips Drive, King Lane, Stoker Park, Jackson Boulevard. There’s house after house. The streets dead end, requiring her to turn around and go back the way she came. Is it the fog that’s making her dizzy or is it the wandering? Either way, she needs to stop. She needs to find a place to sit down, get out of the fog. The fog won’t follow her inside, right?

Caitlin picks a house. Any house. There may be people inside; it may be uninhabited. It doesn’t matter to her right now. She’s happy to play Goldilocks if it might get her out of the damp, out of the weather. She’ll help herself to a spot on the couch. She’ll poke around the cabinets, looking for something for her head. She may even wander into the bedrooms in search of dry, warm clothes to put on.

TO SEE AND BE SEEN.

She isn’t content to stop at just houses. Once Caitlin feels like she’s gotten her bearings back, she goes back outside. The fog is no less heavy, no less suffocating. That sense of feeling sick comes back, though this time it’s less dizziness and more nausea. She doesn’t last terribly long outside, her empty stomach churning and the occasional belch escaping her. This was a terrible idea. Why did she decide to go back out?

This time it’s a government building she takes shelter in. She waits at the reception desk, her patience slowly waning the longer she stands there. Her voice sounds like it echoes as she calls out a few times, but the “Hello?”s only seem to cement how empty it is. With no answer, she turns her attention to the bulletin board on the wall. Dozens of handwritten notes layer the surface, some with odd looking phone numbers inscribed. She spots one that looks to be calling for certain people, so she takes a moment to scan for any familiar handwriting. It’s a hopeful thought, but a disappointment. There’s nothing there for her.

She’s just about to look around the building more when the papers rustle in an odd breeze, revealing something painted there. Her fingers brush against the symbol and come away wet. It… it doesn’t feel like paint. Against her better judgment, she leans in and sniffs the stain on her fingers. It has an unmistakable metalli tang to it. She flinches and pulls away. “Oh my god. That’s blood.”

WILDCARD.

[ hit me up with other scenarios or ideas you may have in mind. if you’d like to plot, find me up at lovedbythesun or pm this journal.! ]

i.ghosts;
[ Kirigan hasn't been here long--a day, perhaps, enough to get a rough lay of the land. Enough that he feels himself turning back to a familiar feeling, a familiar emotional state: he's aware of where he is, and now that slow, simmering rage is sliding easily back into him. It returns as quickly as his patience does, two dueling aspects of him as he faces the realization that he's trapped here, his power dimmed, his greatness shackled. Kirigan's plans are not only rendered useless, but no longer relevant. His jaw tightens every time the thought flickers across his mind, hands clenching.

The mist begins to envelop the village, rolling in quick, and the Darkling finds himself surrounded by thick walls of white. It's bright, and he finds himself far more disoriented than he'd either like or care to admit--he brings a hand up, still calm, gaze piercing as he tries to push the shadows he can gather and summon towards it. Smokey tendrils move, gathering from any part his power can reach, drawing from shadow and darkness with ease and grace, moving them forward with a gentle flex of his index finger. The shadows whirl forward, following Kirigan's bidding only to dissipate immediately once it hits the encroaching fog. It fizzles, mixing gray before the fog moves in, and Kirigan is left with the unpleasant thought that not only has this place taken most of his power from him, it also seems to be taunting him.

He doesn't have time to run. He's left blind, that simmering discontent threatening to rise, ringing in his ears, loud in comparison to how the cold fog dampens any other sound. He tries to maintain a single direction and walk towards it, although when the disorientation and hits him it proves difficult.

Kirigan wanders, a tall figure clad in nothing but black, back straight and proud unless a wave of nausea kicks in. This isn't the first time he's stumbled out of something, unwillingly weak, though it's difficult to ignore how pathetic he feels. Perhaps he tries to enter a house someone has taken refuge in. Perhaps he sees someone else's Other. Regardless, he tries his best to straighten once he realizes someone is near, fighting off another wave of dizziness. ]

ii. to see;
[ This place is small. It's also a far cry from the Little Palace he'd let himself grow accustomed to. Kirigan has been around for a long, long time, but the vast majority of architecture and technology in this realm foreign to him. It's intriguing, yes, and he recognizes almost nothing, but town halls are still town halls, and information is still information. Someone has informed him of a bulletin board.

He enters, tall and imposing, and it doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for. Scraps of paper, things written by various people ranging from immaculate penmanship to chicken scratch. His gaze flicks through all of it, well aware of the eye in red, his own face completely passive save for a small parting of his lips.

It may be information, but it's terribly cluttered. It's a mild annoyance, however, and the bigger one is the messy eye that has damaged everything. He leans over, perhaps a little closer than necessary to examine it, and brings a finger out to touch it. Blood. Blood, and the sudden feeling of being watched.

Kirigan's lips curl, and he turns his head to the entrance. ]

Can I help you?

[ His voice is calm and soft, clearly British. He remains exactly how he is, leaning forward, finger still raised, blood smeared on it, head turned towards whoever has decided to come in. Had they been the sudden reason he felt like he wasn't alone?

iii. wildcard;
[ Kirigan will be coming from post series, but I'll be as vague as possible about it in order to avoid spoilers unless you give me the go-ahead. He'll be skulking around the graveyard and the library, and can be seen taking his meals at the grey gull. If you'd like a personalized starter or to plot, feel free to hit up

whitespire! ]

exploration.

[ To quote a true philosopher: this might as well happen. Or to a point, things like this sure do keep happening, don't they. Wake up on some unknown town on some unknown planet, fog's full of unknown apparitions, great big mystery to contend with, oh, why not?

Just another week exploring time and space.

This does not keep Donna from carrying around some big, rusty, lunky wrench she fished out of a house toolbox while she pokes about in buildings, baseball-bat style. If anything, it makes her feel more justified. And being prepared to wallop someone as needed gives her something to focus on that isn't dread or terror. Isn't thinking about the Library or what she remembers from that parasite fortune teller, isn't thinking is this real.

Nope. Back straight, looking for her alien companion of choice, ready to shout down a kidnapper and wallop someone with a wrench. If the Doctor got himself double-kidnapped and in even more trouble than she's in, she's walloping him first. ]

Oh, I wanna walk in the dust of the universe, I said. Life of adventure, me. Go off and see the planet of the hats, sounds fantastic.

[ It's much more manageable, because even nervous as she sounds rounding a corner in the movie rental shop or the bookshop or the grocery store, she is more angry than anything about this setup. ]

Fat lot of good it's doing me when the man can't bloody drive!

to see and be seen.

[ Indoors is better than outdoors by all accounts, in Donna's firm and unshakeable opinion. And seeing how this building's more central, not to mention the closest one she can make out when tripping around in the fog gets her too nauseous, too anxious, it'll do as well as any.

She reads over the notices and not-quite-adverts with due interest. Never know what'll come in handy interest. Deaths, disapperances, offers to help, odds and ends like that. Nothing all that familiar. Half-expecting the Doctor to barge up to her talking a mile a minute about some scientific nonsense or another hasn't gotten her anywhere here, but she still half-expects.

Great idiot she is, still worrying about another great idiot when she's the one stuck here. (She worries anyway.)

And then the wind flutters just so, lifts up a paper just so, reveals-- ]

Oh, that's the last thing I need right now, mate.

[ Who has two thumbs and immediately nabs a spare pin to put that paper back down, thank you very much? She does. Nice try, demon, no one's got time for that, it's more idly irritating than anything.

Blood aside. That makes her more nervous and nauseous than the fog did.

She doesn't want some alien occult thing thinking it can take liberties, though. ]

Intro/Ghosts

Dorian wakes up, groggy, disoriented and damp. The rest is all fine and dandy its the damp he could do without. He groans and picks himself up, fingers digging into the sand as he finds himself on a fog covered beach. He’s softly cursing and grumbling under his breath as he tries to brush the sand off of himself and shake it out of places.

“Why is it always some Maker Forsaken beach with miserable weather? Why can’t it be sunny and pleasant, filled with half-naked men carting fruity beverages? But Nooooo. That would be entirely too convenient wouldn’t it?” He shakes his head, complaining to no one in particular. He’s patting himself down and squinting through the dense fog, realizing there’s the lack of a familiar weight on his back.

“Kaffas! Where’d the bloody thing go?” He’s stalking around, somewhat low as he tries to peer at the ground for his staff. He doesn’t see any footprints or any clues of how he got here. Did someone bring him here? Did they take his staff? What of the others? There's no marks, or trail, or really anything of note.

The Fog itself is growing eerily uncomfortable the longer he’s wandering around in it. He catches movement out of the corner of one eye and snaps his attention to it.

“Hello?” He takes a few steps forward and sees a figure walking away. “You there! Wait!”

He hurriedly follows but they’re suddenly gone. He spins in place looking, listening, straining his senses for someone.

“Hello? What kind of games are you playing? Can’t you see I’m in need of assistance??” He calls into the fog with some annoyance before sighing. He frowns, that feeling of dizzy disorientation not quite going away. He can hear the ocean but he’s not sure which direction it's in. He doesn’t know if he had been walking east or west. He turns a random direction and starts moving through the fog with determination. He just has to get out of it and somewhere safe to get his bearings. Not just because he can’t bloody see but its just … unnerving him. Like being lost in some waking dream of the fade or worse. He’ll find his staff later when the fog clears… hopefully.

Locations/Exploration

Dorian will be wandering about and will likely spend some time in the following locations.

Grey Gull Likely his first stop after waking up on the beach. He’ll head inside for shelter and look for something stiff to drink.

The Library where you can see him perusing the shelves and seeming more at east or comfortable in his own element. Though many of the texts he will likely not recognize, he’ll spend quite a lot of time here.

Boarding House After seeing some things on the Bulletin board he will seek out the boarding house in search of others and answers. Or maybe some place to stay? If you’ll have him.

To See and Be Seen

Bulletin Board
Dorian eventually finds himself in the middle of town, wandering into the Town Hall looking weary and a little sick. He’s got an odd glowing, flickering energy around him that is helping to fend off the nausea from his continued exploration, but it’s only doing so much. It’s keeping him upright at least. He’ll go right for the Bulletin board, looking over all of the notes and perusing through any information. There’s something mentioned about the fog there and he scoffs.

“Stay out of the fog. You think?” There's a succinctly snide tone to his response. He doesn’t recognize what “carbon monoxide” is but he gets the idea it’s bad. Considering he’s been wandering around in it for likely way too long.

“A warning like that would’ve been much more useful hours ago.” He sighs, talking to himself as he picks through the notes. He nearly takes the one that says can someone teach me magic. But thinks better of it. He tries to make a mental note of the address for later. He’s also making mental note of all the places to check in for friends or supplies.

Standing there long enough he does see the red markings underneath and moves a few of the notes around to get a better look. It's just another odd thing about this place, it gives him that sense of being watched and a chill runs up his spine. He leans in closer and touches the wet red, smearing it between his fingertips and frowning.

“Blood magic?” He murmurs, his eyes snap up and around when that feeling intensifies briefly but he doesn’t see anyone. He’ll go back to covering up the eye, just in case. He debates dispelling whatever it is but something tells him its a lot bigger than something that simple. So he’ll leave it alone for now.

Large Meeting Hall/Practicing Magic

In his wandering around the building, half expecting to find whoever it is that is watching him, he finds a spacious hall that is likely used for a large gathering or meeting area. He’s sadly without his staff, and there’s something more to this place than meets the eye. It’s not just the fog making him feel off. This whole town is so alien to him, the buildings contain things within he’s unfamiliar with and others he’s never seen before. A different world, a different time, perhaps, as incredibly overwhelming a thought as that may be. He can’t seem to find any other explanation. Let alone to how he got here at all.

He doesn’t know what is out there but he can’t shake the feeling of something ominous and dangerous heading their way. He also is concerned about how well his magics will preform, not only without his staff, but in a world that may be far removed from the Fade, if it’s present here at all. That odd feeling is something distant, a disconnect from his abilities. He was able to put up a simple shield earlier but hasn’t toyed with anything else. Even then, his shield wasn’t lasting near as long as it should and he still felt SICK even if it wasn’t getting worse.

He steps out into the middle of the room so he has the most space. He has the control, but without his staff to focus he doesn’t want to potentially burn down the house or cause excessive damage to the place. He’d do it outside, but the Fog would interfere even more with his concentration. This will require focus, it can be done, but it’s been ages since he’d free-handed any spells without a staff to help guide and aim or amplify.

He closes his eyes, focuses on his breathing, centers himself and lets the room fade away. It takes him back for a moment but after a few heart beats he begins casting, moving his hands and arms. It’s difficult, if he’s honest with himself, the fade is there, resonating but it’s soft, distant, he can call to it, he can pull it to him and focus it but it’s definitely strenuous. Like learning to do it for the first time all over again. It takes a little longer to cast but he manages to fire off a lightning bolt across the room, hitting a far wall with a flash and a crackle before it fizzles out. There’s a burn mark left in it’s wake.

“Hmm, I think we can do better than that.” He’ll keep practicing like this, trying to strengthen himself and get used to the flow of energies in this world. He’ll try a few different things. If someone were to stumble upon him they could see him casting not only lighting, but fire and ice as well.

After a time though there is sweat on his brow and he’s breathing heavy. It’s taking a toll on him, for as frustrating as that is. He wipes the sweat off of his face and flexes his fingers frowning.

“Well, that certainly is disappointing.” He’s exhausted and needs a drink. Preferably a stiff one, maybe some place to rest. He should probably reserve what he has for another shield to head back out into the fog….

Wild Card/Open Prompt

Got ideas for something you don't see here? Want to meet Dorian in another place other than the ones listed? I’m open to anything really! Feel free to drop a tag below with whatever! Or reach out to me via messaging this journal if you want to discuss. I can also be found on discord if you'd rather! AceOfSwords#5694

OOC Note: I am willing to match any format! So if you would rather do brackets or whatnot feel free to tag that way and I'll copy.

Edited 2021-05-07 21:29 (UTC)

Poor Decisions in the Fog.

[ Breathe in. Breathe out.

That's all she can do, clutching the strap of the sack slung over her shoulder while she pulls the brown cloak tighter around herself. Alina wasn't sure how long she'd been out in the fog, but she had no choice. She needed to find Mal. Logic told her if she'd somehow ended up here, he should be with her. Every shadow she sees has her turning, calling out for him and chasing everything she sees that matches his build. Or at least that had been the plan. She'd already been exhausted, attributing the sudden symptoms washing over her to that, stumbling to her knees at one point.

It isn't long before the creatures in the fog start presenting themselves, the horrific reality sinking in. Exhausted and disoriented, her mind jumps to the Fold -- that it's somehow expanded. There's a sudden beacon of light as Alina forms a dome around herself, though it's nowhere near as strong or bright as she expected. Lifting herself back up to her feet, she makes it a few steps before the light flickers -- the exertion sending her back to her knees with a cry.

The dome fades as the ground spins beneath her, collapsing the rest of the way as she focuses on the quickly blurring shapes in the fog around her. Her left hand extends out, reaching for the nearest one. ]

Mal--

Bored in the Boarding House and in the Boarding House Bored.

[ Alina needed a plan and needed to get herself oriented. The library had been a horrible idea, finding someone she hadn't expected to see ever again. It was strange to feel so alone when she wasn't. After claiming a room for herself, she begins looking through the extra clothing on the first floor -- quickly making a mess as she makes two piles: one of anything with black and one without. Looking for something that wasn't the burgundy dress that she could move and run in.

Scrutinizing an oversized sweatshirt, she's so focused on trying to figure out if it's blue or black that she doesn't realize she's not alone right away, jumping slightly as she reflexively shifts into a more defensive position on the floor before exhaling and shifting the piles so it's a little less of an explosive mess. ]

I-I'll put it all back when I'm done.

[ She can also be found exploring the kitchen and opening and closing the fridge way too many times and later settling at the large table with some paper and a pen, starting on a letter she'll likely never be able to send. Just in case. Absentmindedly, she traces over the now nonexistent scar on the palm of her left hand as she thinks. If he ever joined her here, she wanted to make sure she hadn't left anything out. She keeps up this routine almost every day, alternating between writing and sketching -- line art of the buildings she's found or mini-maps of the streets. Anything to keep her mind occupied. ]

Wildcard.

[ There's a lot of things and places in town that will be firsts for her, so please feel free to find her staring at something modern with a look of confusion or sketching a stag with extremely large antlers and lineworks of some of the buildings in town, or zoned out while clutching a bloody piece of fabric. Otherwise, feel free to PM this journal if there's anything you'd like specifically. ]

♔ i. ghosts of the living

[ Billy doesn't have much time to assess anything before the fog creeps up on him. Though if he's being honest with himself, he's not really at his best right now, mentally or physically. He's pulled himself through some shit in Iraq and Afghanistan - no matter how bad it got, he knew how to keep his head clear and his eyes alert - but not like this. Not when he's not sure how he's even still whole, or alive, and he feels the screaming pain in his face and his body.

All he wants is to find a place to take shelter, to take stock of his injuries (of which there are more than he cares to count), and maybe even take a damn shower. He feels like he just stepped off the set of a Tarantino movie. But then the fog rolls in, and Billy doesn't even try to censor himself as he lets out a string of curses

Even squinting through the fog hurts. Billy thinks he saw a house or something directly in front of him. He walks, expecting to run into it, but it never happens. He should've run into something by now, right? And if he keeps walking, will he ever find something to make him stop? He wishes he had something on him. A gun or a knife would make him feel a hell of a lot better. This is the perfect set up for an ambush. He knows that because he'd do it, too, and the moment Billy sees a figure walking through the fog then he's sure he's right.

But the figure keeps walking. Billy cautiously follows, until he sees another, and another, and he's sure he's being set up. ]

Come on, you son of a bitch. [ He holds out his arms to the phantom figure lurking in the fog. ] Don't be a fuckin' coward.

♔ ii. a bit of exploration

[ Billy's broken into a house. It's empty, of course, which is for the best because it might not have ended well for the residents of it if they were there. With the door locked behind him and the house cased, he lets himself rest, passing out on the couch for how long he doesn't know. It's a nightmare that finally makes him jolt awake.

He hisses as the pain from his wounds comes screaming back to him. He thinks he needs a doctor. He thinks he needs a shower and to change out of these clothes, which are crusty with dried blood. The shower is brutal. Billy isn't kind to himself, blasting it as hot as the water will go. He holds himself up against the wall and watches until the water stops running red. On his way out of the bathroom, he spares himself a quick glance in the mirror and he grimaces. Somehow it's not as bad as he thought. Where there should be open, gaping wounds, and a face shredded by glass, his face is peppered with healing scars. He almost wishes it was as bad as it should be. He'd prefer to look like ground beef than have a constant reminder of what he's supposed to look like.

There's some clothes he finds that aren't a bad fit for him. A pair of worn out jeans and a t-shirt and a flannel. He laces up the boots he arrived with and grabs a letter opener off a table near the door, slips it into his boot, and heads out.

Maybe you run into him as he's leaving the house. Otherwise, he finds himself gravitating to the library and the bookstore. When shit seems like it's hitting the fan, sometimes all you need is a good book to read to try and calm you down. And Billy really feels like he needs some calm. ]

♔ iii. to see and be seen

[ Can't go wrong with town halls. By now, Billy's learned that wherever the hell he is, it isn't New York. That's not a bad thing, when he stops to think about it, but that doesn't mean he feels safe, either. The sort of people he's pissed off have resources to hunt him down. He knows how they'd do it because he'd do the same. But a town hall might at least have some answers, or be the place where Billy can connect with the other residents.

He's seen them around. His own paranoia makes him avoid them when he can, eyes constantly moving to make sure he's aware of his surroundings at all times. He wants to limit conversations until he gets a better feel for what's going on.

At the bulletin board, Billy's relieved to see he doesn't recognize any of the names. The more he glances at it, the more he comes to think that someone like him might be able to make a good impression on the town. He's a useful guy. He's a survivalist, and, reading these notes, it looks like that's what everyone's trying to do. Survive and get by. Billy can help with that, provided people are willing to look past his looks now.

That's when he sees it between the notices. Maybe it says too much about Billy, the way his brain automatically assumes that anything in red must be blood. He leans into look better, to see if his suspicions are right, but as soon as he actually gets a glimpse of the eye, he steps back. Billy doesn't like feeling perceived. His paranoia spikes as he looks around. Just because he can't see someone doesn't mean they're not there. ]

♔ iv. wildcard

Choose your own adventure. Any locations across town are up for run-ins, or if any of these prompts don't float your boat and you wanna do your own thing, that's cool, too.

ghosts of the living.

[ Nothing says "things are probably going to be fine" like waking up who-knows-where (nevermind the fact that he doesn't sleep), outdoors even though there are buildings well within range, and also there's extremely thick fog everywhere and it's filled with wandering ghosts. To say nothing for what he'd call a notable lack of the usual extent of his angelic power.

Aziraphale is quietly, tidily, weighing the pros and cons of losing his whole mind.

He was looking forward to opening his shop and hopefully not getting any customers, and certainly not selling anything if at all possible. Lunch with Crowley. That sort of thing. Home things. So this was already a less than ideal situation. And then there's... all the rest of this.

Aziraphale can't sense ghosts, per se. This is mostly to do with the fact that last he checked, ghosts weren't real. Souls, the spirit, absolutely. Angels, demons, yes, got a decent handle on picking up on those. Some certain entities, he saw the proof himself, very extant.

None of those descriptors apply.

Human-but-not. Here-but-gone. Very purgatorial. The first one that he encounters up close and personal instead of as a vague distant shape, it feels like getting punched. ]

Oh. Oh, you poor thing. [ He's required by law as a big sap to feel awful about it. There could not be more sympathy packed into his tone if he tried.

His next requirement by law is to feel guilty about the fact that he can't do anything to help them, after he probably spends more time than he should trying to do just that. ]

exploration.

[ Exploration is a bold word to use for "enters buildings out of necessity because the fog is starting to do a number on him physically, which he's never had happen in his life." Still, why not. It technically counts. He gets more familiar as he goes along, after all.

He doesn't tend to stick around places longer than it takes him to get his momentum back, mostly in the spirit of all the familiarizing he's trying to do. Clothing shop here, halfway house there, distillery that way, etc. The toy store, he actually takes more of a breather at despite the upped creepiness factor. The thing about very quaint, handmade items that speak of devotion to craft is that they tend to feel well-loved whether they're sold or not. That's always a vibe he's into.

Ultimately he settles himself in for a longer haul at Benedict Books, where he just plain feels the most comfortable. Doesn't even compare to his shop and collection, frankly, but he supposes he wasn't expecting it to. He's had the benefit of a very, very long time to put things together by comparison, surely.

And it isn't... it isn't completely awful, as long as he refuses to think about anything about it that may or may not be awful. Which out of every skill he's ever learned is probably the one he's best at.

Foreboding and vaguely supernatural, is all. He'll get used to it.

This is where he can mostly be found, for hours on end, basically puttering around looking at everything on the shelves. Maybe trying to clean up a bit, where he can.

Pretty much no matter where he's at on his dumbass walking holiday, Aziraphale is pretty given to polite greetings and amenable to conversation, if a little distracted. ]

to see and be seen.

[ Aziraphale is no stranger to the anxiety and paranoia that naturally go hand in hand with feeling watched. In fact, after 6,000 years of definitive authority to answer to, it might be safe to say that he knows those feelings better than he knows any others.

(There's love to consider, of course, seeing as he was very definitely made for that, but love often feels like less of a thing that he knows and more like a thing he happens to do.)

Even knowing he's officially been cut loose, as it were, and it's not something he would've had to necessarily worry about going forward, it's a very old habit to break. He hardly even notices. Until, you know. He does notice, while he's distractedly scanning over notecards and the map and whatnot, because it's not his usual self-generated Brand of watched-ness.

Sourcing it out takes a minute, despite the fact that he was literally looking at the board. Aziraphale looks up towards the ceiling for a long few moments first, then down at the floor, frowning. And that doesn't get him anywhere, obviously. It's practically an accident that he sees the whole "sigil painted in human blood" situation, which he notes with: an offended gasp.

The symbol's not familiar to him offhand. But his offense stands. ]

How lovely. [ Aziraphale mainly sounds dry and put out. The things he has to deal with without any forewarning, smh. He helped stop an apocalypse only to end up in this mess. Disastrous. ] The occult.

[ It's just uncalled for. Whatever happened to common decency? ]

Ghosts of the Living

[ The bright red glow that emanates from the center of Steve's chest does nothing to help him with his surroundings; it kicks the reflection back in his face, making hardly a dent in the thick fog that's chilling him to the bone. The cold is already eating away at his bad knees and old joints with each cautious step forward.

Every time a shadow—a person maybe? Or, a lamppost—begins forming in the distance, it's quickly snuffed out like a desert mirage. ]

Someone there?

[ And no matter how many times he's called out, nothing has ever answered him. ]

A Bit of Exploration

General Store
[ After what felt like a lifetime, he finds himself closing in on a general store. He's cautious at first, his steps slowing to a crawl, but the dark spot in his vision does not disappear this time. It grows larger, fleshing out into detail as if a photo was being developed right in front of his eyes.

Then, finally, his hand touches glass. Real glass. He opens one of the doors and steps in, blinking back the harsh fluorescent light that cuts through the dark fog. Everything inside is bathed in a stark glow, every item neatly placed on the shelves, and no one in sight. ]

Hello? [ As expected, Steve gets no response. So he walks between the aisles, picking up the first box he sees—a brand of cereal he doesn't recognize with a goofy cartoon mascot painted on the front. ] I'd like to pay for this!

[ Anything? ]

Right Round Records
[ Now this is something Steve can get lost in. He's flipping through every sleeve crammed in the boxes labelled "Jazz." Plenty are unfamiliar to him, but some he knows well and are alarmingly expensive. ]

I'm gonna have to remember to save my collection...

[ He might be able to make a killing in a couple of decades. Once he exhausts that genre, he moves on to "Rock," which is not at all what he remembers. ]

1- GHOSTS OF THE LIVING

Tai is one of the unfortunate ones left outside in the blinding fog. What's worse is he had barely had any bearings to begin with. This place is new and unfamiliar, and now he's lost his line of sight to where he had thought he might have seen a building before this strange weather rolled in. He continues in what he thinks is that direction, regardless, as it quickly becomes apparent that staying out in the fog may not be the best idea. Though it also doesn't take long for him to wonder if he's completely lost track of whatever building he'd thought he saw.

A short-lived sense of relief washes over him as he spots another person, only to realise that it isn't a person. It both looks and feels different from that, in a way that might make him hesitate to get any closer, if not for how much this figure looks like-

"Ben?"

Tai's eyes go wide with puzzled recognition. Others who knew this face in the fog might have known him as Kylo Ren, but that isn't a name Tai has ever heard. He'd known him before all that, and certainly before... whatever this is. If that really is Ben somehow, then what happened to him? Why is he this ghost-like figure, when Tai, against all odds, seems to be flesh and blood?

The figure shows no indication of having heard Tai address him, walking off into the fog. Tai can't help but follow, inadvisable or not, hoping for answers.

"Wait! Ben!"

2- TO SEE AND BE SEEN

The notes on the bulletin board are an enlightening look into the life of this place. He's not expecting the sense of relief he feels when he finds the one written in familiar Aurebesh text, and he finds himself wondering who here might have written it. He may need to ask around.

It's about when he gets to the painting of an eye that he starts to feel something amiss in this room. He's being watched. His first impulse is to search in the Force for who and where and why, but his senses are muddier here than they ever had been at home, and he comes up with empty answers. Failing that, he looks around for any sign of who or what he might be feeling, scanning for eyes on him, other than the one painted on the board.

The only other person around doesn't seem focused on him, and he expects the answer is still elsewhere, though it's difficult to be certain.

"Hello," he starts politely, "did you need something?" If it turns out this was the person who had been watching him, maybe there's a simple reason. He can hope.

3- WILDCARD

He'll be generally exploring and trying to get his bearings here, so if you have other thoughts about where to run into him, toss them at me.

Edited 2021-05-18 22:36 (UTC)

A BIT OF EXPLORATION

[ It's been years since he's had a twisted work dream. Even then the worst that ever happened was double-booking a public school's visit through the national park. Oh, or that time restrictions were enforced for collecting razor clams, and the public practically rioted.

But since the winds changed one late summer and brought two priests to their quiet Nachburn Island, his nights have been restless and eerie. This, however, is a new low for Peter. Unable to wake up and too spooked to wander back into the fog in the hopes of a way out, he finds an empty, rustic restaurant, the Grey Gull.

Just like everywhere else, no one's around to answer his calls, so he decides to break a few rules. Walking behind the cluttered bar, Peter helps himself to a bottle of moonshine and a dusty glass. Dream or not, he's going to spend his time getting lit until he wakes up or someone finds him.

The table he settles at faces the door. It's the best advantage point as he slides out another chair to rest one leg on. Unfortunately, the windows turn the foggy outside into a terrarium of horror as dark figures suddenly appear behind the glass, black hands knocking against it with a soft thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Peter pours himself a drink and chokes it down in order to calm his racing heart. ]

[OOC: Some information about her is here.]

➤ GHOSTS OF THE LIVING.
Zoey’s pretty sure she stepped through the fucking looking glass. Because this is not where she had been just a moment ago, when she’d leapt off her motorbike and gone racing into her dad’s flat looking for him, her satchel clanking and rattling as she ran.

But now she’s here. Wherever here IS. She had just enough time to see a town and the forest surrounding her before the fog rolled in. Rolled in from the forest itself which seems wrong in a deeply visceral way. Before she can do more than pick a direction she’s enveloped in it, her skin crawling in warning.

Fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK.

She can’t stay here. With the way her skins crawls and how on edge she feels... she can’t stay here. So she starts moving, with a quick prayer to the fucking gods that she’s going the right direction. She can’t see much of ANYTHING, so it’s a crapshoot.

It’s disorienting, and she loses track of where she is, of how long she’s even been IN the fog. She’s wandering. She’s lost. She thinks she’s headed toward the town? But she’s not sure. Not until she hits concrete, stumbling a little.

“Fuck, I’m dizzy,” she mutters under her breath, trying to gather herself and push past the dizziness, the light-headedness, the nausea turning her stomach. To keep moving. Find somewhere she can take shelter in.

There’s movement, off to her right, and she pivots sharply, reaching for a dagger that isn’t there anymore. “Fuck!” Someone took her weapons. It must have been when she arrived here because she had them in her dad’s flat. Not that that’s ever stopped her. Keen ice-blue eyes search the fog, to try and find whatever it is she thinks she saw. Knows she saw. Is pretty sure she saw. She doesn’t feel right so maybe it’s all in her head after all.

But she’s still feeling on edge. Uneasy. If her skin was prickling in warning before it’s practically SHOUTING with how intense the prickles are. Something is very, very wrong with this place.

“Who’s there?”

➤ A BIT OF EXPLORATION.
Well, it doesn’t look like she’s leaving any time soon, so she might as well explore. Learn a little more about where the fuck she is. (Where she is, is apparently a town called Mathias. Which tells her nothing.) Gather supplies. Map the place out. Find somewhere to call home for the moment. So she can settle in and try to figure out what the fuck is wrong with her powers. Some of it is still in working order, her skin still prickles in warning, she still knows little things before they happen... but her visions have been nothing but fog and blood and darkness and danger. Which tells her NOTHING. And yes, sometimes her visions are vague but never... like this. Never this... fucking useless.

It’s frustrating, and she can’t help but wonder if it’s something Mathias has done to her. Which makes her wonder about Mathias itself. What IS it? Is it some sort of genius loci? A town lost in time, removed from the rest of the world? And how did they all end up here?

There’s nothing she can do about it right now, though, so she explores. Pokes around. Despite the fog. She makes a point to spend as little time as possible out in it, moving from building to building like a wraith.

She starts with places like Poe’s Clothes and the General Store, looking for supplies and a few changes of clothes since she’s going to need them.

Then it’s the school house. It’s smaller than Zoey’s used to, but she takes the time to explore its rooms thoroughly. Looking over the school books, it’s interesting. There are science books with signs of use in a lab... but no lab in the school. Yet one more piece of Mathias that doesn’t make sense.

The Grey Gull follows, and she can’t help but hop over the bar to pour herself a drink from... one of the bottles that she’s pretty sure is moonshine. She downs the finger she poured herself and coughs. “Oh yeah, that’s moonshine.” And then she pours herself another glass before setting it down and hopping on top of the bar to perch on the edge of it.

The Historical Society is next, and thankfully she has a flashlight in her bag because it looks like the electricity is out. There’s no order to anything, but she looks for a while, trying to see if she can find anything of interest. There’s no real order to the newspapers either, but there are a few dating back to the 1800s. She notices a pattern as she looks through the newspapers, too. None of them are produced in Mathias itself. She doesn’t know if it means anything. But it’s interesting.

She ends with the library. Both because books, and because it’s a good way to find out about somewhere you’ve found yourself. Particularly when it’s weird as shit like Mathias is. She makes her way past the books at the front – nothing published after 1990. Interesting; there were newspapers that were older – and keeps going until she reaches the leather-bound tomes, the familiar smell of old books filling the air, and begins searching through them.

The burnt bit at the back of the library is interesting, too. And weird. Was it set on purpose? Was there something in these books that needed to be burned? While that is a very good question, and something she’s curious about... but it’s the hole in the floor and passageway leading to a stairwell that draws her attention more immediately.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” she murmurs thoughtfully. Does she dare go down it?

[OOC: feel free to find her at any of the places mentioned or anywhere in between.]

➤ TO SEE AND BE SEEN.
The town hall gives Zoey the creeps. This TOWN gives Zoey the creeps. The sort that usually tends to lead to portents and blood. (And death. Sometimes death.) There have been moments where she’s wanted to crawl out of her bloody skin. As it is she’s tense and on edge, the itch of restless energy eating at her. But she doesn’t leave. There’s no point, since the entire fucking town is creepy as shit.

So instead she stands at the bulletin board, reading the notes and things that have been stuck to it. Committing the bits of information that have been posted there to memory (as well as jotting them down in a journal. Just in case this place fucks with her head).

There’s something under the bits of paper, though. A symbol. Something that makes her skin crawl a little as she leans in to take a closer look. To try and figure out what the symbol is. And as if it KNOWS she’s looking, a strange breeze ruffles the papers, revealing a little bit more. Letting her see what it is that’s painted there.

An eye. It’s an eye. An ornate, three-lobed eye painted in still-wet red... And the moment she draws closer, almost reaches out to touch it there’s the coppery taste of blood on her tongue. And she immediately jerks her hand back. Painted in blood. “Fuck.” She knows that symbol. How could she not, with what she grew up reading.

Why the fuck is it here? What does it mean, that it’s painted on the bulletin board? Does He have his eye on this place? Nothing good can come of this symbol being here if it means what she thinks it means. No matter what form He’s in.

The sensation of being watching, of being studied with great interest crawls along her skin, in time with a sharp prickle of warning, and Zoey turns, slowly, warily. There’s nothing there, as far as she can see, but the feeling doesn’t ease. In fact it intensifies. The desire to run, to try and escape whatever it is that’s watching her (and she thinks she knows. She’s afraid she knows), is intense, but she forces herself to stay. To finish writing down all of the information that’s been shared on the bulletin board.

And then she draws the eye symbol, making a note of where she found it. In case she finds it again.

➤ WILDCARD.
[Choose your own adventure!]

A. GHOSTS OF THE LIVING

She keeps her hand on her holster as she makes her way up through the fog from the beach. Yeah, it's empty. Yeah, it's a useless motion. But there's some comfort in it still, the conditioned idea that she has stopping power at her hip. Rachel is well aware of that she's clinging to a security blanket in the light of this strangeness, and that's the only thing that gets her to drop her hand to her side when she sees the first shape of a person in the fog.

"Hello? Can you tell me where we are?"

She pitches her voice calm and even, with just a hint of authority. The person walks away, or starts to, and Rachel takes a quick step forward--

But they're gone. Under her breath, she murmurs, "What the hell?"

It's all she can do not to touch her holster again as she moves further into town. A look through the window of the little place called The Grey Gull shows her there's no one inside. But there are more shapes in the fog. People. But... not. They don't respond to her, don't even seem to acknowledge her, and they wander like phantoms through the street.

Most of them have the faces of strangers.

Almost all of them, in fact.

Save two.

She's starting to feel ill. Dizzy. Disoriented. For a moment she's not sure how long she's been out on this little street to nowhere, whether she's been there for five minutes or five hours. Rachel staggers slightly, catching herself against a mailbox and watching in horrified fascination as Raylan rambles by, his face scarred in a way that's totally unfamiliar, eyes vacant.

"What the hell," she whispers again. If this is a dream, she wants to wake up.

[ She can be found wandering the road getting increasingly more disoriented, sheltering inside of one of the stores in the square, or pretty much anywhere else! ]

☆ i. ghosts of the living

[ Fedyor's face is set into a grim look. It's not an expression that normally sits on his face, but he has little reason to be cheerful. The betrayal he feels is bad enough. Had Nina felt something so horrible that she thought the only place to turn was into the arms of an enemy? Perhaps she never regarded her fellow Grisha with any loyalty at all (though Fedyor can't bring himself to fully believe that, because while Nina is very gifted, surely she couldn't have fooled all of them so easily). Worse than all of that, really, is returning empty handed.

Fedyor has no doubt he will spent the entirely of the journey home rehearsing what to say. He must brace himself for the displeasure of the General as he admits to his failure. There was no Nina to bring back, and no Fjerden, either. The shame would cloud his reputation for weeks, at least.

Except that it would seem that fate is keen on giving him more to worry about.

The town he finds himself in is unlike anything he's really seen before, and Fedyor considers himself to be as worldly as one from Ravka can be. Diplomacy and charm comes easy to him, and, as such, he's always been sent abroad when needed. But this is something else all together. Fedyor is too caught up in gaping at his surroundings to notice the fog. It rolls in quick and unrelenting until even the red of his kefta isn't noticeable through the dense wall of mist. It's disorienting. Despite himself, Fedyor feels a rise of panic start to build inside of him as he pivots on his heel to try and recall where he was. The feat is easier said than done when it comes to a town one already has no bearing in.

He tells himself he's going to be fine. He's a soldier, after all, he's been through many things worse than a fog. It almost works. It's not until he tries to turn his gifts on himself and finds nothing pulling at him that the panic starts to bubble over. No, not panic. Nausea, perhaps, or just an overwhelming feeling of something not being right, building upon all the horrible things already stirring his emotions.

Fortunately, he sees someone - he thinks, he hopes - passing by, silhouetted against the thick mist.

Wait -

☆ ii. a bit of exploration

[ It is evident by now that this is not some fever dream. Fedyor takes it all with a grain of salt, because there's no point in fretting about it. He still doesn't feel quite right. The pull that he feels to things as a hearteender is there but weak, and Fedyor finds himself glad that all Grisha must learn combat training, and that his kefta is bulletproof. He feels too vulnerable without the small science at his side.

But he is also a curious man, keen on learning histories and legends and what places are like. It seems to him that the best thing to do is to explore what the town has to offer. It will soothe his worries and serve a purpose, as well.

There's plenty to see, and a lot of it is strange and fascinating, but Fedyor finds himself at the gallery. He's drawn in by the pictures hanging on the walls. They depict a life so different than the one he's known, but, more often than not, he finds himself looking at the picture of the cliff opening into darkness. That, he thinks, is something almost familiar, and it doesn't inspire warmth inside him.

But if you don't catch Fedyor at the gallery, then it's likely you will see him in the public library. He's not surprised to find himself there, for where else can one learn about a place? He starts at the front of the library, for that makes most sense to him, pulling books at random that seem interesting or education or simply strange. As the days go by, he continues to venture further, finding a simple pleasure in the musty, leather books. Fedyor is hard to miss where he sits with his books, clad in crimson and looking studios as he pours over the words on the pages.

☆ iii. wildcard

Choose your own adventure. Anything goes, from locations to prompts in this TDM, so go ham.

1- ghosts of the living

[ Katrina emerges from the water in a strange new place, and knows right away to find clothes to wear. The tail she shed is tossed back into the water, and she stalks naked into to the crates strewn around, not opposed to walking into a store to find what she needs.

As luck would have it, she finds things that fit in the first crate she checks, and heads into town to explore, as the fog begins to slide in.

The ghosts she sees are of Ryn and her beloved human mates. Katrina hisses, makes a battle cry, and lunges at them once or twice before she realizes they're spirits. This only serves to make her angrier.

The target of her rage is a window in a nearby store. She slams her fist into it, easily shattering the glass. The shards cut her skin, and she hisses sharply at the pain, but it was worth it. She must be in some kind of hell, some afterlife of torment. Of course it's a humanlike place.

The pain in her hand won't stop her from attacking the next human-looking figure she sees, though. Is everyone here a ghost? She'll find out if she can shove them. ]

2- a bit of exploration: the grey gull

[ It reminds her a little of The Anchor, or what The Anchor would look like if the humans of Bristol Cove were to all leave and never return. (Or die off. She's not picky.) Katrina heads into the back, looking for food, and is rewarded with fresh fish.

Which she will absolutely tear into raw, grabbing it with her hands and just biting into it. She'll rip off the head, sure, and tear off the inedible bits, but by and large she looks feral doing this.

She'll wander out to the bar when she's done and take an experimental sniff and drink of moonshine. Good thing she picked a bottle with only a little left, because she finds the taste repellent enough that she throws the bottle to the ground, hissing at it as the glass shatters.

Are we sensing a theme here. ~~It wasn't intentional but here we are.~~ ]

3- to see and be seen

[ Katrina is the one watching you.

The whole thing screams "trap" to her, a clever trick to catch stupid prey. Katrina, though, is not stupid. She is not soft, like Ryn.

When the papers rustle, or if you've been staring at something else long enough, Katrina steps out of the shadows and hisses at you, but less aggressively than most other times. She's making an assessment, rather than immediately deciding to attack. It's... as nice as she's going to be in a first meeting.

It's something. ]

[ ooc: feel free to wildcard at me if you want! ]

Threaded | Flat

QUESTIONS?

Diego Hargreeves (the umbrella academy)

Tim Gutterson | Justified | cw: Tim's language

Parker | Leverage

Callisto | Xena: Warrior Princess

Wynonna Earp | Wynonna Earp (S1)