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countryclub2022-09-25 09:57 pm
reddosmod) wrote in countryclub2022-09-25 09:57 pm
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SEPTEMBER TEST DRIVE MEME!
SEPTEMBER 2022 TDM
STANDARD ARRIVAL
A FADED MEMORY
FRIEND OR FOE
CODING
Another month, another test drive meme! Our test drive memes are open to anyone interested - regardless of whether or not you join our game!
All Test Drive Memes are game canon. Players can choose to keep their TDM threads canon or not. TDM threads can be used for AC and can be used as your writing sample for your application.
Our TDMs serve as a way to build into the actual lore and worldbuilding of Deer Country and we strongly encourage everyone to enjoy and participate! Current players are always welcome to pull prompts from the TDM to reference on the Network or bring into logs as well as tag out to new characters top-leveling on the TDM itself.
Characters will always be able to actively die during TDMs as this is an extremely dangerous world. You can still have this be game canon! Check out how character death in Deer Country works here.
If you have any questions about the TDM, please ask down below!
IMAGE DESCRIPTORS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE
Prompt One
[Image One: Bread Cornucopia filled with fruits and veggies]
[Image Two: Creepy glass eye embedded in sand]
Prompt Two
[Image One: A Lone Lighthouse by night]
[Image Two: Ghost Ship in dilapidated condition]
Prompt Three
[Image One: Wasps, Wasp Nest made from human Mask screaming terror, swirling eddies in wasp Nest]
[Image Two: Horribly mutilated Cenobite in Latex gear with exposed teeth]
All Test Drive Memes are game canon. Players can choose to keep their TDM threads canon or not. TDM threads can be used for AC and can be used as your writing sample for your application.
Our TDMs serve as a way to build into the actual lore and worldbuilding of Deer Country and we strongly encourage everyone to enjoy and participate! Current players are always welcome to pull prompts from the TDM to reference on the Network or bring into logs as well as tag out to new characters top-leveling on the TDM itself.
Characters will always be able to actively die during TDMs as this is an extremely dangerous world. You can still have this be game canon! Check out how character death in Deer Country works here.
If you have any questions about the TDM, please ask down below!
Prompt One
[Image One: Bread Cornucopia filled with fruits and veggies]
[Image Two: Creepy glass eye embedded in sand]
Prompt Two
[Image One: A Lone Lighthouse by night]
[Image Two: Ghost Ship in dilapidated condition]
Prompt Three
[Image One: Wasps, Wasp Nest made from human Mask screaming terror, swirling eddies in wasp Nest]
[Image Two: Horribly mutilated Cenobite in Latex gear with exposed teeth]
WHEN: First Week of September
WHERE: The Farther Shores/The Boardwalk, Koz's Orphanage
CONTENT WARNINGS: Creepy Prosthetics buried in the sand
WHERE: The Farther Shores/The Boardwalk, Koz's Orphanage
CONTENT WARNINGS: Creepy Prosthetics buried in the sand
On some level, you are one of the fortunate ones. The storms of August are now a distant memory. It is the waning of the Blood Moon and the tempestuous state of the Beast Moon this year is fading finally while the harvest is being collected. Sleepers arriving find no particular difficulty in actually reaching the shores for the most part, and transformations back into their natural state of being are relatively easy.
They are met by happy Trenchies and fellow Sleepers with robes of white and their bags as normal, and motioned towards the waiting tents set up along the
What is strange, however, is that when Sleepers arrive, they may find their eyes drawn to something disturbing amongst the sand. Water washes with the waves and tide, and reveals a body part! They are always prosthetics of some variety, and many are glass eyes that eerily stare at the person. They can be retrieved with some ease, though they're in bad need of cleaning. Perhaps they belong to someone in town? If not, however, asking around will get a suggestion to bring those to Koz's Orphange in Crenshaw. They have a Lost and Found there, and it is the season of finding what and who is lost. If they do, they might catch a glimpse of Koz floating mournfully through the area, and one of the children will gratefully take the item, saying that they will add it to the rest of the Lost and Found, before coming back with a photo in hand. "Here, I found this, and I think it might be yours?" The photo is, indeed, of the giver and someone from their past. Perhaps it is an actual photo taken, or one they cannot remember having been taken. Regardless, it is offered to them in a cheap wooden frame. How it got there, the orphan does not know. It was probably there when they arrived.
SEASONAL DETAILS ON THE BOARDWALK
The Boardwalk is quite the spectacle this time of year, and those who were here the prior year will remember many of the decorations and festivities. Pumpkins have been stacked on spikes lining the Boardwalk with grotesquely realistic carvings of faces decorated on them. Massive white linen has been hung in the air to look like ghosts floating back and forth against the ocean wind.
Delicious smells waft from the Boardwalk as fresh donuts, candied apples, and hot apple cider are sold at every other booth, along with complementary cornucopias given to each new Sleeper made out of bread that has fruits of all varieties but always seems to have a small jar of the favorite fruit, seed, vegetable (or even meat) of the person receiving it. If asked where it is from, the Sleepers shrug and say "The Orphans took up a collection to give a welcoming gift to new arrivals." If what is in the jar is eaten by the person given it, it will help to ease their mind and give them a calm that can last up to a week as they acclimate.
Preparations are in order for this year's Black Parade. An annual celebration, it is promoted among the excited locals as something that people can participate in. Face Painting booths and costumes are available to those who wish them, with the statement by the Trenchies, "We do it to disguise ourselves from roaming spirits and hungry beasts."
What is strange, however, is that when Sleepers arrive, they may find their eyes drawn to something disturbing amongst the sand. Water washes with the waves and tide, and reveals a body part! They are always prosthetics of some variety, and many are glass eyes that eerily stare at the person. They can be retrieved with some ease, though they're in bad need of cleaning. Perhaps they belong to someone in town? If not, however, asking around will get a suggestion to bring those to Koz's Orphange in Crenshaw. They have a Lost and Found there, and it is the season of finding what and who is lost. If they do, they might catch a glimpse of Koz floating mournfully through the area, and one of the children will gratefully take the item, saying that they will add it to the rest of the Lost and Found, before coming back with a photo in hand. "Here, I found this, and I think it might be yours?" The photo is, indeed, of the giver and someone from their past. Perhaps it is an actual photo taken, or one they cannot remember having been taken. Regardless, it is offered to them in a cheap wooden frame. How it got there, the orphan does not know. It was probably there when they arrived.
The Boardwalk is quite the spectacle this time of year, and those who were here the prior year will remember many of the decorations and festivities. Pumpkins have been stacked on spikes lining the Boardwalk with grotesquely realistic carvings of faces decorated on them. Massive white linen has been hung in the air to look like ghosts floating back and forth against the ocean wind.
Delicious smells waft from the Boardwalk as fresh donuts, candied apples, and hot apple cider are sold at every other booth, along with complementary cornucopias given to each new Sleeper made out of bread that has fruits of all varieties but always seems to have a small jar of the favorite fruit, seed, vegetable (or even meat) of the person receiving it. If asked where it is from, the Sleepers shrug and say "The Orphans took up a collection to give a welcoming gift to new arrivals." If what is in the jar is eaten by the person given it, it will help to ease their mind and give them a calm that can last up to a week as they acclimate.
Preparations are in order for this year's Black Parade. An annual celebration, it is promoted among the excited locals as something that people can participate in. Face Painting booths and costumes are available to those who wish them, with the statement by the Trenchies, "We do it to disguise ourselves from roaming spirits and hungry beasts."
WHEN: Mid October
WHERE: In Swimming distance (Barely) of the Farther Shores
CONTENT WARNINGS: Ghostly Ship & Lighthouse, Threat of Corruption, Remains of Ghastly Murder and Dismembered Corpse
WHERE: In Swimming distance (Barely) of the Farther Shores
CONTENT WARNINGS: Ghostly Ship & Lighthouse, Threat of Corruption, Remains of Ghastly Murder and Dismembered Corpse
It is by accident that your eyes chance to look towards the Farther Shores. There, you happen to see a lighthouse, but you know for certain that it cannot be the lighthouse that is normally there and manned by the fishermen. You can't usually see that from this angle. The moment that you see it, a feeling of mounting dread falls upon you, and you realize that there is no light in the lighthouse. Though the compulsion to investigate can be resisted, there is an almost overwhelming urge to go, to investigate, to re-ignite the flame before it is too late!
The question is getting out there. The fishermen, when the lighthouse is mentioned, will make warding gestures and look terrified. All will resolutely refuse to sail out, muttering incomprehensible curses and lashing their boats securely to the shore. There will be no fishing tonight. The lighthouse, from the docks and shores, is out in the water on a rocky outcrop that nobody remembers being there, though any Trenchy asked will pale at the mention. The only way to get out there is to swim. It is a hard, dangerous swim, but the tide is coming in, rather than going out, so the riptide is not pulling down. It can be done, or a raft can be hastily made. When clambering up the stone steps to the lone lighthouse, it is apparent its door is ajar. And within? Horror awaits.
The insides of the tower are caked in viscuous, green blood. The Lighthouse itself is barely standing. It looks as if a thunderous, colossal fist has battered it repeatedly, the building nearly collapsing at every step. It does not actually break apart, but those who ascend the steps find themselves fighting not to slip on old, caked and thick blood that smells of roses. The contact with the blood isn't doing anything good to the person's sanity and hallucinations of the screams of the dying can be heard, along with shrieks of "What is it?" at the top of someone's voice. An increase in corruption is possible here, though not required. The more one contacts the blood, the greater the risk is. In the top of the lighthouse, dismembered, skeletal remains lay in gobs of what may once have been flesh. One of them holds desperately a torch in their hand, and there is a lighter present. One look out into the night will see a great vessel approaching, broken, its sails tattered and ruined. there is little time, and hopefully the lighter works!
The moment the torch lights the lamp in the lighthouse, the ship veers away from a collision course that would have destroyed the lighthouse and likely the flimsy rock outcropping on which it stood. Shades of dead sailors stare in horror at those who man the lighthouse today, the ship sailing away into the night. All are pointing beyond, and if you look over your shoulder, you can barely see a collosal figure in shadow walking into the town beyond, seemingly confused and wailing. Nothing further happens, and when the people in the lighthouse reach shore again, they will find upon turning back that it is gone, as is the outcropping, though a close inspection does see the remains of a shallow of stone there where the island once stood.
Note: The Ghost ship cannot be interacted with. If someone has the ability to reach it, they will pass through it only to realize it is nothing more than a memory in the land. Fragments of rotted wood and broken masonry can be found in the water below, covered in countless barnacles. Nothing within them shows any proof of what once transpired. There is a risk of corruption from blood exposure, though this is very much up to the players if they wish to incorporate it.
No Trenchy will willingly speak of what transpired, though a careful investigation at the Pale Sanctuary may find a tome among the sacred texts associated with Cloverfield. Reading from it, one might find a forgotten marking that the first sighting of Cloverfield, long ago, saw the collapse of the original lighthouse. No Disciple recalls the incident, and none will speak of it.
The question is getting out there. The fishermen, when the lighthouse is mentioned, will make warding gestures and look terrified. All will resolutely refuse to sail out, muttering incomprehensible curses and lashing their boats securely to the shore. There will be no fishing tonight. The lighthouse, from the docks and shores, is out in the water on a rocky outcrop that nobody remembers being there, though any Trenchy asked will pale at the mention. The only way to get out there is to swim. It is a hard, dangerous swim, but the tide is coming in, rather than going out, so the riptide is not pulling down. It can be done, or a raft can be hastily made. When clambering up the stone steps to the lone lighthouse, it is apparent its door is ajar. And within? Horror awaits.
The insides of the tower are caked in viscuous, green blood. The Lighthouse itself is barely standing. It looks as if a thunderous, colossal fist has battered it repeatedly, the building nearly collapsing at every step. It does not actually break apart, but those who ascend the steps find themselves fighting not to slip on old, caked and thick blood that smells of roses. The contact with the blood isn't doing anything good to the person's sanity and hallucinations of the screams of the dying can be heard, along with shrieks of "What is it?" at the top of someone's voice. An increase in corruption is possible here, though not required. The more one contacts the blood, the greater the risk is. In the top of the lighthouse, dismembered, skeletal remains lay in gobs of what may once have been flesh. One of them holds desperately a torch in their hand, and there is a lighter present. One look out into the night will see a great vessel approaching, broken, its sails tattered and ruined. there is little time, and hopefully the lighter works!
The moment the torch lights the lamp in the lighthouse, the ship veers away from a collision course that would have destroyed the lighthouse and likely the flimsy rock outcropping on which it stood. Shades of dead sailors stare in horror at those who man the lighthouse today, the ship sailing away into the night. All are pointing beyond, and if you look over your shoulder, you can barely see a collosal figure in shadow walking into the town beyond, seemingly confused and wailing. Nothing further happens, and when the people in the lighthouse reach shore again, they will find upon turning back that it is gone, as is the outcropping, though a close inspection does see the remains of a shallow of stone there where the island once stood.
Note: The Ghost ship cannot be interacted with. If someone has the ability to reach it, they will pass through it only to realize it is nothing more than a memory in the land. Fragments of rotted wood and broken masonry can be found in the water below, covered in countless barnacles. Nothing within them shows any proof of what once transpired. There is a risk of corruption from blood exposure, though this is very much up to the players if they wish to incorporate it.
No Trenchy will willingly speak of what transpired, though a careful investigation at the Pale Sanctuary may find a tome among the sacred texts associated with Cloverfield. Reading from it, one might find a forgotten marking that the first sighting of Cloverfield, long ago, saw the collapse of the original lighthouse. No Disciple recalls the incident, and none will speak of it.
WHEN: Anytime in October
WHERE: At the frindges of the main districts
CONTENT WARNINGS: demonic bugs, Bug Horror, Grotesque death, Self mutilation, Bug Infestation
WHERE: At the frindges of the main districts
CONTENT WARNINGS: demonic bugs, Bug Horror, Grotesque death, Self mutilation, Bug Infestation
The first thing that alerts you to the danger is the screams. They are agonizing, gut-wrenching and full of naked horror. When traveling near the edge of any of the districts, particularly the Crenshaw district, it is possible at times to witness a truly horrifying sight. The screams, if investigated, come upon the grisly attack of a horde of not exactly wasps but closer to demonic insects swarming over a person. They shriek, their whole form shrouded by the terrible creatures as they're being stun and the things seem to be extruding some sort of substance to cocoon them while still alive to one of the trees. There is no cry for help, as the person is clearly unaware of who is there, but do you reach out to save them?
If you do not, the scene is horrific and grisly beyond reckoning. The wasps trap the hapless victim against a tree, grafting the extruded paper all over their screaming visage to form a new wasp nest before they ultimately begin crawling inside of them, devouring them from the inside out and implanting their eggs in the new 'home' created for them. It is at this time that the palpable danger may dawn upon you. The infernal bugs have not yet seen you, but they seem to be aware that there is other life around. Do you take this moment to try and beat a hasty retreat, or do you fight it out with the bugs? They can be destroyed, but only by means of abilities and powers that destroy multiples at once, such as great gouts of flame. Hopefully you have a coldblood present! Fleeing them is easier, but can you leave this person to their fate? Still, if instead you observe and take no action, eventually the bugs seem to notice you, and though they swarm near, as long as they are not attacked, they seem to do nothing.
Strange.
If, however, you try to save the victim, a very different scene plays out. The same rules apply to fight the swarm, and if you stop them short of killing their victim, you will see just who it is that you have saved. There, mutilated through self scarification and brutally altered in horrible ways that seem almost fetishistic, is one of the blood crazed zealots. Despite being weakened and badly injured, they lash out at you, their defender. The power that they wield with their blood is incredible, and they demonstrate an ability to wield it that is well documented. The only note is that no Cold-blooded Zealots are present, and so their powers are not represented this time. However, they are drained and though they pose a threat to your life, they can be killed here with a bit of care, can be resisted with great difficulty and certainly be escaped. Either way, there is no true reward for having killed them other than knowing that you have done so. Why are they here? Alone?
It is almost as if they were an advance scout, and the wasps were someone's defense against them, someone's early warning.
If you do not, the scene is horrific and grisly beyond reckoning. The wasps trap the hapless victim against a tree, grafting the extruded paper all over their screaming visage to form a new wasp nest before they ultimately begin crawling inside of them, devouring them from the inside out and implanting their eggs in the new 'home' created for them. It is at this time that the palpable danger may dawn upon you. The infernal bugs have not yet seen you, but they seem to be aware that there is other life around. Do you take this moment to try and beat a hasty retreat, or do you fight it out with the bugs? They can be destroyed, but only by means of abilities and powers that destroy multiples at once, such as great gouts of flame. Hopefully you have a coldblood present! Fleeing them is easier, but can you leave this person to their fate? Still, if instead you observe and take no action, eventually the bugs seem to notice you, and though they swarm near, as long as they are not attacked, they seem to do nothing.
Strange.
If, however, you try to save the victim, a very different scene plays out. The same rules apply to fight the swarm, and if you stop them short of killing their victim, you will see just who it is that you have saved. There, mutilated through self scarification and brutally altered in horrible ways that seem almost fetishistic, is one of the blood crazed zealots. Despite being weakened and badly injured, they lash out at you, their defender. The power that they wield with their blood is incredible, and they demonstrate an ability to wield it that is well documented. The only note is that no Cold-blooded Zealots are present, and so their powers are not represented this time. However, they are drained and though they pose a threat to your life, they can be killed here with a bit of care, can be resisted with great difficulty and certainly be escaped. Either way, there is no true reward for having killed them other than knowing that you have done so. Why are they here? Alone?
It is almost as if they were an advance scout, and the wasps were someone's defense against them, someone's early warning.
no subject
[ But his biddability mollifies her somewhat. It’s one of the few responses to great shocks she doesn’t find unbearably melodramatic, and there’s a faint, selfish relief in her slit-eyed glance back at him, like someone who has found a shortcut to an errand imposed on them.
That doesn’t last overlong. Up they climb the rocky slope to the door that hangs drunkenly on a cracked frame, the devastation some terrible force inflicted on the structure (tower) even worse up close. It looks like it’s been bombed and worse, breached by a massive body, and Woe recalls the eye-bleeding things that she washed ashore with not so long ago with an involuntary shudder.
Her hand does not hesitate on the door. She never hesitates on the threshold. It swings open, and she makes an unhappy, rippling sound, a kind of mrrp! more likely from a feline than a human being, at the wash of rose-scented blood coating the destroyed interior. ]
Eueck. [ She enunciates, quite clearly. ] Bleck! What a mess! You should be glad of those shoes - don’t touch anything with bare skin, for your own sake.
[ She promptly violates her own advice by flattening her palm in the blood on the wall, face squinching up in concentration. ]
Old blood, at least.
no subject
her shudder isn't lost, it's not so much that it extends to her feet as it extends to the outward air, the tendrils of his awareness rippling in indecision before they too decide it's shudder worthy.
shiver worthy. this is an eight. eight outta ten shivers for sure. he mirrors it in a shake of his head, caught between realizing he's holding his breath again, remembering to breathe. ah, good. it's eldritch department store perfume counter, right on cue.]
Don't worry, I'm not touching---
[that. he'd been about to say that when the woman who calls herself woe touches it, and not a fleeting fingertip touch, this is no light 'boop' as if to test the waters (horrible, it smells like an overripe, slightly rotten bouquet.)
happy anniversary, mr. enslin
love,
all your friendsr̴͖̾ò̴͚̭͍͒̚ǫ̷̩̞͖̺̅̒͋̆̒͝m̷̦̥͉͌͆͜ ̸̮̗̀͂͆̚̕͝1̷̧̡̘̻̮̜̼̽̑͗4̸̼̫͖̜́̈̋̍̋̋̀0̸̡͉̰̥̪̘̭̼̱̬̃͝8̶̻̹͇̰̘̊̃̍̓̽͊̂͜
it's a full on palm press, but there's no sound effect to accompany it, no squelch or squish because the blood is old.
old blood. old rot. ancient maybe.]
You can touch it, though.
[half a question, more observation. obviously she can and will. but he was wrong about the sound effects - it's not his own breath that's rushing in his ears, it's ...yep, that's the walls. the walls are breathing.
nope. not looking at that either. which is fine because there's also the screaming, thin and distant and repeating the same question over and over again. it's the same question he'd directed at the lighthouse itself, at the beach, and woe herself before she'd come into full view.
what is it?!
he winces at that, turns away from the wheezing wall and looks at woe's boots instead. they're utterly normal, even padding up blood caked stairs.]
cw: minor self-injury (magical sacrifice)
[She can touch it. She can hear it. There is no more doubt left, as the screams of the dying who do not know themselves dead burrow into her skull without troubling themselves with her ears.]
Because I am a necromancer, and you are not.
[Those normal boots pivot on the steps, half-turned back towards Mike as she maintains the rumpled intensity of her expression, looking for all the world like someone working something stubborn out of her teeth with the tip of her tongue.
She could attempt a banishment. A sufficient ghost ward could be fashioned. There are enough materials for it, in her veins and his, let alone what already is freely offered on every surface, as infested with anchors as it may be. But it would take time, and she has reason to doubt that it would stick.]
This tower is haunted. [There is a simpler, much quicker kind of ward: practicality.] Anything you hear besides my voice isn't worth listening to, and if you hear me tell you to do anything particularly ludicrous - like lick the wall, or attempt to descend without the use of stairs - don't listen to that, either.
I will attempt mitigation. If you begin feeling possessed, make a fuss about it.
[With that, and no more, she faces back up the stairs and starts the ascent, her nails digging bloody half-crescents into her palms to ignite a low, throbbing hum of a ghost calling note. A child's kind of toy necromancy, the sort of thing they teach Fifth House infants in thrice warded rooms with their dear nannies' bones, but it will draw the attention of whatever stalks here to her instead of him.
This is practical. She really does hate dealing with possession.]
no subject
Haunted. [he nods, his voice barely a whisper.] Yeah. That's why it's--- [a little jazzhand in the air to signal its wrongness, as if words (they can't) do not convey the whole of it, as if don't look has also extended to don't describe.] Don't lick the wall. Don't ju---
[he will not be descending that way, thank you very much, though it's quite a mental picture, and for a moment the walls find it a very, very good one. his blood would be a fine addition to the base of the structure, and it might only take seconds if he just ran all the way to the top and---
---he would possibly fall forever.]
No. It's not going to win.
[a very small whisper to the wall, his lips just close enough that he can taste that cloying copper - a deliberate taunt:] fuck you [before he follows her up the rest of the crooked, clotted stairs. oh, that's a sound. he wishes he had never heard it, but it also hooks a needle and threads itself through his heart, that thrum, and the walls are no longer speaking to him at all.
is that a chunk of flesh - on the ground, there? yes-siree, and he'd be hard pressed to say where or what from. the walls do not give any hints, and eyes still on the floor, on boots, a seed has been planted - it's his own mind, but necromancers raise the dead, and what was he if not dead already?
of course there is a lighter. he sees it before he sees the remains, the torch, anything. he does not look out the window.]
cw: blood, ear trauma
It's not one she has to occupy here. The ghosts come as they are called, or whatever these are that amount to ghosts. There is something unclean to these spirits, a trailing aftertaste of a coil that goes on and on forever, up and up and down again, air that echoes with the stilled scream of endless time. There is something unstuck to this place that haunts her periphery more dreadfully than any ravenous unanchored soul.
Undead fingers scrabble at the seams of her. She shrugs them off like spiderwebs. What burns in her burns too bright and too hot, even now, to be grasped at and pried by any feeble, unspun thing.
Her ears have popped by the time they reach the top. Blood trickles from both that almost matches the color of the blood on the walls, but this she renders inert, bubbling like crocodile scales before the spirits can suckle at its thalergy. Where Mike's eyes fix on the lighter, hers fix on the torch, and she plucks it up with as much regard for the hand holding it as she might have for a shelf she lifted it from.]
We're nearly finished. [She pads to him with more relief than she likes, holding out the torch with the expectation he will light it, which it more credit than she would have given him before the climb.] Let's see if this appeases them, shall we? Or I'll tear this horrid thing down to the stones, and see how you all like that.
[That last, peevish threat is not for Mike, but something she looks at past him, her nose wrinkled in distaste. There would be nothing to see if he turned to look.]
no subject
in the face of this she is unimpressed, peevish and inconvenienced. he doesn't know what to make of it, so it's greeted with blanket acceptance - and a bit of recognition that obviously, this is not her first, nor likely her fiftieth
horrorshowrodeo against such abominations.oh, he'll light it. the lighter's scooped up with an ease that's at utter odds with the rest of what he's feeling, an anchor - a familiar weight in his hands that teases a bitter, resolute smile he is glad to feel on his face, a biting tilt of a thing to counter a biting tilt of this building and all its thirty one flavors of fucking wrongness. the first flick does nothing, but he only flicks again, and a third time because it works goddamnit - he remembers this if nothing else. he knows thing song and dance. and dance it does, that sweet little flame - a fistbump of fire to ignite the torch - a dance of lights and patterns that make him feel as if the floor beneath him is swaying, moving.
is it breathing?
well, if it is, not for long.]
Here's to hoping. It's worked before.
[another smile, but even in the torchlight, it's a cold one.]
no subject
Mercymorn the First doss not look at the fire. She looks at him as if seeing him for the very first time, like all the versions of him from the shoreline to the top of this tower were the ghosts. Shadows hollow out the underbellies of her eyes as she observes him through newborn light.
She has always noted the presence of unexpected teeth.
With that thought, she pivots and plunges the torch into the great lamp of the lighthouse. It roars into brilliance and heat as tattered sails tack impossibly away, ship and island both this time spared an end. The glittering eyes of the dead look up and past their too-late rescuers, and Mercy follows their pointing fingers to the receding hulk in the black.]
That's that, th- nn!
[The interruption to her quiet, half-mused thought comes as an angry little curl of sound as she drops the torch with a sparking, sputtering clatter into the blood and claps her hands over her popping ears, face contorted into a grimace.]
I hate ghosts.
[She seethes, vehement to the point of near tears, in the receding unatmospheric pressure of spiritual absence.]
no subject
oh, there are ghosts he would very much like to see - but she's not on whatever's coming, whatever's causing woe's face to contort, to use her breath to proclaim that hatred - the same thing that's squeezing his own chest, meting out irregular beats of an overused muscle (or underused, to hear him tell it, but those tales are lies) and lodging in his throat. he's been saying this without saying it for years, and it's almost a relief to spit it out just now.]
Amen to that.
Fuck ghosts.
[fuck ships on some level, too. but that's an issue of a different (light) color. fact is, she'd stood between him and something - and she's got the bleeding ears to prove it. oh, this place likes to make them bleed - it's all blood and blood and more blood, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.
but the sense of immiment action has mostly passed - it's no longer do or die (due or die?) and the floral stink is just a smell without the susurrus of dead dread to power it up. the walls are a grim spatter in the new lamplight, but they feel more like walls and less like...
(no)
still, nothing about this place feels good.
a nod, and a flicker of concern and a tap at his own ears, a slow enunciation in case she can't hear - he keeps his voice low.]
Your ears.
[he can't know what it's like for her, but he's ready to help her descend, should she need a steady hand or step. well, will you look at that.]