peckenpaugh | HE IS HERE

Entry tags:

! ic/ooc,
* endgame

HE IS HERE

the vines have run wild

it's over Everything is in shambles. Walls and floors torn and broken from roots and branches sprouting through. They block doors and crowd passages and pulse with sick life. The Thing sits in the center of it all, angry and starving, its trunk both still and moving in ways you catch only when it is in the corner of your vision. Branches that look less like bark and more like skin stretch in every direction, lush with shadowy leaves and dotted with bits of glowing blue. The ruined floor is littered with those little twinkling dots. Seeds. Everywhere, seeds. They hang on boughs, and rest on banisters in the upper levels. The one thing in this nightmare that doesn't radiate that awful, pervasive hunger.

The roof is gone, replaced with a writhing canopy of shadow and muck. Some parts of it are complex spiderwebs of tendrilly shapes, others solid formless movement. The only consistent thing about it is that it is terrible to behold, faintly nauseating to look at for too long. Ash rains down between gaps in its branches, and what glimpses of sky are visible are nothing but swirling gray clouds. What stars still shine are magic, man-made, floated between balconies by prom committee before the dance.

Those remaining begin to stir. Each one of you has heard Pocket's words, "Find the roots." And if you want to save your friends, your family, the holler — hell, maybe even the world — that's exactly what you're going to do.

You climb from protective cocoons of dying moss, push your way past walls of solid ice, emerging into utter destruction. Things move and make noise at the edge of your vision, but for now, at least, all is calm. What to do? Where to start?

it's ruined Among the twinkling maple seeds are the dropped possessions of students and staff, lost when they were pulled away. A compact mirror, a cell phone, a pair of glasses, cups of punch spilling across the floor. A single red heel sits at the edge of the jagged pit that peers down into the Sorting Path. The air here is hot. Too hot. If you jump, you'll surely be boiled alive.

Though locked when everyone tried to flee, vines and roots have torn the doors to the auditorium off their hinges. The splintered remains of heavy oak doors litter the entrance halls and stairwell alcoves, leaving an open path outside. Not that you'd want to flee, by the looks of it.

A cool night breeze is the only relief from the growing heat of the auditorium, yes, but even that is tainted by the heavy scent of flowers. Outside, vines and purple flowers have exploded over every surface. They climb up lamp posts, engulf buildings whole, hang from trees. It would be beautiful if it weren't horrifying. Campus is unrecognizable.

there is no hope Roots and vines clog the way to the Sorting Path, and most stairwells are completely obstructed by the growths of that horrible tree. Up above, something buzzes and wails, a mockery of a cicada's cry, and beyond that the twittering of birds nesting in the tree's highest branches.

Pouch coalesces in the middle of it all, a one-winged magimagicicada, weak and weary but undaunted. Resolute, if not reinvigorated. He bends down to touch a seed, and the moment his obsidian fingers light on it, a blue-white portal to somewhere else rips right through reality. A memory begins to play. Somehow, the bug seems to know what he's seeing.

She gave us what we need, the one who ran says to the gathered students, his voice in their heads as much as the air. Let's all not let her down, huh?

Find your friends. Find my siblings. It's time to fight.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[MODERATED - Player Memory]
[CRITERIA: Solve the Puzzle, Defeat the NPC]
[RESERVE: Imogen Rainwater]

Suddenly in a part of the world many of the Peckenpaugh students have never seen, the Tanzanian savanna around them seems to go on forever. Endless plains of dry grass scattered sparsely with tall trees beneath an equally endless sky filled with stars so bright and clear one could be forgiven for trying to reach out and touch them. Even if most of the constellations seem a little off. Misremembered. Looking behind them, the group will see a large and obviously magical caravan stationed by one of the trees. Soft light can be seen through every window and the outside is vibrantly painted and decorated with carvings of birds. Large racks and trellises affixed to the outside of the caravan also support a flourishing garden filled with everything from knotgrass to puffapods to flitterblooms, obviously kept by a talented Herbologist. Looking ahead of them, they see...nothing.

At first.

The figure seated in the grass is small and made smaller still by the way he sits, with his head ducked and his legs pulled up to his chest. This much younger Merlin Pletcher, who can't be more than six years old, isn't crying but he has the red puffy eyes and the tear-stained cheeks to suggest that this is a fairly recent turn of events. He doesn't react when one of the caravan's doors opens and a dark-haired girl that looks to be around thirteen slips out into the night. It takes her a moment to spot him, but when she does she heads in his direction and sits beside him, simultaneously pushing something wrapped in cloth into his hands and tilting his head up by the chin. She immediately begins wiping his damp face with a handkerchief and he immediately starts to squirm.

"Mom said that's for you," the girl says, only releasing him once his face is dry and adding, "...You need to come in soon. Get some sleep."

Still riled up from being manhandled, the boy glares at his sister and then down at the item in his hands. It's warm and a small shifting of the cloth reveals a custard-filled bread bun shaped like a tiger, which immediately makes his stomach grumble greedily. He bites off the thing's ear without enjoying the taste much (even though this is one of his favorites) and murmurs in return, "Why?"

"So you can be ready for tomorrow," the girl returns patiently.

Already halfway into another bite, he chews begrudgingly and swallows despite the lump forming in his throat. "...I don't wanna go."

"You need to go."

"...It's stupid."

"Saying goodbye to dad is stupid?"

Nothing. So she tries again. "Merlin."

"Saying goodbye to someone that's not gone is stupid. You don't know where he is. Nobody knows where he is. So you can't say stuff like that! You don't even know...!"

Silence hangs between the pair for a long moment while Merlin glares down at the treat and Kes slips her arm around her brother's shoulder, finally pulling him into a hug. He doesn't resist this and, when she rests her cheek against the top of his head, he doesn't resist that either.

"Then...do it for us. Because we want you there. And when dad comes home you can tell us how stupid we are. Hm?" She punctuates this point with a small squeeze, glancing off into the distance while she waits for an answer. Her eyes are just as red as his and she sounds exhausted. Maybe Merlin can hear it too because he doesn't say anything. He sniffles and wipes roughly at his face and she presses a small kiss against his hair.

"...Except mom," he croaks finally, his small voice almost lost in the breeze that's starting moving through the tall grass.

"Except mom," Kestrel agrees solemnly, then something in the sky seems to catch her attention. "...Draco's out tonight. Did you see?"

Immediately, Merlin lifts his head and looks upward. His dad had shown him that constellation, he knows. Because of course he had. But he can't remember the shape and he can't see it and his eyes feel hot as fresh tears start to well up again. The rising breeze suddenly goes still and so does the scene. Everything is quiet.

The memory of the Freshman trying to dodge a kiss had been uncomfortable to witness, but this memory feels even more intimate. One that he and the others definitely shouldn't be privy to.

Armani doesn't know much about Merlin's dad, only bits and pieces of info he'd gleaned from conversations here and there. But he had no idea Merlin's dad was... missing.

"Just start touching things, I think?" he says, already moving with haste to little Merlin's side. No time to waste, they have to free Merlin and make their way to the others. -- Except that he does steal the briefest moment to pat the top of Merlin's head. Fond, nurturing, with a little bit of pity thrown in to the mix. "That's how we freed them in the other memory I was in."

He reaches down to touch the tiger-face bun. It's a start.

Imogen's empathy is a muscle that could use flexing. Merlin, wherever he is, knows that. Still, there's a little twist in her chest when she looks at his tiny child's face. Eyes with tears in them. It's fucking sad. It's brutal. Even she can feel that, and strangely -- bafflingly -- feeling it makes her wish he were here. Now Merlin. Real Merlin, in his pink prom finery that matches her torn dress. The one who kept this to himself.

"Yeah, okay," she agrees over her shoulder at Armani, prowling toward the caravan. "Let's do this."

The plants in the racks and trellises draw her in, like plants often do, and someone really knew how to take care of these ones. She reaches out to trace a frond of knotgrass, lip in her teeth.

The knotgrass, healthy and bright, springs back into place once Imogen's hand has passed over it. This close to the caravan, she can see inside the windows. Despite the bright light spilling out, everything within is strangely muted and washed out, including the rest of the Pletcher family. Merlin's three brothers and two additional sisters and his mother, who stands frozen in the task tidying up the small kitchen.

So where is that light coming from? The source is not in Imogen's line of sight.

Oh. Pretty.

The light kinda reminds her of how the planchette looked back in the bowling alley basement, held close to Maisy's chest. The quality is different, maybe. But close enough. Whatever, it's something.

"Hey, I'm going in here," she drawls back at the boys. Her boot's almost on the first step before she remembers her wand, which promptly leads the way as she slouches into the caravan.

Geez. There's a lot of people in here.

Edited (lol) 2020-06-03 02:29 (UTC)

Bun does nothing. That's fine. There's more things to touch.

"Wait, I'm coming too," he says, hopping after her. He wants to get in before Tony the Giant. Make room, everyone!

Edited 2020-06-03 02:32 (UTC)

Tony is equally eager to get away from the frozen visage of puffy-eyed baby Merlin. Maybe if he acts fast and doesn't look too close, he can plead plausible deniability when his roommate inevitably asks what they saw.

Just ... grass and sisters mostly, he'll say.

"Good idea," Tony jumps to agree, following along behind Armani.

Edited 2020-06-03 02:46 (UTC)

With nine people now inside the caravan's modest main room, the space begins to feels quite crowded indeed. There's even a small groan beneath Tony's feet when he steps inside. Another sound follows this, a slow dragging, but where it's coming from is not immediately clear.

The Pletchers scattered throughout the room remain frozen, all restless and all with the somber expression of mourning. Loss, even if Merlin himself had been unwilling to accept that. On the far side of the room, there's a small desk piled high with old books and notes and sketches of dragons. Directly above this, pinned to the wall, there is a large star chart that puts off a radiant glow.

Armani touches things. A lot of things. Like a little kid playing I Spy against their sibling, but instead of obnoxiously shouting out the names of every object in sight he's flailing his little arms around to touch anything within his reach.

Door. Window. Wall. Ceiling. Sister. Mom. Brother. Other sister. Table. Counter. Cabinet.

1-800-ARE-YOU-SLAPPIN

Even if he doesn't think it's the linchpin, he's touching it as he squeezes his way toward that desk. Everything around there looks potentially important, especially (and very obviously) the glowing star chart.

He's gonna try to touch that too.

Sometimes, the obvious answer is the correct answer.

When the star chart is first picked up, the constellations are in a constant state of flux, the stars flicking from place to place and forming new shapes. Unusual constellations like the ones outside. A diligent Astronomy student, Armani is able to recognize that all of these are off...until they're not. His knowledge seems to freeze the true circumpolar constellations in place on the chart and then everything begins to shake. Not the caravan. But everything, as if this small sliver of a dreamscape is experiencing an earthquake.

Edited 2020-06-03 23:43 (UTC)

This didn't happen when he touched the cow. Wasn't a portal to the auditorium supposed to, like... open up? And Merlin unfreezes and comes running out to safety?

Armani's not letting go of this star chart, though. It's Important. It's a Key. A Root, maybe? He's still not too sure on all of that yet. What he is sure of is that in earthquakes he's supposed to get under a desk. So he does just that. (His parents would be proud, except for the fact that he's doing this in Wizard Hell.)

"Is Merlin still out there??" he asks over the rattling, holding on to a leg of the desk.

Edited 2020-06-04 00:41 (UTC)

Imogen, who survived the psychic earthquake in a star pose, flings herself clumsily out of it and toward the window at Armani's query. This is what she's useful for: sticking her head out.

"Yup."

"Ahh--!! Okay! Thanks! -- Uhh..." That means, maybe, the root isn't totally found yet. There's more to it. He spreads the star chart out on the ground in front of him, running his finger over it searchingly.

"Draco..." Merlin had mentioned it earlier. It was probably significant to this memory. Even if it wasn't, it couldn't hurt to look. "Draco, Draco... is... here."

Tony is far too big to fit under anything in this caravan, including door frames, so he braces one hand on his ceiling and tries to put as much of his body between the quivering lights overhead and the frozen form of Lark Pletcher. He doesn't want a repeat of Lunchlady Bigfoot's memory.

"Felicity says it looks kinda like a snakey boy," Tony adds unhelpfully.

Edited 2020-06-04 02:06 (UTC)

As Armani locates the snakey boy on the map, another of those tremors begins. Through the windows, Imogen and Tony can see the sky itself, now filled with recognizable constellations instead of the jumbled misrememberings of a six-year-old, seem to lower. The darkness and the stars floating through it now seem within reach. At the same time, that strange dragging sound resumes and suddenly a vine whips against the window. While it doesn't break through, its intentions are clearly less than friendly. A similar sound can be heard at the caravan's door. A dragging, followed by a thwack! that makes the wood shudder.

Edited 2020-06-04 02:13 (UTC)

Armani yelps as the caravan is hit, shrinking further back under the table. He looks up at Imogen and Tony pleadingly. He is just a baby, a little astrology gay, and he doesn't have a wand. Please save him.

Edited 2020-06-04 02:19 (UTC)

Fortunately for Armani, Tony De Witt was never a baby. He came into this world a fully grown man. Unfortunately for Armani, Tony De Witt doesn't understand the rules of these alternate memory universes and he is far more concerned about the safety of Merlin and Kes outside all alone than he is about the Thorntrail.

Without much thought, he turns and kicks open the door in an attempt to smash the offending vine into the side of the caravan.

Edited 2020-06-04 02:38 (UTC)

Imogen, meanwhile, turns to look at Armani with thrill.

"Oh shit," she hisses gleefully. "There was one of these at the bowling alley. Don't worry, we totally fucked 'em up."

They'd turned a bookshelf over on that one. So. Either these suckers aren't that hard to kill, or it's easy to make them give up.

She points her wand at the window without warning, hoping to shatter the glass outward and use the empty pane as cover. "Finestra!"

The vine on the opposite side of the door isn't prepared for this sudden assault and shrieks as it is violently crushed behind the door. (ROLLED 7) While not killed, Tony can see how bent and broken it is as it snaps back into the cover of the caravan gardens.

On the opposite side of the caravan, the glass on the receiving end of Imogen's Finestra shatters silently, raining glass shards down on the vine, but it ducks away too quickly to receive any real damage from the strike. (ROLLED 3). It too disappears back into dense foliage, difficult to see but no longer invisible now that they know to look for it. A large purple flower begins to bloom near the shattered window.

Outside, everything else (including Merlin and Kes) remains still.

Edited 2020-06-04 02:56 (UTC)

Imogen has a strong urge to set the flower on fire. Instead, she turns to Armani again.

"Bring the chart, let's go!" She's half the way across the caravan and after Tony before pausing to add, "The sky got lower."

Tony leaps out of Imogen's way, pressing his broad shoulders against the caravan door to keep any creeping vines trapped flat. With his left arm, he reaches out for anything even remotely sharp-looking and lands on a trowel stuck deep in a potted plant.

"C'mon, Armani, I got you," he shouts back, standing guard at the door.

Edited 2020-06-04 16:37 (UTC)

Everything that was keeping the vines out and him safe has been busted (deliberately!!!) by his companions. This is terrifying. But, also, so are they. In spite of it all, he still feels like he's in good hands.

"Coming!"

The baby skitters out from under the safety of the table, star chart in hand, and grabs a chef's knife from the kitchen sink on his way out the door.

As Armani passes by Tony, something behind the door gives a violent push that rocks the giant forward on his heels but ultimately can't move him. (ROLLED 7)

Good call, Tony.

Not really sure what else to do, Armani holds the star chart up to the sky and looks for the snakey boy.

Draco is readily visible in the low-hanging sky, a scattering of vibrant lights hovering almost directly over the caravan and the tree it rests beside. Looking at them gives Armani a faint feeling of warm comfort.

Edited 2020-06-04 17:43 (UTC)

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

Re: MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye