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

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)

After moment's looming over Armani's shoulder to read, Imogen reaches out, tracing the constellation in the air with her finger.

"Cool."

Armani looks at Draco, looks at the tree, and the caravan next to it. "I think maybe we have to touch the stars?" And by we, he means y'all.

Tony's, like, eight or nine feet tall. He can probably reach them.

Edited 2020-06-04 18:16 (UTC)

"Ohhhh."

Imogen nods, like Armani's just proposed something totally ground-breaking. The idea seems to have injected some giddy color in her face.

"Like, climb that tree? I can totally climb that tree." She's dragged herself up higher things before, just to write her name on some challenging piece of scenery.

She looks at Tony, then lunges toward the trunk and starts scrambling up.

Edited (last edit i promise lmfao) 2020-06-04 19:21 (UTC)

Alas, Tony is just a measly six feet ten inches, which isn't quite tall enough to touch the stars. Even magically lowered ones. Scaling the tree seems the best bet and he doesn't doubt Imogen's abilities for a second but ...

"Woah, woah, woah, hold up," Tony waves Armani further away from the caravan and watches Imogen start to climb with the same resigned but manageable dread that he often feels when interacting with Felicity. Something is about to go poorly but he'll be able to handle it, so long as he knows it's coming. It's the same way he feels about broom sports, honestly.

Man, he wishes Pax were here.

"Just watch for vines," he warns, stretching to come nearer to the tree while still keeping the toe of one dress shoe pressed against the open caravan door.

Tony is right to be cautious. As soon as Imogen starts for the tree, the vines hidden within Mrs. Pletcher's garden begin to move and the foliage that's still obscuring them begins to rustle. First faintly. Then violently.

One of the vines lashes out like a snake, making a grab for the girl and catching her by the leg with a grip that's painfully tight. (ROLLED 3) With this firm hold, it immediately begins trying to yank her from the branches. The vine trapped behind the door also begins to move again, this time striking out with enough force to send Tony sprawling. (ROLLED 1) This is...probably a novel experience for him. The vine has now sprouted three purple flowers, all dangerously close to blooming.

Edited 2020-06-05 00:53 (UTC)

"No, no, no!" Armani shouts as he runs in to the fray, wielding his knife. So much for staying back. He grabs the blooming vine with his free hand and tries to cut it, which he hopes will stop all three attached flowers from blooming and sprinkling their cursed baby dust everywhere.

Edited 2020-06-05 01:00 (UTC)

Imogen curses, pulling herself upward with brute strength in an effort to out-tug the vine.

She risks letting go with her wand hand, aiming at the heart of the garden in a hopeful offensive.

"Impedimenta!"

Edited (ya girl forgot some stuff ) 2020-06-05 03:13 (UTC)

HE IS HERE

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

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 - COMPLETE

MEMORY: Saying Goodbye - COMPLETE