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.

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Presley's hand, which had been hovering somewhere near Patrice's arm, drops in relief when the other boy starts talking, all Patrice-Tang-brand insouciance. "Have you been in a muscheron memory? I would much rather spend time with your mother than a muscheron."

He looks at what's on the table before them, trying to choose the most emotionally-neutral item here. It's near-impossible, but... maybe still easier from him than for Patrice? Ugh, he can't overthink this. Des is right; this is all weird anyway. Presley tries the crystal ball.

"Oh yeah, because you're always super polite with me," Patrice challenges, but there's no bite behind his words. Somewhere deep down he does appreciate the care his roommates are taking, but right now it's hard to feel anything but jittery and uncomfortable.

"It's taking those things too? Really stupid." As he says this he wrinkles his nose, his gaze straying to Presley's hand as it touches the crystal ball. Nothing happens, and he lets out a slow breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He picks up the envelope with his name on it after setting down the runes.

Desmond's walk to the shelves brings him a little closer to a window, and after a few moments there's a fluttering sound outside, strange in the oddly still memory.

Des looks over his shoulder with all the best 'butter wouldn't melt' he can inject into his voice. "Can't say I been in your house til right now. Maybe I been saving all my manners up."

It's true, at least a little. It might be still and sharp and strange, but it is somebody's house. Might not change anything or knock something loose in nobody's head, but that doesn't mean you should go stomping around for no good reason. There's nothing wrong with being a little careful with it. With -

Huh.

"Something's moving out there," he says, turning toward the window and reaching out to unlatch the lock. He hesitates for a moment, recalling Patrice and Felicity's rundown of memory hazards. "Ain't everything supposed to be frozen?"

Presley frowns, glancing back at Des. "They weren't in Wyatt's memory..." And he's heard worse in these memories than a little wind. Given some of the nasties that the trees has dropped on them so far, Presley isn't eager to see what's waiting outside.

"Not a lot of room to fight here," he warns Des. "Can you see it?" Presley moves his hand from the crystal ball, and tries a tarot card instead. The Tower? Not exactly a cheerful image.

Patrice frowns at the noise, looking his eyes from the envelope in his hands to Des just as Presley does.

"Just some wind in Wyatt's, for sure. Nothing like that. Be careful."

He drops the letter, unable to make himself open it, and then he hesitates, searching the table, unsure of what to do. Presley is looking at the tarot card. A thought takes root, and he shifts. Maybe Presley won't notice Patrice's small movement to lightly touch his mother's hand. It's been a long time since she's had a physical form.

Three things happen:

As Des gets closer to the window and touches the frame, there's a moment of stillness, enough time for the boys to assume it was nothing, before suddenly a barrage of frantic flapping and bird song rises up outside, bodies pounding against the upper part of the glass. Quickly, it shatters inward, and though there's glass flying through the air it's not fast enough or directed enough to do any damage to Des in the moment. The floor, now covered in shards of glass, is also filled with quite a few thumbtacks. The squawking outside is loud as the birds flutter frantically around the window that they can technically enter but refuse to, before they just as suddenly disappear.

At the same moment, the fountain pen begins to glow as Patrice touches Leota's hand. He quickly reaches to take it, but can't pry it from her fingers.

Presley will find the edges of the Tower card concerningly sharp, easily capable of cutting his finger...

Directed or not, a window going and exploding in a person's face is enough on its own to get them to flinch. Des' shoulders are up and hands are curled in front of his face pretty much instantly, one foot sliding back a few inches to brace him. He hisses out a "Shit!" and then a "Sorry!" nearly as fast.

(Look, Patrice's momma might not be strictly awake at the moment, but that ain't no reason to go round using that kinda language in front of a lady all the same.)

Commotion's gone just as quick as it came, but he's got no plans of turning his back on the open window. One of his hands slices forward, gesturing broadly. "So that's just happened before, yeah? We're cool with that?"

Edited 2020-06-08 05:04 (UTC)

When the window shatters, Presley spins on his heel. "Savage, move!" He shoots a jinx out the window at the screaming birds, but there's too many. Presley raises the burner wand again—and nothing happens, not even a spark. He swears, the sound lost in the cacophony, but before he can do anything else, the birds just disappear on their own.

Presley tosses aside his useless wand in disgust. "Were we ever given a choice about being cool about this?" He idly flips the tarot card in his fingers—or tries to, rather. "Ah, fuck!" Presley looks at the blood on his finger, and sighs.

Patrice nearly darts over to Desmond as the glass shatters, but everything moves too fast and all he's got are three scalpels, anyway, so what's he going to do? His hands fall away from his mother's as he straightens, his entire frame stiff. There's a strange impulse to get a broom and clean up the mess, but there's no point.

"You're alright, Des? What is even-" he stops short as Presley curses and he turns quickly, worried until he realizes it's just a cut on his finger. "Shit. Well. The pen Mom is holding is what we need to find, but she won't let go."

"It's fine. I'm fine," Des rattles off quickly, brushing down the length of his sleeves and not much minding if the shards catch at his fingertips a bit. He nods at Presley. "You fine?"

Definition's a little variable, considering the current circumstances. But Presley's right, it isn't like anybody was given a real choice in the matter. Kinda been dumped into the deep end here.

"Well, you ain't gonna break her fingers for it," he reasons, glancing around the room. "So maybe we got to do something first? Anything seem off? Other than the obvious everything."

"I've endured worse." Presley frowns as he studies the Tower card. "I have to assume that your mother didn't keep razor-sharp tarot cards in her collection. Is this a memory quirk? Or does it mean something?"

He returns to the table to inspect the rest of the cards. "We had to find the right cards to get Webberley's linchpin. So what does she want us to do here?" Presley raps his fingers on the table, making a show of seeming casual. "Anything in the letters...?"

Fidgeting a little, Patrice looks between Des and Presley again. Some of the discomfort has worn off the longer they've been here, at least, but it's hard to let the stress from the birds, and the glass, and general concern about his roommates go entirely.

"Nothing seems off other than the obvious, and how sharp those cards are. They aren't like that; I have this deck. It must mean something." He shakes his head and, after a moment, reaches for the envelope with his name on it. He turns it over in his hands, and suddenly he too is bleeding, cut surprisingly deep by too-sharp paper.

"What the fuck?"

Blood rolls down Patrice's hand as if drawn by something stronger than gravity, dripping onto the handmade paper that already has some reddish spots on it. It begins to absorb strangely, precisely, forming part of a picture, though it's difficult to make out entirely what it is. Presley likely feels a strange pull from his wound, a slight tugging towards the paper once it's gotten its first taste of blood.

Patrice curses and Des' attention is well and truly caught. Rest of the room can wait just a bit, if everybody's going to start getting in trouble by the table.

"The hell y'all doing to yourselves over here?" he asks, making his way over to where his roommates have decided to slice themselves open on every available piece of paper. Window went exploded in his face and you don't see him bleeding all over Patrice's momma's upholstery.

"Don't touch anything," Presley orders, way too late considering two of them are bleeding now. The dangerous tarot cards are back on the table, but there's a weird—tingle—in his hand where he cut himself already. Presley holds his wrist, scowling as he surveys the other items on the table. It's actually not so much a tingle as it is... sort of like...

His sense of the many, many walls between him and Patrice are too strong for Presley to ask for the letter. "You alright, Tang?"

Patrice practically ignores what Des and Presley say, intensely focused on where his blood is dripping down and starting to form... something. He looks up finally, frowning, his jaw tight. One hand still holds the envelope, but he finally drops it to the table after a moment.

"I'm fine. This... hematomancy? Right? Why...?" He trails off. It feels strange and bad, to apparently have to bleed in his mother's memory, and h can't seem to get out anything resembling a sentence. But he doesn't have time to think or worry about that now. He presses his cut finger to the paper, but it doesn't seem to want to take any more of his blood.

Presley snaps out the command and Des puts his hands up like someone on the way into custody. He isn't touching anything. Got no reason to touch anything. But he's stepping into place on the other side of Patrice all the same, humming along with in the sort of absent agreement of people familiar with bullshitting their way around not knowing something.

It's blood-pictures. Why can't we just call 'em what they are.

"You don't got to do it all yourself," Des interjects, when it looks like nothing's happening. "I got plenty." He knocks Patrice's shoulder and shoves the sleeve of his jacket up a bit. "Go 'head, then. Cut me open a little."

Presley rolls his eyes. "Why is everyone in this school so eager to bleed for other people? I'm already dripping, we might as well just—let me—" He leans in to dangle his hand over the envelope, letting his blood drip down. Just incredibly unsanitary, all of this.

"This doesn't necessarily have anything to do with your mother," Presley adds, as he watches the red drops hit the paper. He doesn't look at Patrice. "These memories are a... twisted game. Messing with people's heads."

"'Got plenty'? Seriously?" Patrice mutters, halfhearted in his tone but appreciative enough of the other boy's jostle to return it. The casualness that he'd felt earlier has slipped away entirely as he looks at his parents, frozen, and then Presley speaks and his eyes dart over to his other roommate.

Patrice's shoulders sink at his later words, unsure if he feels comforted by the other boy knowing his concerns so well or not. He mostly just feels sad, suddenly. Tired, too.

"Yeah. It's not real."

The paper greedily soaks up Presley's blood, a blotted form almost coming into view. It maybe looks like an owl. But it's incomplete.

There are probably good words to say here, but Desmond keeps his mouth shut. Patrice has been here before, Patrice has obviously been here before. He hasn't. Probably isn't his place. And sometimes it's good to know when not to talk.

He tilts his head down at the slowly coalescing image instead - and, well, that don't seem quite done, does it?

"Fuckin' told you," he says, followed immediately by a quiet "Sorry, ma'am," his chin dipping sheepishly. Then one shoulder ticks upward and he reaches forward for a corner of the envelope. "Eager's when you want to. Practical's when it makes sense."

As Desmond's hand nears the envelope it practically vibrates, and when he touches it, it slices open his finger just as it had sliced open Patrice's. Blood wells up, drawn to the page on the table much more than his companions' blood had been. Apparently his blood belongs there too, with his friends'. It slowly seeps into the paper, forming the completed shape of an owl, murky, not sharp like the rest of the things in this household. Slowly, everything begins again.

Before she steps away from the table, the woman remembers the fountain pen is still clutched in her hand - she sets it down, and soon after the man picks it up and pulls a few sheets of paper towards him. He begins to write while the woman drifts away from him, a smile, weak but real, starting at the corner of her lips as another soft 'Mama' is called out. She opens a door, smiling into what should be another room in the home but here opens up back to Peckenpaugh.

"You're so impatient, Patrice," she softly scolds.

[YOU HAVE SOLVES THE PUZZLE AND COMPLETED THE MEMORY! You found the linchpin. You may continue to scene here or leave through the bedroom door.]

Presley steps back from the table as the memory starts up again, feeling once again like an intruder. Leota Tang was never anything but kind to him, even as a crystal ball. There's no reason for them to be here witnessing these intimate moments with Patrice's family, except that some nightmarish force wanted them to be, and it all fills Presley's head with... static. He knows he should be angry or sad or guilty or afraid, but it's all too much. There's still people who need to be found.

"There's the pen," Presley says. "Let's go." He not-so-subtly grabs Des by the elbow and pulls him towards the exit, in case Patrice wants an extra moment.

Edited (a million years later) 2020-06-10 18:42 (UTC)

Patrice reaches to take the pen, now in his father's hand, and a glowing version of it comes away easily. Hearing his own childish voice again, hearing his mother speak to him, is hard, but the whole thing has been, so maybe it's not any worse than it was moments earlier. Whatever the case, his mind is slowly emptying out. Later he'll try to remember to thank Presley and Des for being respectful, but he hasn't got it in him right now. Instead he just watches his father for a few moments, quickly reaches to touch his hand one last time, and then goes to follow his friends, brushing past his mother as he goes.

MEMORY: Writing Notes - TOKENS!

peckishmods - 2020-06-11 17:43 (UTC) - Expand

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