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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
peckishmods) wrote in peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
Pausing mid-sketch to watch Armani examine the vial, Aris frowns at the deduction. "Offering blood seems..." he shakes his head, unable to articulate the sinking feeling in his stomach at the idea, "That can't be good." Reluctantly, he reaches out to take the vial so the other boy can continue his investigation, then he asks, "...Could these be ingredients for a potion or something?" He doesn't know much about Wise Men.
Edited 2020-06-05 04:15 (UTC)
"Maybe," says Imogen, who is bad at Potions.
She tilts her head at the vial. There's a brief impulse to get closer and sniff it, just to see what it's like -- but stronger is her distaste of the tendrils, so she stays rooted in place, grooming herself.
"What do you mean it feels weird?" She asks of Armani, always curious about the uncomfortable and nasty.
She tilts her head at the vial. There's a brief impulse to get closer and sniff it, just to see what it's like -- but stronger is her distaste of the tendrils, so she stays rooted in place, grooming herself.
"What do you mean it feels weird?" She asks of Armani, always curious about the uncomfortable and nasty.
Edited (beep) 2020-06-05 04:29 (UTC)
"Maybe," says Armani in unison with Imogen. He's good at potions but he's no Laszlo Pataki. If Laszlo were here, he'd know exactly what to do with them. And if he didn't, then... "We can try to combine them. See what happens."
"It was, like, nose tingly weird... Not super weird, but not what I expected." He reaches for the powder next. Gonna open that satchel up and see what it's all about.
"It was, like, nose tingly weird... Not super weird, but not what I expected." He reaches for the powder next. Gonna open that satchel up and see what it's all about.
"Of course you can't make this easy for us," Presley sighs, but there's an odd note of fondness in his voice as he looks at the tiny Desmond. "We'd better not have to find this key she was talking about..." He finally forces himself to start exploring the memory, and ends up near Uriah, but his attention is more on the flowers than the woman.
Presley also touches the flower pot, and wonders what colour they'd been if they weren't seeing this through Des' eyes. "You can be the one to relay the message to Savage, then." He pauses, not looking at Patrice. "You're... better with words."
Presley also touches the flower pot, and wonders what colour they'd been if they weren't seeing this through Des' eyes. "You can be the one to relay the message to Savage, then." He pauses, not looking at Patrice. "You're... better with words."
The flower pot does move under Presley's fingertips. It isn't stuck in place.
The fine white powder's smell is very faint but unmistakable. Good old NaCl: salt.
He sniffs around the bag cautiously before taking a closer whiff, and then reaches in to feel the granules between his fingers.
"Salt," he declares, closing the bag back up. "A ritual, maybe? Blood will open the seam... Might not even be related to that, though. I'm not sure about the salt and the metal yet."
But, yeah, time to touch the metal next.
"Salt," he declares, closing the bag back up. "A ritual, maybe? Blood will open the seam... Might not even be related to that, though. I'm not sure about the salt and the metal yet."
But, yeah, time to touch the metal next.
Edited (i swear i'm not going object by object to raise the tag count, i just don't want to overwhelm u) 2020-06-05 05:23 (UTC)
"Salt and metals, like iron and silver and stuff, are used to protect against things, aren't they?" Aris asks, thinking back to the thimble in his pocket, "Could that all be part of one ritual?" This is a genuine question. He doesn't have any idea how this works and the expression on his face says as much. Then he lowers his eyes again to continue the sketch.
Dang, this symbol is intricate.
Dang, this symbol is intricate.
Edited 2020-06-05 05:58 (UTC)
The "metal" cube is warm and soothing to the touch. Beneath Armani's fingertips, it thrums faintly. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. A heartbeat. Each pulse radiates an impossible to define energy, but it is not a linchpin.
It beats three more times and then goes still.
And that is when something rises up out of the water behind them. A human form cloaked in black, the face a grotesque white mask with a keyhole for a mouth. The masked thing glides up to the beach, nearly silent except for the whispering of its robes.
It beats three more times and then goes still.
And that is when something rises up out of the water behind them. A human form cloaked in black, the face a grotesque white mask with a keyhole for a mouth. The masked thing glides up to the beach, nearly silent except for the whispering of its robes.
With a murmured "excuse me" (and feeling slightly foolish for it), Presley moves the flower pot out from under the woman's hand, so he can take a better look at it.
Edited 2020-06-05 15:51 (UTC)
Beneath the flower pot, Presley finds a key.
The woman does not outwardly acknowledge Presley's politeness, being frozen as she is, but she probably would appreciate it if she knew, nonetheless.
The woman does not outwardly acknowledge Presley's politeness, being frozen as she is, but she probably would appreciate it if she knew, nonetheless.
"He and I have just learned how to talk around each other, is all. But yeah, I'll let him know." Patrice looks down at Des, and then over to his two roommates, and after a long bout of indecision decides to sit next to the small boy.
"I'll save you guys a pastry each. Anything useful over there, yet?" he inquires, just as Presley is moving aside the flower pot.
"I'll save you guys a pastry each. Anything useful over there, yet?" he inquires, just as Presley is moving aside the flower pot.
"No, thank you. I don't need that much sugar in my diet." Presley frowns when he sees the key. Not exactly safe for your business, but there's something about the gesture—making sure your place is always available to a young boy with seemingly no one else—
No. Not his business. Presley picks up the key, and shows it to the others.
No. Not his business. Presley picks up the key, and shows it to the others.
The key glows in Presley's hand, sparkling as he shows it off to his friends. With the linchpin found, the scene comes to life once more, all subtle movement at first.
Desmond's fingers stay curled together in his lap once the woman apparates away, managing to hold still for only a few moments before they're eagerly pulling at the top of the paper bag - wrapping around a pastry and shoveling it into his mouth fast enough to puff out his cheeks.
One leg swings as he chews, powdered sugar smearing onto his chin. And then footsteps. A seed of hope stretches out roots in his heart and grows leaves right up into his mouth - until a man turns the corner, tugging his collar up about his throat as he walks past the bench, past the door - and the whole thing withers, curls back up to sit heavy in his gut.
It'll be fine. His momma always comes back. She'll be the next person turning the corner if he can just wait.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! You have found the linchpin. You may continue to thread in this scene or exit. Use the key on the door to open a portal back to Peckenpaugh's auditorium.]
Desmond's fingers stay curled together in his lap once the woman apparates away, managing to hold still for only a few moments before they're eagerly pulling at the top of the paper bag - wrapping around a pastry and shoveling it into his mouth fast enough to puff out his cheeks.
One leg swings as he chews, powdered sugar smearing onto his chin. And then footsteps. A seed of hope stretches out roots in his heart and grows leaves right up into his mouth - until a man turns the corner, tugging his collar up about his throat as he walks past the bench, past the door - and the whole thing withers, curls back up to sit heavy in his gut.
It'll be fine. His momma always comes back. She'll be the next person turning the corner if he can just wait.
[MEMORY COMPLETE! You have found the linchpin. You may continue to thread in this scene or exit. Use the key on the door to open a portal back to Peckenpaugh's auditorium.]
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: minimum 8 replies]
A musty smell hangs in the air, just the scent of an old building finally getting a breeze after months of every window and door being sealed up for the winter. It's dark and dusty here, all shadows except for the triangles of orange-gold light glowing from lamps positioned around the room. It's difficult to say if the house is genuinely this dark, or if that's just how it's being remembered. It's all sort of big, the way everything seems a little big when you're still just a kid, before you've stopped growing completely.
This place is somehow both empty and cluttered, and finding the linchpin is sure to be an ordeal. The floor-to-ceiling shelves are packed full of books, some titles legible — with titles like Devil's Heat and Renegade Yeti Love Affair — others gibberish. Between those there are portraits and art, families and individuals, all of it old and ugly. A massive tapestry hangs on one wall, the design looking a bit like a coat of arms. There's an empty bottle of wine sitting on the low table in the center of the room. Another bottle of merlot, still half-full sits, on a side table along with a gramophone spinning a vinyl. Rhapsody in Blue fills the air.
"Things are about to be very different," says a hawk-like woman grimly. At her words the memory's owner turns his head and stares at the massive orange cat seated beside him on the overstuffed red sofa. "I know it's frightening, but—"
Zedekiah Crockett shoves himself up off that uncomfortable sofa and the old orange cat climbs to its feet and follows after.
"—But we'll all need to adjust."
"You're going to lock him up, aren't you?" Zed protests, turning to face the hawk-like woman, his mother Healer Zipporah Crockett. The more he speaks, the more panic and anger rise in his young voice. "You and dad are going to shut him away and—"
"Of course not. We don't have to. There are advancements in—" his mother tries to explain in that crisp clinical tone of hers. When she speaks, it makes everything seem darker and colder than it is, but Zed's not really listening. He’s scooping up that empty wine bottle. The music swells, and then everything stops.
[CRITERIA: minimum 8 replies]
A musty smell hangs in the air, just the scent of an old building finally getting a breeze after months of every window and door being sealed up for the winter. It's dark and dusty here, all shadows except for the triangles of orange-gold light glowing from lamps positioned around the room. It's difficult to say if the house is genuinely this dark, or if that's just how it's being remembered. It's all sort of big, the way everything seems a little big when you're still just a kid, before you've stopped growing completely.
This place is somehow both empty and cluttered, and finding the linchpin is sure to be an ordeal. The floor-to-ceiling shelves are packed full of books, some titles legible — with titles like Devil's Heat and Renegade Yeti Love Affair — others gibberish. Between those there are portraits and art, families and individuals, all of it old and ugly. A massive tapestry hangs on one wall, the design looking a bit like a coat of arms. There's an empty bottle of wine sitting on the low table in the center of the room. Another bottle of merlot, still half-full sits, on a side table along with a gramophone spinning a vinyl. Rhapsody in Blue fills the air.
"Things are about to be very different," says a hawk-like woman grimly. At her words the memory's owner turns his head and stares at the massive orange cat seated beside him on the overstuffed red sofa. "I know it's frightening, but—"
Zedekiah Crockett shoves himself up off that uncomfortable sofa and the old orange cat climbs to its feet and follows after.
"—But we'll all need to adjust."
"You're going to lock him up, aren't you?" Zed protests, turning to face the hawk-like woman, his mother Healer Zipporah Crockett. The more he speaks, the more panic and anger rise in his young voice. "You and dad are going to shut him away and—"
"Of course not. We don't have to. There are advancements in—" his mother tries to explain in that crisp clinical tone of hers. When she speaks, it makes everything seem darker and colder than it is, but Zed's not really listening. He’s scooping up that empty wine bottle. The music swells, and then everything stops.
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 9 Replies]
Everything is huge. Or, more accurately, everything looks huge from the perspective of the little russula muscheron. The shoebox is lit with a birthday candle in the middle of a table made from one of those plastic separators that comes in a pizza. It's a fire hazard, but you have to take chances when it comes to romance. The table is set with thimbles for cups and bottle caps for plates, filled with scavenged human delicacies. Cheez-it chunks, bacon bits, and squished tater tot pieces served in half of a sunflower seed shell. Peach schnapps from an airplane sized bottle almost as big as the muscheron. Dessert will be a surprise, chunks of Twix served on new pennies.
The musheron checks their reflection in the back of a shined up spoon. The bad luck human spore had given them face paint and adornments, and it makes them glow with pride. They are ready to woo.
[CRITERIA: Minimum 9 Replies]
Everything is huge. Or, more accurately, everything looks huge from the perspective of the little russula muscheron. The shoebox is lit with a birthday candle in the middle of a table made from one of those plastic separators that comes in a pizza. It's a fire hazard, but you have to take chances when it comes to romance. The table is set with thimbles for cups and bottle caps for plates, filled with scavenged human delicacies. Cheez-it chunks, bacon bits, and squished tater tot pieces served in half of a sunflower seed shell. Peach schnapps from an airplane sized bottle almost as big as the muscheron. Dessert will be a surprise, chunks of Twix served on new pennies.
The musheron checks their reflection in the back of a shined up spoon. The bad luck human spore had given them face paint and adornments, and it makes them glow with pride. They are ready to woo.
The memory freezes and Armani pulls little Laszlo into a tight hug, weeping all over him. He can't help it.
"We found him!" he sobs, patting his neatly styled hair. He knows this isn't Laszlo-Laszlo like little Chanel wasn't Chanel-Chanel, but they're so close to freeing the real one. "Look at where his dad kept him. Look at the nails on the window, Chanel."
"We found him!" he sobs, patting his neatly styled hair. He knows this isn't Laszlo-Laszlo like little Chanel wasn't Chanel-Chanel, but they're so close to freeing the real one. "Look at where his dad kept him. Look at the nails on the window, Chanel."
[MODERATED]
[CRITERIA: minimum 4 participants, 1 from each House, solve the puzzle]
[METAPLOT]
2.4.89 is penned across the top of an otherwise blank page in an open journal. The quill moves slowly, looping script, vaguely familiar to students enrolled in Charms. What is that change in the air?
What is that change in the air?
The memory's owner glances up from the page. It's a lovely day. Cloudless blue sky, bright, sunny and warm. A few butterflies flutter by overhead, bobbing lazily through the air, and all around the ambient music of high school life fills the air — a class bell, a few kids shouting and laughing, the sound of feet sprinting on pavement. There's a boy surreptitiously flicking a lighter over and over beneath a nearby pine tree. A girl drinks water from a plastic bottle and accidentally spills some of it down her shirt. If this weren't obviously the central green, the two muscheron that wave as they scurry by are a dead giveaway.
The memory owner is seated cross-legged in front of a massive tree. Up, up, up they tip their chin. The maple never seems to end, more than a hundred feet high. The massive canopy is lush with new growth, spring leaves practically glowing with that fresh young bright green — but something's wrong.
[CRITERIA: minimum 4 participants, 1 from each House, solve the puzzle]
[METAPLOT]
2.4.89 is penned across the top of an otherwise blank page in an open journal. The quill moves slowly, looping script, vaguely familiar to students enrolled in Charms. What is that change in the air?
What is that change in the air?
The memory's owner glances up from the page. It's a lovely day. Cloudless blue sky, bright, sunny and warm. A few butterflies flutter by overhead, bobbing lazily through the air, and all around the ambient music of high school life fills the air — a class bell, a few kids shouting and laughing, the sound of feet sprinting on pavement. There's a boy surreptitiously flicking a lighter over and over beneath a nearby pine tree. A girl drinks water from a plastic bottle and accidentally spills some of it down her shirt. If this weren't obviously the central green, the two muscheron that wave as they scurry by are a dead giveaway.
The memory owner is seated cross-legged in front of a massive tree. Up, up, up they tip their chin. The maple never seems to end, more than a hundred feet high. The massive canopy is lush with new growth, spring leaves practically glowing with that fresh young bright green — but something's wrong.
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 9 Tags]
When you're kitten-sized, the greenhouse really does feel like a deep, dense jungle. All the plants loom massive, and their careful spacing within their large beds makes for a convenient path through all that green. What sunlight does filter through the leaves is hazy from passing through the greenhouse's foggy windows. Outside may be cold, but in here it's warm, cozy. Zero Sugar Pepsi sits low, pounce-ready, in the middle of a large plot of soil, surrounded by Wandering Willows who are starting to get a little restless. The little saplings sway and shift, occasionally getting up to move here or there, ostensibly to find a more comfortable spot in the dirt. Or maybe just trying to put distances between themselves and the Blob on their left.
At the end of the bed, past the little beads of fertilizer, past the tiny lawn gnome someone stuck into the earth, Tansy Treetops crouches over a particularly toothy sprout of snapping dragons. Spade in gloved hand, she carefully repots the fussy flowers, humming to herself, a pretty, improvised tune, oblivious to the tiny hunter lurking just beyond her willows.
Pepsi's eyes aren't on Ms. Treetops, though, they're focused just beyond. High up on a table sit five cacti in colorful pots. Two blue, one gray, one red and one green. The two blue pot cacti seem like they could be as tall as Ms. Treetops, herself, while the gray one and the green one look awful small to Pepsi’s eye. That red one, though. That guy’s just right.
The little cactus kitten does some complex math it probably isn't ready for, then bounds forward. A full sprint, running for those cactuses. At the lip of the bed, she leaps, tiny paws spread out and reaching for that table that seemed so much closer a moment ago.
In the corner of Pepsi's eye something moves. A vine, and not one that belongs. She freezes in mid-air. The vine does, too. Everything freezes.
[CRITERIA: Minimum 9 Tags]
When you're kitten-sized, the greenhouse really does feel like a deep, dense jungle. All the plants loom massive, and their careful spacing within their large beds makes for a convenient path through all that green. What sunlight does filter through the leaves is hazy from passing through the greenhouse's foggy windows. Outside may be cold, but in here it's warm, cozy. Zero Sugar Pepsi sits low, pounce-ready, in the middle of a large plot of soil, surrounded by Wandering Willows who are starting to get a little restless. The little saplings sway and shift, occasionally getting up to move here or there, ostensibly to find a more comfortable spot in the dirt. Or maybe just trying to put distances between themselves and the Blob on their left.
At the end of the bed, past the little beads of fertilizer, past the tiny lawn gnome someone stuck into the earth, Tansy Treetops crouches over a particularly toothy sprout of snapping dragons. Spade in gloved hand, she carefully repots the fussy flowers, humming to herself, a pretty, improvised tune, oblivious to the tiny hunter lurking just beyond her willows.
Pepsi's eyes aren't on Ms. Treetops, though, they're focused just beyond. High up on a table sit five cacti in colorful pots. Two blue, one gray, one red and one green. The two blue pot cacti seem like they could be as tall as Ms. Treetops, herself, while the gray one and the green one look awful small to Pepsi’s eye. That red one, though. That guy’s just right.
The little cactus kitten does some complex math it probably isn't ready for, then bounds forward. A full sprint, running for those cactuses. At the lip of the bed, she leaps, tiny paws spread out and reaching for that table that seemed so much closer a moment ago.
In the corner of Pepsi's eye something moves. A vine, and not one that belongs. She freezes in mid-air. The vine does, too. Everything freezes.
Chanel stalks immediately toward the door the man exited from and pounds at it with her fist, daring the man to come back. Fight her properly.
When she remembers herself, recalls that this is just a shade of the past, and she’ll have to wait to give Mr. Pataki a new nose, she stops and goes to Armani’s side, instead, squeezing his shoulder gently. “He’s out, now.” She reminds him. “He won’t ever have to come back here.”
When she remembers herself, recalls that this is just a shade of the past, and she’ll have to wait to give Mr. Pataki a new nose, she stops and goes to Armani’s side, instead, squeezing his shoulder gently. “He’s out, now.” She reminds him. “He won’t ever have to come back here.”
Edited 2020-06-05 21:10 (UTC)
"You have to be kidding me," Ramona says as she steps into this memory. Go find memories, the freshmen had told her. You'll save students. It's easy. They're probably off cavorting around in some ridiculous cat pageant with Valkyrie and kitten-aged Free Cat and she's stuck here with a colossal and frankly mean-looking russian blue and her second least favorite mushroom in the world.
At least the memory freezes before the cat has the chance to bat her or Presley into next week. She lifts her beater bat in a precautionary way anyways, looking around the tableau.
"Watch out for bugs," she tells Presley.
At least the memory freezes before the cat has the chance to bat her or Presley into next week. She lifts her beater bat in a precautionary way anyways, looking around the tableau.
"Watch out for bugs," she tells Presley.
"It's memory sugar," Patrice argues, and he's about to say something else but Presley has the key, and things are moving again. He watches Des, who sits next to him, obviously without knowing it, and his brows draw in. This whole thing sucks. He abandons his strange duplicate of the paper bag and gets to his feet.
"Let's get out of here."
"Let's get out of here."
There isn't an obvious glowing exit, but Presley can guess what he's expected to do. He moves to the bakery door, and puts the key into the lock. Presley looks over his shoulder to Patrice and Uriah, and seems to hesitate a moment before finally saying, "We can worry about the rest of it later. For now, let's just find them."
He turns the key, and pushes the door open.
He turns the key, and pushes the door open.
"We could make sure of that," he murmurs softly, chin resting atop the boy's head, like he's not at all implying murder. He is definitely implying murder. He runs his hands down the sides of Laszlo's arms before pulling away and wiping his face clean on his robes.
They're now wrapped stylishly around his neck like a cowl cape, draped behind him over one shoulder. Beneath them, he wears a black bodysuit that twinkles like stars in the night sky. You can't save the day if you ain't cute.
He tries the window, touching it and then deliberately running his hand over each of the nails to try to trigger a glow. He'd been careless in Chanel's memory, touching the record player and not the record. Now he's gonna be more thorough.
They're now wrapped stylishly around his neck like a cowl cape, draped behind him over one shoulder. Beneath them, he wears a black bodysuit that twinkles like stars in the night sky. You can't save the day if you ain't cute.
He tries the window, touching it and then deliberately running his hand over each of the nails to try to trigger a glow. He'd been careless in Chanel's memory, touching the record player and not the record. Now he's gonna be more thorough.
"I am the mortal enemy of bugs," Presley says, still high off his last encounter, but the confidence dims and dismay grows as he surveys their Muscheron-scale surroundings. This is ridiculous. He still has people unaccounted for, and he doesn't even like these kleptomaniac little pipsqueaks.
Presley sighs dramatically, and readies his wand at his side. Whatever. They've got this down to routine now. Find the glowing thing, go through the door, move on to the next memory. Except... "Please tell me we're not supposed to carry off those downright Brobdingnagian sunglasses."
Presley sighs dramatically, and readies his wand at his side. Whatever. They've got this down to routine now. Find the glowing thing, go through the door, move on to the next memory. Except... "Please tell me we're not supposed to carry off those downright Brobdingnagian sunglasses."
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