Mary Grace squints up into the sky, following the line of that trunk higher and higher. Oh, good. More heights.
"Any chance we just gotta grab her pen?" she asks, taking the rare step of not jumping straight to the most reckless option. "Or the journal?" Mary Grace starts pawing at the few things down on the ground with them, and she's prepared to just start pulling on hair if there's a chance it'll keep her feet on the ground.
"I very much hope we don't have to climb. I hate climbing," Trudy says, scowling. Like Mary Grace, Trudy starts touching things. The girl, her quill, the journal, the butterfly. "February fourth, nineteen eighty nine," she says, then leans in to see if she can flip forward or backwards in the journal to read anything.
The things in this memory are frozen but moveable. Nothing responds in gold under touch, though. The memory seems to have frozen before its linchpin could appear.
Trudy can easily turn the pages back and forth on the journal. The previous page's date is 1/4/89. "We haven't seen Peter in more than a week. El, Perce and Georgie are so distracted with Burton Bland, I don't think they've noticed."
The rest of the page is too blurry to read. Best to keep searching the area.
Chanel mostly caught the date on the journal entries. The rest...falls a little into place, but not enough to help. "What day did it all go to hell around here? Do we know that?"
She, too, is searching the area for clues, and goes to pluck the lighter out of the budding firebug's fingers. "...Maybe we have to burn the tree down." She says with the cool certainty of someone who may try that step. (She doesn't, though, not yet.)
"That sounds really hard," Maisy says in response to Chanel's plan, clearly opting out of that particular activity should the others decide to pursue it. Instead, she takes a lap around the trunk of the tree, watching her new Pouch-bestowed sigil fade and then brighten as she rejoins the group.
"Maybe there's something important around here?" she posits, waving the sigil in a few directions to look for changes.
As Maisy rounds the tree, she can see faint carvings in the bark. The markings are easily recognizable as the symbols belonging to each of Peckenpaugh's four Houses.
When she rejoins the group, the memory stutters to a start again.
Young Zelda Gunzenhauser squints up at the canopy, grip on her journal going slack. The memory continues to struggle, clipping and jumping as it forces itself forward. The book falls from Zelda's hands and she slowly rises to her feet. Someone gasps, there's a murmur.
"Look!" one of the students shouts.
The canopy is starting to yellow on one side. Leaves dry and curl, branches sag.
"The fuck," Mary Grace mutters under her breath, hands on her hips, watching the memory scrape and struggle along. She steps back from the tree to get the full picture, squinting at the wilting branches.
The strange wilting of the tree branches brings an unwanted flip to the pit of Chanel's stomach. They haven't, as a school, had a very good track record with trees and vegetation for the last few hours. She goes up to inspect the yellowing branches, to see if there's anything different on that side.
"What are those sigils." She snaps, because she's nervous, and as far as she can tell, those are the only things that changed.
Trudy rounds the tree as well, hoping to get a look at whatever Maisy saw that restarted the memory. "Why's it only doing it on one side?" She goes to investigate, looking up at the limbs and down at the roots below their feet.
Mary Grace returns to the base of the tree, placing her hand on the bark. Part of her — most of her, honestly — expects it to feel like the malignant tree in the auditorium, more like flesh than bark.
"Cursed, maybe?" she guesses, peering closely at the trunk. "Magic eclipse?"
With three students examining the maple, everything starts to move.
As Armani bends down to check the holes around the roots in the great old tree, three cicadas and a muscheron climb out to meet him, though they don't see him at all. The three cicadas take flight, zooming upward into the canopy, and the muscheron shouts something in Mushkin, running toward its friends at another tree.
Cicadas start to wail, a strange summer call in early spring. All around, there's chaos. Students running for staff, coming close to see what's happening, shouting and panicking. Zelda Gunzenhauser takes three long steps back, her head craned to get a look at the top of the tree. Mouth agape, eyes wide, horror dawns slowly across her features as, on one side, dry and yellow maple seeds begin to fall, little helicopters twisting lazily to the ground, blown about in the breeze. The bark of the tree turns gray. Under Mary Grace's fingers, it's uncomfortably warm to the touch.
"What's happening?" Zelda asks—no, calls to the tree. Panic rises in her voice. "Tink? Peter?"
Cicadas start to fall from the branches. The memory stops again, bugs frozen in the air.
When everything moves again, Chanel lets out a small cry and runs toward her brother and the rest of the students, in case something else happens. There's a small horror playing out here, and it's abundantly clear what it is. This must be the day when things started to go wrong. This tree is about to become very dangerous.
"Back off the tree." She snaps. She doesn't want to see Mary Grace or Armani or honestly anyone get grabbed back.
Chanel, predictably, gets closer herself, examining the tree hard for any way to stop this. She doesn't touch it, at least.
Mary Grace pulls her hand from the trunk when it starts to heat up, not really looking to scald off her fingertips quite yet, but she doesn't back away. As long as no one's asking her to climb this thing, she ain't afraid.
"There's marks," she points out as Chanel comes closer, leaning in to look at the house symbols scratched into the trunk.
Maisy follows Mary Grace and Chanel back around the tree, stepping carefully to avoid the roots. She's not as brave as Mary Grace, but not as smart as her either, and doesn't hesitate to reach out and experimentally touch the Deeplurk symbol carved into the trunk.
The tree is still uncomfortably warm to the touch, but under Maisy's fingers the Deeplurk insignia glows faintly green. The boughs of the tree rustle.
The memory begins to move again.
Those frozen cicadas and maple seeds fall like rain, thunking against the ground, though not everything in the air is dead. As the grass surrounding the tree starts to wilt, more cicadas land and then spring up into human form, each one of them like Pocket with glittering wings, carnelian eyes and skin like a clear night sky. A dozen or more, moving with purpose — catching what's falling, trying to usher students away from the area.
"Z, you need to get everyone here and you need to go," Pocket appears, leaping up from the ground as she so often does, and taking young Zelda Gunzenhauser by the shoulders. "It isn't safe here."
Zelda hardly seems to hear her command, pushing past her, toward the maple. "Tink, what's happening? The tree—It's—"
"I—I don't know," Pocket says, voice sharply taut. "It's okay. We're going to stop it. We have to stop it. It'll be, like, okay." Her voice cracks, unconvincing and unsure. "We'll activate the sigils. You just have to go!"
But Zelda doesn't leave. She watches as four magimagicicadas wordlessly turn and approach the great old tree. They move past the students bearing witness to this memory as though they aren't even there — because they aren't, not really.
A small one walks right through Maisy, barely more than ten-years-old, the little one stretches his hand up as high as he can reach trying to touch his steaming fingers to the Deeplurk symbol. On the opposite side, the tallest of the gathered beings, their form glowing at the edges like smoldering embers, extends their orange-red fingers toward the Wildgulch symbol. Another, body blooming with little pink flowers, raises their hand to the Thorntrail symbol on the west side. And at last, hobbling forward, an ancient magimagicicada who radiates a sharp, raw charge, bends her crooked form down and parts her lips in front of the Mothgarden symbol.
Before they can do what they've set out to do, the memory stutters to a stop. On the ground, everything's frozen, but up above, the tree continues to wilt, shedding maple seeds and leaves.
This isn't quite like any other memory she's seen. Chanel bites her lip. "One for each house. Should we try... Trudy. I'm afraid you may have to kiss this tree."
Happy that it's not her fate, Chanel moves to imitate the boy with the little pink flowers, raising her arm towards the Thorntrail symbol.
Chanel's hand grazes the Thorntrail symbol and the foot fills with deep red color. Something radiates back through her fingers, an old feeling, strong and sturdy and immovable, certainty. But that feeling lasts only a second, and the light fades from the symbol once more.
"Is she kissin' it or blowing on it?" Mary Grace asks, leaning in close to look at the woman by the Mothgarden symbol. Does she actually have to (get to) burn this tree down? "Hey, that weird kid didn't take off, did he?"
"Why do I keep having to kiss things!" Trudy demands with irritation. "I'm not doing it unless I have to, though it would hardly be the worst kiss of the evening." She huffs, then leans in to blow on the Mothgarden symbol carved into the tree.
A puff of Trudy's breath hits the Mothgarden symbol and lights it right up, a glowing blush of pink color. Trudy feels a rush of energy, fluttering wings and bright bubbles bursting beneath her skin. It's wonderful, energizing, inspiring, and it lingers as the ancient magimagicicada beside her comes back to life.
The old woman exhales against the symbol, her breath sparks of static and arcs of electricity. The Mothgarden symbol hums and the bark on this side fills with color.
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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"Any chance we just gotta grab her pen?" she asks, taking the rare step of not jumping straight to the most reckless option. "Or the journal?" Mary Grace starts pawing at the few things down on the ground with them, and she's prepared to just start pulling on hair if there's a chance it'll keep her feet on the ground.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
Trudy can easily turn the pages back and forth on the journal. The previous page's date is 1/4/89. "We haven't seen Peter in more than a week. El, Perce and Georgie are so distracted with Burton Bland, I don't think they've noticed."
The rest of the page is too blurry to read. Best to keep searching the area.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
She, too, is searching the area for clues, and goes to pluck the lighter out of the budding firebug's fingers. "...Maybe we have to burn the tree down." She says with the cool certainty of someone who may try that step. (She doesn't, though, not yet.)
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"Maybe there's something important around here?" she posits, waving the sigil in a few directions to look for changes.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
When she rejoins the group, the memory stutters to a start again.
Young Zelda Gunzenhauser squints up at the canopy, grip on her journal going slack. The memory continues to struggle, clipping and jumping as it forces itself forward. The book falls from Zelda's hands and she slowly rises to her feet. Someone gasps, there's a murmur.
"Look!" one of the students shouts.
The canopy is starting to yellow on one side. Leaves dry and curl, branches sag.
Everything freezes again.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"Anyone see what did that?"
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"What are those sigils." She snaps, because she's nervous, and as far as she can tell, those are the only things that changed.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"Cursed, maybe?" she guesses, peering closely at the trunk. "Magic eclipse?"
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
As Armani bends down to check the holes around the roots in the great old tree, three cicadas and a muscheron climb out to meet him, though they don't see him at all. The three cicadas take flight, zooming upward into the canopy, and the muscheron shouts something in Mushkin, running toward its friends at another tree.
Cicadas start to wail, a strange summer call in early spring. All around, there's chaos. Students running for staff, coming close to see what's happening, shouting and panicking. Zelda Gunzenhauser takes three long steps back, her head craned to get a look at the top of the tree. Mouth agape, eyes wide, horror dawns slowly across her features as, on one side, dry and yellow maple seeds begin to fall, little helicopters twisting lazily to the ground, blown about in the breeze. The bark of the tree turns gray. Under Mary Grace's fingers, it's uncomfortably warm to the touch.
"What's happening?" Zelda asks—no, calls to the tree. Panic rises in her voice. "Tink? Peter?"
Cicadas start to fall from the branches. The memory stops again, bugs frozen in the air.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"Back off the tree." She snaps. She doesn't want to see Mary Grace or Armani or honestly anyone get grabbed back.
Chanel, predictably, gets closer herself, examining the tree hard for any way to stop this. She doesn't touch it, at least.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
"There's marks," she points out as Chanel comes closer, leaning in to look at the house symbols scratched into the trunk.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
The memory begins to move again.
Those frozen cicadas and maple seeds fall like rain, thunking against the ground, though not everything in the air is dead. As the grass surrounding the tree starts to wilt, more cicadas land and then spring up into human form, each one of them like Pocket with glittering wings, carnelian eyes and skin like a clear night sky. A dozen or more, moving with purpose — catching what's falling, trying to usher students away from the area.
"Z, you need to get everyone here and you need to go," Pocket appears, leaping up from the ground as she so often does, and taking young Zelda Gunzenhauser by the shoulders. "It isn't safe here."
Zelda hardly seems to hear her command, pushing past her, toward the maple. "Tink, what's happening? The tree—It's—"
"I—I don't know," Pocket says, voice sharply taut. "It's okay. We're going to stop it. We have to stop it. It'll be, like, okay." Her voice cracks, unconvincing and unsure. "We'll activate the sigils. You just have to go!"
But Zelda doesn't leave. She watches as four magimagicicadas wordlessly turn and approach the great old tree. They move past the students bearing witness to this memory as though they aren't even there — because they aren't, not really.
A small one walks right through Maisy, barely more than ten-years-old, the little one stretches his hand up as high as he can reach trying to touch his steaming fingers to the Deeplurk symbol. On the opposite side, the tallest of the gathered beings, their form glowing at the edges like smoldering embers, extends their orange-red fingers toward the Wildgulch symbol. Another, body blooming with little pink flowers, raises their hand to the Thorntrail symbol on the west side. And at last, hobbling forward, an ancient magimagicicada who radiates a sharp, raw charge, bends her crooked form down and parts her lips in front of the Mothgarden symbol.
Before they can do what they've set out to do, the memory stutters to a stop. On the ground, everything's frozen, but up above, the tree continues to wilt, shedding maple seeds and leaves.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
Happy that it's not her fate, Chanel moves to imitate the boy with the little pink flowers, raising her arm towards the Thorntrail symbol.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
This isn't enough. The ritual needs more.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
The old woman exhales against the symbol, her breath sparks of static and arcs of electricity. The Mothgarden symbol hums and the bark on this side fills with color.
The old woman freezes.
Above, the sound of cicadas singing grows louder.
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
MEMORY: What Went Wrong
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MEMORY: What Went Wrong - COMPLETE
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Re: MEMORY: What Went Wrong - COMPLETE