This place smells of both wet basement and brimstone, which is altogether an awful combination. What doesn't help are the spindly almost-humans stationed at every entrance, their forms not quite right, and the sick feeling they leave in your stomach even worse. A half-dozen aurors are crowded in this basement, and two dozen more are stomping around upstairs. It’s a wonder the ceiling doesn’t give, the way everything’s scorched. Someone else, a middle-aged man wearing green robes, seems to notice, and flings a spell that spreads silver across the blackened boards, mending damage done. Across the room, an auror pulls a pack of cigarettes from his robes and pats it against his leg. Is now really the time? Nearby, another offers a stick of gum to his friend. Everyone is nervous. Everyone restless. The very air is charged with it.
Almost every inch of this dark, dank place is carpeted in bouncy moss. What isn't is the jagged hole in the middle of the floor, though the moss does spill down its sides. A peek into the pit reveals light like a dimly burning ember somewhere at what must be the end of this seemingly bottomless hole. A feeling of vertigo strikes, and the memory owner takes one large step away.
A few bowling balls resting on a shelf escaped coating. The contents of some open cardboard boxes, as well. Small vinyl records, probably meant for a jukebox. Caleb Qualls, Ichabod Kettleburn and Lancelot Purcell are etching glyphs into the floor, cutting through moss to carve symbols into poured cement. They've all been here for hours and hours, but no one is in a rush. When they're done, when they leave, it will be with one fewer than how they entered.
Off to the side, Pocket, here Tinkerbell, watches. Ebenezer Woodrow stands beside her fretting visibly. Zipporah's heart aches when she looks at Tinkerbell. The little creature seems so young, so innocent. She almost forgets that Tinkerbell was Tinkerbell when she was a girl, that this particular magimagicicada might even predate the Revolutionary War. Still, by human standards, just a child. A child who has lost everything, and yet here she stands, looking resolute with the rest of them, dressed in the bright colors she always does, flouncy skirt, countless bracelets and bangles, sporting a pair of sunglasses to hide her missing eye. Her presence is a soothing balm in an otherwise awful atmosphere.
Healer Crockett steps around a crouched Caleb Qualls to speak with the party bug, but before any words come, she freezes.
For once, this isn’t quite jarring. Chanel sort of knows where they are. When they are. She even knows whose head they’re in. Zipporah Crockett has become something of a hero, and Chanel smiles at her softly as she passes. Not as if she’ll ever know. She comes to rest at the mouth of the abyss. “If we have to jump down there, we’re just going home. Enough is enough,” she informs Armani. And yet, she’s almost prepared to do just that, toes curling over the edge, as she wonders if she’d even have the nerve.
Armani sits on his knees and sticks his trident down the pit to try to touch the ember with it. Mostly, he just wants to show off his cool cactus trident.
With just the two of them here and no one to impress, Armani feels less pressed to play the hero and find the linchpin as fast as possible. "Can we check out those spider people before we go?" he asks her.
Chanel holds her breath, but no horror pokes its maw or tentacles out of the depths, just yet. She relaxes for a moment, seeing her brother's new toy. "I love that. But. You and cacti don't have the most friendly history, do you?" She warns, like he didn't know. She could deduce where this linchpin had arisen.
"Oh, the creepers." She'd almost forgotten. Chanel turns away from the ledge and starts walking toward them, instead. "Of course. I should take a picture with them, actually."
Very important to show off to Mary Grace that one of them had successfully done the prom crime they'd actually set out to do. Sort of.
Chanel pulls out her phone, and Armani in by the waist, close to the nearest frozen Creeper. It's selfie time! They can worry about runes and linchpins in a moment. "Look cute." Is her only order for now.
If everything else goes to hell, here, at least they'll have some good pictures. Chanel liberates her brother from his phone and alternates between the two, snapping first pictures of just Armani and his new friend, then both of them, then one just her. She offers it back for his inspection. "Extremely cute."
She deems. Only then, inspecting her phone, does she take another moment to look around the room. "All right, but we should save Healer Crockett."
She's sure that legend feels secure, knowing who is traipsing around her memories, now.
"We should," he agrees, still hugging the Creeper with one arm, hand splayed on their chest as he looks around the room. "Okay, on three we run to where we think the linchpin is. Ready? One... Two... ....... THREE!" He bolts off toward Pocket, hand outstretched to try to be the first to touch her sunglasses in case Chanel has the same idea.
Chanel, actually and unfortunately, did have exactly the same idea and the next moment finds her trying to run even faster, arm also outstretched, to knock the glasses off Pocket's face. Or grab them. Just as long as she can claim victory.
Chanel has always been faster. Armani howls like a banshee just like he did as a child when he knew he was about to lose to her. Chanel touches the glasses first with Armani coming in a split second behind her, accidentally palm striking Pocket hard in the cheekbone in his grab for them.
The glasses don't glow, but the scene moves along eventually.
“How are you doing, dearheart?” Healer Crockett asks with a great deal more softness than has been seen of her outside of patient care.
Pocket’s head swivels and she meets the Head of Thorntrail’s concern with a wide, peaceful smile. “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”
That doesn’t seem quite like an answer, but Zipporah isn’t sure if that’s intentional or not. The magimagicicada are often like that. The healer quirks her head to the side, about to say that she doesn’t understand, but it seems Pocket already knows.
“I’m going to help heal the hurt,” she confides to Zipporah and Ebenezer. That smile she holds falters, twitching down flat. “It’s the least I can do. It’s what I have to do. For my brothers and sisters. For El, for Cal, for everyone hurt, and everyone still living. I’m glad that I can do it.”
Before either Head of House can remark on Pocket’s words, Caleb Qualls stands. “It’s done.”
His words suck the air out of the room.
Kettleburn is the first to stand, always willing to set an example when everyone else is at a loss, even if he, himself, isn’t sure what to do. “It’s done,” he echoes. “One more step.”
The time to question Caleb’s decision has long since passed, but Zipporah still has to resist the urge to ask him one more time: are you sure? What about Marilynn? What about Bryce? The same questions he’s surely been asked a hundred thousand times by now.
One more excruciating second ticks by, and then Kettleburn steps forward to pull Mr. Qualls into a hug. “An honor and a pleasure, y’stubborn cabbage.” And before he can pull away, Pocket’s fluttered over to join the hug, too.
As Zipporah Crockett’s eyes blur with tears, she tilts her chin up. Just beyond the three of them is that awful hole, that wound in the very earth. The light inside it changes, not an ember but the dim blue of Peckenpaugh’s auditorium. Time to take a leap.
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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
[CRITERIA: Minimum 13 Tags]
[METAPLOT]
This place smells of both wet basement and brimstone, which is altogether an awful combination. What doesn't help are the spindly almost-humans stationed at every entrance, their forms not quite right, and the sick feeling they leave in your stomach even worse. A half-dozen aurors are crowded in this basement, and two dozen more are stomping around upstairs. It’s a wonder the ceiling doesn’t give, the way everything’s scorched. Someone else, a middle-aged man wearing green robes, seems to notice, and flings a spell that spreads silver across the blackened boards, mending damage done. Across the room, an auror pulls a pack of cigarettes from his robes and pats it against his leg. Is now really the time? Nearby, another offers a stick of gum to his friend. Everyone is nervous. Everyone restless. The very air is charged with it.
Almost every inch of this dark, dank place is carpeted in bouncy moss. What isn't is the jagged hole in the middle of the floor, though the moss does spill down its sides. A peek into the pit reveals light like a dimly burning ember somewhere at what must be the end of this seemingly bottomless hole. A feeling of vertigo strikes, and the memory owner takes one large step away.
A few bowling balls resting on a shelf escaped coating. The contents of some open cardboard boxes, as well. Small vinyl records, probably meant for a jukebox. Caleb Qualls, Ichabod Kettleburn and Lancelot Purcell are etching glyphs into the floor, cutting through moss to carve symbols into poured cement. They've all been here for hours and hours, but no one is in a rush. When they're done, when they leave, it will be with one fewer than how they entered.
Off to the side, Pocket, here Tinkerbell, watches. Ebenezer Woodrow stands beside her fretting visibly. Zipporah's heart aches when she looks at Tinkerbell. The little creature seems so young, so innocent. She almost forgets that Tinkerbell was Tinkerbell when she was a girl, that this particular magimagicicada might even predate the Revolutionary War. Still, by human standards, just a child. A child who has lost everything, and yet here she stands, looking resolute with the rest of them, dressed in the bright colors she always does, flouncy skirt, countless bracelets and bangles, sporting a pair of sunglasses to hide her missing eye. Her presence is a soothing balm in an otherwise awful atmosphere.
Healer Crockett steps around a crouched Caleb Qualls to speak with the party bug, but before any words come, she freezes.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
With just the two of them here and no one to impress, Armani feels less pressed to play the hero and find the linchpin as fast as possible. "Can we check out those spider people before we go?" he asks her.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
"Oh, the creepers." She'd almost forgotten. Chanel turns away from the ledge and starts walking toward them, instead. "Of course. I should take a picture with them, actually."
Very important to show off to Mary Grace that one of them had successfully done the prom crime they'd actually set out to do. Sort of.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
She deems. Only then, inspecting her phone, does she take another moment to look around the room. "All right, but we should save Healer Crockett."
She's sure that legend feels secure, knowing who is traipsing around her memories, now.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
Or grab them. Just as long as she can claim victory.
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
MEMORY: Caleb Leapt
“How are you doing, dearheart?” Healer Crockett asks with a great deal more softness than has been seen of her outside of patient care.
Pocket’s head swivels and she meets the Head of Thorntrail’s concern with a wide, peaceful smile. “I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”
That doesn’t seem quite like an answer, but Zipporah isn’t sure if that’s intentional or not. The magimagicicada are often like that. The healer quirks her head to the side, about to say that she doesn’t understand, but it seems Pocket already knows.
“I’m going to help heal the hurt,” she confides to Zipporah and Ebenezer. That smile she holds falters, twitching down flat. “It’s the least I can do. It’s what I have to do. For my brothers and sisters. For El, for Cal, for everyone hurt, and everyone still living. I’m glad that I can do it.”
Before either Head of House can remark on Pocket’s words, Caleb Qualls stands. “It’s done.”
His words suck the air out of the room.
Kettleburn is the first to stand, always willing to set an example when everyone else is at a loss, even if he, himself, isn’t sure what to do. “It’s done,” he echoes. “One more step.”
The time to question Caleb’s decision has long since passed, but Zipporah still has to resist the urge to ask him one more time: are you sure? What about Marilynn? What about Bryce? The same questions he’s surely been asked a hundred thousand times by now.
One more excruciating second ticks by, and then Kettleburn steps forward to pull Mr. Qualls into a hug. “An honor and a pleasure, y’stubborn cabbage.” And before he can pull away, Pocket’s fluttered over to join the hug, too.
As Zipporah Crockett’s eyes blur with tears, she tilts her chin up. Just beyond the three of them is that awful hole, that wound in the very earth. The light inside it changes, not an ember but the dim blue of Peckenpaugh’s auditorium. Time to take a leap.