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peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
peckishmods) wrote in peckenpaugh2020-06-01 11:18 am
This is where you sat when you were sorted, each quarter of this balcony painted beachy blue, spring pink, pine green or mahogany red. Once, it was a pain to shuffle past your peers and find a good seat for a show or assembly. Now the way is blocked by toppled tables, broken benches, fallen prom decorations and curtains of vines.
Blue seeds litter every surface, a hall of memories to be explored. Hurry.
Blue seeds litter every surface, a hall of memories to be explored. Hurry.
There's only one way up, unfortunately, and it's via the nightmare tree. The boughs up here are so tightly packed they're practically stairs, but that doesn't make the trek to the third floor any more pleasant. The branches bend and give under foot and hand, not merely pliant but soft and warm and breathing. They groan and rumble and creak, not like wood, but like some creature, sleeping fitfully, unable to wake from its own bad dream. The malignant maple hates, hates, hates, hates being scaled. You can tell. You can feel it.
Grab a memory seed while you're here. Make it angrier.
Grab a memory seed while you're here. Make it angrier.
Little stars and galaxies sputter around you, the remains of Peckenpaugh's ruined prom night. The same sights are not reflected in the sky. Though the roof is gone, a thick, sickly green-gray blanket of swirling clouds hides the moon from sight, and that tree is still growing, reaching ever upward, because that's the only place it seems it can go.
Up here, it's a jungle, dense and dangerous. The floorboards creak and crack with each step. Vines writhe and foliage rustles and a creeping fear follows your every step. Get what you can from here and leave as soon as possible. The floor seems like it could give away at any moment, and even that feels less threatening than whatever lurks within the leaves.
Up here, it's a jungle, dense and dangerous. The floorboards creak and crack with each step. Vines writhe and foliage rustles and a creeping fear follows your every step. Get what you can from here and leave as soon as possible. The floor seems like it could give away at any moment, and even that feels less threatening than whatever lurks within the leaves.
Edited 2020-06-07 18:25 (UTC)
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: cramped area, 2 characters max due to size constraints, minimum replies 8]
It's cold outside, but warm in here. The old van is crammed with teenagers, so the windows fog up quickly, making it hard to see outside. The patter of rain on the roof is almost deafening, and aside from two faded yellow dome lights, it’s almost pitch black. They’re sat on a front lawn in the hills of Elflock Falls, that much is evident if you squint out the front windshield.
Within, the van is a cramped mess. Several backpacks are stuck on or between seats. One is open, papers and books jutting out of every pocket. Up front, Lionel Qualls sits in the driver seat, hands at ten and two for approximately six seconds before he starts drumming on the wheel. Beside him in the passenger seat, Percy Potkin's grinning broad, fixing a set of fuzzy dice to the rear view.
“I like them!” Percy announces gamely when El rolls his eyes.
The memory shifts, the watcher doing a turn. In the way back, two teenage Crocketts and a young Gilda Santos are piled up and laughing. Popcorn goes flying when Zed accidentally knocks the cup of it out of Gilda’s hands. A moment of raucous laughter is cut short when Wybie Youngblood climbs aboard from the left, soaked to the bone from the rain outside and announcing himself with a, "Shit!"
Z Gunzenhauser, standing on the right, pushes her way past the mystery memory owner and smacks her shin against one of the bucket seats in her eagerness to get to the front. “Autsch! Why?” It doesn’t stop her long, though. She leans over Percy to fiddle with the buttons and knobs.
Naturally, that leaves few others for the memory holder to be. "Getting any good tunes?" Georgie Trullinger teases as Zelda continues to fruitlessly seek sound from the dead radio.
"The van's not even on yet, Z," Lionel cackles as his friend hits buttons and turns knobs.
“I believe in her,” Percy says with such conviction it’s hard to say if he’s joking.
“Quatsch! Turn it on then!” Zelda snips, slapping Lionel’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for?! Do you see how I’m suffering?”
More laughter fills the tiny space.
"Alright, alright," Lionel concedes with a dismissive wave, then puts his hand on the ignition and turns the key. The lights come up bright, illuminating the sherbet green upholstery and stained faux leather dash. Then suddenly, everything freezes.
[CRITERIA: cramped area, 2 characters max due to size constraints, minimum replies 8]
It's cold outside, but warm in here. The old van is crammed with teenagers, so the windows fog up quickly, making it hard to see outside. The patter of rain on the roof is almost deafening, and aside from two faded yellow dome lights, it’s almost pitch black. They’re sat on a front lawn in the hills of Elflock Falls, that much is evident if you squint out the front windshield.
Within, the van is a cramped mess. Several backpacks are stuck on or between seats. One is open, papers and books jutting out of every pocket. Up front, Lionel Qualls sits in the driver seat, hands at ten and two for approximately six seconds before he starts drumming on the wheel. Beside him in the passenger seat, Percy Potkin's grinning broad, fixing a set of fuzzy dice to the rear view.
“I like them!” Percy announces gamely when El rolls his eyes.
The memory shifts, the watcher doing a turn. In the way back, two teenage Crocketts and a young Gilda Santos are piled up and laughing. Popcorn goes flying when Zed accidentally knocks the cup of it out of Gilda’s hands. A moment of raucous laughter is cut short when Wybie Youngblood climbs aboard from the left, soaked to the bone from the rain outside and announcing himself with a, "Shit!"
Z Gunzenhauser, standing on the right, pushes her way past the mystery memory owner and smacks her shin against one of the bucket seats in her eagerness to get to the front. “Autsch! Why?” It doesn’t stop her long, though. She leans over Percy to fiddle with the buttons and knobs.
Naturally, that leaves few others for the memory holder to be. "Getting any good tunes?" Georgie Trullinger teases as Zelda continues to fruitlessly seek sound from the dead radio.
"The van's not even on yet, Z," Lionel cackles as his friend hits buttons and turns knobs.
“I believe in her,” Percy says with such conviction it’s hard to say if he’s joking.
“Quatsch! Turn it on then!” Zelda snips, slapping Lionel’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for?! Do you see how I’m suffering?”
More laughter fills the tiny space.
"Alright, alright," Lionel concedes with a dismissive wave, then puts his hand on the ignition and turns the key. The lights come up bright, illuminating the sherbet green upholstery and stained faux leather dash. Then suddenly, everything freezes.
[?MODERATED? - we may slip into this memory]
[CRITERIA: minimum 3 players, minimum 12 replies]
[METAPLOT]
Water laps against a pebble beach. In and out. In and out. Waves climb up shore and retreat again. The stones at your feet are black and sharp, so shiny they look like hunks of glass. Some fine as frit, others as large as a human head, all of them glittering. The water rushing toward you is thick and inky blue, smelling not of algae or salt, but of something faintly sweet, unfamiliar. Above, the sky is gray. You know it's night, though it doesn't look like it. Focus long on it, and your eyes begin to hurt. You realize: it's not gray, it's just densely packed with stars. So innumerable they make a solid tapestry.
Debris litters the beach. Blankets, baskets, overturned boats, what looks a bit like a chaise lounge split in two. There are drying pools of gray goo in places, tide pools that smell faintly of chocolate. But those aren't tide pools. And that's not ocean water.
All around, vines are growing, creeping up toward the sweet indigo sea. Massive purple flowers, bigger than you are, sit dangerously every dozen or so feet, drinking in that endless starlight and singing it back in pulses of purple light. This is a battle lost, but the war still rages on.
Snap.
One approaches, a being of many limbs, many tendrils, many frills. Strangely beautiful, its body all the colors of an exotic fish, but unsettling to behold. It wears lovely adornments, metal bangles, colorful threads woven into nets, a wreath of red crystals in its hair, each one as delicate as the petal of a flower. When it moves, it moves like a spider, pulling itself forward, toward the memory's owner.
Click, click, clack. Pop. Snap snap snap.
Though the sounds have no meaning to your ear, that feeling is unmistakable. Loyalty, devotion, adoration, fear.
The two beings set to work moving pebbles about until a strange glyph has been drawn in the beach. A circle rimmed by symbols unfamiliar even to the top Symbology students at Peckenpaugh. The memory owner walks around the circle, their partner keeping pace beside them, putting their backs to the ocean and looking further ashore. More of these beings are gathered, ready with what little they can carry to flee to somewhere new.
Three of these waiting beings approach and from tendrilly limbs present items: a satchel of fine white powder, a vial of something gray, and a cube of faded gray metal. Everything freezes.
[CRITERIA: minimum 3 players, minimum 12 replies]
[METAPLOT]
Water laps against a pebble beach. In and out. In and out. Waves climb up shore and retreat again. The stones at your feet are black and sharp, so shiny they look like hunks of glass. Some fine as frit, others as large as a human head, all of them glittering. The water rushing toward you is thick and inky blue, smelling not of algae or salt, but of something faintly sweet, unfamiliar. Above, the sky is gray. You know it's night, though it doesn't look like it. Focus long on it, and your eyes begin to hurt. You realize: it's not gray, it's just densely packed with stars. So innumerable they make a solid tapestry.
Debris litters the beach. Blankets, baskets, overturned boats, what looks a bit like a chaise lounge split in two. There are drying pools of gray goo in places, tide pools that smell faintly of chocolate. But those aren't tide pools. And that's not ocean water.
All around, vines are growing, creeping up toward the sweet indigo sea. Massive purple flowers, bigger than you are, sit dangerously every dozen or so feet, drinking in that endless starlight and singing it back in pulses of purple light. This is a battle lost, but the war still rages on.
Snap.
One approaches, a being of many limbs, many tendrils, many frills. Strangely beautiful, its body all the colors of an exotic fish, but unsettling to behold. It wears lovely adornments, metal bangles, colorful threads woven into nets, a wreath of red crystals in its hair, each one as delicate as the petal of a flower. When it moves, it moves like a spider, pulling itself forward, toward the memory's owner.
Click, click, clack. Pop. Snap snap snap.
Though the sounds have no meaning to your ear, that feeling is unmistakable. Loyalty, devotion, adoration, fear.
The two beings set to work moving pebbles about until a strange glyph has been drawn in the beach. A circle rimmed by symbols unfamiliar even to the top Symbology students at Peckenpaugh. The memory owner walks around the circle, their partner keeping pace beside them, putting their backs to the ocean and looking further ashore. More of these beings are gathered, ready with what little they can carry to flee to somewhere new.
Three of these waiting beings approach and from tendrilly limbs present items: a satchel of fine white powder, a vial of something gray, and a cube of faded gray metal. Everything freezes.
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: minimum 8 replies]
[METAPLOT]
The room is cluttered and dark, the upside down ice cream cone-shaped light fixture dangling in the middle of the tiny office extinguished. Boxes and boxes and boxes line the walls of the already cramped quarters, brown cardboard boxes labeled 'SAMPLE SPOONS' and 'BIG SCOOP CUPS' mixed up with banker boxes stamped with the Elflock Falls city seal.
Shoved in the corner of the room is a desk, old and creaky and missing a leg, stacks of papers scattered across. Bank statements for the Zippy Dip, letterhead for THE OFFICE OF THE MAYOR OF ELFLOCK FALLS, ZIPPARY ZEBROWSKI, a custom notepad for notes From the Zip's Lips!—the office's occupant, Zippy Zebrowski, shoves them all away to reveal a handwritten page in a cramped, clumsy scribble.
"Heavy hearts bring us here today, Elflock Falls..." Zippy starts to read, quietly, under his breath. But he stops. His breath catches, his lips hang, and he slaps the paper down again.
There's a single, hard rap on the door. Zippy looks up and stares, at the door and at the calendar hanging on the backside of it. A looping picture of a triple scoop ice cream cone tumbling through the air hangs over the month of May, and the bright colors flash through the dark and dusky little room.
Zippy doesn't answer. The rap comes again, and then silence.
[CRITERIA: minimum 8 replies]
[METAPLOT]
The room is cluttered and dark, the upside down ice cream cone-shaped light fixture dangling in the middle of the tiny office extinguished. Boxes and boxes and boxes line the walls of the already cramped quarters, brown cardboard boxes labeled 'SAMPLE SPOONS' and 'BIG SCOOP CUPS' mixed up with banker boxes stamped with the Elflock Falls city seal.
Shoved in the corner of the room is a desk, old and creaky and missing a leg, stacks of papers scattered across. Bank statements for the Zippy Dip, letterhead for THE OFFICE OF THE MAYOR OF ELFLOCK FALLS, ZIPPARY ZEBROWSKI, a custom notepad for notes From the Zip's Lips!—the office's occupant, Zippy Zebrowski, shoves them all away to reveal a handwritten page in a cramped, clumsy scribble.
"Heavy hearts bring us here today, Elflock Falls..." Zippy starts to read, quietly, under his breath. But he stops. His breath catches, his lips hang, and he slaps the paper down again.
There's a single, hard rap on the door. Zippy looks up and stares, at the door and at the calendar hanging on the backside of it. A looping picture of a triple scoop ice cream cone tumbling through the air hangs over the month of May, and the bright colors flash through the dark and dusky little room.
Zippy doesn't answer. The rap comes again, and then silence.
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 6 Replies]
“Oh! Birdie, I—I definitely lost a contact, it’s—oh god, I think it’s going behind my eye!” Sarah-Jane Dorkins leans in close to the mirror, finger dragging down her bottom eyelid. This color-changing contact lens Birdie insisted she try tonight is definitely working its way under her eye, and she never even wanted to try it in the first place.
“Don’t worry about it,” Birdie Beridze calls back. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” Birdie sweeps into the room, two martinis in hand, with all that glamorous confidence Sarah-Jane could never even dream of having. Even her apartment here felt so much more exciting than her own; she had a rack of designer cocktail dresses where Sarah-Jane kept her good vacuum cleaner, she had costume jewelry that looked stolen from a movie set, she had an autograph from—okay, a lot of people that aren’t all that familiar to her, actually, but still!
Sarah-Jane lets go of her eyelid, but doesn’t relax, and there’s no way she’s going to stop worrying about it. “Okay, well, does it come out eventually?” she asks and grabs for her purse, upending it all over Birdie’s vanity. Junk scatters across the glassy surface, three chapsticks roll to the ground, an airpod and bottle of Wizine roll behind the vanity altogether. “Am I stuck with this thing buried behind my eye forever while it just, like, detaches my retinas for me?”
Birdie sips at one of the martinis, but Sarah-Jane doesn’t need input to spiral out, and she also really doesn’t want to lose that airpod. Also that Wizine! Do you know how much of that she’ll need after finally ripping this stupid contact lens out? She grabs onto the vanity and pulls it outward, sending more of her purse contents all over the floor. It doesn’t matter, because she can get all of these things, she can fix it all herself, she can clean up any mess, because she is Sarah-Jane Dorkins, goddammit.
Or, well. Sarah-Jane Grossweiner now, probably.
She stops, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by her purse shit. “Goddammit, I don’t want to be a Grossweiner again,” she wails and throws her hands to her side. Birdie sets a martini glass on the vanity, leans against it, and… stops there, frozen completely in time.
[CRITERIA: Minimum 6 Replies]
“Oh! Birdie, I—I definitely lost a contact, it’s—oh god, I think it’s going behind my eye!” Sarah-Jane Dorkins leans in close to the mirror, finger dragging down her bottom eyelid. This color-changing contact lens Birdie insisted she try tonight is definitely working its way under her eye, and she never even wanted to try it in the first place.
“Don’t worry about it,” Birdie Beridze calls back. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” Birdie sweeps into the room, two martinis in hand, with all that glamorous confidence Sarah-Jane could never even dream of having. Even her apartment here felt so much more exciting than her own; she had a rack of designer cocktail dresses where Sarah-Jane kept her good vacuum cleaner, she had costume jewelry that looked stolen from a movie set, she had an autograph from—okay, a lot of people that aren’t all that familiar to her, actually, but still!
Sarah-Jane lets go of her eyelid, but doesn’t relax, and there’s no way she’s going to stop worrying about it. “Okay, well, does it come out eventually?” she asks and grabs for her purse, upending it all over Birdie’s vanity. Junk scatters across the glassy surface, three chapsticks roll to the ground, an airpod and bottle of Wizine roll behind the vanity altogether. “Am I stuck with this thing buried behind my eye forever while it just, like, detaches my retinas for me?”
Birdie sips at one of the martinis, but Sarah-Jane doesn’t need input to spiral out, and she also really doesn’t want to lose that airpod. Also that Wizine! Do you know how much of that she’ll need after finally ripping this stupid contact lens out? She grabs onto the vanity and pulls it outward, sending more of her purse contents all over the floor. It doesn’t matter, because she can get all of these things, she can fix it all herself, she can clean up any mess, because she is Sarah-Jane Dorkins, goddammit.
Or, well. Sarah-Jane Grossweiner now, probably.
She stops, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by her purse shit. “Goddammit, I don’t want to be a Grossweiner again,” she wails and throws her hands to her side. Birdie sets a martini glass on the vanity, leans against it, and… stops there, frozen completely in time.
[MODERATED - player memory]
[CRITERIA: defeat NPC(s), find the linchpin]
[RESERVED: Armani & Chanel Addams]
"I'm sorry." It's a young voice, and while being escorted up a solemn staircase, the boy catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Dark hair, glasses, perfectly pressed clothing. The house is grand and dark, and very, very quiet. Just him and the man with a hand on his shoulder.
"You know the rules, Laszlo." He doesn't look down at his son, and his face never quite comes into view. "I don't have any use for your apologies now."
Laszlo falls silent. Outside the sun is hanging low in the sky. Trees stretch on for miles outside, with no signs of other people nearby. The pair pass the window swiftly, clinically, and Laszlo hardly drags his feet at all. He's stopped trying to see his father's face, and just lets himself be led.
"You could have gotten us discovered. Broken the statute. Or were you planning on leaving with those children?" His father's voice is less calm now, more desperate.
"I was—I was going to—tell— I would tell them it was—private property, and—"
"Enough, I am too busy to listen to you stammer."
They reach a door, and his father opens it. A small, plain room. No toys, just books. Some plants. A window nailed tightly shut. Laszlo turns around, perhaps to try and say something, but the door is already shut. He hears it being locked behind him.
[CRITERIA: defeat NPC(s), find the linchpin]
[RESERVED: Armani & Chanel Addams]
"I'm sorry." It's a young voice, and while being escorted up a solemn staircase, the boy catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Dark hair, glasses, perfectly pressed clothing. The house is grand and dark, and very, very quiet. Just him and the man with a hand on his shoulder.
"You know the rules, Laszlo." He doesn't look down at his son, and his face never quite comes into view. "I don't have any use for your apologies now."
Laszlo falls silent. Outside the sun is hanging low in the sky. Trees stretch on for miles outside, with no signs of other people nearby. The pair pass the window swiftly, clinically, and Laszlo hardly drags his feet at all. He's stopped trying to see his father's face, and just lets himself be led.
"You could have gotten us discovered. Broken the statute. Or were you planning on leaving with those children?" His father's voice is less calm now, more desperate.
"I was—I was going to—tell— I would tell them it was—private property, and—"
"Enough, I am too busy to listen to you stammer."
They reach a door, and his father opens it. A small, plain room. No toys, just books. Some plants. A window nailed tightly shut. Laszlo turns around, perhaps to try and say something, but the door is already shut. He hears it being locked behind him.
Edited 2020-06-04 02:30 (UTC)
[UNMODERATED - player memory]
[CRITERIA: find the linchpin, minimum 12 tags]
The bakery is quiet and all of the lights but one are low. On the street, it's cold enough to make a person hunch their shoulders in, just a little, and late enough that the sky is black. The street is too. Black like the metal of the lampposts and the paint on the bench out front where there's a boy with his gaze fixed down the street, skinny and small, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt, plucking at a loose thread and winding it around his finger.
It isn't startling, the black of the sky the asphalt the door behind him. Maybe because of the dark or maybe because that's how it's always been. That is how it's always been. All the world in contrasts of bright and dark and the shades of grey between them.
The boy digs his teeth into his cheek and leans forward. Sucks in a breath and leans back almost as quickly, pulling a sneaker up onto the bench and retying his shoelace. Someone's late. (It isn't you. You're here. You're waiting. You're supposed to be here. To be still. To be waiting. It'll be fine. She'll be back if you can just—)
Behind him a bell jingles, chiming sound that startles him into straightening, toes of his sneakers skimming the floor and shoulders rocking back as a woman steps out the front door of the shop with her arms full and her wand tucked behind her ear. The slow build of panic in the air quiets like a candle that somebody's gone and taken a snuffer straight to. All covered up and choked.
"You still out here, honey?" she asks, all bright and polite like she hadn't seen him through the window all day, holed up between her pansies. Her voice is warm (warm like the cup she'd placed down on the bench that morning, like the brimming-full paper bag folded over in her hands right now) like he's a pleasant thing to see and she has a smile that makes her eyes crinkle closed.
Desmond nods. "Yes, ma'am."
There are splotches of white on the dark of her shirt, one streak of it left high on her forehead. She misses it by half an inch as she reaches up to run her fingers through her hair. "And you're sure you won't stay inside?"
For a moment, she looks like she might argue when he dips his chin and mumbles out a sheepish, "No, ma'am." Her lips turning down in a way that makes something squirm guiltily in his stomach. But she drops her paper bag onto spare bit of space next to him instead, her fingers skimming the tops of the little gray flowers in the pot next to the door.
"Alright," she says. "Well, you know where the key is."
[CRITERIA: find the linchpin, minimum 12 tags]
The bakery is quiet and all of the lights but one are low. On the street, it's cold enough to make a person hunch their shoulders in, just a little, and late enough that the sky is black. The street is too. Black like the metal of the lampposts and the paint on the bench out front where there's a boy with his gaze fixed down the street, skinny and small, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt, plucking at a loose thread and winding it around his finger.
It isn't startling, the black of the sky the asphalt the door behind him. Maybe because of the dark or maybe because that's how it's always been. That is how it's always been. All the world in contrasts of bright and dark and the shades of grey between them.
The boy digs his teeth into his cheek and leans forward. Sucks in a breath and leans back almost as quickly, pulling a sneaker up onto the bench and retying his shoelace. Someone's late. (It isn't you. You're here. You're waiting. You're supposed to be here. To be still. To be waiting. It'll be fine. She'll be back if you can just—)
Behind him a bell jingles, chiming sound that startles him into straightening, toes of his sneakers skimming the floor and shoulders rocking back as a woman steps out the front door of the shop with her arms full and her wand tucked behind her ear. The slow build of panic in the air quiets like a candle that somebody's gone and taken a snuffer straight to. All covered up and choked.
"You still out here, honey?" she asks, all bright and polite like she hadn't seen him through the window all day, holed up between her pansies. Her voice is warm (warm like the cup she'd placed down on the bench that morning, like the brimming-full paper bag folded over in her hands right now) like he's a pleasant thing to see and she has a smile that makes her eyes crinkle closed.
Desmond nods. "Yes, ma'am."
There are splotches of white on the dark of her shirt, one streak of it left high on her forehead. She misses it by half an inch as she reaches up to run her fingers through her hair. "And you're sure you won't stay inside?"
For a moment, she looks like she might argue when he dips his chin and mumbles out a sheepish, "No, ma'am." Her lips turning down in a way that makes something squirm guiltily in his stomach. But she drops her paper bag onto spare bit of space next to him instead, her fingers skimming the tops of the little gray flowers in the pot next to the door.
"Alright," she says. "Well, you know where the key is."
Initially, this memory seems pretty boring - a quiet street, a quaint bakery, a normal bench. The black and grey-ness of everything is atmospheric but not immediately noticeable, though as the woman appears it strikes Patrice that oh, yes, there really is no color here. The boy on the bench looks something like Des (maybe, it's hard to tell with his chin tucked so much and his hair so un-bleached), but the greyscale of the area and the twang of an accent are confirmation enough for him. The nervous energy in the air of waiting, of someone else's tardiness, is a little uncomfortable, but only enough to make Patrice roll his shoulders as he looks at his two roommates.
"I'm glad no one is roaming around in my head," he says, almost casually, before he moves towards the boy on the bench.
"I'm glad no one is roaming around in my head," he says, almost casually, before he moves towards the boy on the bench.
Presley shudders at the thought. Letting anyone have free rein in one of his intimate memories... no thanks. There's a palpable anxiety to this one, disquieting when compared to the almost leisurely memory seed experiences that Presley's had so far. That the young boy before them must be Desmond Savage just makes it worse.
"Thank goodness for small favours," Presley says, once he has his composure back. "I'm sure your mind is a positively garish twenty-four-seven ego festival thrown in honour of Patrice Tang. This—" He gestures to their bleak gray surroundings. "—at least carries a sense of decorum."
"Thank goodness for small favours," Presley says, once he has his composure back. "I'm sure your mind is a positively garish twenty-four-seven ego festival thrown in honour of Patrice Tang. This—" He gestures to their bleak gray surroundings. "—at least carries a sense of decorum."
"Once this is all over are we supposed'ta pretend we didn't see all this shit or what?" Uriah makes his way through the garden until he's standing in front of the woman. She reminds Uriah of a nurse. "This isn't his ma, is it?"
Oh.
Imogen, who often thinks through movement when she thinks at all, is rendered stock still by the imagery of the scene. She might as well be frozen too, except for the slightest hyperventilation of breath and twitch of the wand hand.
It's a weird sensation, watching these fuckin' frilly-limbs move and gather and make offerings. Her brain keeps trying to categorize them, comes up static. Weirdest of all is somehow knowing they aren't dangerous, despite her inclination to act first and ask questions later: hearing those sounds and, uncomfortably, feeling them, like there's some deep part of her that can comprehend the clicks and pops. Ew. Just ew!!!
Cool girl posturing momentarily shattered, she shudders visibly, tearing her eyes from the tendrils and toward Armani and Aristole. Then, tossing her by now very messy hair as though it were freshly blown-out and styled, she offers a shaky grin.
"Ummm, you can do the touching here."
Imogen, who often thinks through movement when she thinks at all, is rendered stock still by the imagery of the scene. She might as well be frozen too, except for the slightest hyperventilation of breath and twitch of the wand hand.
It's a weird sensation, watching these fuckin' frilly-limbs move and gather and make offerings. Her brain keeps trying to categorize them, comes up static. Weirdest of all is somehow knowing they aren't dangerous, despite her inclination to act first and ask questions later: hearing those sounds and, uncomfortably, feeling them, like there's some deep part of her that can comprehend the clicks and pops. Ew. Just ew!!!
Cool girl posturing momentarily shattered, she shudders visibly, tearing her eyes from the tendrils and toward Armani and Aristole. Then, tossing her by now very messy hair as though it were freshly blown-out and styled, she offers a shaky grin.
"Ummm, you can do the touching here."
"Yeah yeah, Des is better than me. My memories would have a lot of food so they'd be great, but they're none of your business," Patrice says to Presley, almost scolding. Once he's at the bench, he reaches down to pick up the paper bag and look inside at the grey baked goods within.
"...seems weird to not tell him, doesn't it?" he asks after a moment, a little more sober as he looks up and back at Uriah. "Can't be his mom. She wasn't really around, I'm pretty sure."
"...seems weird to not tell him, doesn't it?" he asks after a moment, a little more sober as he looks up and back at Uriah. "Can't be his mom. She wasn't really around, I'm pretty sure."
Presley has no desire to speculate about absent parental figures. He doesn't really want to touch this memory either, which seems terribly precious and personal to Des, but alternative is being trapped here (Desmond being trapped here), and, well. Luckily Patrice and Uriah have no such reservations.
Presley crosses his arms and looks back and forth between his roommates: Uriah at the entrance of the bakery with the woman, Patrice at the bench with Des. "Does it matter? I for one would want no one to speak to me about anything they saw in my memories."
Presley crosses his arms and looks back and forth between his roommates: Uriah at the entrance of the bakery with the woman, Patrice at the bench with Des. "Does it matter? I for one would want no one to speak to me about anything they saw in my memories."
The grotesque aspects of the scene don't disturb him like they probably should. It's eerie and beautiful but he'd appreciate it more if there weren't the imminent sense of danger and urgency to everything within Hell.
"I'll do the touching," he agrees, bolder and better prepared since they first teamed up together. He has his wand in one hand and his (autographed) hockey stick in the other. There's an ice pack around his neck and it looks like he's tried to disguise it with the cowl of his robes, but it's since come undone and never readjusted.
"Glacius!" he shouts, pointing his wand at the purple flowers. Just as a precaution.
"I'll do the touching," he agrees, bolder and better prepared since they first teamed up together. He has his wand in one hand and his (autographed) hockey stick in the other. There's an ice pack around his neck and it looks like he's tried to disguise it with the cowl of his robes, but it's since come undone and never readjusted.
"Glacius!" he shouts, pointing his wand at the purple flowers. Just as a precaution.
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 8 Replies]
The tinny sounds of A-ha's "Take On Me" fill the little alleyway, spilling from a muggle radio propped up on a couple paint cans. Two or three old sheets stretch along the length of the alley, pushed up against a wall in the early stages of a mural. Most of it is sketches, the words ELFLOCK FALLS + PAW PAW outlined along the top—two towns, separated by trees and mountains, connected by the spirit of the holler.
"Taaaaake ooooon meeeee," Percy Potkin sings out as he dances along the scrunched up sheets, holding his paintbrush up like a microphone. "Taaaake meeee ooooooon."
"I'll beeeee gooooone." Another voice joins the chorus, unknown yet innately familiar to the young Percy Potkin. He spins on his toe and holds the brush out to the newcomer, a young man with a cool leather jacket and even cooler Ray-Bans.
"In a day or twoooooooo," they sing together, voices cracking miles away from the right note before it all dissolves into laughter.
"Dude," the other young man says, reaching up to clap a hand on Percy's shoulder. "This is gonna be bitchin'."
Percy grins, splitting his face nearly in two. "Awww, shucks Lionel, you're gonna make me blush." The boy, Lionel, pushes at Percy's shoulder and he stumbles away with a snicker. "Think it'll be done by Homecoming?"
"Oh, not a chance." Lionel shakes his head and steps closer to the soon-to-be mural, shoving those shades back into his mop of curly blond hair to get a better look. "You'll be way too busy campaigning for King."
"King?" Percy scrunches his nose and shakes his head as Lionel runs his finger along the wall. "That crown sounds too heavy for my big ol' head. What about you? Those curls could support a whole house." He kneels down to pop open a paint can, little red droplets splattering his shoes.
Lionel doesn't answer.
"So it's agreed, we put all our efforts into King Qualls and..." He turns to look at Lionel, still silent, staring at a single spot on the wall. "El?"
Lionel doesn't speak, but he waves him over, eyes still fixed on that one spot. "What's up?" Percy asks, but he can see it. He's not sure what it is. A slash of black, there, just north of where he'd loosely sketched out Paw Paw's Main Street. Probably just a smear from his brush while he was dancing around, or something on his hand from his sketching.
But still, he doesn't like it. Percy puts his finger to the smudge and feels, for one moment, a flash of heat shoot through his entire body.
[CRITERIA: Minimum 8 Replies]
The tinny sounds of A-ha's "Take On Me" fill the little alleyway, spilling from a muggle radio propped up on a couple paint cans. Two or three old sheets stretch along the length of the alley, pushed up against a wall in the early stages of a mural. Most of it is sketches, the words ELFLOCK FALLS + PAW PAW outlined along the top—two towns, separated by trees and mountains, connected by the spirit of the holler.
"Taaaaake ooooon meeeee," Percy Potkin sings out as he dances along the scrunched up sheets, holding his paintbrush up like a microphone. "Taaaake meeee ooooooon."
"I'll beeeee gooooone." Another voice joins the chorus, unknown yet innately familiar to the young Percy Potkin. He spins on his toe and holds the brush out to the newcomer, a young man with a cool leather jacket and even cooler Ray-Bans.
"In a day or twoooooooo," they sing together, voices cracking miles away from the right note before it all dissolves into laughter.
"Dude," the other young man says, reaching up to clap a hand on Percy's shoulder. "This is gonna be bitchin'."
Percy grins, splitting his face nearly in two. "Awww, shucks Lionel, you're gonna make me blush." The boy, Lionel, pushes at Percy's shoulder and he stumbles away with a snicker. "Think it'll be done by Homecoming?"
"Oh, not a chance." Lionel shakes his head and steps closer to the soon-to-be mural, shoving those shades back into his mop of curly blond hair to get a better look. "You'll be way too busy campaigning for King."
"King?" Percy scrunches his nose and shakes his head as Lionel runs his finger along the wall. "That crown sounds too heavy for my big ol' head. What about you? Those curls could support a whole house." He kneels down to pop open a paint can, little red droplets splattering his shoes.
Lionel doesn't answer.
"So it's agreed, we put all our efforts into King Qualls and..." He turns to look at Lionel, still silent, staring at a single spot on the wall. "El?"
Lionel doesn't speak, but he waves him over, eyes still fixed on that one spot. "What's up?" Percy asks, but he can see it. He's not sure what it is. A slash of black, there, just north of where he'd loosely sketched out Paw Paw's Main Street. Probably just a smear from his brush while he was dancing around, or something on his hand from his sketching.
But still, he doesn't like it. Percy puts his finger to the smudge and feels, for one moment, a flash of heat shoot through his entire body.
[UNMODERATED]
[CRITERIA: Minimum 6 Replies]
Everything is huge. Everything. The trees, the grass, the looming shoe of an incoming teenager who isn't looking where they're walking and oh no this can't be the end this can't be— Tiny mushroom legs hurry away from the crush of size 11 sneakers, rolling into the shadow of an enormous duffel bag for safety.
"SPOREZ-UM!" the little one shouts, using a pair of lost Mothgarden sunglasses as a ladder to climb up on the bag and shake an itty bitty balled up fist in the direction of the sneaker-holder. "GIBBUM VIZZUS, GIBBUM WUTFORZ." The teenager, however, doesn't hear, and they continue on their merry way. The muscheron crosses his arms and plops back onto the bag for a good pout.
But then there's a sound. Is that… purring?? The mushroom-shaped fairy gulps and turns to see a cat, five, ten, a MILLION sizes larger than him, stalking toward the bag.
"GIBBAK! GIBBAK!" The muscheron grabs the sunglasses ladder and holds it up defensively, the winged frames jabbing right into his chest. He starts to swing wildly, barely able to control the shades, momentum swinging him around in circles. "GIB SPAAAACE!"
[CRITERIA: Minimum 6 Replies]
Everything is huge. Everything. The trees, the grass, the looming shoe of an incoming teenager who isn't looking where they're walking and oh no this can't be the end this can't be— Tiny mushroom legs hurry away from the crush of size 11 sneakers, rolling into the shadow of an enormous duffel bag for safety.
"SPOREZ-UM!" the little one shouts, using a pair of lost Mothgarden sunglasses as a ladder to climb up on the bag and shake an itty bitty balled up fist in the direction of the sneaker-holder. "GIBBUM VIZZUS, GIBBUM WUTFORZ." The teenager, however, doesn't hear, and they continue on their merry way. The muscheron crosses his arms and plops back onto the bag for a good pout.
But then there's a sound. Is that… purring?? The mushroom-shaped fairy gulps and turns to see a cat, five, ten, a MILLION sizes larger than him, stalking toward the bag.
"GIBBAK! GIBBAK!" The muscheron grabs the sunglasses ladder and holds it up defensively, the winged frames jabbing right into his chest. He starts to swing wildly, barely able to control the shades, momentum swinging him around in circles. "GIB SPAAAACE!"
Aris has seen his fair share of strange things tonight, but nothing as otherworldly as this. His mind doesn't want to wrap around it or understand it and he doesn't know how to feel about it, but he definitely doesn't protest when Armani agrees to do the touching. Instead, he does the first thing that comes into his mind. Pulling out his journal, he steps hesitantly forward to get a better view of that strange rock glyph and begins sketching it out as well as he can. He's not an artist or anything and he doesn't know what it means, but he figures that someone back at school might be able to glean more information from it. Someone symbol-smart like Chanel or Lionel or Howdy. Maybe a teacher.
His lifts his eyes every few seconds as he does this, not wanting to let his guard down completely, and comments as lightly as he can to the others, "...Pretty wild place, huh? Like. Pick a mood, Hellscape."
His lifts his eyes every few seconds as he does this, not wanting to let his guard down completely, and comments as lightly as he can to the others, "...Pretty wild place, huh? Like. Pick a mood, Hellscape."
Edited 2020-06-04 23:25 (UTC)
If there's something here the trio needs to worry about, it's not these particular purple flowers. They are covered in sheets of ice from Armani's wand, but don't wither or die as they should, frozen as they are in space and time.
On the tip of Patrice's tongue is the simple thought 'man, we've all got some shit, don't we?', but he manages to stop himself from voicing it. He can imagine for a good chunk of his roommates what depressing memories could be exposed, and it settles in the pit of his stomach as he looks around again. Might as well feel that uncomfortable feeling. He pulls a pastry out of the bag and takes a bite of it, finding it soft and warm and unreasonably delicious, maybe overly so because of Des's memory of it.
"I mean, someone's going to talk about what happened once it's all over, so everyone's going to find out we were in their memories. Probably better to know what exactly people saw instead of like... making up worst case scenarios."
He sighs.
"Also, we're not looking for this pastry. But it's really good."
"I mean, someone's going to talk about what happened once it's all over, so everyone's going to find out we were in their memories. Probably better to know what exactly people saw instead of like... making up worst case scenarios."
He sighs.
"Also, we're not looking for this pastry. But it's really good."
"Um, yeah," Imogen agrees, somewhat terse. "For sure."
She fidgets in place, reaching up to smooth the aforementioned messy hair with the fingers of her free hand. Something to focus on.
"I wonder what that shit is for." She gestures vaguely at the powder, vial and cube with a point of the chin. "What they were doing."
She fidgets in place, reaching up to smooth the aforementioned messy hair with the fingers of her free hand. Something to focus on.
"I wonder what that shit is for." She gestures vaguely at the powder, vial and cube with a point of the chin. "What they were doing."
"It's like the three wise men, but spider people," he observes as he approaches them. "I'm gonna touch."
And he does. He goes for the vial first, trying to open it so he can waft the smell toward his nose. (Lab safety tip! Never inhale fumes directly, especially when you don't know what they are!)
And he does. He goes for the vial first, trying to open it so he can waft the smell toward his nose. (Lab safety tip! Never inhale fumes directly, especially when you don't know what they are!)
Armani has never smelled anything quite like this before. The closest approximation is a whole chocolate factory — from the sugar and cocoa to the hot machine parts and engine grease. It reminds him, vaguely, of that kayaking trip, the pocket of shadow on the shores of Lake Peckenpaugh.
It's not wholly unpleasant, though it does burst across his senses a bit like a whiff of ground peppercorn. It's disorienting, just a little, like a sneeze he can't get out.
It's not wholly unpleasant, though it does burst across his senses a bit like a whiff of ground peppercorn. It's disorienting, just a little, like a sneeze he can't get out.
He pinches his nose, trying to rub the almost-sneeze-but-not-quite sensation out of it. "It smells like... chocolate. Feels weird to sniff it, though." He closes the vial back up and offers it to the others if they'd like to inspect it. "That... spidery person. On the kayaking trip? He was bleeding and it kind of smelled like chocolate, too."
Edited 2020-06-05 03:44 (UTC)
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