Event Log: February, Outpost Problems

[faileas]

Event Log: February, Outpost Problems

I. Adventuring We Will Go (Tomorrow) The word gets around pretty quick. Anybody who plans to journey with the group of Wilders venturing out to set up a new outpost is invited to attend a traditional gathering they have before an expedition: the packing party. On the evening of the 15th, the Wilders' HQ is bustling with activity. The whole group is present making the final preparations, sorting gear, and checking the carts for maintenance. The atmosphere is easy and upbeat, very casual, with Wilders laughing and telling jokes and stories as they work. One has to have a little fun before it's time to be serious, after all! A lot needs done, and more hands are always welcome. Camping gear and provisions need to be checked, inventoried, and dispersed into enchanted rucksacks that can hold twice as much as you might think they could - there will be enough rucksacks for each explorer in the party. Everyone is expected to carry their own. Shrunken-down construction materials for the new outpost need to be loaded into the three self-propelled carts the party will travel with (if only they were self-steering as well!). The carts themselves haven't been necessary for an expedition in a while; they could probably use some fixing up, greasing the axles and making sure the enchantments are fully charged with magic. And, too, this is a chance for the group to mingle and get to know each other. You have to be able to trust your fellows out there in the Wilde, after all. So there's a table with food bought off a few street carts: fried hand pies in meat (no one's sure what kind of meat, but hey!), veggie, and fruit varities; a pot of simmering jellied eel to be scooped into cups and eaten with spoons; fried squabs on sticks dripping grease. Beer is plentiful, as are bottles of a non-alcoholic ginger beer. Everyone is encouraged to eat, pack, and get to know each other. Especially because, the lead Wilders on this expedition will say, it's recommended that everyone going out there have a Bonded - whether it be their own normal Bonds if they're also going, or temporary Bonds with their fellow party members. The table also bears a few dozen of the temporary Bonding potions, and it's highly encouraged, though not required, that more experienced explorers temporarily Bond with those who are much newer to Aefenglom. It's nature's buddy system, you know. Whatever you're going to do, do it before the morning - the group leaves at first dawn, and will not wait for anyone too hungover to be on time. While having a Bond isn't required for the trip, the Wilders will strongly encourage it for anyone who isn't Bonded or whose Bond partners aren't going. The three-Bond safety limit does still apply to temporary Bonds, though! If you'd like to tag around for potential temp Bonds, head over to this thread right here!

II. The Silent Forest It becomes clear that, while the journey starts off easy, it won't remain that way. The group leaves out at dawn and passes first through stretches of land considered 'safe' - safe enough to be generally habitable, and the first couple of hours see the occasional farm on the way. There are few to no signs of Cwyld this close to the city, but then they start to slip into the region considered 'in progress'. These are the lands the Wilders have been focusing on, and so while there are the occasional patches of infected plants, they're easily dealt with by small, controlled burns. As the day drags on and the hike continues, though, the landscape changes. The trees grow thicker and the underbrush more dense. The machetes have to come out at points to clear the path for the carts; whoever is currently on cart-steering duty, please don't damage them! The atmosphere, too, changes around this time; the laughter dies down, expressions become more serious, Wilders are noticeably more alert to the possible presence of Shades or hostile creatures. By evening, the forest is thick and dark, the trees around them ancient and twisting. No one has ventured out to this area in quite a while, the more experienced Wilders will say, and that becomes very obvious. The once-beautiful forest is heavily infected by the Cwyld, and the small cabin that served as a Wilder outpost is overgrown, still bearing the 5-year-old corpse of a dead Wilder. Adventurers are advised to take caution when touching anything - wear gloves and heavy boots and watch your step out here, folks. The way still needs to be cleared. a. The Flora The oldest of the trees present are fully dead, thick trunks turned black and shiny, letting in light from above where their leafless branches reach out to the trees around them. The brush is thick and thorny; even small pricks and cuts in the skin are liable to be infected, a black ring forming around the wound, darkening the veins branching out from it, and need immediate treatment to keep it from spreading. It's hard to avoid other than by simply wearing thick clothing and hoping for the best. Nestled in the roots of the trees are pitcher-like plants filled with a sticky sap; the Wilders are excited to see these, and despite the dangers, comb through them to see if any remain uninfected. The sap in infected plants is black and tarry, while in uninfected plants it runs clear. This sticky liquid is excellent for smearing over wounds to seal them and draw out minor infection, and they'd be delighted to take some whole plants back for cultivation. As well, a certain breed of tree seems to have escaped infection entirely; these tall, woody trees have shiny green leaves, a contrast to the rest of the forest, and bear small green fruits that smell (and taste, should you eat one) deliciously sweet. All is not always as it seems out here in the Wilde, though - be careful which fruit you choose to imbibe. These trees are not immune to the Cwyld, they only hide their infection well. It can only be determined which trees are infected by cutting into them and inspecting the sap (difficult, because the sap of all the trees is highly toxic, and even inhaling near it will have nasty side-effects of vertigo, vomiting, and even temporary blindness). If it runs black at all, the tree is infected, and the fruit, sweet as it might taste, is deadly poisonous. Trees that are only mildly infected are a Russian roulette: you have an 80-20 chance of getting a toxic fruit or a good one. Most of the Wilders don't feel it's worth the risk. b. The Fauna The party spends a couple of days in the Silent Forest out of necessity. Initially, it seems as if there is no animal life left on this desolate patch of land. No birds chirping, no mammals scurrying about, not even an insect to buzz around the explorers' heads. It becomes quite clear that the Cwyld has consumed nearly everything, and the life left is hardly life at all. Shades are not uncommon. When camp is made for the night, capable fighters will have to rotate guard duty and patrols around the campsite, to fight off the shadows of what used to live here as they sense life and magic to consume. Dessicated, white-eyed bucks with cracking antlers, bloated and mutated birds screeching angrily, even, perhaps, the Shade of a bear, huge, enraged, and difficult to take down. But that second night, those who are alert may get the tingling sense that they're being watched. They are, in fact, by a band of nomadic Monsters, primarily Harpies and Arachne passing through. They don't approach the camp, and they won't speak to any of the Wilder group, merely watching them with something like curiosity before they flee into the forest again. It's hard to get close to them before they disappear, more at home in this dead forest than you will ever be, but close observation shows that all are scarred in some way; missing parts of limbs, eyes, or bearing even worse marks on their bodies. c. The Solution It's too thick an area to clear simply by burning. They'd set the whole dry patch of forest alight and kill who knows what along with the Cwyld. Some smaller areas can be taken care of with fire and careful supervision, but the rest of it... The lead Wilder on this expedition, a prematurely-greying Witch named Rilla Sparks, puts forth a suggestion. She admits, it's one based heavily on theory and speculation, along with the findings of certain prominent researchers in the city. If they can find the leyline, she thinks the Witches in their party can flood it with enough positive, nurturing magic to 'flush' the Cwyld out of the vicinity, so to speak. Or, she hopes, enough to make it passable in the future. It's experimental, but isn't that what this trip is about? Discovering new things? If enough of the party is game, the first step is finding the leyline in the area. This can be sniffed out by Witches and Monsters both, as they're drawn to sources of magic, even tainted magic; and, too, if anyone takes a look from the air, the leyline becomes obvious, as it cuts a much darker, more heavily infected line across the forest floor, like a blackened vein. Once it's found, it's up to the Witches in the group. Gathering over the blackened ground, anyone who wants to participate in the ritual should join in pairs or groups, down on their knees to be closer to the earth, and should 'push' their magical energy into the leyline through their hands pressed to the dirt. Each push results in a pulse of light beneath the blackness of the ground, weak at first, but stronger the more magic is expended. It will take several hours, which means the occupied (and then spent) Witches will require the protection of their Monster fellows, and interacting this closely with a tainted leyline will have side effects. A low degree of Cwyld infection is possible in the hands, but not guaranteed. Intense fatigue and dizziness is certain, along with pain when casting spells, and terrible nightmares for as long as the symptoms last - anywhere from 2 to 6 days, depending on how much magic the individual Witch expelled and how much rest they get after. It will take some time to see if their labors bear fruit. They'll check on the area again on the way back; they can't stay in one place for too long.

III. Ruins of a Past Life In the next couple of days, as the journey commences, the obvious signs of infection lessen in the landscape. The trees thin out again as they head further north. With the Wilde just barely dipping toes into autumn, and no thick canopy of foliage to block out the sun, it's a hot, uncomfortable walk. Those on cart-steering duty are considered lucky, getting to sit for a few hours, but it doesn't last - the duty is rotated between volunteers. Enjoy it while you've got it. At one point, with the sun high in the sky, they stop to refill canteens and jugs with fresh water and to take a bit of a swim. Here, the water cascades into a wide lake below, which eventually feeds back into the main river that cuts through Aefenglom farther south. At the top of the waterfall, it's much easier to see something in the distance, that isn't specifically on the route but is a small enough detour (only a mile or two off) that the guides permit it. It's the ruins of a former settlement, clusters of shells of burned out houses and buildings, a dried up well, and the crumbling remnants of a wall - reminiscent of the Bright Wall, but much, much smaller, only about eight or nine feet high at its tallest point. There is no magic left in it, though, nor any people in the ruined town. There haven't been for years and years, judging from the mossy overgrowth and state of disrepair. Some signs of the former inhabitants can still be found in the houses; the Wilders agree to make camp here for a night, to give everyone some time to explore. a. In The Daytime The ruins are depressing, but safe, in the daylight. It isn't hard to put together what happened here - a Cwyld outbreak must have come on them quickly, and judging from the hasty, half-burned homes, it was poorly contained. Some homes still contain skeletons in rotted scraps of clothing, some bones charred and others picked clean by animals. Many of their possessions still remain, except there are no books left anywhere in the town, even on shelves where books obviously were before. The patterns in the dust indicate that the books, all that survived the fires initially, were removed much more recently, within the last year or two perhaps. Otherwise, much is untouched. There are still dishes and flatware on broken tables, rotted blankets on beds, children's toys scattered over floors, axes hung on walls. A sort of thick, somewhat mucous-y grayish-green moss grows in flat sheets over most of the ruins. It isn't infected by the Cwyld; in fact, the areas where it grows seem to be free from it. Coincidence? Not? The Wilders have never seen anything quite like it, and are interested in taking samples back to study. (And for those of you who can't help but put things in your mouths: yes, the moss is edible. It tastes a little... earthy, but gives a pleasant caffeine-like buzz and burst of energy. Good for Witches still feeling the effects of the leyline flushing.) Outside the remnants of the wall, there are years-overgrown gardens, and perfectly good potatoes, asparagus, and raspberries can be found still growing, hardy and perennial even without human hands to tend to them. These people lived a more simple life than those in relatively-modern Aefenglom, as there isn't any magitech to be found, but somehow, they made themselves a home out here in the middle of nowhere. b. Ghosts of a Forgotten Settlement After nightfall, the dead town comes alive again, in a morbid sense. The party will soon find that the sunset brings the emergence of specters of the town's deceased residents - ghastly semi-transparent echoes of humans and Monsters, men, women, and children, in the state they were in at their deaths. Some are badly burnt, others were obviously infected, on their way to becoming Cwyldtid. Now, they go about their former lives every night, filling the ruined town with a sense of dread and foreboding that is impossible for the living to ignore. The ghosts cannot be touched or physically interacted with, and many of them simply ignore the Wilders and Mirrorbound completely. Spectral children play in the streets, adults tidy shops that are no longer there, or head out to the field to farm. They do so with expressions full of sadness, and desperation, as if trapped in this cycle of un-life. Others not only notice the group, but try to turn on them, enraged at the sight of intruders, though their shouts and screams are silent. They can't do any damage, but if they pass through you, you'll feel a bone-deep chill, despite the late-summer heat hanging in the air, and the specters' 'touch' will fill anyone with an aching, heavy despair, or rage - echoes of the emotions the ghosts experienced before their deaths.

IV. The Northern Outpost The sparse forest thins even more to the north. The terrain grows more uneven, rockier and hilly, with drier soil and hardy, sun-bleached grass instead of moss and leaf litter. Several natural rock formations can be spotted in the distance, growing larger as the group gets nearer. The trees here are few and far between, shorter and sturdier, casting only small circles of shade on the baked landscape. Wildflowers dot the grass in every color of the rainbow in the areas that remain uninfected. A low degree of Cwyld infection can be found here, turning the grasses overgrown, dry and brittle, and the sparse trees gnarled and blackened. This is to be expected, though. You can't venture this far out and expect anywhere to be completely untouched. The spot Rilla Sparks chooses for the new outpost is cradled between two large spires of stone, with a cliff-face at the back of it - protected on three sides to defend from animals and Shades, with a relatively clean stream within an hour's walking distance. Construction has to commence immediately. Once they land, it's a flurry of activity, as there is much work to be done. The building supplies are returned to their original sizes and it's all hands on deck to put together the low wooden building. With everyone working as quickly as they can, it should take about three days to get set up enough to consider the outpost open. Also on the to-do list: setting up the teleporter waypoint given to the Wilders by the Coven, to shorten the trip from Aefenglom to this far-flung outpost. It's smaller than the one in Dorchacht, only able to transport three people at a time, but the technology is the same. They'll need as many magitech-capable hands as they can get to calibrate it to the local energies and get it up and running. While all this is going on, exploration of the local area is high on the list as well, to ferret out any potential dangers that may be inherent to setting up here, or potential boons that can be taken back to Aefenglom, and to start work on their maps. There's a job for everyone, and while they're happy to let people do what they're good at, or rotate between different tasks, anybody slacking off will get the stink-eye - you came to work, right? This is no vacation! After the first day, though, things start... getting a little weird. Items start disappearing at random times, just out of nowhere, no rhyme or reason to the things taken. Hammers, half-drawn maps, scraps of wood, your half-eaten lunch if you look away from it for long enough. Personal items may go missing as well, if left unattended, so keep your precious things and weapons close. You may hear muffled voices - laughter, indiscernible chatter - around the times when stuff goes missing; it could be the voice of a stranger, or maybe it's the voice of someone you know, someone you've been traveling with for the last several days. But why would they want to steal your pen, or your handful of nails, or your drink cup? Weirder still, holes in the dirt start turning up in the night. Maybe six feet deep, dug at an angle like the beginning of a tunnel, and cutting off abruptly. Digging further down in these holes doesn't turn much up at first, but checking enough of them will turn up only a handful of the smaller missing items with teeth marks in them. Inconsequential, uninteresting, inedible things, or straight up trash in some cases. With enough persistence and maybe a good old fashioned stake-out, the culprits turn up: a pack of sand-colored, hyena-like animals that perfectly mimic human and Monster voices that they hear (often repeating words out of context, like much dumber parrots - they don't know what they're saying, only what the words sound like), and scavenge for whatever they can get their paws on. The hyenas are aggressive when confronted, and pack-oriented, but can be won over eventually by feeding them, or talking at them: different hyenas like different sounds and different words, so it might take some trial and error. Several bear low-level infections that can still be cured. Maybe eventually they can be trained. But then, where is everything else they stole? Please note that only a very small number of the items missing will be found on this trip! If you don't want something of your character's gone for an indeterminate amount of time, don't have it stolen. It's just possible they might turn up at a later date, however...

Welcome to February's event log, Outpost Problems! The expedition will last about an IC week for everyone who completes the trip; characters can return to Aefenglom with a pair of Wilder scouts at any stop along the way, though. As always, please direct your event-specific questions here! You can tag around for temporary Bonds in this thread, and if your character would eat the fruit in the Silent Forest, please post here for your dice roll (we did say it's a Russian roulette). Enjoy the trip outside the Bright Wall, everyone!

Comments

jonas | oxenfree | witch.

[coherer]

𝚒. 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘 (𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠).

(bag packed, food in hand, jonas carries a half-downed pint of beer towards the table where the temporary bonding potions lie. the way he stares over them as though transfixed by their contents isn’t immediately suspicious, but his slow move to open his rucksack and his eventual lean to sweep three towards him might draw some attention. they tumble in with a few softer items—undoubtedly blankets and changes of clothes—and clink dully against their neighbours.

zipping up, he tips back his beer with a pointed look at the nearest person over the rim of his mug. maybe he’s got enough of a hard buzz on to mistake a curious look for a judgemental one, or maybe they really are giving him a withering stare. his comment’s the same.)

… don’t look at me like that; it pays to be prepared.

𝚒𝚒. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝.

𝚊. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊.
(jonas spotting anyone biting into, touching, or even looking at a delicious-looking fruit will get the nagging of a lifetime.)

Oh, no. No way. Do not put that anywhere near your mouth. Are you kidding me right now? (actually raising his arms to put up the biggest stink, and chances are he’s taking his nervousness out on you.) First thing you do in a Cwyld-infested forest is try to eat tainted nature’s bounty? You’re like, taking years off my life right now.

(let’s hope you haven’t begun to develop any unfortunate symptoms. he’s a wretched healer right now.)

𝚌. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.
It’s here, it’s close. I can– I think I can feel it. (pushing through dense underbrush, jonas searches for the leyline they described: blackened; vein-like; and running thick through the area.

a bit breathless from his successful search, but no less determined to purge the cwyld from the area, his jacket and sweater are shucked onto the ground to act as a buffers against the hard ground he’ll be treating for hours on his knees. any attempts to stop him will be met with jerkier movements and a cold shoulder, because while he’s frightened of the impact it’ll have on his body, jonas knows that turning away from the infection now would be unspeakable. leaving it like this to fester, wilt, and decay would haunt him for far longer than any side-effect could.

in a t-shirt in the cold of the autumn evening, jonas leans down into the leyline with a first push that resembles a chest compression. in this light it’s easy to see the glow of energy channelled from his palms into the ground.)

I don’t know how long I’ll be down. Watch my back, okay? (flashes a brief smile that ultimately twists into a grim, focused line.) I’m counting on you.

(far later, after managing to remain at the leyline for hours—far longer than he intended to, but too desperate for results to stop—he’ll lack the energy to keep himself upright. symptoms start with his inevitable collapse onto his elbows, gasping raggedly at magic residuals causing intense pain up the lengths of his arms: dizziness and nausea, as well as an intense fatigue; vertigo that keeps him down for the rest of the night, spinning stopping by daybreak; and nightmares, terrors that make him lash out in panic.

jonas is liable to unashamedly reach out to others during this time. he may even plead to be near someone, grabbing at hands and clothes, unable to stop shaking. feel free to hit on any of these indulgently melodramatic choices, otherwise visit him tucked away in his sleeping bag like a burrito of sadness.)

𝚒𝚒𝚒. 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

𝚋. 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.
(it happens without warning. a chill creeps into flushed skin, stopping jonas dead in his tracks. he’s felt this overwhelming presence before, an intruder in his body flexing from the inside out, blocking up his throat and nose like his head’s held underwater. all he can taste is salt on his tongue. possessed by the memory more than the passing ghost, he stands motionlessly in the centre of the rundown ruins. and mutters to himself. most words are unintelligible, but a few can be picked out over the others: “other ships,” “until dawn,” and “mom?”

any prompting will be met with abject panic. on the flip-side, he’ll be shockingly calm when it comes to chancing by someone else struggling with a ghostly encounter.

as a seasoned “expert” (no) at handling spectres—these are far less hostile than the sunken he dealt with in oregon—his encounter will gear him up to assist others. jonas will be on the lookout for people experiencing the same symptoms he did, despairing or otherwise freaking out. if you’re affected by one, he’ll readily come to your aid. expect a hand on the back, a grab of the shirt, or even a slap if the victim seems particularly out of it.)

Are you okay?

𝚒𝚟. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝.

Hey, do you– do you wanna’ get out of here? I think I’ve had it with the hammering for today.

(time to explore and probably get into trouble, silly shenanigans!! or a medley of both. feel free to use this as a wildcard option or a romantic temporary bonding invite as well, because i’m legit down for anything and everything.)

I wanna’ take a walk. (a pause, before stressing the point.) And I don’t wanna’ go alone.

iii-b

[sneaksweet]

[He's shivering as one of the ghosts passes through him. The experience is as bone-chilling as one would imagine. The heavy press of somebody else's despair sinking into his skin and into his mind.

Despair might be an emotion he knows well, but that doesn't mean he was expecting it. He does freeze up, and it takes a shake before he manages to come back into himself, still somewhat out of sorts.]

Are ghosts supposed to be like that?

[Half way through the question he realizes exactly how stupid it was. Who knows anything about ghosts?]

[coherer]

(spots him shaking just outside the window of the scorched remains of a building, otherwise he never would've left the shoddy confines where his stuff's stashed.) Juza? Juza. (prompting him twice to make sure, certain it'll take him a moment to come around.

sure enough, a dazed question's asked and jonas can only breathe out an almost explosive sigh.)

Jesus. Supposed to be like– like what, man? (attribute his frustration to how exhausted he is, because he's still clutching at the sleeves of his jacket beneath the weight of a small quilt tucked over his shoulders—brought from his and stiles' cottage.) Are you alright? Why're you even out here?

[sneaksweet]

Terrible... Like rememberin' everything you regretted all in one rush.

[He brings a clawed hand up to his head. The other questions he either ignores or doesn't process. Look, he's in shock? How many times do you realize ghosts are real and they have feelings?

He can't understand them, not really, but a feeling like that is hard to miss.]

[coherer]

Yeah. Yeah, you got that right... c'mon, let's just– we gotta' get indoors, okay?

(the shock's understood, jonas knowing enough about it to guess how he's feeling. scattered and confused, maybe; lost, feeling wayward and unable to root. he can't leave him outside like this, his first instinct to get him somewhere safe and warm, but is an equally haunted building going to be better?

it'll have to be.

reaching for him with the intent to get an arm around his shoulders. company always made this easier for him, no matter how distracted alex was.)

Can you walk? It's okay if you can't, just take it real slow and remember I got you.

ii.c lmk if this doesn't work!

[bolstafir]

[Magic isn't Qrow's line of expertise, not by a longshot. That was always Ozpin's department, one of only a few people in the entire world that could use real magic, and not for the first or last time, Qrow aches for his absence, the inability to consult with him on this ley line business and how feasible it actually was to fix it in the way that's been described. He doesn't like it, that's for sure, but the Wilders are close enough to the Huntsmen back home that he feels more comfortable trusting their judgment than any of the Coven back in Aefenglom. These guys are out here risking their necks in the Cwyld on the regular as it is; they're not as likely to bullshit them just for the benefit of a few possible acres of territory.

So he bites his tongue on his misgivings, and let the Witches do as they will. It makes him a little itchy, honestly, not having the capability to help--but that's not what he came here for, after all. Jonas asks him to watch his back, and he nods his assent before Harbinger is hefted on his shoulder, and as Jonas pumps his magic into the earth any intruding Shades are sliced, diced, and potentially shotgun'd long before they can get anywhere near the ley line. Watching people's backs from a distance is as natural as breathing, decades of experience making his swordwork look nearly effortless.

What he doesn't have experience with is the desperate plea for company in the aftermath. He's unused to the idea of his presence being a positive thing, free of his curse in technicality but not the lifelong patterns of avoidance and distance he's built up to keep people safe over decades.

He hesitates at first, holds back, but the shaking and gasping draw him in -- Jonas is still a kid, just barely old enough to have been maybe a second year at Beacon at most. It's hard to watch and not feel it viscerally in his gut, all too readily able to picture his nieces suffering in Jonas' place. Qrow comes closer to check on him, make sure he's stable and not in immediate danger, before his wrist is caught, and he stares like a deer in headlights before his gaze turns down to the ground. A tremor to his own exhale before he gives in, sits down carefully beside Jonas and lets his hand be held. He doesn't know what to say, really, comfort isn't his strong suit, but after a stretch of silence there's a particularly strong squeeze against his wrist -- maybe fear, maybe pain, maybe both -- and Qrow squeezes gently in return.]

i love this beefy tag-in bro

[coherer]

(jonas is frightened by the violence behind him—shades being struck down left and right, hearing their blood and their detritus hit the ground rather than feeling it or seeing it in hallucinatory flecks up his forearms—into remaining calm, which he'd consider counterintuitive if he wasn't so focused on the leyline. it requires a level of concentration he never thought himself capable of, hours dragging into what could just as easily be perceived as days.

qrow is there for him for one of many collapses, and jonas is numb to his hesitation. he only tightens his grip, wills him to stay, and takes greedy comfort in having someone next to him that isn't a dead or dying shade. situated where they are now, it's still possible to pick up on clashes farther down the blackened vein.)

... is it over? Am I infected? (an alarming first question for jonas to ask after he's been grounding himself with qrow's contact for minutes now; his voice is blown out in worry.) My hands– shit, I-I didn't check my hands.

(it'll be obvious after a quick peek that there's nothing wrong apart from them looking raw, no cwyld infection to be seen. jonas, whose vision is bleary and unreliable, is already under the impression they're going to die; he spouts apology after heartfelt apology. there may be sharp aches and an overwhelming feeling of displacement to cope with, but they're nothing compared to the guilt of "passing on" disease to a man who's only trying to help.)

Is it bad? Is it permanent?

aaaa im glad ;;

[bolstafir]

[The part of Qrow that grew up among survivalist bandits whispers into his ears that he should've thought of that, but that colder practicality is drowned out almost instantly by the apologies; the wild desperation in this kid's eyes not to have hurt him, to have caused him harm simply by desiring his company gets him hard in the chest and he almost can't breathe for a moment from it, it hurts so much to look at. Because he's been there. He grew up constantly struggling to be worthwhile, to belong somewhere despite the curse that dragged at his heels, that brought misfortune to anyone and everyone around him. I didn't check my hands, he says, and Qrow finds himself flashing back through incident after incident that taught him how to keep a vigilant eye on all his surroundings, on the slightest rock out of place someone could trip and twist their ankle on to a roof with unstable tiling.]

It's fine. I'm fine.

[Snapped out brusquely, harshly, despite his intentions toward being gentle. It's just...too close to the wounds in his own heart and he simultaneously can't bear for Jonas to get close to them but can't leave him alone, either.

He's not 100% certain he's fine, honestly, but he's not going to look at his hands in front of Jonas now. If anything's wrong, he'll deal with it later. Not like he hasn't been poisoned before.]

How do you feel?

[coherer]

(incidentally, qrow's retaliation to jonas' worry has the opposite effect. he sucks in a sharp breath and lets it puff back out of him in a moment of relief, glad to hear it. even strained, he knows what a verbal bite means and that's good. anger never lies.)

Jesus. Thank god. (overworked hands moor him there, having no excuse to drift off or faint (no matter how appealing the thought).) It– it hurts... pretty bad. I'm not gonna' water it down.

(chancing a look up at him, trying to sit forward to demonstrate his willingness to move. eventually they'll need to get out of here, but it's difficult to leave the leyline looking the same as it did. black, no change. gut-wrenching.)

Ugh– damn, it's– it's hard to move. Can you...?

ii-a but we're doing it ALL baby

[lucubrates]

[ She had plucked the fruit down, hopping up and standing on the tips of her boots to pull a juice, ripe fruit from the branches of the only tree that seemed to thrive. For a moment, she thought she felt a kindred spirit in them; as she turns it and listens to Jonas reprimand her as she imagines a mother might, however, she thinks a bit more about it. ]

It's certainly curious. Did you know that some ingredients are not only beautiful, but they also augment certain abilities? For example, one might cook a monster's fang down into their meal and find that it gives them a hardier resolve, allowing them to withstand more... Like medicine, you might say.

[ It's a little more like coffee, when she puts it that way. She turns it about with her fingers, inspecting the fruit from all angles. It glistens, and is awful tempting. Humming, she continues as if in deep thought. ] Perhaps a fruit out here might help one stave off infection if used correctly.

[ However, she pockets it. ] I'll have to inspect it a bit more in a controlled environment when I am able to.

[ Idly, she turns to him, nodding her head and looking quite serious. She's a big fan of this kind of thing, what can she say? ] For now, perhaps we shall find that miracle fix, yes?

rolls your tag up and snorts up all the prompts

[coherer]

–you think cooking that up and popping it into your mouth is gonna' give you superpowers 'cause ingesting monster fangs did? (the reply is, thankfully, more relieved than acerbic.

jonas would far rather laugh at the situation than get bogged down worrying about every little shrub and fungus they pass by, but someone has to do it and it sure as hell ain't gonna' be zelda. she's got her science cap on, which means extra vigilance from him and ample adventuring for them both. that's more than welcome, and a pretty fun exchange if he's being entirely honest with himself. a nice, relaxing outing (lol).)

But don't listen to me; I'm just your lowly pack mule.

(begins trekkin', hacking ineffectually at shrubs they pass with the kunai sasuke lent him.)

The Wilders said there's pitcher-looking ones we should be on the lookout for, but that some of them might be infected? So let's just take as much green stuff back as we can carry. They can sort through it and pick out all the good ones or... light my whole bag on fire, I don't even know.

a roleplay ganja, if you will

[lucubrates]

[ Her front is to him, and her back to the opening of the forest as they trek through. His voice is a welcome melody in the thick of adventuring; calming and easy, something that she can rely on in the moment. She'd had anxiety in her belly coming out here, and now she just feels wonderfully nostalgic, as if living in her element for once. ]

Lowly might be your title, but highly is how I think of you. [ It's a joke, and probably not a very good one. Truth be told, she hasn't made many of them in her life. ]

Pitcher-looking... I see. If it comes to the lighting your bag on fire, however, perhaps we should ask to do it ourselves. [ Again, a joke; she's on a role today. ] I rather miss the bonfire. [ He cuts away at a chunk of foliage and she dips her knees into the dirt, rummaging around the exposed roots of a tree. Holding one tight, Zelda begins to tug at it... if she's not mistaken about what he's referring to, they'd mentioned that they're a bit like seeds. ]

I hadn't realized you had any skill with a knife, Jonas.

https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/326/915/ced.gif

[coherer]

Oh, god... that is cheesiest compliment ever; you're breaking records. (a light chuckle, hooking his thumb into one of his bag straps.

jonas is proud of zelda for slowly creeping out of that proverbial shell, not to mention pleased as punch to be spending real quality time with her. their meetings have always been short and purposeful and while this excursion has an underlying goal, they'll have to wander aimlessly and chat the majority of the time. it's something he's needed for a while now. maybe she did too.)

The feeling's mutual, so I'd be more than happy to burn my backpack with you. (give it a good sendoff, make their own bonfire and dance around it like wilder-people. it's a funny thought, standing guard as zelda searches the tree roots... her eye for the little things is far sharper than his. maybe she's found something worthwhile.)

You making fun of my hacking and slashing? I'll have you know I've never practiced a day in my life. (that's never been MORE OBVIOUS.) ... the knife's on loan from Sasuke. Do you have any, uh– you know, blade training?

iii. ruins of (jonas') past life

[mensrea]

[ Cynicism and paranoia both had prepared Stiles well in expecting the worst from these ruins. It was just too damn convenient – an abandoned settlement near running water, with shelter and fresh garden edibles? Sure, there were skeletons everywhere to keep this otherwise paradise appropriately morbid, but beggars can’t be choosers. Unless they’re Stiles. In which case, beggars can be choosers and will annoyingly announce in a sing-song voice, “I told you so!” when all hell breaks loose.

This time, Stiles isn’t smug about being right. He sets out to find his friends, few though they may be, and make sure that they’re dealing as well as possible with their ghostly hosts. Jonas remains the number one priority; under the impression that his housemate has never dealt with the supernatural before Aefenglom, Stiles is more than concerned. So, when he finally stumbles across Jonas inside the shell of a house, the muttering instantly has him on high-alert. Goosebumps flare to life on his arms as he listens, with the almost hopeful murmur of “mom?” finally driving him into action.

“My mom got sick,” Jonas had told him. Fear and empathy bleed together into a cocktail he figuratively knocks back as he edges around his housemate, trying to catch his eye. After that fails, Stiles tries calling his name. ]

Jonas…? Jonas, buddy. Hey. [ A slow step closer. ] You’re freaking me out, man. Jonas? Anybody home…?

[ And he reaches out to shake Jonas’ shoulder. ]

https://i.imgur.com/ih4fy2q.gif

[coherer]

(only the shake of his shoulder elicits a response. his name means nothing when lost in tens of cycles of being whittled down into nothing, chest shoved, back bent, and throat pulled open by the sunken. they ravaged his soul, left him empty, filled his lungs with water, and tried to watch him drown. what happens when a soul's replaced or assimilated into another? is it overwhelmed and overwritten? is it left to drift like wreckage at the bottom of a dark, endless sea?

stiles' voice comes through in waves. it's the waves, we think.

it takes seconds—minutes? hours?—for jonas' knees to unlock and he drops hard onto his tailbone, recovering from the position immediately with an agonized gasp. for a moment he doesn't know where he's sitting, cold ground the only thing reminding him that he hasn't spent this indeterminate amount of time floating. ethereal imprints of white and grey look like sunspots in his eyes, choosing to stare at the legs in front of him over visions of the dead determined to drag him shouting into his last delusion.)

I'm okay, I'm okay– (rushed out in a force of habit, interrupted by his own wheezing.) I just– c-can you help me up?

https://media1.giphy.com/media/RnhHaEK6rQ3O8/source.gif

[mensrea]

Oh, fu –

[ Jonas folds like a cheap deck of cards. Though the sudden, jerky movement startles him, Stiles moves with his housemate instead of away. Honestly, the fact that he’s able to successfully reject the instinct to retreat is a testament to how concerned he is. And while Jonas may finally be responding verbally, there remains a glazed distance to his eyes as he stares at Stiles’ legs. This is definitely not someone who is okay, who is fine. ]

Ten-four, bud. The Stilinski Lift is here.

[ Hoping the slight tremor in his own hands isn’t noticeable, he gingerly reaches out to take Jonas by the forearms and haul him up, grunting from the effort. He has so many questions, so many worries – but right now, Jonas needs assistance. It isn’t about him. The sooner they can get the other teen out of his house, the better. Stiles still isn’t sure what happened here and can only hope the fresh air will help. ]

Please fasten your seatbelt, [ he continues, trying to give Jonas something to focus on so that his housemate stops looking so lost, so faraway. ] We’re exiting the building, copy.

2-c, YES I KNOW...

[eyeforaneye]

You don't have to say it; I would've stayed regardless, [ comes Sasuke's reply to Jonas's voiced dependence, having hastily left the camp itself when he and a group of other witches had been mobilized to seek out the leyline. He's not the only monster that's escorting the group, sure that more will be coming in shifts, but it's no mistake or coincidence that he's among the first. Others are here supporting their bonded, be they temporary or permanent, but for him... well, it's good that Jonas is here with this group so that he doesn't have to choose between protecting their mission and protecting him. He can do both at once. ]

Keep your head down! [ And so he does when the first of the watchful shades keens onto their presence and the potential vulnerability of those witches now tied to their task, dropping into a fight stance in response to the initial charge. Two stags, eyes a murky yellow-white, one missing a lower jaw and the other crackling with each bound as the splintered bones of a long-ago injured leg grind together. His chokuto swipes at the front limbs of the first to send it toppling to the ground, thrashing wildly with aggressive grunts wheezing out from dry lungs. The second doesn't even get the chance, its head sinking into earth before its still-moving body registers the loss, momentum carrying suddenly stumbling legs forward only a step or two further before it collapses.

Fuck... fighting is one thing, being mindful of where bodies fall when they can skid so close to those he's protecting is another. ] Stay focused; none of them are getting through.

[ And he keeps his word.

By the time he hears a gasp that cuts into his own concentration the ground before him is littered with bodies, some sliced in half by wire, some slowed and then felled by kunai, and others debilitated but still fighting uselessly to stand. Sasuke turns immediately, sword sheathed before he's sinking to his knees beside him. ] Jonas? Jonas, listen to me.

... YEAH...

[coherer]

(the sickening sight of the stag's head—cleaved so cleanly and completely that nothing could stop its bloody momentum but its own broad, twisted antlers—forces jonas to close his eyes. keep your head down, stay focused. they aren't living, they're rotting off their bones into nothing, where inevitably even their skeletons will return to the dirt. everything dies, but it's their actions here today that will encourage new growth when the old taint shrinks away.

he puts everything he is into the leyline, too afraid to stop and stare when his eyes begin to water with the overwhelming stench of something hours-slain—initially, this flagging is attributed to the sorry mix of haunting sounds, smells, and a slow, nauseating spin, but it goes ignored until it can't.

sasuke is at his side in an instant, more reliable than he ever could've imagined. delirium may be in his slump sideways, so close to comfort now that the leg nearest to him on the ground is imagined to be his mother's, but a hot forehead seeks his cool presence like a soothing balm.

blinks back exhausted tears, straining to find any sign of his energy affecting the black vein.

dim surprise is all jonas can manage when the prognosis looks so negative, the heel of a raw palm pushing through dead leaves to grab at miasmic earth. his fingers can barely bend, painfully arthritic.) There's nothing... it's still– look at it. I-I haven't done a thing to it. It's still black– why is it still like this?

[eyeforaneye]

[ Sharp eyes seek out the other witches dotting the leyline, some flagging just like Jonas is while others are trying to hide tension in clenched jaws and sweating brows. Witches with more experience, but still without endless reserves of magic -- they'll all falter in time. What then? There's no sunk cost fallacy here that he's willing to buy into, much more keen on getting Jonas away from the source of pollution rather than trying to force him to push himself harder. ]

We need to get you out of here. [ Now comes a quicker glance over his shoulder, scanning the perimeter for threats not just to Jonas but to the others still vulnerable. Nothing yet... and for whatever else may come, he'll have to trust the rest on guard for at least a little while. ]

Hold onto me. Jonas, pay attention. Do you see me? Grab onto my shoulders and don't let go; I'm taking you back to camp.

ii.c

[yesdoubt]

[Participating in the leyline flush himself means Momo was absolutely not in the condition to go stickybeaking into anyone else's condition when camp was next made, since he was in desperate need of sleep himself. But the triumphant return of the recurring nightmares (dreams? He'd never been quite sure what to call them when he'd started having them, too repulsed by the idea of what they might mean) he thought he'd shed almost a year ago now smacks him out of a decent slumber well before dawn, and he's the kind of person who deals best with his own issues by...ignoring them and dealing with other people's issues instead. "Best" is a very relative term here.

In any case, it's not hard to tell that certain sleeping bags aren't occupied by people who are actually sleeping, especially when he can see one shivering and what looks like someone reaching out from it. It's still dark enough that he's not pinpointing an identity from a distance, but it doesn't really make a difference to him - he darts over without hesitation, heavy tread of his boots scraping on the ground momentarily before he crouches down, offering his own hands out immediately.]

Hey, look at me. It's okay. [His tone is gentle but firm, a grounding thing, calm and welcoming. As exhausted as he might be himself, Momo is all too familiar with concealing that for the sake of others, and so the only indication of it is in the shadows under his eyes.]

[coherer]

(he wasn't infected by the leyline, but that doesn't stop his nightmares from making it feel real enough to wake him. jonas is clutching at the necklace lying akimbo by his collarbone, hand flexing around it while the other reaches to grab for nothing—incidentally, momo sinks into view to occupy it and urge him well again in an almost parental sternness.

sweat and grime keep a naked back pinned to his sleeping bag, still intent on cooling himself with the cooling ground.)

Momo? (asked in the dark, so relieved to see a familiar face that's he forgets they've only met once.) I had this– this terrible dream. I was... I don't know, I can barely remember. Did I wake you?

[yesdoubt]

[Once he recognises the other man, Momo's gaze flicks to the necklace momentarily before returning to Jonas' face, doing a quick sweep of the body language for his own reference, and noting that he might want to find out if that necklace has any particular significance. His own name gets something of a reassuring smile, because Momo prefers to handle this sort of thing with a bit of cheer when he can manage it, rather than a completely dampened mood that might just keep one's mind on the problems going through it.]

Nah, I was already awake. I'm probably too much of a morning person. [The lie - half-truth, really, since Momo's quite used to waking up at the crack of dawn - comes out smoothly, without any sign of something amiss.] The leyline thing was rough, huh? Maybe the bad energy got to some people even if they didn't pick up an infection out of it.

[He knows there were some minor infections even if he managed to escape it as well, and while he doesn't want to admit to his own nightmares, he can imagine that kind of prolonged negative energy might have messed with their heads a bit. In any case, his grip on Jonas' hand tightens slightly as if to make his presence more certain, the metal ring on one of his fingers slightly cold in contrast to his body temperature.]

closed to fang.

[coherer]

(their meeting went about as well as could be expected; he's mild-mannered, she's headstrong, and together they make an unlikely but functioning pair. jonas prides himself on being relatively easy company and managed to stress to fang—after they forged a bond and set out on their excursion together—that he shouldn't be much of a bother. a precursor to the very poor luck they face down the road.

exhausting himself first with the leyline was his own damn fault, having refused to listen to any objections when it came to him wanting to help. with a few friends' help he offered rilla sparks (the witch who championed the leyline purge) his aid, then promptly expended too much energy and earned himself two nights of dizzied bedrest. now thoroughly rattled by the affair and the nightmares, jonas still wrestles with the residuals half a week later.

they move onto the ruins, jonas on a cart with his temporary partner close at hand. fang's strong disposition in the face of her extensive injuries is something he admires, despite their tired exchanges of sarcasm, finding the situation ironic. he insists on making camp with her in an attempt to remain close, then strikes out to collect firewood.

it is the least he can do to make life easier for her.)

... Fang? (he asks the dark after a whisper on the wind passes his ear on a chilling breeze that almost makes him drop an armful of kindling, gloved fingers tightening against splintered wood.) If that's you and you're like, trying to freak me out or something, I'm not– it's not funny, okay? So–

(turns back to where the main camp lies just beyond the edge of trees he's stepped into, one line of shrubs all that separates him from the settlement's grounds. a safe enough distance away that his voice can be heard when it raises into a sudden shout of "jesus!" at the presence behind him. the ghost makes an already tired body stumble forward, jonas scrabbling away from a mess of wood that trips him up and deposits him into some underbrush.

the malevolent spirit can't touch him, he knows that and yet–) Fang? Fang! (jonas calls for her unashamedly, feeling panic grip him.

it doesn't help that the wraith's face is sunken into itself, showing transparent bone and sinew in a grim lattice of muscle still stretched across its jaw, a burn victim angered by his presence and shrieking at the top of its lungs.)

Re: closed to fang.

[belligerentwarrior]

[She'd remained with the carts, this stop, given how untrustworthy some of the other explorers were with them. Every time Fang was left with an idly moment, her fingers toyed with a charm stamped with a constellation. She didn't need to see the ruins—she'd seen enough ruins on Gran Pulse, and under the sands of the Dead Dunes.]

[There were a lot of downsides to being a Turnskin, Fang was finding out. Her persistent silver burns, being at the beck and call of the moons' whims, the almost physical ache of being so far separated from her true Bonded...]

[But the benefits made up for it. The dark was no obstacle for her, and little escaped her hearing. Her head snaps up at Jonas' distress even before their stunted Bond could alert her; she grabs one of the spare wood axes left in the cart before sprinting off.]

[When the turnskin bursts through the undergrowth, the specter isn't what she's expecting to find. Fang sweeps the axe at it anyway, not surprised when the makeshift weapon passes through and buries itself in the forest mulch. She doesn't stop—Jonas is too close to the ghost for her liking—seizing her new Bonded by the front of his clothes the best her damaged hands would allow. With a grunt, Fang half-hauls, half-throws Jonas to his feet, away from the screaming ghost.]

[coherer]

(like lightning, quick and powerful, she strikes the ghost. his vertigo keeps him floored, brambles scraping at his pant legs and pricking the skin beneath. he wants to warn her, ward her away from the spirit; physical attacks yield no damages. fang's not stopping to face the ghost mano a mano, though, instead launching towards him–)

W-Woah! (finding his sea legs with a stagger from the force that lifts him, jonas gasps and covers his ears at another shriek.) I-I'm sorry, I was– I just wanted to get us more firewood, I-I never–

(what, he didn't think something like this would happen? out in the wilderness, where hunters fear to tread? careless.)

What do we do? Do we run? Should we run?