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

[coherer]

(perhaps it's just as well that he misses stiles' shudder, heart pounding alarmingly fast. any added stress would see him taking a knee or toppling over and it's high time he pulled himself together to ready them for the trip back. how far did he end up wandering this time?

checking back on stiles with a raise of his brow, slowing to a stop.)

You serious? There's no way I'm getting you involved with that... (it doesn't take a serial worrier to tell that they're on different pages, but jonas gets the gist of stiles' message. without context all of this must seem pressingly dire.) ... oh. No– Jesus, Stiles, I'm sorry–

(a split-second decision is made, turning in the arm that's got a grip on him. repositions his over stiles' shoulders to draw his friend into an unpracticed, self-indulgent hug. he's never been the most gentle, his lead-in rough, but the result is no less comfortable. certainly far less strange than when alex issued him one that made him feel protective and guarded and... sad. knowing it might be his last, it was bittersweet and it choked him up. this is all reassurance, warm and encompassing.)

We're alright, man. Back home I'm haunted; I've got no hangers-on here.

[mensrea]

[ The hug may be unexpected, but it isn’t unwelcome. Stiles has always been a tactile young man, someone who draws tremendous comfort from physical contact. And so, he sinks into this embrace like he’s come home – reveling quietly in the corporal body against his, undeniable proof that they’re both alive, that he isn’t alone, that this isn’t just another godawful nightmare. A foreign heartbeat drums frantically across from his own and even this is a reassurance Stiles can be grateful for. He feels starved for it, for this, to the point that his eyes blur with unshed tears. ]

We’re alright, [ he repeats, voice choked up with emotion. Emotion he’d be horrified to reveal so openly to anyone else – except Jonas. ] You’re okay. Not possessed. You’re fine.

[ Stiles exhales sharply, trying to quell the dizzying relief muddling his thoughts. His friend may not be possessed here, but… ]

Can we talk about that? You…back home? I-I…ha, I’ve had to ride backseat in my own body too, b-before.

[coherer]

(planting a hand between stiles' shoulder blades to better hang on, keep him close to his chest, warm him up as best he can. it's not the only time he's sensed that they have a few things in common, first felt on their walkabout before sharing awful cups of tea, his familiarity with losing a parent and being left to care for dad; using humour as a self-defence mechanism, while avoiding the heavy shit; having dealt with possession, how invasively stripping and dissociating it is.

they're from completely different places and times, but he's never felt closer to achieving some sort of understanding from someone his age. it breeds vulnerability, so easy to hear and feel in voice and body respectively—it's still invited. they aren't separating anytime soon, so he might as well let himself deflate in defeat.

releases his tension with a wavering sigh, exhaustedly embracing his friend in an effort to comfort him.)

Yeah... of course we can. I didn't know you went through it too– I mean, obviously not– (huffing a hotspot against stiles' jacket, before coming away from his shoulder to give him a steadier look.) It's not really something you open with. My circumstances– well, they're not textbook ghosts you can exorcise, but I've been trying to figure out more here. Haven't really found anything yet.

We went to this island with an old radio... the military kind you can tune into dozens of different signals with. And my step-sister's best friend, Ren, told us to try it out on these creepy stations we heard coming from a cave.

(they did. then he left them there to investigate on his own. as much as he'd like to think their nightmare was caused by ren, he may be the reason it all went down in the first place. would they've even gone into the cave if it weren't for him? would they've gotten hurt over and over again if he'd only went back to the beach or stayed home with his dad in the first place?

giving stiles a little slack, jonas claps a hand against the side of his neck and urges him with a nod.)

We need to get somewhere safer. Then I can tell you the rest. Okay? You with me?

[mensrea]

[ Stiles hangs on to every word with avid interest, expression unusually intense in its wonder. The version of Earth that he’d imagined Jonas calls home is cast into doubt, suddenly all incorrect. An entirely inappropriate, volatile sense of delirium bubbles up in his chest like a pocket of air swallowed wrong. Shame will come later, when he’s had time to come down from this emotional high – this capricious giddiness of being seen by someone who knows, who understands. ]

Yeah. I’m…I’m with you.

[ He smiles tentatively, in spite of the circumstances, a smile that speaks of nothing but appreciation and camaraderie. ]

C’mon. Camp’s this way.

---

[ Later, after they manage a hasty retreat to the main camp, Stiles sits them down by the fire and hands Jonas a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He’s brimming with tightly restrained energy, eager to hear more about his friend’s story and yet determined to ascertain Jonas is well first. Once the few people in the area wander off far enough to allow them a measure of privacy, he peers at Jonas with a sharp scrutiny. ]

Okay. How are you doing, really? You scared the shit out of me back there.

[coherer]

(they're shoulder to should all the way back to camp, where jonas manages to find his gear untouched in the place he'd left it. a bit eerie, knowing he'd been delirious enough to leave his sleeping bag to wander so far from the settlement. must've been a night terror from the leyline, still conscious of how much his fingers ache when he flexes them around his hot chocolate.)

Sorry. You know how badly the Cwyld purge messed with me? I think that had something to do with where I wound up. (a really unfortunate series of events that escalated into standing, swaying, and mumbling, unaware of stiles.) I've been having these bullshit nightmares... and all the rest of the symptoms– I don't know.

(seems altogether too calm about it, but it isn't the first time he's wound up somewhere unexpected without his knowledge.)

You get it, if you've really– I shouldn't be trying to explain this to you.

[mensrea]

Nope, you definitely should explain it, [ comes the firm disagreement as Stiles warms his hands around his own mug. ] We don’t know how different our experiences might’ve been. But if it’s too soon, that’s cool. I won’t push.

[ The idea that the purification process might have left Jonas in a vulnerable enough state for this to happen is alarming. Stiles wonders about the pros and cons of Bonds, and if Jonas might have been in a better place to handle the Cwyld with a permanent one. ]

Tell me what you can.

[coherer]

No... not too soon. Just heavy. (very, if his retelling gets remotely close to the current position he's in.

does he tell him? would it change anything?)

There's an island off the coast of Camena—Edwards Island, some place the kids all go to have this yearly party—and my step-sister invited me to go at her mom's behest. I didn't know how to say "no" to that, so– so I went. And it was as awkward as it sounds. (for him, but for everyone involved. especially when things started to go south.) So we tune in to that signal I told you about, the one in the cave. We had to go deeper in to get it to work, which seemed so weird because– I mean, a signal's supposed to get weaker underground, but this– god, this tear opens when Alex starts screwing around with dials.

It was a triangular– I don't know. Gate, I guess. And I couldn't see anything but the bottom of the ocean on the other side. The radio starting speaking to us like, in bits and pieces all strung together.

(the surface of his hot chocolate ripples, so on edge in the ruins that he can't sit still, a constant nervous buzz that makes him tug a blanket he'd taken from the cottage tighter over his shoulders.)

We invited these ghosts through to our side. Dead officers of this... nuclear submarine deployed in the Second World War.

[mensrea]

[ Information is processed as quickly as Stiles can follow the brush strokes of the picture that Jonas is painting for him. He’s pulling certain details out, to be dissected later beneath the lens of his obsessive curiosity – Jonas has a step-sister and it seems likely his father was the one who remarried, meaning it’s equally likely that his mother did die from her illness. Jonas never did confirm if she had. Worse, it sounds like he’s not particularly close to his step-sister if she only invited him because of her mom. Stiles considers what Jonas told him previously – what he manipulated Jonas into telling him – and cringes. Does his step-sister judge Jonas for the time he spent in juvie? Hard to say.

Ren… Jonas said Ren is his step-sister’s best friend. Does that make Alex his step-sister? Stiles doesn’t want to interrupt to ask and, when he has the chance to speak, doesn’t waste time with such an irrelevant question. ]

It’s always World War II, [ he jokes weakly, expression stricken despite the jest of his words. ] What…what happened next?

[coherer]

(gives an unenthused "tell me about it," removes his hat, and scratches fingers back through messy hair before continuing.)

We all woke up in different spots on the island, so Alex and I—and thank god I wound up with the lesser of all evils, honestly, because I could've killed the rest of her friends—searched for them. Things started to– they got crazy. I-I don't know where to even... start with this.

They got Ren, then they got Clarissa– her most of all. And they still have her, dude, that's what's so fucked up. She's still– (back there, being soaked into, body stolen to be piloted back into the world. jonas shakes his head, as though trying to rid himself of the piecemeal memories.)

I'm having a difficult time figuring out... what happened when. Sorry. We got stuck in these endless time loops that– I-I just think I was there on the island for way, way longer than I think I was. That's why I was so exhausted when I got here. The possessions... hurt. Bad. It felt like I was sinking, but like something was crawling into me. Water and whatever they are.

Can't remember how many times it actually happened to me.

[mensrea]

[ The explanation is almost entirely nonsensical to Stiles, who struggles in vain to make sense of what he’s being told. Lesser of two evils? Clarissa? Time loops? But if there’s one thing he can understand with personal, painstaking clarity – it’s the description of possession. Swallowing, he leans back against the crumbling remains of a short, stone wall and stares into the flames. His hot chocolate is now forgotten. ]

Like you’re drowning, [ he says, soft with the lingering hurts of invoking such memories. ] So close to shore, but no matter how much you kick and swim, the waves keep dragging you back under. You keep trying, and lose a little bit more of yourself each time.

[ Let go, breathe in. The mug is set aside, his hands too unsteady to support it without spilling the contents all over himself. ]

Christ, Jonas. I thought… I figured maybe you had bad lungs from smoking. I didn’t… [ A brief, weak laugh of incredulity. ] I had no idea. I’m sorry.

[coherer]

(sick with relief that someone understands, but shocked and shaken by the fact that stiles knows, jonas cranes his neck to blink at the sky. it's overwhelming enough to cry, yet he can't seem to manage. the desensitization happened so quickly, he hadn't had time to consider it until now.)

Yeah. Like that. (so they fall quiet and sit and commiserate, forgetting about their drinks.

how can anything be normal again? all he ever wanted was to lead an average, uninspiring life. at this point he can't even go home and that alone is such a loaded topic that it's liable to damage his relationships in this place. would stiles think him lesser for coming to terms with the fact that he may eventually submit and lose himself? would sasuke, who seems to have made it his god-given duty to keep him safe?)

... you've been through it. You know why I didn't say anything when we first met. After that, it felt wrong to bring it up. Day by day, I just– (pulling a hand away from his mug to wipe at his face, trying to breathe evenly between his fingers.) I've never made the right choices. Everything I do ends in total disaster; it's easy to think that way after all the shit that's happened.

Now I'm here, Alex is trapped there with Ren and Nona, Clarissa's– she's gone, and I'm– I'm lost too.

[mensrea]

Yeah. I get it.

[ There hasn’t been a real reason for it to come up, other than his concern over Jonas’ apparent poor health. But who can blame Jonas for not wanting to discuss it? Something this personal, this alien, this traumatizing – no one is going to understand. The fact that Stiles does is…well, a point toward Stiles beginning to believe in fate, honestly. What are the chances that they met and share an experience like possession? It’s almost unbelievable. If Stiles had been the one to bring it up first, only for Jonas to claim that he’s been possessed too? Paranoia might have prevented Stiles from buying it. An ugly possibility, but fortunately events happened differently. ]

You’re not lost, [ he murmurs, because as much as he wants to contest the total disaster comment, he knows fears like that run deeper than he’ll be able to assuage. ] I’ve got you, Jonas. And you’ve got me.

[ You’ve still got me.

“I already had you.”

Stiles viciously shoves thoughts of Scott aside, stomach turning. ]

Try not to focus on the others. We have to assume time’s relative, just like you said. So, nothing’s happening right now. Everything’s paused. You’re on a really weird vacation. And while you’re here, we can get you ready to deal with shit for when you go back.

[coherer]

(that's right, they have each other.

bizarre, feeling needed and cared for by someone he can call a friend. a best friend, considering how long he's gone without one. even then, the people he knew were fake, expected things from him, enabled him, and dragged him into doing things he never would've without their encouragements. he's had so little experience that stiles accepting his past transgressions is alien, shaking him. who knew it'd take leaving his dimension to find such reliable worriers hellbent on helping him?

jonas leaves his mug by the wayside and leaves his seat to grab at the shoulder of stiles' jacket. with how tight his throat is, it's impossible to voice how he feels, but a hug will convey the message he'd like to send. it's as rough as all desperate embraces are, hauling him close to meet his lean in, bracing him with a loop of strong arms and a proportional squeeze.)

[mensrea]

[ Surprise slackens his expression as Stiles is heaved closer, his arms coming up on instinct to grasp Jonas in return and balance himself. The embrace is, like the last, not unwelcome. He melts into it without protest, tucking his chin over a shoulder, one hand flat against Jonas’ spine and the other gently stroking down dark hair, the same way that his dad used to do for him after a nightmare. Except that’s not quite right, is it? Aefenglom is the dream, a temporary haven for Jonas from the horrifying reality awaiting him on the island. In that moment, Stiles finds himself hoping that his friend never wakes up. It can’t change anything, can’t interfere with his own plans to find a way home, and yet…

He stares blankly over Jonas’ shoulder, mind already whirling. If they did get Sasuke’s abilities back, maybe Jonas could be returned to a point earlier in his timeline, before the island. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Stiles will need to ask Sasuke about the logistics of it, without drawing attention to why he’s asking; though Sasuke and Jonas seem to be friends, it isn’t his story to share. Fortunately, it should be easy to pass off as his own selfish desire – even if the idea of manipulating time makes him sick to his stomach with despair and hope both. Not even worth considering. Stiles would always want to abuse a power like that.

Still not a hero, he thinks, rubbing circles into Jonas’ back. Never will be. ]

[coherer]

(such a motherly touch lands on the back of his head that his eyes are forced closed when it sweeps into his hair. its meant to make him feel secure and it does that very effectively, causing jonas' next sigh to be huffed hotly against the collar of stiles' jacket. he can almost hear soft vocalizations sung at his ear, wordless nonsense in retrospect, all rhythm and meaning.

fingers don't relax out of their grip but tighten to keep him against him, covetous.)

You do, man. You've got me. (he speaks, congested, but refuses to cry even if it's making a tired head pound.) Just feel like... like this is it. Like, I'm supposed to do something with my time here. Either make peace and stay or– or learn what I can.

(frowns, head lifting out of its daze to a few raw truths: whatever he learns here has to be enough to save his life; leaving would mean abandoning the only friends he's ever felt truly connected to; he'd be abandoning his father by staying. he has no energy to worry about them now. it's neither the place, nor time.

coming away a bit, jonas speaks the only safe, sure thing on his mind.)

I'm glad you're here, Stiles.

[mensrea]

[ The confession is like a knife in his chest, prying open his ribcage to expose the bleeding heart he’s attempted to shore up with cynicism and rage. Stiles recalls sitting in Kira’s house, the very life draining from him second by second as he struggled to make peace with the reality of his impending death. “Allison’s dead,” he’d said, voice weak. “Now I guess the only good thing is it looks like I’m dying too.” A relief, after what had happened to her – because even though it hadn’t been his hands on the sword that impaled her, Stiles still felt responsible. And though Jonas doesn’t mention them again, Stiles understands that his friend undoubtedly harbors that same sense of misplaced guilt for the other people stuck on the island. Maybe Jonas even believes he deserves what’s coming to him. The thought is so sickening that Stiles has to swallow back a mouthful of bile, stomach roiling in disquiet. Unconsciously, his hold tightens on Jonas, as if he were capable of keeping his friend in this dimension through physical force alone. But when Jonas pulls back, Stiles allows it, teeth clenched hard against the fear and denial burrowing into his bones. ]

We’re going to fix things, [ he asserts, a strong, dark intensity to the declaration. ] I promise. One way or another, you’re going to be okay. We’ll make sure of that.

[coherer]

(nods, loosening his grip to check an eye with the heel of his palm. dry, but that state's unreliable with how their conversation is progressing. he'll stiffen his upper lip, plant his heels, say what he's thinking instead of holding it back. guilt at having said too much or too little is always the killer.

jonas wishes he'd had this chance with his mother, to thank her and apologize for all that he'd done to make her existence harder than it had to be. to make her suffer in the heart when she was struggling to keep her body alive. maybe it's selfish that he's thinking of this now, using stiles to cope with that. still, he must.)

Yeah. (another nod, firmer, glancing down with a rough exhale.) Stiles, I don't regret like, asking to be your pal or whatever. I didn't wanna' waste the potential there. Now you're my best friend and it's only been two months.

Jesus. Being in this place so fucked up, but weighing this against the alternative– I'm okay with taking my chances here. You know? And I want to believe you, so I'll try to– I won't get all negative about it or go on and on. Just know I'll always try... for the both of us.

[mensrea]

[ Stiles freezes, awash in the tide of a complicated emotion that he can’t quite name. This is hardly the first time Jonas has reminded him of Scott, but it feels as if he’s finally reached a crossroad. There’s so much unfinished business with Scott, with the pack – events that need discussing, discussions that deserve closure. Throughout his time spent in Aefenglom, Stiles has avoided dwelling unnecessarily on the current state of his relationships with both Scott and Malia. Like if he didn’t think about them, things could stay suspended indefinitely. Still his best friend. Still his girlfriend. Nothing had changed. Except everything has changed. Though he can barely stand to stomach the idea of it, Stiles doesn’t know if he can confidently call Scott his best friend anymore. Stiles doesn’t know if he can even call Scott a friend. It’s the same for Malia; regardless of the love he bears her, he can’t reconcile what she said to him, how she chose to deal with his actions. These are the people Stiles has devoted his life to – without them, he’s unmoored. Purposeless. Tethered to existence only by the thread that connects him to his father.

And now, Jonas. Maybe that’s enough. “Say you believe me.”

“…I want to believe you…”

Yes, it’s enough. ]

You don’t have to pretend with me. If you’re feeling negative? Let it out. I’ll listen. I gotta find a way home, but – but I’m going to take care of you too. Even if…the best option for you is to not go back.

[coherer]

'Course you do, man. (immediately, fingers finding his shoulder with a tight knead in.) Your dad's there waiting for you. You guys need each other.

(it's become a silent goal to see stiles returned home ever since they learned of each other's fathers, the untimely loss of their mothers, the parallels there he knows brought them together. he should be with him now.)

I'm gonna' help, alright? I know you won't wanna' hear this, but if it comes down to it? I need you to cut and run. Don't be selfless, don't wait up, just go. (if one person listens, jonas hopes it's stiles. alex didn't, she lingered with him. for what? to appease his desperate need to say goodbye to his mother, when she was just a voice on a fucking tape recorder? he damned her as much as he damned clarissa, souls set to sink to the bottom of the sea.

god, he was so sure. if he could've talked to her, only for a moment...)

What's the point of my being here if I can't even help one friend? That'd be... pretty embarrassing when you guys have done so much for me already. (trying to inject some levity into the conversation, sitting—not in his old seat, but a new one directly beside stiles where he feels he needs to be—and sighing out his exhaustion.)

[mensrea]

[ Not everyone would respond as supportively as his housemate does now. It’s a genuine relief that Jonas understands, that this won’t come between them as friends, that Stiles has his blessing to continue searching for a way home. He would have continued regardless, but not without also feeling like a traitor. For what seems like the umpteenth time, he finds himself immensely grateful for this singular, incredible person he’s managed to befriend.

Simultaneously, he does balk at the mental image Jonas’ words create. Stiles has no issue with being selfish – at least, that’s what he tells himself – and yet it doesn’t sit well with him, the idea of running out on Jonas. The bonfire doesn’t quite manage to thaw the sudden chill in the very marrow of his bones. Why does it always come down to the same choice? In Mexico, he had to decide between staying behind with a dying Derek or going after Scott. He went after Scott. In Beacon Hills, he had to pick between saving Scott or learning his father’s location. He found his father. What other sacrifices will he make? God, he hopes it doesn’t come to that. Not again.

Because no matter how dear Jonas has become to him –

Stiles will always choose his father.

Always. ]

You can’t selflessly ask someone not to be selfless, [ he scoffs, ribbing Jonas lightly. ] The hypocrisy cancels everything out. Bam! We’re back to square one. Let’s save the heroic declarations for never and just plan how to make things work out for the both of us.

[ That said, Stiles hears that exhaustion. ]

You doing okay, dude? Might be time to call it a night.

[coherer]

(head dropping back, jonas huffs a brighter laugh.) Always breaking my balls. (it's said lovingly and with feeling.

as much as he dislikes the idea of heading to bed right now—sleep is so far from his mind, knowing he won't be catching a wink or it—stiles is right. they should turn in at the very least. he can lie back and pretend to drift off, despite his mind's inability to drop the subject at its forefront. there's no end in sight to this worry.

if his friend's beside him, it'll be one less thing.)

You've got yourself a deal if you escort me to my bedroll and chill with me a bit. Wanna' have a sleepover? Do each other's hair? (a heavy arm raises to drop over stiles' shoulders, sweeping him into motion.) Swap watch duty so we don't get possessed? Talk about boys?

[mensrea]

With you, dude? Always.

[ Mugs and bonfire abandoned, Stiles allows Jonas to guide them through camp. He presses a gentle and unassuming hand against his friend’s spine, ostensibly a fraternal gesture, in order to support Jonas in turn. While some of the color has returned to Jonas’ face, Stiles remains deeply concerned about his health. What a stupid, careless assumption to make – believing that smoking was the reason behind Jonas’ infirmity. The guy is only eighteen fucking years old. Use your goddamn head, Stilinski. ]

Don’t laugh, [ he begins, redoubling his efforts to raise Jonas’ spirits. ] I actually learned how to braid hair a few years ago watching YouTube videos. No sisters, no little cousins, no lady friends. I just wanted to know how to do it in case the girl I liked ever gave me a chance. She’s got the most beautiful strawberry-blonde hair. I’ve wanted to braid it since we were kids. If you decide to grow yours out, you can count on me, bud. I've got you covered.

[coherer]

What, seriously? That's brave, man. (because it is in their world, in their time. outright "girl" things aren't as widely accepted when guys indulge in them.

jonas doesn't laugh at any of it, despite his open, almost bemused expression. the hand on his back prevents him from it, feeling safer for it, but still on edge with how the night's gone. he doesn't want to be seen as weak, or incapable of handling himself... they did, however, just go through an ordeal. he needs to give them time to recover. swapping ghost stories after reacquainting himself with the familiar sensation of drowning naturally churns the air into something nervously electric.

stiles' support is wholeheartedly welcome, even addressed with a warm smile as they head for his supplies.)

Strawberry-blondes are super cute, so colour me jealous. If I had long brown hair it'd be hard to keep me away from myself. (mimes it out for extra emotional impact. oh baby, if only.) You wanna' tell me about her? Uh, like, what's her name?

[mensrea]

[ Distraction is an artform that Stiles has perfected, though his delivery may admittedly require work. Nevertheless, he’s more than happy to do what he can to take Jonas’ mind off the unpleasant night, even if it involves giving up secrets about his old obsession. ]

Lydia Martin, [ he answers, and the expression on his face as he says that name is tellingly fond. ] Smartest person I know. You two would hit it off. Anyway, I basically stalked her growing up. Well, not like…creepy stalking. Just the stupid kind that stupid kids do when they think they’re in love, you know? When shit hit the fan back home, she was pulled into the mess just like I was. Eventually, we wound up becoming friends.

[ A curious look. ]

Alright, your turn. Gimme an embarrassing fact.

[coherer]

(so he was stalking her, was he? jonas gives stiles a withering look that just screams, "if you call it stalking, it may just be stalking." teasing's all a part of the best friend gig, don'tcha know?)

Sure, dude, all the kids are stalking each other these days. (a rib, motioning forward to the next rundown building.) What kinda' mess do you mean, anyway? I've been meaning to ask you, like... there's something going on with you back home, right? I can understand if you don't wanna' talk about it.

(he hardly wanted to talk about his own hang-ups, but there's a time and a place for everything. experiencing hauntings when that's what his life's become after his trip to the island? it was the perfect opportunity and not one that was going to resurface again for a long while.

to give him a route out, jonas hikes his arms up to lace his fingers behind his head and sighs.) Embarrassing fact? Well, you already know the horse one. You know that old Carmen Sandiego show? Yeah, talk about love interests; she's mine. I had– have a major crush on her. Like, I bought the computer game and had posters...