010 » something wicked this way comes

[villagemod]

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: ???
WHEN: Day 010
WHAT: Spooks happen. Some sanity loss may occur. (More on that next week!)
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. PM this account to have a warning added!
NOTES: Thank you so much for your patience with this! My Friday was much busier
than expected, so I'm very sorry for the lateness on getting these out to you all.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Deadly Avenger "Gyuki"

DAY 010
“We make up horrors to help
us cope with the real ones.”
—Stephen King
The day dawns but few wake to see it. Only one, who has been exempt from the strange happenings about to unfold. She will face a day like any other, a farce of normality in an utterly abnormal universe — but she will face it alone. For none who will experience these strange happenings are to be found in the town until the next morning dawns. Each has been taken, whisked away to another layer of the town, peeled back and exposed like a raw nerve.

Mathias screams and there are none who can hear it.


THE DETAILS
Each exploration, encounter, and revelation happen separately from one another. Though some may include the same locations, none will overlap in time or space. The circumstances laid out in each prompt are exclusive to that situation — do not assume the answers someone else received will also apply to you.

Players may ask questions as they normally do for logs, but these should be kept as part of the designated thread. You may create a subthread under your header for questions, or intersperse them with your "tags". Your responses may be formatted as IC tags or as a more OOC "telling" what your character does rather than showing.

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DAY 011
All characters involved in this event will wake on the morning of Day 011 in the exact location where they began to sleep on Day 009, but they will find themselves covered in a layer of dust just as thick as that which had covered much of Mathias. The dust does not extend to their surroundings.

The memories of what they encountered or saw remain clear in their minds, no matter how impossible they might seem. Sights, sounds, smells, all may be recalled with crystalline clarity, even if they wish it were otherwise.

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number five »

[villagemod]

Number Five awakes to biting cold as snow falls around him in fat white tufts, piling up thickly upon the limbs of trees surrounding him. The white blanket upon the ground is unmarred by any footprints or other disturbances that might indicate how he came to be out in the forest, and the soft grey sunlight does little to illuminate this particular mystery.

In front of him is a path, determined only by the deliberate clearing of trees to the left and right, snaking through the forest in either direction. What does he do?

[fika]

( number five finds himself, once again, entirely alone.

the first inhale he takes rattles his lungs, the air around him sharp enough to sting before his breath clouds in front of him and he blinks bleary-eyed at the snow-cushioned branches above him. face a clear mask of confusion, he spins in place - searching, of course, for any sign, any indication without a single memory of coming into the forest, or it having been snowing in the first place.

for a harsh moment, the snowfall looks like ash to a mind trying to scramble for purchase - where, when, how. but it is the cold that brings him back and focuses him on the task at hand instead. survive, he thinks and his jaw creaks.

a path, ahead and behind. either a game, or a dream, or something else entirely. hands curled into white-knuckled fists, five takes another breath, rolls his neck, and takes off in a run forward, impatience and irritation a comfortable distraction in place of the rising panic.

run, boy, run. )

[villagemod]

The path continues on through the woods in a winding mess, the trees so thick that one cannot see the way they've come or the way ahead for more than a few yards. The man trapped in a boy's shell can run and run and run, but there seems to be no end in sight. Nothing can be heard in the crisp stillness of the forest save for the soft pat pat pat of snowfall.

On and on, he goes. Where it stops... nobody knows.

[fika]

(Time doesn't feel like it exists here, watch old against his wrist and glaringly misleading. Has it been hours? Or minutes? By the end, he is winded, steaming breath and distress, all crooked and harsh angles bent, an old man's habit messily fit into a child's body indeed.

His heart races, hummingbird fast in birdcage ribs.

This isn't working.

He looks to his hands, spacetime rippling around them as he concentrates, and pushes forward, attempts once more - certainly not for the first time since ever waking in this damned place - at time displacement. )

Come on -- ( all tunnel-visioned frustration, ignoring the building crescendo of exhaustion he knows will come.

desperation. wasted effort. he knows this too well, and he can't be stuck again. his voice wavers, a treacherous thing. ) - come on!

[villagemod]

There is seemingly no one and nothing to answer him, no single sign of life amongst those trees that are half barren from the changing seasons. And yet—

A rustling. Behind him, hidden beyond the trees bordering the path. There and then gone, only the sound of his own ragged breathing filling the cold air.

[fika]

Snow has a remarkable quality of wrapping the world in stillness.

So when the rustling comes, its a pin drop Five didn't know he was waiting for - it cuts his efforts, on the cusp of nothing except wasted strength.

So he whirls towards it, razor focus and something close to murderous intent as he does what human nature tends to advise against - he strays from the path, if only just, keeps it consciously at his back and to his left. Quick steps towards the sound's direction, stopping only by a drying pine.

Hands wrap around a branch, jutting sharp and singular, and he has to leverage his whole body against it to break it free. But he does. He's used worse things for weapons.

He doesn't call out, because he isn't about to be caught being a goddamn horror movie cliche. that's diego's thing, maybe.

[villagemod]

There is nothing out of ordinary in the area. No disturbed snow, no broken branches (besides the makeshift weapon he's created), no ominous shadows creeping into view. The world is still, almost serene...

Until it isn't. There is the sound of movement, a combination of air shifting quickly and leaves rustling, going in a direction further away from the path. It's quick, rushing along as if someone were sprinting through the woods. (There is, of course, no one there.)

[fika]

For a moment, he thinks someone out here must be fucking with him.

But nothing makes sense - of course not. Not his sudden appearance here, not the abrupt change of season - a whiplash contrast to the autumnal chill of ocean-front.

Still, Number Five's patience is thin at the best of times. Its impulsivity that drives him forward, a blink in space before reappearing where the sound had been, stick held up, pine sap across his palms as he lands, kicking up snow from the careened momentum.

He isn't stupid - this feels like walking into a trap. Descending blindly into freezing waters, and all that. But even if it is, perhaps it will get him a step closer to something other than a bonedeep chill.

[villagemod]

As Five arrives at his new location, the process repeats. A sudden, racing rustling, ushering him further through the trees. If he follows, it will repeat again, a third time, a fourth, leading him so far from the path that he'll be unable to find it again.

Not that he chose to be there in the first place, anyway.

[fika]

(The frustration was flowing very quickly into anger, that thread pulled so taught and ready to snap at the smallest provocation.

He does exactly so, follows away and away because after the third jump he knows its too late to go back. So he goes forward, because what else are his options, and calculation is quickly replaced by something more feral, until he swings out the makeshift weapon at a tree trunk, taught rope finally snapping.

It splinters, leaves him in the silence of his ragged breathing.

He's pushed himself, more than he should have but still not enough - never enough, not in his damn mind, even as he props a forarm against the trunk, and works to catch his breath, his composure. Think, think.) Damnit, ( he hisses, voice rising. ) Stop screwing around, you assholes!

[villagemod]

The rustling that echoes him is different this time. Quieter, gentler, accompanied by the soft brush of wind that moves a particular set of branches so that brief glimpses may be seen of the clearing that begins just beyond this of trees. Does he investigate?

[fika]

He does, of course he does. Like a dog to a bone, moving with purpose, footfalls creaking softly. It's the only thing he has right now, and if he stops, if he is alone with his heartbeat and the snowing silence for too long, it will catch up to him, sentiment he is so stubborn in outrunning.

Precise steps, even as impatience bends him forward, towards the hints of a clearing just beyond.

[villagemod]

The clearing is large and quickly filling with snow without trees limbs to share some of the burden. Drifts are beginning to form as the wind whispers through from between the trees, but there can still be seen the curved tops of stone markers scattered across the space. One might easily conclude that these stones are marking graves.

[fika]

The hell...( five doesn't immediately appreciate the safety of the trees until he's in the clearing, the drift of snow lifting up and around him, cold pinpricks on his face.

but he catches them. the distinct curves of graves. he stiffens, but moves towards them, a moth to the flame.

clues, maybe. it's something, at least. because a graveyard is something. is it the townships?

maybe dates? maybe -

he approaches the nearest one to him, crouching to read the headstone. )

[villagemod]

There are no dates on this headstone, nor any name that can be seen on the top half that is uncovered by snow. There is an engraving though, worn away but still mostly visible. A curved half-circle facing downward, a line coming down from it that hooks at the very end.

[fika]

For a moment, his world stops.

He has spent his entire childhood staring at the same sign everywhere he turned. Then the rest of his years, through apocalypses and contracts alike, driven into his skin like a brand. Even now, with his hand hovering over it, fingers tracing the curves, sleeve ridden up enough to show the start of his tattoo.

His breath sputters in his throat, eyes widen, and the moment of being frozen is over, as he frantically starts clearing away the snow at its foot.

Five doesn't feel the cold, right now.

But, he does feel fear, as he glances up to count the graves. As he looks down, to see if his worst failures are staring back.

[villagemod]

There are twelve stones in the clearing, an even dozen markers crouching ominously amongst the clean white snow. Five does not find a name as he uncovers the rest of this particular marker, but below that worn umbrella is a set of hash marks crudely carved into the stone, showing six marks.

[fika]

Six marks.

He scowls, hands red from digging at the snow, the sting slowly setting in.

Six marks, and what more can his brain do than count off the names, the clues just enough to make him think the worst of it all.

Luther. Diego. Allison. Klaus. Ben. Vanya.

He blinks to the next headstone he sees, and will go through the rest if he has to.

Patterns, clues - he needs those. Anything but the glaring conclusion he can't admit himself to jumping to.

[villagemod]

With each headstone, Five will find more carvings. All six clustered together here have the same umbrella symbol and hash mark carvings, but in different amounts.

2 umbrellas = 8 hash marks
3 umbrellas = 3 hash marks
4 umbrellas = 5 hash marks
6 umbrellas = 2 hash marks
7 umbrellas = 2 hash marks

[fika]

There is a momentary temptation to start digging. His hands have gone entirely numb from brushing all the snow away. His nose is running, his breathing hadn't slowed.

The cold air constricts his throat, icy inhales into overexerted lungs.

Two. Three. Four, Six, Seven.

No Five. Because he's here. This can't be right, this can't be what it is.

(Failure, a voice in the back of his mind offers him, vicious and familiar. I told you so.)

Eight, three, five, two, two. It doesn't mean anything to him, other than the tumble of questions. Who made the marks? Who made the headstones? He picks one at random - Four Klaus - drops his knees into the snow, and starts clearing it further away, down to the frozen ground.

He doesn't know what the hell he's trying to find, and panic rings loud in his ears.

[villagemod]

There is nothing to find but dead leaves and dying grass.

The wind whistles especially loud suddenly, whipping past the next headstone closest to those he's uncovered, moving a tuft of snow and unveiling another curved carving still half-hidden by frozen white. If he notices it at all, of course.

[fika]

The wind's sharp howl snaps his head up, away from a task that's fruitless, just an outlet for restlessness, all bent and sharp angles. If he keeps moving, if he keeps doing something, he can ignore the elements all that much longer.

As his head whips up, caught in that sudden sound amidst the white wisps, his eyes catch the curving of the headstone, half buried.

Might as well check, he reasons, tireless in only his bulldog tenacity. He jumps to it, a blink in spacetime, and gets to clearing, once again.

[villagemod]

What he finds: 5 umbrellas, 16 hash marks.

[fika]

What.

He finds himself on his feet, staring at the marks. At the count of umbrellas. Five. He counts them all again, standing in the clearing with his hands by his side.

All seven now accounted for.

There had to be an explanation for this. Maybe he was dreaming? His subconscious bleeding out? It felt real though, down to the tingling in his hands, numb cold flowing into that stinging pain.

So he stares and stares and stares, instead, jaw working, and with a cold sort of detachment, finally moves to see the remaining five stones.

[villagemod]

The remaining stones do not hold carvings of umbrellas. What he will find if he looks at all of the stones:

a set of short vertical lines both thick and thin — 5 hash marks
a flower shape with long thin petals — 12 hash marks
a five-pointed star inside a circle — 3 hash marks
a small bird — 4 hash marks
a cross shape with even length arms and three prongs at the end of each — 10 hash marks