villagelogs | 021-023 » the ghosts of fallen leaves

021-023 » the ghosts of fallen leaves

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Western Mathias.
WHEN: Days 021-023
WHAT: A cold storm approaches.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. PM this account to have a warning added!
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Emily Kinney & Lauren Cohan "The Parting Glass"

DAYS 021-023
THE WORLD TURNS WHITE
“Are ye the ghosts of fallen leaves, O flakes of snow,
For which, through naked trees, the winds A-mourning go?”
— John Banister Tabb
The howling wind is what wakes the residents of Mathias each day now as the world turns slowly into a bleak stretch of white. Snow continues to fall in thick curtains of flakes that accumulate on trees and rooftops, swirling sideways in the gusts of wind that bow trees and whistle through any crack they can find. The drifts of snow grow taller against the buildings and the wind makes the already freezing temperatures feel bitterly cold.

By day 022, the far ends of streets begin to resemble the hazardous fog with how little becomes visible as the winds pick up. Buildings can still be discerned as dark shapes but the weather's warning becomes clear — a storm is coming. And by day 023, the storm arrives properly, the wind still screaming through the streets like a winter banshee announcing so many deaths to come. These conditions are far from hospitable and only the truly mad would be foolish enough to venture outside in weather such as this.

THE NEWLY ARRIVED
With an embrace of wintery white, Mathias offers a chilly welcome to its newest residents. They awake along the southern treeline bordering Mathias, near the small makeshift cemetery containing a handful of wooden markers erected without names or signifiers of those buried within. And not far from them is the schoolhouse, where in a snowdrift they will the frozen corpse of a young woman named Rey.

LIGHTS IN THE DARKNESS
“A lantern can give you light only when you light it”
— Munia Khan
When residents wake on the morning of day 021, they will find outside in the snow the abandoned lanterns of those shadowy spectres who have moved so silently through Mathias. Each nestled in a patch of frozen white outside their door, the lanterns are now cold to the touch, the half-burned candle within each one seeming to have been lit so very long ago. Inside the glass encasement is a small rolled piece of paper, upon which is written:

keep it lit
There is nothing more, and the prior owners of these lanterns will not return within these days.

There is one lantern waiting outside the building for each resident wherever they are sleeping — the exception for this is those who may have already claimed a lantern as their own. Removing a lantern from its resting place results in no apparent reaction, nor does lighting or not lighting it. However, whatever residents ultimately choose to do with these lanterns should be reported.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— SNOW continues to fall, resulting over the three days in upwards of a foot of accumulation. The winds blow in gusts over 35 mph.

— VOICES are not openly haunting our residents, though they may still be occasionally encountered in the more heavily decayed buildings where some rooms seem to almost swallow whatever light tries to enter them.

— THE FOG has still receded from the town proper and much of the eastern and northern beach, with the path through the northern forest to the lighthouse still clear on day 021. On day 022, however, as the storm worsens, the fog returns to the paths in the forest, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper or else.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue to plague the town. While Zed Martin has returned, Rey's corpse will be found in a snowdrift near the Schoolhouse; she disappeared on day 018.

— THE STRANGER is gone.

— THE SPECTRES are gone.

OOC UPDATES

— DISCOVERIES have been collected and collated for your review. Please note that this is OOC information only, put together for the purpose of helping you as players see connections and possibilities for CR and your own character's potential avenues of exploration and investigation. (If we are missing something, please report it so we can add it to the list.)

— AP REWARDS have a new option now — Ideas may be requested if you find yourself stuck. You may now claim up to 2 rewards per log: (1) idea and (1) other reward.

— SANITY may be regained in two ways: self-medication and treatment. In Mathias, this means such coping mechanisms as drinking or drugging oneself into a stupor that allows them to face their fears and issues, or talking to someone about those fears and issues. Since both of these will take some time, best get started. (A form will be added to the Sanity page.)

— REMINDERS — Don't forget about the bulletin board. Please continue reporting your updates to locations, plots, and discoveries. The map of Mathias has been added to the locations page for ease of reference. Make sure your character's sanity level is kept updated. Prospective players are still joining the TDM, so it's recommended to track new top-levels so you don't miss them.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"White Collar. Art forgeries and Ponzi schemes? That's a specialized skill set. What did you go to school for? I work homicides with Major Crimes out of the fourteenth precinct. They only call me for the really sick or weird ones, so my job hasn't changed much. I was out of the DC office when I was with the FBI, but they sent me all over the country. I was the Weird Murder Guy," Malcolm told him.

"Among other things." Neal picks up his poetry book, riffling the pages. "I've studied Art History, restoration, economics, business development--anything relevant."

He grimaces a little. "What does a person study to become the Weird Murder Guy?"

"I did my degree in psychology - abnormal psychology, largely - but I also studied psychopathy and the methodology of known serial killers in depth and interviewed a serial killer in custody extensively," Malcolm explained. "I had the highest close rate on violent crime in the Bureau," he added as a credential that made it sound less macabre as a fascination, he hoped.

Neal nods slowly. He can’t imagine doing it himself—-working that long and hard to get inside the heads of monsters. But there’s no denying the value of it. No way to deny its importance.

He lets the book fall open in his hands, onto a selection of Keats. “It takes fortitude. To do that kind of work.”

Neal studies the poem without seeing what it is. “I’ll take mortgage fraud for over homicide, and mortgage fraud is as boring as it gets.”

Fortitude.

Most people didn’t credit Malcolm with strength. He was seen as odd or morbid or effete. Or all three.

“It takes a strong stomach, at any rate,” he agreed self-deprecatingly. “What’s the most exciting sort of case you’ve worked?”

“Sophisticated palate I have. Strong stomach, not so much.”

Neal smiles faintly. The most exciting one is easy—he’s still dealing with the fallout. “Nazi plunder hidden in a sunken U-boat, with the coordinates secreted away in a song in a long-lost, coded music box. That one was a hell of a thing.”

“That’s amazing,” Malcolm exclaimed. “I think if I wasn’t in murder, I’d want to work with antiques. I actually have a collection of antique weapons.”

"It was once in a lifetime, that's for sure." Neal grins properly, letting himself enjoy both Malcolm's reaction and the memory--most of the memory--of that day. "I was one of the first two people in the hold. I was one of the first two people to lay eyes on a portrait done by Anthony van Dyck since it disappeared during the Second World War."

His grin softens into a real smile. "Once in a lifetime."

His life has been strange, but it's never been boring.

"Yeah? Any particular theme to the collection?"

"I would love to do something like that; that's amazing," Malcolm enthused.

At the question, he laughed self-consciously. "Um, anything that catches my fancy, I guess. I have a lot of blades: daggers, swords. But I also have a pair of double barreled flint lock pistols and a thirteenth century morning star, so it's not really... one type of weapon. Probably looks like a mess to an expert," he conceded with a tilt of his head and a grin.

"It definitely beats mortgage fraud."

Neal runs his fingers down the center of the page of the book in his hand before letting it fall shut. "Collection is self-expression, in its own way. The possessions you surround yourself with are as significant as the clothes your wear and the friends you keep. They're not just what you project toward the world, they're also the imprint you let the world leave on you."

He shrugs. "The only mess of a collection I've ever come across was one that had no significance to the owner but price tags."

Malcolm nodded knowingly.

"That would be the art collection at my mother's house," he admitted. Why yes, he did come from that sort of a family. "She's assured that they're very good pieces." He leaned in conspiratorially. "She has a curator."

Neal grins. "Well, I'm sure the curator's taste is impeccable."

He studies Malcolm a moment. "You'll forgive my saying so, I hope--it is a compliment--but you don't scream 'law enforcement' at a glance. Wealthy family background, refined education. FBI specialist I can see, but how did you end up working with the NYPD?"

Malcolm gave him something of a rueful look. "The lieutenant in Major Crimes was my mentor growing up. When the FBI... and I parted ways, he started offering me cases when they had a... difficult or unusual murder." He gestured towards Neal. "How did you end up consulting? Couldn't you work for a museum or something?" Something like curating a wealthy lady's private art collection?

"Long story." Several long stories, at this point. Normally, Neal would brush the question off with just that much and be done with it. But after all the thinking he's been doing lately, all the questioning of his motives and desires from before this place, it isn't as easy to just move on.

"It isn't the career path I would have envisioned for myself, but..." He taps the binding of the book against his palm. Neal has always been a fidgeter, but particularly when he's trying to think. "At this point, it's hard to imagine doing anything else."

A pause, his thoughts straying to a future off-anklet, where he's legally allowed near the equipment necessary. "Restoration, maybe. Preservation."

Neal shakes his head and shrugs, eyes on the cover of the book, very much not looking at Malcolm. "I've done a lot of different kinds of work in my life. This job is the first one where I've had something to show for it at the end."

“But they don’t trust you.” Malcolm tilted his head towards the ankle tracker. “Federal hardware, I’d guess. Staties and locals wouldn’t cross the Bureau to tag their consultant. Is that a recent development or...?” He left it open. He’d noticed the anklet but hadn’t been sure how to bring it up. How much Neal wanted to share was up to Neal.

Well. That hits at a place Neal wasn't expecting to be struck, and it does it as sharply as anything Peter has ever said to him. A stranger shouldn't be able to bring that kind of ammunition to bear.

He's off his game. He knew it already, but damn does this place keep driving it home.

Neal laughs faintly. "Once bitten, I guess."

Deep breath. He shrugs. "I consult with the FBI as a condition of my freedom. The condition, really. They had me on the inside for bond forgery, I convinced them I would be more valuable helping them catch people doing all the stuff they couldn't prove I did."

He rocks back and forth on his heels. "I've been assisting them for just over a year and a half. I was supposed to get a commutation hearing before this little foray into Wonderland."

Malcolm nodded his understanding. The thing was, he could see Neal was telling the truth when he talked about loving the job. It wasn’t cynical. He’d found fulfillment helping the Bureau put criminals away.

“Well, no point you wearing it here. I know how to get it off, if you want.” He smiled faintly. “I was fired from the FBI, if it makes you feel any better.” He gestured towards Philips Avenue and the Grey Gull in a vague sort of way. “Do you want some coffee? Or something to eat?”

Neal's smile is genuine, if crooked. "It does, actually."

The smile stays in place, but so does he, looking Malcolm over. "You're the third person here who has offered to help get this thing off, no real questions asked. Granted, it's not like it can be used to keep an eye on me here, but..."

He shakes his head. "Not sure where I was going with that. I wouldn't mind some coffee."

"This way," Malcolm said, heading towards Philips Drive with a tilt of his head. He glanced over sidelong as they walked. "I guess nobody here is really moved by whatever form of recognizance the government thinks they have you on at home," he noted with a wry smile. "The only Marshal here will probably let it slide," he teased.

Neal's tone stays casual. "Some people would say a criminal is a criminal, regardless of context. And trust, in a place like this, is something to put at a premium."

He hunches a little deeper into his jacket, like that will make a difference, arranging his sketchbooks in his arms. "Not to say that I don't appreciate the benefit of the doubt, but I have to ask--what's in it for you?"

Malcolm chuckled, his gaze directed down at the snow, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"It's a fair question. I'm not looking for anything from you, if that's what you mean. But considering we're all stuck here, I'd rather have friends than enemies." He glanced over again. "I have enough trouble sleeping as it is." He looked ahead. "And I remember being new here and not really knowing what to do with that. I spent my first couple of nights here huddled in the corner of the library trying to keep myself awake." He looked at Neal. "And I remember someone offering me a drink in a warm, dry room and it made a difference."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." Neal can accept that.

As far as the idea of sleeping goes, well. Neal quirks his lips into something humorless. "I woke up this morning keeping company with a frozen corpse in the middle of an improbable ghost town that may or may not be a free-range homo sapiens exhibit. There's a reason I said yes to coffee and not a soothing bedtime tea."

It doesn't feel right to be gruesomely cavalier, not when there's a woman dead and this man is being nice, whatever his ends might be. Even if being cavalier is the best way to keep the facts at a distance. Neal sighs. "But thank you. ...It does make a difference."

Malcolm looks over at him suddenly.

"A frozen corpse? Do you know whose?" he asks.

But he understands the urge not to sleep, as long as Neal understands he can't keep it up forever. Even Malcolm, the chronic insomniac, couldn't.

Neal's expression twists. It's very, very obvious how upset he's pretending he isn't. "I don't. I don't even know how long she was out there, what might have killed her... That kind of thing isn't what I do."

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to banish the image of the girl rendered in pastels from the cold. It doesn't work. "She was young. Twenty at most. Brown eyes, brown hair--I could draw her, easily enough."

"Maybe you can draw her in your sketchbook while I make the coffee," Malcolm suggested as they reached Philips Drive. "I might recognize her. ...Did anyone bury her?"

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