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

It's like something out of a fairytale. Grimms', specifically. Neal stares at him, trying to wrap his head around it.

Solitary confinement for one hundred and thirty years.

"How are you sane?"

The jury's still out on that one, Neal. Doc gives as nonchalant of a shrug as he can manage. Yes, he is bitter, yes, he would have killed her had Wynonna not stopped him. But there is nothing that can be done about it now. The only way onward is forward.

"I thought about a few hundred different ways I would have liked to have killed her, named every brick I could feel in the dark and stopped keeping track of how many days I thought were passing. Might recommend that last one to you if we're going to be in this town much longer." You have to joke about it because otherwise it is not something even all the tears a body can muster up would be able to placate.

"I don't know about bricks, but concrete blocks make great conversationalists when you're bored enough. Of course, people look at you funny, but so it goes."

But he only had a four year sentence, and he wasn't alone in his little cement box. Isolated, maybe, but not alone.

"...How'd you get out?"

Edited 2021-01-16 04:15 (UTC)

"I would imagine they would be quite similar." Concrete blocks and bricks. Squares in the wall to rail at until you're hoarse and too tired to even be frustrated. It wasn't just a hole dug straight into the ground, the well had led to a spring and there were a few caverns, so he had something to entertain himself with for a little while, but even those great big echo chambers couldn't abate the pangs of loneliness.

"It ended up being an Earp, in the end. She had hidden Wyatt's Buntline Special in the well." Doc didn't feel the need to explain that that was a classic make and model of a revolver. Neal knows his history. "I had heard a commotion near the well opening when she had come climbing down looking for it one day. By the time I made it back there she was gone, but she had left the rope hanging." He climbed out and the rest is history, or so they say.

"I think our fates are intertwined, if you believe in that sort of thing." At this point he is more than just a family friend. But maybe he just has a thing for Earps and Marshals.

"And yourself? Any reason why you're making friends with concrete?"

"...I do. Believe in that kind of thing." He smiles at the table, the expression somewhere between wistful and sad. "I know I'd be a very different person if fate hadn't guided certain individuals into my life."

He questions fate all the time, but in the end, he still believes in it. It's only recently that he's started to think that he can guide it, too.

Neal almost dodges the question, but it's going to come out sooner or later. It always does. "I did some time. Got very well acquainted with a forty-eight square foot cell."

It takes him a beat to figure out what 'did some time' means.

"Would have preferred an extended stay in the grey bar motel, myself." At least there would have been food. Other unsavoury characters to be friendly with, if they weren't too busy trying to kill each other. Doc can be an affable, social man. Even if he only had the one taciturn guard to talk to he would have charmed their socks off. But, sensing that said motel stay might have bothered Neal more than Doc thinks it really should, he tries to offer some solace.

"We cannot dwell on the time we have already spent paying for our sins, Mister Caffrey. There is only what we have left to give. Redemption may not be in the cards but there is a life left to live after the penance is done. I have some idea of what I wish to do with it. I do hope you have given it some thought."

"I can't argue." In choosing between a prison cell and a well by himself, there's no contest.

Redemption may not be in the cards, Doc says, and Neal finds himself suddenly fascinated with the coffee mug. "It's all I've been thinking about lately."

Doc refills the coffee, giving something for Neal to hold onto while they chat. They have a whole pot to get through and plenty of time to kill.

"We could sit a while, if you wish to talk." There are tables and chairs around. They can sit and chat for a while, at least until it starts to get dark. He's a lot more used to having a lot more drinking and a whole lot less talking, himself, but. Different strokes for different folks, and there is no drinking to be done here.

"Ah, no, that's okay." Neal smiles, the expression an automatic defense. "I'm more interested at the moment on focusing on how to get out of here. ...What makes you think you need redemption? You're a hero of the Old West."

It's a redirect, one hundred percent, but there's genuine curiosity in it too.

He knows a deflection when he sees one. Still he would not press. Neal can tell him these things if he wants to in his own time.

"I am no such thing," he says with a small smile. He could have fought in the war, like his father, died before his time, before tuberculosis could have killed him. He would have been branded a Confederate then. Maybe he would have been a hero at that time but it means something different today. Or he could have sided with the Clantons, been labeled a villain instead. It all depends on whose narrative you listen to.

"Heroes and villains are killers all the same. I have done a great many things I do regret. I simply fell on the right side at the right time, had some nice people saying good things about me, change the story."

Neal snorts, quietly, ironically amused. "I suppose history is all about perspective."

He can't argue the point. He doubts very much that history will remember Neal Caffrey, but if it did, who would he be? Not a hero. A curiosity, maybe. That's what he shoots for.

"So tell me the story." He leans back in his chair, draping one arm over its back. "Tell me what you think of Doc Holliday."

Doc smiles, ducks his head and shrugs, gripping onto the edge of the counter he's perched against and sighs.

"He was just some asshole who liked shooting things. And would have shot a few more if he had the time." And it is not with humility, feigned or otherwise, that he says this. Merely that, while he is flattered to get all this positive attention, he does not think himself a hero. "I am only here today because of my cowardice. It was not the courageous or the lawful or the kind, hospitable folk who survived the West." It was the time and place for the cowards and the assholes to flourish. He suspects that that hasn't changed, even after all this time.

"Had I the choice I would not have chosen to be remembered for a thirty second shitshow. If anything, I want people to live their life doing what they want, meeting new people and seeing things they ain't never seen before like I did. Tuberculosis was a death sentence, and there were good and bad days aplenty, but it also set me free."

"Funny how that works. How what you think will take everything away can give you more than you could have asked for."

Neal knows the experience well himself. The anklet leashed him, kept him penned, holding him in place long enough to show that he wanted the stability of a real home. "...Do you really think you were a coward?"

It's maybe too personal a question, but Neal has pushed this far.

Doc just shrugs at that. From the sounds of it, Neal understands. It's not that tuberculosis was a blessing. He would have gladly lived without it, without the pain or the stigma, even if it would have turned out unremarkable had he devoted his newfound decades to dentistry. But he didn't sit around waiting to die. He self-medicated, picked himself up and kept going. He had learnt to live a fulfilling life in spite of it. Surely that is more important than just another gunfight in the so-called Wild West.

"I didn't want to die. I felt-" Doc's jaw tenses and he breathes out slow through his nose. He doesn't talk about his feelings. So it should come as no surprise that he doesn't actually know how to talk about them. "Wronged, I suppose. And in the end I took the easy way out."

They do say to never meet your heroes. And he does so hate to be the one to let Neal down, confessing to selfishness and cowardice. But he was a man in his thirties, too full of pride to have had any room for wisdom. He should have gotten his affairs in order and said his goodbyes, much as he hates goodbyes. Instead he was bitter, angry, in pain. Tired, and alone. Parted with Wyatt on poor terms, never to see him again.

"The truth is, I ain't never been outdrawn, by anyone, and I had nothing to lose. I didn't need courage. I could just be reckless and the story would write itself."

"That's not cowardice." Neal doesn't think so, anyway. It certainly doesn't make him think less of Doc. It just makes the man more human. Neal looks down, smiling. "And I can't exactly judge recklessness."

Well he would like to think that he isn't really that man anymore. Or that he's only retained what few good traits he used to have and managed to add a few more after the years have imbued him with some pearls of wisdom.

"That is kind of you to say, but in any case I don't think we can afford to be too reckless here." They aren't going to get out of this place by sitting around on their hands waiting to get rescued but taking on a few responsibilities would temper the inclination to charge into any endeavour blindly.

That sobers him. The thought of Rey, prone in the snow. The question of what happened to her, what would have to happen to him to end up the same way. He's not a survivalist. This isn't his realm.

"I'm not entirely sure what reckless is, in a situation like this. I wasn't exactly an outdoorsman growing up."

"Neither was I at the beginning. But you can learn." He doesn't need to go full boy scout in order to get through this place. Food, water, warmth and shelter are still provisioned for. The cowboys can take care of the rest.

"As long as you don't think to go wandering off somewhere dangerous on your own - where you have a choice to be going anywhere, anyway. You'll be fine."

"...I would say wandering off into danger isn't my specialty, but I would be lying. A little bit."

Only a little bit, though. Though Peter would argue point. Neal clears his throat. "It's not intentional, anyway."

Neal. Please. You'll make an old man worry like this.

"Sometimes this place brings the danger to you. You just need to stay on your toes." He could be more specific but he doesn't feel the need to be.

"And not be afraid to ask for help, should you need it." They would come running, these self-proclaimed cowards. Them and a few others, no doubt.

"That I'm used to. Staying on my toes. It's just usually in circumstances less..." Weird. Traumatizing. "Unique."

He leans back in his chair, still unsure what to do with all of these open offers of assistance. "You too. Not sure how much help I'll actually be, but."

Neal shrugs.

"Oh come now. Do not sell yourself short. We actually would have liked to have an artist around, to depict things we do not have cameras for." For though he has lived most of his life without something so portable and handy, he did find his phone useful for its camera before he arrived on the beach here and the water got into it. Not to mention Miss Siri did have her charm. Even though she hollered at him and recalculated a lot.

"Anyone who knows when to walk away from a poker table would fair much better here than those who do not. Any skill can be learnt. It only takes wit and some amount of openness and flexibility to survive."

"Well, in spite of what my friend Peter would assume, I am good at walking away from a poker table when the odds aren't in my favor."

And when he can't change those odds to be in his favor, but details. "What kinds of things have popped up that an artist would help with? I could try drawing from descriptions."

"Well when people go missing, it would be good to have a portrait of them." Hopefully not when they turn up dead. "But Raylan and Malcolm had wound up in the lighthouse at one point and was able to get a view of how far out this township extends from the top. It would have been good to have had a sketch then."

He is sure there are other reasons they would need someone with Neal's wide range of expertise. This is a place where jacks of all trades would thrive more so than a collection of specialists.

"I am not certain if the lighthouse is still accessible. But I am sure it would look quite splendid."

"...I should find out." It's something to try. Something to actually do, a project to take on. Better than sitting idle and losing his mind. "How do you get to the lighthouse from here?"

021-023 » the ghosts of fallen leaves

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when u write a tag and then lose the tab forever

nooooo :<

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sneaks in a tag b4 bed

to bed!

tie this one off?