villagelogs | 037-040 » the reason for time

Entry tags:

037-040 » the reason for time

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central Mathias
WHEN: Day 037-040
WHAT: The dead return and the living wake to changes within Mathias Township.
WARNINGS: Some explicit sexual content in threads. (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Kammarheit "Sleep after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas"

DAY 037
THE DEAD RETURN
“The only reason for time is so that everything
doesn't happen at once.” —Albert Einstein
The dead return to Mathias forever changed by their experiences. Waking along the beach, near the tree line, or among the graves, they will find that their bodies are not as they remember them. They are whole again and not torn to shreds by the shadow creatures that cannot be described, but they are also not as they were before the Hunt. These residents will find, so strangely, that their bodies are in the physical state in which they first arrived in Mathias — any injuries or recovery they have made since their initial arrival no longer exists, as if their time in Mathias has simply been a horrible nightmare. Except they all now carry a last reminder of the Hunt with them: spiderweb-thin healed scars marking their injuries from the Hunt. Those who were injured by fire in the other realm also carry those burns with them.

The dead are not the only things that have returned to Mathias. Inexplicably, fall is back, with the temperature finally reaching above freezing and snow falling from trees to reveal beautiful autumnal colors. As the sun rises higher in the lightly cloudy sky and the day warms, the snow begins rapidly melting, puddles growing in the slowly revealed grass and little rivers forming in the streets. And with that snow comes the frozen blood from the deaths to the Hunt, tinting the street river on Phillips Drive a sickening shade of red.

Another oddity that residents will notice: houses with broken windows from the encounter with the fog on Day 015 have now been completely repaired, though any boards put in place are still there somehow. A small bit of good news, at least? And truly, how kind of Mathias to clean up its own mess.

Finally, alcohol is back. Enjoy in moderation, friends, for more will not be arriving the following morning.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's quite chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. Indeed, their timing is perfect, for alcohol has finally returned to Mathias Township — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

DAY 038-039
THE CHANGE OF SEASON
The continued warm weather proves that the unseasonable shift of the previous day was not merely a fluke. Once again, the sun rises and brings with it a temperature that feels almost spring-like, save for the fact that each day there seem to be more and more leaves on the trees in hues of red and orange. For those who have been in Mathias for some time, this new type of weird may be almost normal at this point, but newer arrivals will likely find it quite odd.

The gently trickling river running along Phillips Drive is still somewhat pink in color as the snow continues to melt and refreeze each night. By Day 040, the bloody snow will finally be gone completely, though the relief will be... short-lived.

DAY 040
THE BLINDING WHITE
In the late morning of Day 040, when the sun is visible through patchy greyish clouds, the fog sweeps into town like a like a tidal wave. It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. Rather than a soft blanket enveloping the town, it is a heavy weight pressing down, blotting out the sky in a way that almost feels suffocating, for none can see further than their outstretch hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in.

Unlike the last time the fog swept into the town, residents who encounter it are not immediately killed. Instead, they are simply disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

By nightfall, the fog still has not dissipated.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER conditions are fairly typical for late fall: chilly "sweater weather" days and nights that can dip just below freezing. You don't want to be outside without a coat, but it won't kill anyone if they bundle up. Probably.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the western section of town, beginning just past Hill Lane, before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be between Hill and Stine Road. Venturing into the fog blocking these areas is ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue. Castiel and Sam Winchester have vanished, and Dean Winchester has not returned with the others after his death during the Hunt.

— THE GRAVEYARD has now seen around a dozen burials, both below and above ground. With the weather warming, though, something may need to be done about the handful of temporary graves aboveground...

— ALCOHOL has returned to Mathias! A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull has also been restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. Alcohol does not replenish in the same way as food.

— THE GREY GULL has been cleaned up and stocked with moonshine. Along with the newly restocked usual offerings, the place almost seems like an actual bar again.

— THE GENERAL STORE is in a bit of a state following the brutal slaughter of two residents during the Hunt. Cleanup on aisle 3, anyone?

OOC NOTES

— FOOD is now being mysteriously restocked as per usual, including inside homes and at the General Store. Alcohol is not being restocked. Use those rationing skills, friends.

— REWARD REDEPEMPTION is back and will soon have a new option for anyone looking to spend big AP and learn a bit more of the lore of the town.

— MADNESSES due to the Hunt have been earned by Klaus Hargreeves, Ellie, and Malcolm Bright and may now be claimed. Players may also claim additional sanity loss from the aftermath of the Hunt; only losses from the Hunt itself have been deducted from totals thus far.

— SANITY REGAIN is now available! Players will submit a form with some details of the progress their character has made and the mod will review and decide on the numbers of points that will be regained.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's mostly just Amy steering this ship for now, so things will probably be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pinging me if you're stuck waiting for something.

navigation | faq | locations | report updates

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There was a note of relief that sagged some of the tension out of Raylan's shoulders, though the idea of anyone else being at home that wasn't their people was taken with an almost fearful glance at the house. His safe spot, invaded by people who didn't know him well, people he would have to put up a mask for..

Malcolm's touch distracted him, head recoiling a little at the touch and what his senses told him. Bumps or - Raylan's hands flew to his face, expression pinched again as he stumbled back a step, eyes snapping back over to Neal.

"No," he breathed in horror. "Neal, you-" he swallowed tightly, feeling his stomach roll and threaten to empty on his feet. "Didn'- Why didn't you run? Why did you come back?" The sudden spirit had him striding towards Neal, cold forgotten as he fisted up Neal's jacket with a ragged breath. "Why did you let me kill you again?"

He didn't hear himself, didn't catch what he'd said, what he'd admitted to but he was in no state of mind to care. All he could think about was how it felt, how it smelled, and the fact that it was his-

He had to get away. The bile burned at the back of his throat as he stepped back with a shake of his head, a wild glance between the New Yorkers only hinting at the flight brewing under his surface.

"No," he muttered, jaw tense, rejecting it all, everything waiting for him, everything that had happened, all the guilt and grief that was pulling at him and he shook his head again, turning to walk off in a random direction that was roughly towards the town. He didn't know where he was going but he couldn't stay here. He couldn't go home. Walking seemed the only solution. Movement. Survival.

When Raylan jolted out of his grasp, Malcolm flinched. It was a moment before he understood what happened.

He stepped over to Neal, hugging him tightly before looking at his face, taking it in both hands.

“I have to go after him,” Malcolm told him. “Go inside. Get Doc up. Tell him you’re both alive. I’ll get him back.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to Neal’s mouth.

“Go in the house,” he said again, with an encouraging nod, then turned and ran after Raylan, shorter legs having work to do to catch up with long strides.

“Raylan! Wait for me!”

Go into the house. Get Doc up. He nodded numbly, but Malcolm was already gone, after Raylan, and that was only right.

Neal forced himself forward, through the front doors. It looked the same. It looked the same as it had a day ago. He glanced toward the kitchen, saw the pot he'd made hot chocolate in sitting clean on the drying rack. Looked toward the living room and--

The fire held him up. His breath caught, then hitched, and he shut his eyes, resisting the urge to run back out the front door. He needed to get closer to the flames. He want to get as far away from them as possible. (Get Doc up.)

He took a step into the living room, his breathing going uneven for the hundredth time in the past two days. (Get Doc up.) The terror felt right, the terror felt earned, it scratched the same itch he'd felt when he tried to climb the rocks that morning to find the cave below the lighthouse. (Get Doc up.) He needed it. He needed it.

(Get Doc up.)

He couldn't turn away.

"D..." He gathered in a deep breath and yelled. "Doc! Doc! We're..."

His voice trailed off again. "We're back."

It's too early for Doc to be putting on a brave face. He isn't sure he's capable of it today. He isn't sure he is capable of anything today. His head is throbbing and breathing after a couple of coughs feels like swallowing razorblades. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be alone. He wants--

"...Caffrey?" He lifts his head from the pillow and starts to turn, eyes still closed with eyebrows furrowed deeply, lowering his head again to the pillow and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Had he cried last night?

But that surely was the sound of Neal's voice.

He almost trips over himself getting out of bed, ankles entangled in the sheets. There is no bravery in the face of the man who emerges from the bedroom, sporting a two day old stubble along his jawline and a bruise from his struggle with Malcolm earlier in the morning. He doesn't run, bare feet moving quietly in the carpet pile. It is only the sound of his even footsteps padding evenly down the stairs, not hesitating even as he climbs down the last one and turns, eyes locking with Neal's hovering close to the front door beneath that most ridiculous hanging bamboo light fixture.

For a brief moment there are no words. The emotions flash sharply. Relief. Anger. Confusion. Defeat. They threaten to cut through the brick wall stony façade and overwhelm him, like a crack of lightning and the skies going a telltale shade of green the way Raylan knows trouble is coming. One hand stays on the handrail behind him, the coolness of it seeping into his skin the only solid thing to tell him this might not be a dream.

He shouldn't be surprised, really. People came back last time. He had hoped, but just as he had hoped Wyatt would have forgiven him and come looking for him, like he had hoped Wynonna loved him a fraction of how much he loved her, he would not dare let himself believe.

He falls back into that terribly burdensome role of having to be the one to support other people going through their shit out of sheer habit. Having to be the one to get his hands dirty, to have the presence of mind and the absence of raw emotions so that he can be the rampart and stalwart guardian they need.

"...hey." Seems... futile to ask if he's okay. Doc swallows and averts his gaze. "Um. Morning. You-..." For a moment, Doc doesn't have the right thing to say. He isn't sure what to do. He can't trust himself to let go of the handrail. "I. Didn't prepare. A speech."

Neal's eyes fill with tears when he turns and sees Doc. The guilt, the guilt that somehow wasn't there when Malcolm came running outside, roars over him.

Peter, he almost says. He catches himself, startled, then clears his throat. "Hey," he whispers.

He can feel the tears falling. Figures he wouldn't be able to hold them back, not when he most wants to. "I'm sorry," Neal manages, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry."

Neal might not have been the first among them in this house but he is very much a part of it. When Doc feels steady enough on his feet he closes the short distance between them with long strides and briefly gives Neal one of those warm hugs before peeling away into a one-armed embrace, freeing up a hand to pat Neal on the shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

Gendered hugs don't exist and it probably shouldn't matter even if they did, how long he's allowed to hold someone, how much he's allowed to show about how terrible he's allowed to feel, but he gives Neal that little bit of space to crumble against him. How he's holding up is far more important, right now.

"What for?" Doc asks gently. "You went through hell and made it back." Surviving is nothing to apologise for.

He presses his face into Doc's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. We left you, he thinks. We left you to pick up your pieces alone.

After everything he'd said, after everything he'd tried to convince Doc of, they'd left him with something that Neal knows would have shattered him, if their positions were reversed. It was bad enough watching Negan and Raylan die. At least he woke up alongside them, more or less.

He shakes his head, face still pressed into cloth.

"We left you both," he says. "We left you in this fucking place, with-- You had to bury us, I couldn't have done it, I know I couldn't have done it."

It's not as if he doesn't appreciate the sentiment, even if in the end when he needed it the most he was left feeling like he had to be the one to keep his shit held together yet again.

Honestly? He's not sure he'd done it either. In some ways it was easier, not being able to recognise much of them left in the snow. Messier, yes, and there was enough of them left that the image of the strewn out remnants would forever haunt him. But what bothers him more is the fact that they had suffered. They had suffered and he could do next to nothing for them.

"You would have," he hears himself say, not really sure why or how that was meant to be reassuring. He rubs Neal's upper arm in soothing strokes. He can let it all out if he wishes. Encouraging him to suck it up and move on and keep a tight lid on it, feed the hubris was the worst kind of advice men like him and Raylan had reinforced within them and he's not about to pass it on. He can't be sure if Neal would feel better about the harsh realities of it but at least he's dealing.

"You're back now," Doc says quietly, trying to be reassuring even though he is still too tired to be convincing that everything would be okay. "Don't worry about all that. You're back."

Be all right. Be all right. (Bullshit, in other words, bullshit.)

There's nothing to be done about the tears on his face, but he draws back, forcing his voice to stay steady. He's had a lot of practice, faking being okay, but never with something like this. Neal hopes it's convincing, or at least convincing enough.

"Stop," he says quietly. He gives a tiny, watery little laugh. "You're doing it again. Just..."

He shakes his head. "Just let me handle me."

Talking helps, saying these things helps. It's like a kind of self-coaching almost. Be all right. He inhales slowly, gives a long sniff like somehow that will solve the problem of a nose starting to run. He doesn't have anything to wipe it with and even in his current state he's not about to get snot on a good suit. "Let me handle me."

He gives Doc another hug, this one less clinging. This one is for Doc. One hand around his waist, one hand pressed against the back of his neck, fingertips in his hair. "I'll be all right."

"Right," he says, an awkward half-smile ghosting across his features ducking his head. He's not very good at that. Letting people handle themselves. He had been better before, at waiting for people to approach him before he intervenes. Mathias has been chipping away at him, slowly turning him into this overprotective, screeching fuckoff hawk that just flaps and kicks at everything.

When the second proper hug comes, Doc lets himself hug back, both arms high across Neal's back, thumb brushing over his shoulder. It's almost as if Neal had found the off switch tucked away behind his neck.

"I don't think I will be," he whispers, an over-the-shoulder confession he can make when they're not making eye contact, voice a little muffled, swallowing the lump in his throat. He has no choice in any matter here. He would somehow handle them dying. He will make himself handle their food shortage situation. What he can't handle is this kind of stress, this kind of uncertainty, of not knowing whether he has lost anything, what he has lost, how he needs to proceed with what remains.

"Not for a little while." He knows that time is the one thing he has in abundance that no one else does, but if Neal has any understanding, any forgiveness, any time to spare. He should like to take it.

"That's okay," Neal says softly. He closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath. "If you need to take a pipe to a few walls, that's all right too. God knows I might."

God knows. Every little phrase like that hits differently after this, somehow. God seems better suited to being an expletive than anything else.

He presses his face against Doc's shoulder again. He knows he should tell him about what happened to them, on the other side. In that other place. He needs to tell both of them, Doc and Malcolm. They need the information, any information is good information, but reliving it again--

As though his mind won't replay the events of the past day for him again, again, again, until he feels like he's going crazy. Crazier. "We... When you're ready to hear it--things happened, on the other... other side. Wherever we were. We were somewhere, in another Mathias."

He finds himself slipping into a protective sort of almost-cradle, one arm around Neal's back, the other hand patting the back of his head gently. If there's going to be any pipe-swinging in the foreseeable future, it won't be on today's schedule. Today is reserved for a different kind of comfort and solace.

Is Doc the one not ready to hear it or is Neal the one not ready to talk about it? In either case they probably need a few more minutes and maybe to relocate to the couch. Maybe tea. Or some food. Not that there's much of anything left in the fridge. Leftover grits - probably not something that's part of the city folks' diet although Malcolm didn't complain, likely out of kindness or just sheer exhaustion from Mathias taking and taking and taking relentlessly from them.

"Do you wanna... I could bring you something warm to eat? You could sit by the fire, get warm." This 'other Mathias' talk didn't slip past him, but he's not sure he can make any sense of it without any more context. Of course, had he known about the fire in the other Mathias, he might not have suggested it.

Neal shudders at the mention of the fire. He glances toward it and finds himself arrested by the flames, feeling a mix of trapped and eager. His grip on Doc loosens fractionally.

"Yeah..." He says it softly, distracted. "I guess I haven't eaten since--"

Since his stomach got ripped out onto the snow. Another convulsive little shudder. He's still staring at the fire, the shudder turning into a steady tremor. His right hand twitches involuntarily against Doc's back, and Neal finally lets go with a tiny gasp, tearing his eyes from the fire and backing up enough to brace one hand on his knees. He clenches his right hand, trying to hide the little shake, but how much luck is he going to have when they all see it in Malcolm all the time?

He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. "I'm okay," he says firmly, even though it's obvious he's not. "I think something to drink would be good."

Okay, he hates to be crass, but this don't look like 'I'm okay' to him.

"Alright." He steps in a little closer to get Neal to straighten up, to move over to the kitchen. It's probably a bad idea to try and balance on a barstool he can't really slump in, so Doc opts to guide Neal to a more comfortable dining chair, getting him seated properly.

"Hey." He's crouching down next to Neal, a warm hand patting the top of his thigh a couple of times. "I won't be five minutes, alright?" He will stay in Neal's line of sight at all times, resisting the urge to check the New Yorker over his shoulder every time he has his back partially turned to him. He'll make some tea and reheat just a small bowl of grits, see if Neal can stomach anything before offering up seconds.

When he returns to the dining table he also brings with him a bottle of judgement-free get well moonshine. If Neal wants to pour some of it into his tea, the way Doc takes his coffee on too many mornings, there won't be any comments thrown his way about it. He usually knows what people need to hear, but there's nothing he can say or do in the background right now to fix any of this. There are no promises that can be made. No guarantees what tomorrow would bring. No light at the end of the tunnel. It takes some time, getting used to the dark. Time and patience with yourself that not everybody has.

"I don't know if-... if anything's going to get better. But you will get better at dealing with this."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject