villagelogs | 059-061 » the place where you stop the story

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059-061 » the place where you stop the story

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central/Southern Mathias
WHEN: Day 059-061
WHAT: Time returns to "normal" and Mathias grants a reprieve.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here! The next log will be posted the weekend of ~~May 15th~~ May 22nd.

RECOMMENDED ♫ Nathan Johnson "Foul Play"

DAY 059-061
A BRIEF REPRIEVE
“There is no real ending. It’s just
the place where you stop the story.”
— Frank Herbert
Residents awake to a peaceful morning with the sun shining and earth remaining still. There is no unsettling shaking to rouse them at dawn, and time has continued moving onward as they slept. Whatever state they were in the night before, they remain that way now, for good or for bad.

On the surface, there seems to be little lasting effect on the tiny town from that strange series of days, save for the memories of any traumatic experiences residents may have faced — but there are always consequences within Mathias. The perpetrators of acts against the town are tormented by nightmares of those acts being used against them, and those who did not raise a hand to stop those acts of destruction may yet face consequences of their own. For now, however, the unwilling townspeople should do their best to rest and recover from the disturbing ordeals of late, for this reprieve from the madness shall surely be shortlived.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's a bit chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. They may even find some alcohol within — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE HISTORY MUSEUM has not fared well with the return of "normal" time. The once esteemed wooden building is now a charred ruin, the recent fire leaving behind little of the contents within for study. The structure is unstable and it is not wise to venture into the ruins for long.

— THE WEATHER conditions remain fairly typical for early fall: warm days and cool nights. It feels almost like spring arriving except that there fewer red and orange leaves on the ground and more of them oddly returning to the trees and slowly fading to green. It's like watching one of those nature documentaries that have a timelapse of the seasons, only it's going in reverse.

— THE FOG has retreated from some areas!
— Residents may now wander the southern stretch of the forest surrounding Mathias Township — it is possible to leave the paths but potentially unwise to do so.
— The fog has also retreated farther into the western section of town, now stretching across town between Stine Road and Shelley Drive. This has revealed the Chasm in the earth that stretches from one side of town to the other between Stine and Hill Lane.
— Access to the northern section of the forest is still blocked beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline; this section of fog will urge residents to stay huddled within the town proper by inducing a physical reaction of panic and fear.

— DEATHS & DISAPPEARANCES continue! Max Guevara has vanished into the fog. Claire Novak's body can be spotted on Day 059 facedown at the bottom of the Chasm between Hill and Stine, near Phillips Drive; by the morning of Day 060, her body will be gone. (Attempts may be made to reach her body but will likely not end well for those involved. Such attempts should be reported under Exploration.)

— ALCOHOL is still in Mathias! Just barely. (Supply is running very low after recent town events.) 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 was also restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. (Alcohol does not replenish as food does.)

OOC NOTES

— PROJECT HELP Your mod needs help with some projects!

— FUTURE PLANNING If you haven't, please answer the questions here for future log planning. I will almost definitely need some of these answers for the log going up the weekend of May 15, so act quickly! Late submissions will not be considered for that log.

— UPDATES Don't forget to report updates as they come up! Changes to locations (like toppling a few bookshelves in the library), big plots you have coming up that will affect the game (parties, major property destruction, etc), or exciting discoveries that may tie into the game's mythology (even the things provided by the mod) are very helpful to have in one place so relevant page updates can be made.

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

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"Not you." She's perfectly capable of speaking. They just aren't sharing the same language.

"Men." He points at himself. "Stupid." There's no gesture for that. "Not you," he reiterates. If he would learn sign for Liz why would he not learn another language for someone else? Ain't as if they're going to be allowed to leave this town anytime soon. Plenty of opportunities to learn have been presenting themselves.

"Fire?" Oh now he would be a stupid man to give it to her if she's going to drop that on the roof like she did the cigarette - or worse, break the plastic casing and hurt herself whilst getting flammable liquid all over her hand. He does at least pull the lighter out and step in a little closer to show her how to roll her thumb over the wheel to get the fire igniting before he twirls the lighter between his fingers like he would a knife handle or a poker chip, holding the plastic side out to her.

"Be careful now," he cautions as she takes it from him before he goes back to finishing his cigarette.

Careful is not exactly in her vocabulary, Doc; sorry. She takes the lighter readily, trying the thumb-roll a few times before finally getting it right and igniting a little flame of her own. Fire is the cause of the single worst moment of her life, and by rights, it should be something she fears and hates - and it had been, for a time, when she was younger. But times have changed, and she's developed a sick fascination with it. Someone inclined to be sympathetic might call it a coping mechanism. Someone inclined not to be might call it a dangerous obsession.

"Callisto," she says, eyes still on the fire as she angles the lighter slightly inwards to indicate herself. "You are?"

"Oh." The only thing he'd caught from what she'd said earlier was 'tartare sauce' so... there probably was a 'Callisto' in there somewhere.

"Doc." Usually he first introduces himself as 'Henry' before people transition to 'Doc' (sometimes 'Hank', sometimes 'Asshole') but he has too many names and it would be confusing.

"Doctor. Unh..." He unbuttons his waistcoat and the top two buttons of his shirt before tugging his shirt lower down his shoulder to reveal some scarring over his most recent gunshot wound a couple inches below his collarbone. He tries to mimic a sewing gesture and pats his palm over the wound a few times before tugging his shirt back over it.

"I. Doctor." He points at her. "If you, get hurt." He taps his finger at his shirt where his wound was. "Come find me." He beckons at her and then points at himself again. "Okay?"

"Like John Carter," she says, extinguishing the lighter for the moment so that she can lean in and get a better look at that injury of his.

"Death?"

She's very curious about whether he died in the process of getting that scar, and very curious about whether or not he can cure death, so regardless of how he takes that question, she's sure to be interested in the answer. She's gotten some miscommunication-induced conflicted responses on the latter subject in particular.

"John Carter, yes." He is much more of a doctor than Doc. Better trained, modern techniques, all the rest of it. He's glad Callisto has already met the good doctor. Hopefully she will go to him first, although Doc would enlist his help if it's anything serious, of course.

"No death." He has killed, sure. And he will kill again. He is more gunslinger than doctor, these days. But he's got a few more guns and knives scars, and he's survived all those attempts on his life. Not that he's willing to start stripping on the roof. Not even if she threw all the monopoly money at him to go for another six rounds of CandyLand.

"Doc, death, before." He curls up a little into himself and feigns coughing a few times. "Sick. Disease." That one he managed to cheat, too.

"Here in Mathias?" she wonders, squinting closer at that gunshot wound. What could have caused that? Not an arrow or a blade, she's pretty sure.

"What is it? This?" she asks, gesturing to it.

"No. Before." She's showing an unusual amount of interest in the wound itself rather than what he's used to, when bedmates ask how he got the scar or just want him to tell them a story about the Old West.

"Gun." He doesn't gesture with a fingergun but he does cock an invisible hammer on his invisible revolver and pull an invisible trigger. "Bang." He even fakes a recoil when he pulls said trigger. Gesturing something small between his thumb and pointer finger, he makes a small whistling sound as he brings his finger in from his outstretched hand straight towards his wound.

"Callisto. No gun?" he asks her. A world without guns. That would be sommin'. Maybe she's from somewhere like Yennefer's world. That's why she speaks a different language.

"No gun," she agrees, but she's at least familiar with the concept of projectile weapons. Pulling out the little paper she's been scribbling on, she finds a blank corner and draws him a crude picture of a bow and arrow.

"This. And sword, knife."

Her personal favorites.

"Here, you have a gun?"

Doc has to squint and lean back a little - the lack of ambient lighting doesn't help - before he makes the pitchfork out as a bow and arrow and-- right. Sword, and knife.

"No. Mathias, steal." He will, if she lets him, gently pluck the pen out of her grasp and draw a revolver for her, the likeness of which bears a strong resemblance to his Colt Lightning.

"Gun." He offers the pen back to her. "More war. More death. More money."

"I know death," she informs him. It's been a very useful word for her to know. "What is war, money--?"

She pushes the pen back towards him, assuming that it's something he can draw, if not act out.

A woman who knows death but not war or money is, in many ways, holding onto a kind of innocence that he is reluctant to tarnish. He ran a bordello, he knows what things people are capable of when they believe money can absolve all cruelty. But, no doubt, it is likely a matter of translation. And to not share with her the language for these things is to silence her own experiences of loss, of exploitations, of suffering.

So he draws, although he is no artist, two small figures - not stick figures, at least, but vaguely anatomically proportionate with long sleeves and long pants - crossing swords. In the background he adds a flag and some arrows sticking out of a dirt mound, to try and depict a scene bigger than just Swordfight or Conflict.

"War." And as for money, well, he doesn't have any, and he's not sure drawing gold bars or stacks of coins will help, but. He does have a poker chip which he produces from his pocket. He flips the chip over the backs of his fingers before pretending to toss it into the air and making it disappear. He then plucks the poker chip from behind her ear and holds it out to her again. Hopefully she finds it delightful and doesn't want to slice his arm off.

"...money. Sort of."

Oh, that. She nods in recognition of both terms, stealing her pen back so she can add a little laurel wreath crown to one of the sword-fighters - not that kings usually directly fight in their own wars, but she can appreciate the symbolism. It's the magic trick, more than anything, that earns him some confusion; she actually reaches out to touch the back of her own head, even though there's obviously nothing else back there. This man must be a minor trickster, at the very least.

"I'll bet you stole that," she says in Greek, gesturing to the poker chip. "Everybody steals everything here." It's a concept she can get behind, even though it's a little weird to see everyone else just joining in.

"You are a fighter in a war here, or-- not here?" she asks, switching to her rudimentary English. Here or at home, she means, but she doesn't have the word for home yet.

Her reaction to his simple coin trick gets a small laugh out of him. Clearly no one's shown her that trick when she was younger. He's got a few card ones, too, but maybe he'll save that for next time when they're not shooting the shit playing pictionary on the roof.

"Gun fighter, yes. War, no." He's actually fairly mediocre at hand-to-hand in close quarters. Never needed to grapple really beyond wrangling a horse maybe. And most of the time his hunting knife, when he did have it, wasn't used on other people. But he doesn't shy away from needing to do the occasional shanking. Having never been outdrawn in a gunfight he simply would rather prefer to take it outside at high noon.

He only needs to take one look at her to know she'd hand his ass to him and he doesn't want to give her any ideas. It was enough of a struggle getting up here as it is.

"Are you cold, ma'am?" He points at her and then hunches and makes himself a little smaller, crossing his arms and rubbing his upper arm. "Did you want to join us downstairs?" He points straight down. Honestly, the only times he's been on a roof, he's either patching a hole in it, lying with someone watching the stars, or he's had three bottles of whiskey and he's got his limp dick out between the zipper teeth and he's pissing off the edge. This is... casual chatting on a roof is a little unorthodox.

"No," she says, meaning it as an answer to both questions. Truth be told, she is a little chilly, as the goosebumps on her bare arms will attest, but it's not nearly uncomfortable enough to drive her to do anything about it. She has an blanket back at her camp, and when she gets too cold or too tired - whichever comes first - she'll retreat back there.

"This is--" she points downwards just as he hand, then waves a hand dismissively. This gathering, this party, is very much not her thing, and she has no interest in taking part. And yet here she is, hanging out and listening in anyway, just like she had with her own soldiers.

"You are here, why?" She pats the roof, making it clear she's asking why he's up here - not here at the gathering, or here in Mathias.

"'tis a gathering, amongst friends. To which you are more than welcome. There is food, and drink." He speaks slowly, but there's nothing he can do to iron out his drawl to something more neutral, perhaps more easily understood.

For a moment he thinks she's asking why he's at the party, to which he would have proclaimed to being a friend, but she clarifies that soon enough and he just breaks a small smile at her.

"I'm here for you." She looks like some kind of formidable warrior and he's fairly certain she would do just fine alone. "If you don't mind my saying ma'am, you are the picture of loneliness." He had seen her hovering outside the window, as though she needed permission to join them, to have fun. She didn't need permission for anything.

"Don't suppose you know what that is? 'Lonely'?" He takes the pen from her and circles the fighter with the wreath. Then he crosses out all the other soldiers. It is a difficult concept to describe. Maybe it looks like he's saying King or Victor or, well. Something other than being alone.

Edited (Trying to phone tag and failing miserably) 2021-05-23 07:02 (UTC)

This is one of those times that critical thinking helps - because yes, he could mean any number of things with that drawing. But given the context, one option seems more likely than the others, and so she makes a guess: he's saying he came up here because he saw that she was alone.

"I eat food and drink," she says, with a languid shrug. "Here, before." Not exactly here, but outside, at least. "And I like lonely."

It's not quite what she means to say, but it's close enough.

He nods a couple of times. "I used to like lonely," he says quietly. Arguably he still does. He needs lonely sometimes. He doesn't know how to exist not lonely. Despite his namesake, he doesn't know how to sit down, stay still, relax and take things easy. This town and their time away from home ain't ever felt like a holiday, after all.

"We fought real hard for this, ma'am. We made a full house from a real shitty hand. There's always gon' be room for a Queen of Clubs in my hand, however lonely you wanna feel." He knows she doesn't understand what he's saying. It's easier for the words to come gushing out like an open wound precisely because she doesn't understand him.

Dropping his head, Doc pointedly keeps his gaze on her, on her footwear, on the treeline, anything other than the edge of the roof. He's actually scared of looking over down past the gutter and he's not sure how he's going to get back down.

"How's about we could be lonely together, down there?" He points straight down again.

"Why?" she challenges, though she doesn't seem fully against the idea. She might not have any interest in properly joining the party, but she does plan to keep circling it like a vulture, watching the people the way she'd watched her soldiers, and she has been up here for a while. She pulls herself up, confident and sure-footed even on the slanted roof, and looks down at Doc - taking in his darting eyes, and remembering how clumsily he'd been in climbing up.

A slow smile spreads across her face.

"Scared?"

"Pffuh. No." Doc snorts and recoils, sniffles and slides his thumbs into his belt loops. Don't undermine his masculinity like this, Callisto. Real men aren't afraid of tumbling off the edge of anything. ~~Or tight, confined, dark spaces.~~

"It's impolite to leave a lady high and dry on her own," he points out. Not that he thinks of himself a paddle 100% Made in Shit Creek or any sort of amicable companion - especially for someone who doesn't understand him. But he's not leaving until she's safely off the roof.

"I'm worried. About you. Worry." That is impossible for him to draw so he taps on his temple and then presses his fist a few times to his chest, breathing out an exaggerated long sigh.

"Worried about me because of lonely, or because--"

She mimes a fall off of the roof by tipping one finger off the back of the opposite hand, twirling it as it goes down.

"Because of lonely." She looks quite steady on her feet and honestly if he's worried about anyone doing the finger twirl, it would be Callisto losing her patience with him and punting him off the roof.

He doubts she would find it to be too sad a thing, tumbling off the roof or dying in some... gruesome sword and arrow battle? And have nobody mourn for her. Maybe the cowboy is a little melodramatic, to find the mere thought of that to be a little pitiful. It's just that, coming right up against her walls, even though he didn't climb up here with any intent to scale them, he finds them to be awful familiar. They built their walls out of different quarries, cut the stones they had painstakingly laid one by one using different techniques, but. They are the same pitiful walls.

"Come down? Just for tonight. Please?" Tomorrow if she wants to be the same cold-hearted bastard that these full houses have two or three of, she is free to do so.

Callisto picks her way across the roof so that she can loom over him, staring at him with hard eyes and a cold expression - the best way she can think of to express how little she cares about his concern or his worry or anything else he might be feeling.

"Down," she says, after long pause. "Not in. I don't want--"

She gestures downwards again, meaning to encompass it all: the drink, the merrymaking, the singing she can hear coming from inside the house.

"You understand?"

Doc is fairly steady under pressure so he doesn't wilt from being stared down. Not on the outside, anyway. Nevertheless, he can't quite stop that half-sigh from being breathed out once she agrees to dismounting from the roof.

"Yes. Deal." And it's only after she gracefully pops down from the roof that he starts worrying about his descent, because he can't do whatever she just did. He has to sort of reverse his way from the edge of the lowest point of the roof, wincing at every creaking sound it makes and praying he won't simply fall through. One leg dangles down visible from the window and anyone inside the house happening to bear witness, and then the other, and then his crotch comes into view, and then his torso. Finally once he's lowered himself as far as he can go, he just lets go and somehow manages to land on his feet.

"Jesus Christ," he curses, rubbing his hands on his jeans and adjusting his hat. He ain't in the running for no Santa Claus.

Callisto watches without offering to help, grinning in amusement at how difficult this is for him; as it turns out, watching him go down is even funnier than watching him go up.

"Good," she says, with a hint of playful sarcasm - and then she promptly handsprings off the roof proper and onto the porch roof, and back flips off the porch roof onto the lawn, where she lands smoothly on her feet. Ridiculous, unnecessary acrobatics are pretty normal for her, but she's also definitely showing off a bit.

Look here, young whippersnapper, when you get to 166 years old, it's a struggle to even get out of bed some days. She's lucky he can even make the climb up and the drop down. Even at a quarter his age she wouldn't be Cirque du Soleiling anywhere either.

"You're gon' be running circles around us," Doc laments with a sigh. Please, dear God, spare him from having to herd another little critter in this godforsaken town.

"Down, not in," he reiterates the terms of their deal. "I shall leave you to it out here then. Ma'am." He tips his hat again, the same gesture he had flashed to her when he first clambered up onto the roof. She'll figure out soon enough that it's some kind of cultural greeting, although there might be no consistency there since Raylan is wearing a very similar hat but doesn't bother much with the gesture.

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myfavoritemurder - 2021-05-25 17:42 (UTC) - Expand

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