villagelogs | 065-071 » assign to oblivion / part iii

065-071 » assign to oblivion / part iii

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: Mathias Township proper
WHEN: Days 065-071
WHAT: The residents of Mathias reunite under unnerving conditions.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross "Outside"

DAY 065-071
ASSIGN TO OBLIVION
“No matter how much time passes, no matter what takes
place in the interim, there are some things we can never
assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away.”
— Haruki Murakami

Only two days have passed since the town was fractured, leaving residents cut off from those they'd come to know and even care for. A mere two days of wandering the new streets, uncovering more secrets that continue to make little sense of this strange place. Two days with sunrises, sunsets, and nights that seem like any other.

And yet.

When residents wake on this third day, they will find that much has changed. All around them, wherever they may be, there are signs that time has passed without them. Dust covers everything, indoors and out, even areas that were spotlessly clean seemingly hours ago. The residents themselves are covered as well, dust clinging to their hair, skin, and clothing—

Clothing that they may not have been wearing when they went to sleep. Each resident, regardless of the state they were in previously, is now clad in a pair of white pajamas, with long pants and button-up shirts. Those who thoroughly explored Baneberry Hall will easily recognize these articles as identical to those well-stocked in the decaying great house. On top of this, the clothes they wore from home have disappeared, along with anything else they may have brought with them when they arrived or items from home that have been found within the borders of Mathias.

There is no sign that anyone has entered their place of shelter, nor is there any sign of what may have been done with these items or how they came to be wearing these clothes. The dust all around them is undisturbed, almost as if they had been sleeping there for quite some time, though it seems impossible for such a thing to have occurred naturally.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the lawn of Town Hall, at the center of the little town square. They, too, are bereft of any items from home and clothed in the identical white pajamas. There are shops all around them, with houses just beyond, and at first glance, everything seems almost picturesque. Except for the silence that is at times so complete as to be maddening... Welcome to Mathias.

SUMMERTIME
— When summer arrives, so too does an outdoor stand in front of the General Store. Sporting a handpainted sign proclaiming Whateley Farm, the stand is overflowing with a variety of produce: berries, plums, carrots, cabbage, cucumbers, green beans, leeks, onions, peppers, potatoes, zucchini, tomatoes, and garlic bulbs. These do not replace the produce offerings normally found inside the market, but they do behave strangely. The stand replenishes sporadically, sometimes every other day or every five days. There is no discernible pattern to when it replenishes, nor is there any sign of how it came to be there at all.

— With the now-complete reverse change of season, much of the autumn debris has cleared from around town. Only a few stray leaves and fallen branches remain, their crisp colors at odds with the warm summer days. The forest has also cleared of much of the fall detritus, making it easier to both follow the paths and potentially spy things that might be out of the ordinary.

CONDITIONS UPDATE
— THE WEATHER Summer has arrived in Mathias, bringing with it warm days that average 70°F and comfortably cool nights. The skies are clear throughout the week save for Day 68 when a light rain falls from a grey sky throughout the day.

— THE FOG has maintained its new boundaries.
— 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 from the western section of town entirely.
— 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.

— DISAPPEARANCES AND DEATHS continue! Max Guevara and Liz Brundy have disappeared, and now that everyone is back together, residents will notice that Yennefer, Number Five, and Tony Stark have also vanished.

— ALCOHOL supplies have run dry, save for any dregs that have been squirreled away by individual residents. Moonshine can still be acquired by those in desperate need.

OOC NOTES
— 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. IC events are also helpful to know about in advance so they can be included in the log write-ups.

— MOD STATUS My non-RP life is busy and chaotic and I continue to ask for your forgiveness and understanding as game things continue to be slower, as I cannot promise timely mod responses beyond weekends and even that is not wholly guaranteed.

— ITEMS FROM HOME All items from home that characters would normally possess have vanished for this log and will return in the next. This includes clothing and possessions they had when they arrived in Mathias, items that were found in the rain, and items that were found in Baneberry Hall and removed from the property. Items from home that were left behind by other characters no longer in the game have also vanished. (All other items and clothing still remain, it is only items from characters' homes that have disappeared.)

— BANEBERRY ITEMS The items from home that were not removed from Baneberry Hall in the last log have vanished from the property. These items will not reappear in the next log. (Please be sure to comment in the appropriate spot on those logs about the state of your character's item for inventory purposes, ie whether they were removed from the property or left behind.)

— ACTIVITY CHECK Beginning with June's AC (posted at the start of July), all tags that consist of only dialogue will count as 0.5 points, not just those that occur in an inbox thread — this applies to both AC and AP totals. This adjustment is an extension of what has been in place since the start of the game: that all dialogue-only inbox tags counted for a half-point. Since such tags have occurred regularly in log threads as well, the half-point status is simply being extended to all tags regardless of location in order to be fairer in point distribution. (Examples will be provided in the AC post to assist with proper counting.)

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Doc barely had to make any effort, and Tim is already at least twice the gentleman Raylan has been. Just goes to show age is just a number. And Harlan, Kentucky is good for exactly nothing at all if it can't even raise a Southern boy to be proper and polite.

He makes a noncommittal noise about Raylan having been by. None of his business what they get up to. Doc being stretched a little thin, he's just glad Tim has someone else for company from time to time.

"Something's always brewing," Doc points out with a small sigh, unpacking dinner and opening boxes, putting the foil-wrapped garlic bread in front of Tim. He can have the whole stick. He should. Doc will just chip away at some stew.

Aaaaand bring that chilled 'shine over to sit between them, of course. They'll be needing that to wash it all down.

"Have a seat. Help yourself," Doc offers, nudging the stew over. "I've spent plenty of time worrying about Mathias and her schemes. Ain't nothing I can ever do when it comes time for her to unleash her horrors."

Probably safe to assume that the Army had a fair hand in polishing up Tim's manners.

The ice cold 'shine was set between them, along with the glasses, within easy reach! The younger marshal didn't move until Doc waved him to his seat, but once given permission he settled and reached towards the stew. His stomach added its opinion to the conversation feed me as the stew scent hit Tim's nostrils.

The sniper went the route of ignoring his grumbling stomach, though he did draw that garlic bread suspiciously close.

"Part of why I took to cleaning up the lighthouse and spending time there. Guess part of me is still new enough to all this that I think if I have a good field of vision, I might be able to spot trouble." The way he spoke, as he portioned out food for himself and then pressed it back towards Doc, hopefully made it clear that Tim had no genuine expectation of seeing trouble before it broke. It was just ingrained habit. Instinct to seek out what his training told him was the best position to be in should things go to hell.

Doc isn't sure if it's going to be all that reassuring having front row seats to an imminent disaster, but he understands that some of these routines might help quell the anxieties of the unpredictability that plagues this deceptively sleepy little town.

"Things tend to happen too fast for us to react to. Even if we were armed to the teeth." And Tim ought to know that better than most. Apparently he'd died already in Mathias at least the once. They haven't had this conversation, but news can travel fast around these parts.

He scoops some stew into his bowl, but it seems to be... just a slight disproportionate amount compared to how much moonshine he'll pour out.

"Mathias give you any trouble lately?"

Who didn't use their Bushmaster XM15 "V-Match" as a teddy bear?

Tim portioned himself out a bit of bread while he waited for Doc to get his stew. Then he reached for the container, giving the gunslinger first crack at the 'shine.

"No more or less than any other day," he responded. Portion doled out he set the stew container aside. "Fairly quiet, all things considered."

He eyed Henry for a minute before starting to break the garlic bread into bite sized pieces to dip in the stew. "If we're gonna do the small talk thing, gotta be honest with you. I've got Henry "Doc" Holiday sitting across from me, would like to talk marksmanship or the early days of the Marshal Service, rather than about the weather."

There might also be a part of him that didn't want to focus on Mathias and all the baggage, emotional and otherwise, that came with it.

As far as bears go Doc is much cuddlier. Even if he is not capable of the Care Bear Stare. (Give it time.)

"But the weather has been pretty decent lately, if a touch on the warm side," Doc carries on in typical deadpan humour as he pours out two glasses of 'shine and drags his closer towards himself.

"I do not know the Marshal Service as you know it. I only know Wyatt. Wa'n't that many hoops to jump through to get a badge, back in the day." Didn't need all the paperwork and the clearances and whatever else might be required these days.

"You can ask me anything you like. E'ryone wants to know sommin' 'bout Wyatt." Doc is used to answering a hundred questions about Wyatt Earp, if the way he leans back in his seat with an arm draped over the backrest of his seat and keeps his other hand busy nursing his moonshine is anything to go by.

After getting down a couple mouthfuls of stew and half of his first break of bread, Tim reached for his glass of 'shine and sat back with a toothy grin.

"I work with Wyatt," he said in a dry tone, obviously meaning Raylan. "You'll find my interest is in," he pointed with an index finger towards Doc, "you."

Wasn't going to be that easy Doc. No deflecting this conversation off onto a safer topic; like Wyatt Earp.

Doc scoffs almost dismissively at that. "He's nothing like Wyatt." And, conveniently, Doc is the last man alive who knows anything firsthand about Wyatt, so. He could have said anything and they would have had to take his word for it.

"Well I am flattered," he says with a small smile. It is a little odd, actually, his time here in Mathias. He doesn't mind being in the centre of attention one bit, but he's used to being someone else's +1, giving the pep talks and trying to be supportive from the sidelines. Now, sitting across from someone who's asking him questions directly about himself, he's not sure what to do with the limelight. Seems rude to hoard it.

"But you might find I'm leading a rather boring life these days. I fairly recently came into possession of a bar." Before coming to Mathias, of course. "Might be the first kind of honest work I've done since giving up dentistry - if it's honest for a hundred and sixty six year old undead outlaw to be forging the paperwork required to own a bar. The Frontier days are no longer. There has been no need for gunslingers."

"Think southeast Kentucky would prove that gunslingers are still much needed," Tim said with a wry turn of his mouth and a quick mouthful of 'shine before he tucked back into his meal.

"What manner of bar you put together, Doc?" The sniper asked, steel blue eyes focused on the older man's face as he ate with tidy, efficient bites. Somehow the food was disappearing at a rapid rate, yet it never seemed as if Tim were rudely shoving it in his face. Economy of movement thy name was Tim Gutterson.

"You could promise me thrills and riches and I would still not be going to Kentucky," Doc says with a rumble of a chuckle. Not even for the lucrative gunslinger career. Not even if Raylan asked him nicely and promised him... other things.

"It is just a local watering hole, in a small town up north not too different from here. The bar is called 'Shorty's'. I don't intend to change it much from how the previous owner had left it. Wouldn't be my first time running such an establishment, but people used to come in guns ablazin' 'nd all. I suspect I won't have as good of a reason to shoot my clients."

Doc's comments on Kentucky earned him a low chuckle from the younger man.

"Good thing Raylan's already working on his exit plan from Kentucky with all expediency. Hell, what he pulled off just before I arrived here, he's going to be able to write his ticket anywhere he wants to go."

The stew and bread was finished and Tim leaned back with his glass of moonshine, studying the older man.

"Shooting one's clientele is generally considered not good for the bottom line," not that it seemed to slow Boyd Crowder or any of the Crowe ... or the Bennett families down that much. "But I detect a hint of wistfulness for the days of yore," the observation was made directly but not unkindly. "Can't imagine you don't wrestle with a bit of 'fish outta water' syndrome?"

"They'll just keep coming anyway," Doc points out with a sigh. Even back in his day people were fairly transient. There has always been plenty more warm bodies to replace the cold and stiff ones, whether it is a bar or a bordello.

"I'm learning as I go," he admits. "Getting help with the telephone. Taught myself to drive. Trial and error with the microwave. Rosita, she-- an old friend. She is helping with the paperwork and the-... computer stuff required to run the bar. There are certainly things I don't miss about the Frontier. But there were fewer rules to live by. You make a living where you can, honest work if you can or wanna get it. Do right by your woman. And if some asshole decided he ain't gon' play nice you can settle all manner of problems at high noon. There wa'n't any of this other... stuff."

"'Other stuff'?"

Sorry Doc but you kinda walked right into that question. Tim was settled back in his chair, legs sprawled under the table and looking for all the world like he was sat for the duration.

"Complications." Which is not much of an elaboration, but it is fairly all encompassing. "People telling you how to live your life, what you can't do, how to be happy and whatnot." He doesn't know when people stopped knowing and started thinking too much but, well. Maybe he's the problem. Not thinking enough, or. Maybe he's just stupid. He's had more than a dozen decades to think about all manner of things but he's found that the more he thinks about anything, the more confused he gets and the more unsatisfactory the answers become.

"Ain't for me to say the world ain't right. I just-- sometimes I feel like a passenger on this railroad that just keeps goin' 'nd goin'. Don't think I'll ever understand it all or that I'll even want to. Like someone else looking in on my own life." One of them tourists or something, got off on the wrong station with no map and no stars to guide him, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

Sorry Doc but as those first words rolled out of the older man's mouth, the sniper's eyebrows lifted into a pointed expression. Had it not been but a couple of days ago that Doc had been in the Lighthouse telling Tim that 'settling' for the Given's Ride-Share App was no way to be happy?

Tim glanced down towards his glass and studied his moonshine before his thoughts could show on his face.

"I read a lot of fantasy novels back home," he began slowly swirling the moonshine in his glass. "Lot of em deal with immortal beings and the thing is, almost every single story touches on the idea that they are not happy.

I faced a lot of death in the wars, and I sat around with a lot of guys who were scared of the prospect. Of course being soldiers in the heart of toxic masculinity town they couldn't talk about fear so a lot of them twisted it around to the idea of being immortal. Untouchable out on the battlefield, blah blah blah."

As he spoke his other hand gestured gracefully with the words. The hand movements always seemed to be unconscious on Tim's part and perhaps a little out of place with the tough Marshal image he tried to project.

"We fear death because we are consciously aware of it, and I think that leads people to romanticize the idea of living forever. But when you stop and really think it through? I can not imagine a more lonesome and torturous an existence."

Sure, but Doc basically told Tim to love and respect himself, put his own needs first because no one else was gonna look out for him. He didn't tell Tim anything he didn't already know. And he certainly didn't tell Tim he needed three cars, six wives, a space-saving vacuum cleaner and a herd of purebred cattle, and whatever other complications the television tells people they need in order to be happy in between the latest episode of Property Brothers.

"I haven't lived long enough to hate the idea just yet," Doc admits. He may be older than some freshly toiled dirt but he'd only just gotten this new lease on life in this new world. He still has some years to go before he grows tired of being the last man standing.

"Besides. I can die. Just not from standing around doing nothing." He'd tried that already for over a century. Death didn't take.

"Life is. Long and hard and lonely. Even if you don't got a hundred years of it to live. No better or worse reason to drink."

The herd of purebred cattle could be a good thing?

"Don't recall using the word hate. Just suggesting the fine print on the immortality contract often gets overlooked until it's too late," he said the words in a neutral tone, figuring that Doc definitely had the hard experience with the subject. Tim just had books.

"Bet you have a grand inventory of drinking games in that handsome head of yours?" The compliment was Tim being a little shit, rather than any serious attempt to flirt. Doc had kind of started it back in the Lighthouse and the Ranger wasn't so kerflumoxed by it that he couldn't give as good as he got.

Call it selfish. Call it careless. Doc just wanted an end to the suffering. He didn't care about the fine print. And now that's come back to bite him in the ass.

"Oh, I've been told it's a fairly empty and hot head." And not hot in the sexy way. "But many of the old drinking games involve cards, or dice. Unless you count chugging your drink if you pick it up with your right hand. You were always someone else's bad mood away from an OK corral situation. Always a good idea to keep your shooting hand free." Doc taught himself to shoot just as well with both hands, so it don't matter much to him.

"You didn't strike me as the type who needed a drinking game to get going," Doc points out quietly. He's not trying to offend or insult or say anything. It was just an observation.

"Can be both those things and still be handsome," Tim pointed out mildly Doc hit him with those latter words and Tim glanced off to the side.

He briefly debated how to answer the gunslinger's 'observation' and decided to go with the truth.

"Helps with the bar bill," he explained. "I shark guys into paying for my drinks. It's either that or have to blow em in the bathroom, and some nights I just want to get drunk."

"If you're getting on your knees in the latrine I would say you are paying for your drinks." May not be in cash but it wasn't a free blowjob, either.

"I do hope Raylan isn't charging any latrine action for these, or I might be missing out," Doc jests as he lifts up a glass of moonshine before drinking it. Some might have called him opportunistic but the hangover is costly enough that Doc wouldn't charge for the drinks on top of.

"Oh, you are definitely missing out," Tim fired back with a cheeky grin and a wink. It was all play, Doc had set that one up to nicely for the young sniper not to take a swing at it.

He sat forward and pulled the moonshine bottle close enough to refill his glass, sitting back with a piece of the garlic bread.

"Which came first, the gambling or the gun?" The question was asked with respect and again, genuine curiosity. "I always figured the gambling, with the gun hand coming as a way to protect yourself and you winnings."

"Maybe I'll put a price on the next bottle then," Doc teases right back. He usually loses gay chicken at the very end but these days he might have managed, worryingly, to win one or two bouts.

"I 'on't know anybody who don't know how to shoot." It is something fathers teach their sons and occasionally daughters from a young age, and not just in Georgia. "I suppose in that respect the shooting had to have come first. But the gunslinging, well. I taught myself to shoot with my left hand after I got decent at gambling. One shouldn't be at a disadvantage whatever hand happens to be occupied, y'know." The only thing better than one Colt is two.

Tim's lips twitched. Since he knew that were he playing for real he'd absolutely win at gay chicken, he let Doc have the last word.

"How'd you do that?" Tim asked, settling back with his 'shine and a sincerely curious furrow between his eyebrows. "I've often thought about it, even gripped my pistol left just to see how it felt but it never set right in my palm. Wrist always feels too weak when I have it up against the beaver tail."

"I just tried doing everything else with my left hand. Otherwise it's always gon' be weak." Other than things like first aid and dental surgery, of course. That you probably don't want to be trying anything new with. "Write, brush your teeth, pour milk." Or moonshine. Doc isn't judging. "Eventually you'll be able to shoot with your right hand in your pocket."

It's not really an overnight transition, but the payoff has been plenty worth it. Kept him alive so far.

"If you go at it like you'd never fired a shot before, you'd be surprised how well you can do."

Tim nodded. What Doc said made simple common sense and the younger marshal flexed his left hand thoughtfully. He might just start doing those things (definitely 'shine instead of milk) and then see what he could get done with his slingshot. A way to pass the time until Mathias next tried to kill them.

"I am never going to be able to outdraw Raylan, he is wicked fast, but probably not the worst bit of job security to have a dual handed skill," he said.

Doc hasn't yet had that dick measuring contest with Raylan although, yes, it had come up a couple times previously. No doubt they'd want to know who'd come out on top when it comes to being the fastest draw in Mathias. But even if they got their hands on a gun he suspects it wouldn't be at the top of their priorities.

"As long as he's not shooting you, should be fine," Doc jokes with a shrug and another drink.

"That come up often? Y'all shooting each other?" He can't imagine it's encouraged in the Marshal service these days.

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