villagelogs | 072-078 » pages of possible futures

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072-078 » pages of possible futures

WHO: Everyone
WHERE: Mathias Township proper
WHEN: Days 072-078
WHAT: The future is set in motion once more.
WARNINGS: (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here! Next log will be the weekend of July 31.
MOD NOTE: The week did not go as planned. Apologies for the delay on this log and thank you for your patience!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Marco Beltrami "Bad Omens"

DAY 072
“The visions are fragmented and a dark cloud spreads
like spilt ink across the pages of possible futures.”
— Garth Nix
Blue skies greet residents on this bright new morning filled with summer sunshine. It's a day when birds would normally be singing, when there would be boats taken out on the water, children laughing and running through the streets. But in Mathias there is only silence, eerie and almost deafening in its absoluteness, and those blue skies do not stretch on forever. Far off on the horizon are dark clouds stretching ominously in all directions, never moving closer or farther away. They are always there, dark and angry, as if waiting... For what, who can say, but they will remain there for the days going forward, circling the town like a shark circles a meal.

Despite that dreadful darkness in the distance, there is some good news. Residents will also wake to find that their previously missing belongings have returned to them. Clothing and other personal effects are right where they should have been, as if they have always been there, and there is no sign of them having been returned by someone or something. They're just there.

That is, however, the extent of the good news. Residents who visit the Town Hall will find the bulletin board much changed, and those who have thrown caution to the wind and made use the sedatives found within Baneberry Hall will begin to find themselves changing as well. They are easily distracted while awake and plagued by nightmares while asleep. They dream of Mathias burning, fire spreading from the east until it consumes everything in its path. With increasing intensity as the week continues, they will wake with terror gripping their chests and sweat covering their too-hot skin.

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. 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.

DAY 073-075
With those dark clouds still hanging on the horizon, some residents may find themselves watching the ocean a little more closely, searching for signs of whatever it is they are beginning to sense is approaching. If they do, they will find those signs, for every so often a dark shape will appear from out of the water before disappearing a few moments later. Residents are welcome to try getting a better look at those shapes, though moving to higher vantage points will be ineffective and swimming may not be the best investigation method.

Nightfall strengthens the sense of that elusive something. Though nothing can be seen in the darkness, there is something out there. They can feel it when they are outside themselves, a heavy presence that their animal instincts warn them against, urging them to flee to safety indoors. But once inside, they can hear whatever is out there in the night, the sounds horrifying and yet utterly indescribable and beyond the limits of their perception.

There is no way to glimpse what might be making those sounds, nor is there any way to properly record them, though attempts may be made to do so.

DAY 076-077
The strange occurrences of recent days continue as something attempts to lead residents out into the southern forest should they venture within view of the treeline. Unrecognizable voices may call out incoherently or the sounds of someone moving through the trees may pull at their attention. Or, perhaps, a dark figure entering the forest will catch their eye, pulling them to follow the possibly feminine figure with no discernible characteristics.

Whatever it is, it will lead them along the paths or even away from their relative safety, winding this way and that until they're completely lost within the expanse of sun-dappled trees that seem innocent and threatening at the same time. There is nothing left to do but continue following that figure that is always just ahead at the edge of sight.

Eventually, the trees stop and there is a stretch of clearing, the sky a crisp blue overhead, sun shining down and yet—

That dark figure is still shrouded in shadow, as are the other four that have joined it. All slight with long hair, something feminine in the way they stand with hands held out at their sides, facing outward in a line along the edge of the ravine that borders the township, though for some reason their features cannot be focused on enough for true comprehension. They stand there in silence as if waiting, so close to the edge that a strong wind could easily knock them over into oblivion. A concerned resident might try to stop them; a curious one might try to finally get a better look at the figures that led them to this place. Regardless of the reason, any movement into the clearing toward them will end in the same result.

All five figures step forward as one and disappear into the nothingness below.

The ravine so deep that the bottom cannot be seen and wide enough that the other side is tantalizingly out of reach. At first, there is the sense that safety is just beyond if only they could get there, but with that sensation is also the knowledge that if they stay here, death will be a certainty. The edge seems unsteady, like getting too close would set it crumbling and send them tumbling into that as well...

That is when those who do venture to the edge see the truth of the ravine and what lies beyond it: nothing. There is a neverending dark nothingness below and beyond this ravine, beyond this town, and there is something staring back from within the dark.

DAY 078
As morning arrives in Mathias, so too does the storm. Those clouds that hovered in the distance move in quickly, plunging the town into a twilight-like darkness. The rumbling that breaks the silence is like that of a thunderstorm but infinitely more ominous, signaling something approaching that is not meant for the world of man. Within just a few minutes, the residents will learn why as lightning arcs across the sky, the cracks of powerful energy echoing through the air. Those branching spikes at first remain in the sky, but then suddenly they crash down to meet the earth, striking the Lighthouse. The sound of splintering wood and pierced metal fills the air, followed moments later by the roaring crackle of a fire raging into existence. Those cracks and crashes continue as the lightning moves inward, hitting the forest, the beach, and the Grey Gull before moving down Phillips Drive to attack the homes left rotting by time.

While the lightning eventually retreats to the sky, the fire spreads with purpose. It leaps from building to building, consuming everything in its path. It is a living, breathing thing driven by a need to devour. There is no stopping or controlling the almost sentient entity, for it does not behave as fire normally would — it skips buildings before doubling back, burns when there's nothing to fuel it, and seems to almost actively pursue residents fleeing to safety. Ultimately, the fire consumes everything east of the Library, from Jackson Boulevard to the beach and the northeastern forest to the Lighthouse; for an unknown reason, it does not venture farther inland than this.

Ash falls from the sky like snow throughout the town as the eastern half of Mathias glows a terrifying raging red. Residents may seek sanctuary in businesses along the square or in areas in the western half of the town, though the latter will not be without its own risks and consequences.

SANITY LOSS

There are multiple opportunities for sanity loss within this log. All instances of such should be reported before the next log.
— BANEBERRY SEDATIVES These will effect all who have taken them, regardless of type, quantity, or frequency, until the storm on day 78. Each night of nightmares will result in 1 point of sanity loss for a potential total loss of 6 points.

— FIGURES IN THE FOREST All who witness the figures jump into ravine will suffer 3 points of sanity loss.

— SEEING BEYOND THE RAVINE Any who see the truth of what is beyond the ravine will suffer 7 points of sanity loss that cannot be recovered. Additionally, any Madness that results from this sanity loss begins immediately.

— DEATH BY FIRE All who are killed by the fire lose 3 sanity points and gain the Madness pyrophobia for seven days, which should be reported. The pyrophobia will be experienced at an intensive level for the duration of the Madness.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER Summer has arrived in Mathias, bringing with it warm days that average 70°F and comfortably cool nights.

— THE FOG has maintained its recent 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 have ceased for the moment but they're sure to begin again soon.

OOC NOTES

— ENDGAME We are officially heading into endgame. Over the next few months, things will begin ramping up and moving toward the always planned conclusion, with the last log projected to go up between the end of October and middle of December.

What does this mean? Essentially, hopefully, this will mean more opportunities to dig into the mysteries and lore of the game, as well as more chances for your characters to creep toward insanity. However, how things progress and what information comes to light will depend upon character interaction with the setting and involvement with the mysteries of Mathias.

— ITEMS FROM HOME All items from home have returned to the exact state and location in which they were last seen. This includes all clothing and possessions they had on their person when they arrived in Mathias (or, for arrivals in the previous log, what they should have had). Items from home that were left behind by other characters no longer in the game have also returned.

— THE FIRE A rough representation of where the fire spreads is available over here.

— REMINDER There are a lot of moving parts to this log, as there will be for all logs going forward. Read the narrative and all OOC notes thoroughly and carefully. Ask questions if something is not clear, but please also look through questions others have asked for further clarification.

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Gathered into Raylan’s arms, he watched Neal with wide, frightened eyes around the Marshal’s shoulder.

“I killed my best friend,” he whispered urgently. “I could kill every one of you. Every one of you. You have to lock me up somewhere,” he sobbed.

Oil paints? He doesn’t question the oddness of Doc asking him about them now of all times, just drifts in his thoughts for a moment before he starts talking, voice tired and a little distracted.

“Depends,” he says, and starts to ramble absently about the different types of oils, their drying times, the original production of colors versus modern synthetics. Eventually he trails off, exhaustion and pain quieting him.

“I don’t want to die again,” he says, or thinks he says.

"You won't," Doc promises, with the surety of a man who has reassured several old friends while he holds their warm soon-to-be corpses. "I won't let you."

Another gob of blood oozes freshly out of the open wound and Doc hurriedly cleans it away before resuming as neat and small of a stitchwork as he can manage. At least the wound is mostly clean, and he doesn't have to try and pull any shards or shrapnel. He's fairly certain it's hurting a lot more than Neal is letting on, and he's lost a lot of blood that Doc himself won't know if he'll pull through. Where are the damned magicians when you need them?

The cowboy likely wasn't listening to any of the oil paint explanation but they can have that lecture again, another time, when there's no need for Doc or anyone else to get their hands bloody.

Doc tapes gauze over the stitches to keep the dirt out. There's not enough bandages to wrap them both - bandages keep flying out of the first aid kit - but they can boil some sheets later and rip them up, once Malcolm is stitched up also.

He grunts at Raylan, offering to swap New Yorkers - as soon as he changes the water out and fetches another first aid kit. It should go without saying that they still need to keep an eye on Neal - make sure he's breathing at least even if he's not completely lucid.

Good thing you're here, he doesn't bother saying to the Marshal. Wouldn't want to exacerbate last night's confusion with any more sentimentality.

"You didn't kill anyone, Doc's right here, he's gonna make sure Neal is okay, okay?" It was a lot to put on the gunslinger's shoulders, but they didn't call him 'Doc' for nothing and he sure as hell had more experience in field dressing wounds than any of the rest of them.

"We're not locking you up anywhere, darlin', the lighthouse is already taken and you're safer with us." Raylan looked over again and nodded at Doc at the grunt. "Let him look at your hand, you're bleedin' bad."

Handing off Malcolm with another hand across Doc's shoulder as he offloaded precious cargo, Raylan moved over to kneel next to Neal (badumtish?), one hand hovering uncertainly over his stomach.

"I don't want us to move you yet, but I'm going to go get you a pillow and blanket from the couch, okay? You're gonna be okay. I can get some of the sedatives too, let you go under - that somethin' you want?"

The shake in Malcolm’s hand won’t make Doc’s job easy and he still doesn’t really understand that he’s also bleeding.

“Raylan…” he whispers urgently as Raylan puts him in Doc’s hands. He doesn’t understand, Malcolm thinks, about how he’s a dangerous lunatic now. His vision slowly swims into focus on Doc’s face and fresh tears well.

Oh good, Malcolm's hand is getting seen to. That's one less thing to worry about, at least. Neal focus travels hazily from Doc and Malcolm to Raylan, pain making his ears ring while the rest of him feels like it's under water. Pillow and blanket. He nods numbly, a slight frown of confusion forming as he does.

"Sedatives?" Sedatives. Where--right. "They're Malcolm's."

He shifts, and pain lances through him, sharp enough to elicit a whimper. He cringes inwardly at the sound, how small and childish it is. It takes a moment of searching the air over him to find Raylan's face again. "Keller," he says softly. "Keller's going to kill me. I saw it."

"S'alright, son," Doc says quietly, giving Malcolm's shoulder a firm squeeze before gently prying the wet fabric away from that fairly deep, nasty cut. "Everything's alright." There's a lot of blood, and Malcolm's hand is pale and a little cold. Yet Doc takes the time to swipe any falling tears away from the tops of Malcolm's cheeks before he throws the new first aid kit open and tries to hold Malcolm's hand steady in his before attempting to poke holes into it.

"We'll dry your tears and patch you up. And everything's gon' be just fine," he promises, the only steady voice and solid presence in an otherwise uncontrolled downward spiral. He gives Malcolm's hand a light squeeze, covering his knuckles, trying to work the sutures quickly and wiping away the bleeding as he goes.

A grip on Malcolm's shoulder before he slipped away was the only reassurance he could give. He had to get out of the way.

"He can spare a few," Raylan argued softly with a lift of his eyebrows that broached no argument. Malcolm would share his hoard to help.

He reached out to push against Neal's shoulder and try to keep him from moving as Raylan schooled his face to calmness. If they had a hospital, if they had help, they could make sure that Neal wasn't bleeding internally; Raylan would be free to his worry, but showing it all now didn't help anyone. The very real concern that Neal might die from this could be handled later, with moonshine.

"Keller," he repeated questioningly, brow furrowing a little. "You don't know that, that you're gonna die. Modern medicine bein' what it is, I'm sure you just get an involuntary vacation to Egyptian cotton sheets until you heal up. You're gonna be okay, Neal. Stay still, I'll be right back."

Best part about having a stride as long as his - didn't take him long to get anywhere and back with his errand, opting to drape the blanket before sliding a hand under Neal's neck and lifting his head enough to slide a pillow under there. "You're gonna be fine," he said again. This time it was for both their sakes.

Malcolm would give Neal every pill in that drawer to live; there’d be no protest from him.

He looks at the wound as Doc works on it, almost like it’s on someone else’s hand. Like it’s on a cadaver at the morgue. He frowns faintly.

“What happened?” he sniffles curiously.

He closes his eyes as Raylan leaves to get the blanket, forcing them open again on his return. He can’t tell how long it’s been. Probably not long. He said he was getting them from the couch.

He doesn’t fight or protest as Raylan lifts his head, feeling ever more like a lead-filled doll with little capacity for anything but pain. “He killed me,” Neal insists quietly. “I knew he would, I went in knowing. I…”

His focus drifts for a moment, back to the memory or vision or whatever it was. “I was counting on it.”

He knows it’s true without knowing why he would be banking on something like that. Why he would want to. He tries to draw in a deeper breath and his expression twists up with pain again. “Sedatives?”

This time there’s a plea to it.

"Oh, you know." You step out of the house for five minutes to bottle up some self-medication and come back in time to catch the highlight reel of King Lear. Just another Tuesday in Mathias.

He would have tried to lighten up the situation with 'mediocre pasta' or something comedic, but the tone he ends up taking is little more serious. "You cut yourself on some broken glass." They'll be needing plastic plates to go with the camping mug. Doc will gradually swap them all out. Childproof the place.

"Does it hurt?" He's just about done. All that's left to do is press some gauze to the stitches and wrap it up. Once everyone is settled, Doc will start on making more makeshift bandages. He's still worried about Neal - about Malcolm's state of mind, too - but he's trying not to let it show. The cowboys can't be the bedrocks of this house if they're wavering too.

Raylan was nodding. "Okay. If you're sure, but that doesn't mean nothing about now." If that's what Neal was focusing on. There was a lot to unpack there and Raylan wanted to but. Maybe not when they were in the middle of the shit.

"Sedatives," he confirmed, standing and pointing a finger at Malcolm. "Does it matter which ones I grab or will any bottle do?"

Might as well ask the expert. He trusted that Doc could handle the manic and the downed man for half a minute while he sprinted up the stairs, but he wasn't going to risk incorrectly medicating Neal. Malcolm's knowledge and Doc's know-how, they could manage just about anything, right?

Malcolm flexes his fingers at Doc’s question, winces and nods. He’s still watching him work with the fascination usually reserved for autopsies when Raylan addresses him and he startles slightly.

“Diazepam. Bring him diazepam.”

His eyes drift past Raylan to Neal on the floor and he stares, rocking back and forward again.

Neal drifts, for a moment convinced Glen and Rey are both standing over him, but that hallucinatory moment vanishes. He focuses on breathing, though it hurts. His breaths get shallower, a little more labored. He whimpers again, not cognizant enough this time to be ashamed.

The deep gash on Malcolm's hand is finally covered and while it will scar, for now it is out of sight and hopefully a little more out of mind. He tries to split his attention between Malcolm and Neal, praying to a God he doesn't believe in anymore, who probably doesn't believe in him either, that nothing internal had been ruptured. He would be fairly confident that Neal could pull through if he makes it through the night. For now it is anyone's guess.

"Come on," he tries to lead Malcolm away once Raylan returns with the pills. "Let's take a seat, on the couch. Have some water. Take a few breaths. It's a nice day outside." There's nothing sharp or breakable there unless there's going to be any unplanned defenestrations or spontaneous judo happens over the coffee table. Malcolm's camping cup should be safe to drink from. The hot tea can come later when everyone's calmed down some. Tea and relocating Neal and cleaning up the mess and Doc's much-needed cigarette, and he would be surprised if Raylan didn't try to initiate some kind of debrief session.

Raylan's long legs went back to work, his purposeful stride getting him up the stairs quickly. The bottle were hastily gone through, each one that didn't say Diazepam tossed onto the bed until he found his prize.

"Alright," he breathed to himself before turning back around and half jogging down the stairs and coming around the counter, eyeing Malcolm and Doc with a passing worry as they moved aside, giving him access to the sink and a glass of water. Two glasses of water, one of which was set on the separation between the living room and the kitchen for the Men's convienve as he knelt down next to Neal.

"We're gonna start with two and we can talk about another in six hours, okay?" The bottle was popped open, two pills shaken out. "Open?" If Neal did, he'd drop the pills in, slip a hand back under his neck and help lift his head so that Raylan could help him get a drink of water.

"Once Doc clears you, we'll get you moved someplace more comfortable. I'm votin' for the couch, I can't imagine there's an easy way to get your ass up the stairs, but he might have an idea." Worried eyes darted over Neal's face. You gotta be okay. He wasn't ready to let go what they'd just repaired.

Once they get far enough into the living room, Malcolm can’t see Neal on the floor anymore and gets more agitated and fidgety, wringing his undamaged hand with the fingers of his wounded hand, despite the way pain stabs though it at the movement.

Once Doc has him parked on the couch, he sways faintly, watching any movement in the kitchen but staying obediently where he’s been put.

Neal takes the pills obediently, studying Raylan’s face.

“If I don’t come back this time,” he murmurs, then frowns slightly. “I should have last words, probably.”

There’s a slight tingle starting in his limbs, a spreading calm and numbness that makes him feel like he’s floating somewhere soft. He can’t keep his eyes open after a little while.

“Just live,” he slurs. “Just live.”

The last of the tension eases out of him as he goes under.

Doc would have scoffed at Neal's dramatics even though he's fairly melodramatic himself. As it is, he's got his hands full with his meerkat and he's trying to get Malcolm to come down and not focus too much on what's going on elsewhere.

"How're you feelin', Malcolm?" He isn't sure if Malcolm is completely with him but he figures he'll know if the young man snaps again or has another outburst. This is admittedly a little outside of his realm of expertise. He doesn't know if going outside is going to be a good or bad idea, but staring at Neal's feet in the middle of the crime scene-looking kitchen/dining area and being crowded in by the cowboys doesn't seem like a good idea either.

In either case, they'll need to vacate the couch soon so Neal can take it. But not until he's sure Malcolm is doing okay.

"Do you wanna go get some fresh air? Perhaps with Raylan?" Doc offers. He can manage on his own with Neal. Keep an eye out while he tidies up and check in on his wound a little later.

"You don't need last words." Raylan wasn't going to repeat himself, wasn't going to promise again that Neal would be fine - he had no fucking idea, did he? Not really. But he had to say something as he and his tightly pinched face watched Neal drifted off and goes slack.

That was for the best, he thought. Between the pain and the trauma of being stabbed by your best friend, sleep would be a good escape for the man and would keep him stiller than anything else. Raylan took a deep breath and tugged the blanket up a little further over Neal. He needed cleaned up and moved off the floor but it was summer so it wasn't too cold down there.

Meanwhile, Raylan could move over to the pile of plate and start picking up the biggest shards to throw away until he was needed again. There was plenty to do.

Edited (what r words) 2021-07-23 13:01 (UTC)

Malcolm’s watery gaze swings up to Doc.

“With Raylan?” Doc used the magic word and it brightens his face very slightly. Then Malcolm looks trepidatious. They’ve changed their minds. “Where’s he going to take me? Should I get my things?” he asks numbly.

"Raylan," Doc calls out half over his shoulder. 'Get your scrawny ass over here on the double' is sort of implied despite the lack of urgency in his voice.

"I don't think you'll be needing anything. It's quite warm out today, and I don't expect you'll take long." Doc runs a reassuring hand from Malcolm's shoulder down the length of his upper arm. He trusts Raylan enough to swap New Yorkers back again so he can spend some time checking Neal over.

"Raylan," Doc repeats using his inside voice once the Marshal's sauntered on over. "Why don't you take Malcolm out for a walk? A couple rounds around town should clear your heads. Get some fresh air. I'll uh, do some cleaning up."

Abandoning the now half cleaned up shards, Raylan stepped around Neal and made his way into the living room with an inquisitive lift of his eyebrows, nodding at the suggestion.

"We can go for a walk," he nodded, eyes falling to Malcolm with the gesture before he looked over at Henry. "Let's get Neal on the couch first." Out of the puddle of blood he's laying in was what Raylan didn't say, for obvious reasons.

"I'll help you get him cleaned up properly when we come back."

Malcolm stood up when Raylan mentioned bringing Neal to the couch. He was just in the way at this point. He shuffled himself towards the door, glancing towards the stairs, shifting from foot to foot, glancing towards the kitchen, towards where he still couldn’t quite see Neal where he lay on the floor.

Just can’t rein in those killer instincts now, my boy.

Malcolm looked at the floor, the nervous shifting of his weight more agitated as he refused to answer the delusion or even look at it.

Let’s face it, that’s going to come in handy if you face real danger here. One relatively innocent life is a small price to pay.

He covered his ears.

Didn’t they say this town wanted blood? Maybe you just need to slaughter a few sacrificial lambs and maybe you can escape. I’m not saying these ones, per se, but they’re conveniently right here…

“NO!!” he suddenly screamed and bolted out the door.

Well. So much for that calming, midmorning stroll. It wasn't for lack of trying but they honestly cannot be holding hands 24/7 while trying to hold the fort down and keeping this house running on top of all the other things they had taken on. Doc isn't capable of that kind of multitasking - or that kind of coddling, for that matter.

"Go. I can manage Neal." The more they dallied the further Malcolm would get and the more likely he is to pose a danger to himself - and to others.

"He'll be okay," Doc manages to squeeze in before Raylan is gone. He doubts Raylan really needed to hear it. He says it anyway. It is what friends do. One less thing for him to worry about.

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okay so diazepam doesn’t work this fast but I do what I want

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