multiversallogs | ( open ) liberate your sons and daughters the bush is high but in the hole there's water

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( open ) liberate your sons and daughters the bush is high but in the hole there's water

Who: Everyone!
What: Events around the city, any time.
Where: Everywhere in Baedal.
When: Whenever you’d like.
Notes:
Behold, your all-purpose open game log. There are a couple pre-written starters to help you generate new and open CR, and you may also use this post to start your own group activities or planned threads. GO WILD!
No one is late to this post. You may use it forever.
The companion thread for this post is right here!
DON'T THINK TOO HARD ABOUT IT JUST RP.
Helpful links: Neighbourhoods, City Map.
Lucky Pastry Advice for the Month of Velldaren: A truly rich life contains love and art in abundance.

Warnings: Zombie horrors in the appropriately titled ZOMBIES! thread, otherwise TBA. Please put warnings in subject lines of your comments if content warrants one.

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Jason is not the only one experiencing a little cosmic weirdness, as a few bystanders who hadn't immediately tried to escape the rain find affect. There's a shriek as a woman somewhere behind them suddenly finds that her ponytail has grown out at an alarming rate and is wrestling her for her umbrella, until she kind of just gives in and crouches slightly as prehensile hair helpfully opens up the tool and holds it above her. Cool. Okay. Across the street, someone else is glowing different colours at will, toying with the ability with the affect of someone who has never previously done this before, neon splashes of colour basking down the slicked street.

Thor ignores all of this, though, turning to look where Jason indicates, although not before affirming, distractedly, "That one is better."

Trudge, trudge. Thor starts for his hammer, but his gait is not a stride -- in fact, there is a certain reluctance, now that he knows where the object has landed. He doesn't even walk all the way over, stopping after a few paces, his primary hand twitching like he'd raise it, before halting the movement as well. Open pensiveness is worn as kicked-dog scowl, chin tucking in. He doesn't really want to try.

The encounter (if that's the right word) between Thor and hammer seems to be awkward and personal, and Jason wonders if he's supposed to not watch. There are a lot of other things to look at, from his growing hat collection to all the people around them. But nobody seems to be in immediate danger, or immediately dangerous. He gives the Hello Kitty hat to a small, miserable child who has stopped talking because tiny frogs fall out of her mouth every time she speaks, which at least seems painless for all parties involved. He keeps his eye on Thor throughout, and once the child has wandered off, hat jammed down low over her eyes, goes back to watching.

Why reluctant? It seems to be more than uncertainty in his strength. (Across the street, the little girl scowls and spits frogs at her brother, who shrieks.)

'Uuuugh Jesus Christ' is probably not the thought anyone should have about someone who is an ostensible friend approaching, but Severus is a special case. It's not that he dislikes Penelope, or wouldn't want to see her, but it's just how he reacts when his brooding silence is interrupted. He permits her invasion with a critical eye, but doesn't comment on it or attempt to shoo her away. She's too much of an acidic bitch for that anyway. (This is why they are friends.)

Severus makes a noise that might be acknowledgment, and sharpens the cherry of his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. He quirks one eyebrow when he glances at her. Yes, hello. What?

Edited 2012-09-19 04:18 (UTC)

Jason isn't the only one watching. People taking less of a hands on approach to the situation are also making glances, and Thor is dimly aware of it. Maybe he's being self-conscious! Primarily, however, he is avoiding disappointment.

Hammer located. Good enough for now. Not worried about anyone, you know, stealing it, Thor turns back towards Jason as he takes his CiD from some pocket. It looks thoroughly broken, though he pushes a few buttons anyway in a moment dim optimism, or frustration, take your pick. Nothing happens. With a guttural sound of anger, Thor flings the object away to shatter even more against nearby brick, pieces landing in the quickly forming puddles.

"I will need another," he-- announces. To the street. To Jason? Hi Jason, you're still here, and possibly on the shortlist of perfectly nice people to get wrangled into assisting spacevikings along with such names as Jane Foster and Jae-Hyun Kim.

Having forgotten or discarded what he was saying previously, Thor casts another glance up at the sky, distrustful of the weather, lightning flickering through the clouds with the speed and consistency of a lizard's tongue tasting air.

"I think you only get used to something when you run into the end of it," Gaius suggests, hands clasped around his mug of cocoa, although careful not to trigger any collapse. "Like, um. A book, or." A person, he's thinking of people, but that's the sort of insight he veers away from before it can stick. "This city, I suppose. Space sort of..."

He tips his head to follow her gaze upwards, at the strange magnification of the Baedal sky above them, the unfamiliar star configurations.

"...it sort of keeps going, doesn't it. I didn't, myself, really-- nothing outside've work or call of duty. I prefer things less immense."

Jason is on so few people's lists of helpful persons that he actually looks to either side of him, then behind, before concluding Thor was sort of generally those in the vicinity. 'Those' happen to be comprised of him.

"You should ask someone from your cohort, maybe." He is just not sure letting Thor know he's in his cohort is a good decision. After a moment of watching Thor looking up at the sky, Jason takes off his hat and offers it to him. The hat that replaces that one looks like a deerstalker.

Concluding that the thunder storm continuing on above them is only indirectly his make, Thor looks at the. Hat. That is offered him. For someone whose ceremonial armour has a helmet involved with metal feathers attached on either side, his nose-wrankle of irritation is probably unfair. But he has no need of hats, on this day.

Just technology. There's an internal struggle where he attempts to quash the urge to order Jason to hand over his CiD, before he simply just nods. Alright. Someone from his cohort. Hands loosen, reclench, and then winds up taking the hat in a manner that's almost rueful.

"Then I shall seek them. Thank you."

He shouldn't feel bad about thinking that way; that's pretty much what everyone thinks when they see Penelope coming. She'd probably be disappointed if they weren't annoyed by her arrival.

She tilts her head to the side and furrows her brow at Severus, mildly pouting. What, you mean to tell me you're not made borderline euphoric by my presence?, as if to say. It's a practiced look. He's not remotely the first to get it, and likely not even close to being last. Unless she dies soon or something! What a cheery thought.

"So, you're better at this shit than I am," which goes without saying, but it's good to concede something at the beginning of a conversation with a person like Severus if you're planning to get anywhere, "what do you think, is it a good idea to go blabbing over the Network in unlocked posts about magic, or is it totally okay given that half the city runs off it? I'd appreciate an expert opinion."

That look drifts by Severus like opportunities to do the right thing drift by certain pirates, and he investigates the remainder of his tea while listening to her inquiry. And then looks mildly incredulous.

"It's completely fine," he says. "Supposing you had certain traditions, or were working with something uncouth, you might want to retain your privacy - but such a thing would be based on personal preference. It's commonplace, here."

Something uncouth, like, say, necromancy - which is what Severus was billing himself with when he and Penelope first met, she might recall. And he's never had any problem with it, nor has Njoki. He levels a more critical look at her, thinking about the attack she suffered.

"Have you been bothered by something?"

Edited 2012-09-20 02:27 (UTC)

"This city bothers me," she says, vaguely. "Things work too differently to what I'm used to. And yeah, that's pathetic newb whining coming from someone who's been here for way too long to still be doing pathetic newb whining, but it's only just started to piss me off."

Specifically, she means. In general, just being in Baedal pisses her off.

"I don't love the way fucking everything is a threat to me now, and maybe I'm kind of starting to like, fucking lose it. Leaving the fucking house mildly freaks me out." She stares at that moth, impassive. A practiced, jaded-yet-blank face.

"Everything was a threat to you at home, too. There are simply wear fewer masks here."

Only someone like Severus would find something like that reassuring - or something akin to reassuring, anyway; his tone isn't comforting, it just is what it is.

"Are you afraid that you'll be attacked again?"

There's only so much cooped-up-at-the-inn a girl can take.

It's hard, being so new. No steady job (yet) means no spending money; not knowing much about the city yet means not being sure if any of the places clearly meant for hanging out and meeting people would even let her in the door (is there a drinking age here? what is it?; but not wanting to go crazy means needing to get out for a while.

She'd seen a notice tacked to one of the boards at the inn about this cathedral. It looks beautiful, and spending an afternoon exploring it would pass the time without a large outlay of funds or worry over too much trouble (she hopes). People should at least be nice there, too, right?

But once she's there, tea, cookies, and a brief guide by one of the kind clergy around the main sanctuary leave her wanting a reason to linger. It's quiet here, peaceful; she's reluctant to go back to the inn this afternoon until she must.

She leaves a few coins in the collection box, grateful enough to want to repay the kindness shown to her, superstitious enough to believe that maybe parting with some of her money shows faith that it will return, that that energy put out there might come back to her when it's needed. And then she sees the sign asking for volunteers, and she asks to help.

That's how Lena finds herself working quietly down at the end of a long table, giving each basket a quick once-over to make sure bottles won't tumble and break when they're delivered, and tucking the card with the kind words into each one before lining them up to be taken away. Between being industrious and being sort of naturally reticent, she hasn't quite gotten much to talking, but it's clear from the darting glances and polite if awkward smiles she offers the others that it's nerves and not poor manners.

She lifts a basket experimentally, and a can of soup bails out one side, rolling down the table noisily.

That gives her pause-- honestly, she hadn't thought about what specifically it was that she was afraid of, but now that he mentions it, it does make sense to her. She shrugs.

"That or something else. It's fucking bizarre, I feel far less safe now that people know who I am. I mean it's not like, impacting the business or anything," because christ knows that's the most important thing, here, fuck her feelings, nobody cares, "so I can focus on that for a while and ignore it, but it fucking creeps on me."

There's a pause while she grabs her bag, rummages inside it for her cigarettes. "I'm not used to doing this shit alone, I guess. Being small, female, and infinitely fucking breakable is no fun in this city, as it turns out. Whatever, I don't know what I'm talking about. Fuck. How're you."

Severus is quiet while she goes on, and though it's hard to tell considering his stoicism and the low light, he is actually having a fairly impressive deer in headlights moment in response to her sudden eruption of Feelings. He doesn't offer her a light, but only because he's taking a moment to consider this turn of events and - well, phrasing it like 'And imagine Penelope ten years younger and wearing a uniform' sounds terrible (so of course it's being written), but the only supportive context that Severus has beyond the horrible murderous wizard cult is in the form of being a teacher.

So.

"You are a witch," he begins, and he's not sure he can get this to sound like anything beyond Professor Snape (not that Penelope knows Professor Snape exists), but oh well, "You are far from helpless. You are a businesswoman, and an artist, and verbal warrior of the highest caliber. It doesn't seem to me like you've had a difficult time in this city, as hard as it might be on your heart."

It might be better if he sounded awkward, instead of stiffly formal. Alas. "And I'm fine." He's always fine.

...and falling off, rolling along the floor, eventually stopped by a scuffed boot.

Tom likes churches. You'll never find a vampire in one, that's for sure. Or at least you wouldn't back home; he knows things work differently in Baedal. And while he wasn't sure about the greater theological points --or where he stood in the grand scheme of things, as a werewolf-- churches had always had soup kitchens and secondhand clothes, and as such they were always a fixture throughout his nomadic life.

He'd become familiar with the House Ecumenal over the past months when Hal was detoxing, when the money he earned labouring could cover rent at the Valhalla Inn and not much else. They didn't turn him away and, if they knew he was a werewolf, they didn't care and Tom had never thought to say. When he has time, he pays back the favour by doing some of the heavier work. Mostly of it involves lifting large things and deliveries.

The soup can is picked up and popped back on the table with a cheerful if bashful smile. "Whoops, butterfingers." And then he's just kind of hesitating, unsure what he's supposed to do or say next, but familiarity nags at him. "You're at the Inn, aren't you?"

Episodes like these --whether contained to a canton or citywide-- provide plenty of opportunities for the various criminal classes, although it requires a certain level of finesse and smart thinking.

The gentleman being hauled from the back of a cart, in one of the less monitored entrances to Bonetown, has been found lacking. Mitchell tells the other day-walking cruorovores to keep a look out while he drags him along the street himself, certain he's not about to catch anything, any time soon. "I don't think you'll be trying to pull a fast one after this," he says to the bound and gagged man. "It's a shame you had to find out the hard way."

He's dumped in a quiet area, and a bag of blood --one of many that he'd tried to sell-- is poured over him. Mitchell even goes so far as to remove the gag, pinch his nose, and let the last trickle run down the captured man's throat.

"And if that doesn't do the trick, I'm sure someone will be along in a minute." The gag is put back in place and Mitchell slaps the man's cheek with a broad, unfriendly smile. He leaves him to his muzzled pleading, heading back in the direction he came from.

After some debate, Clarice has decided to actually take Jim up on the invitation. Karoke sounded like a thing that normal people did. And she'd liked him, and there would theoretically be other people there to meet. Being social, that was important. Mr. Creed wouldn't want her not to go on, she thought.

Sometimes she still forgot her life was going on. That she hadn't ended with the world.

Too much time in the fog was bad for you, they said. Best combat it with something.

Dren had decided to take a walk around the city once the sun set. He was curious about what sort of place he'd ended up in.

He hadn't had any particular destination in mind, though he had heard that the Bazaar in Aspic might be worth visiting. He was mostly just wandering, investigating various objects of interest, when he happened on Monster Garden.

He had now been exploring the garden for over an hour, examining the odd statues.

Edited (more interesting post) 2012-09-21 05:31 (UTC)

“It's been doing this.”

The lobby's a shove on your way, drab. Two rain-spattered windows, only one looking out on the street but both offering the same view: gray spilling down.

“You think this is bad, you should see the place when the lights aren't flickering.” Don glances up from his watch. “Jesus,” he says, respect leaking into his voice. He'd been talking, pitching, when it started, a clap of thunder like the sky clearing its throat. Rain drumming the building, the room's mood altered, all of them audience to the cascading water. He's been trying for impatience ever since; it's been out of reach.

Metal shrieks as the door's wrenched open. It flaps in the wind, admitting a couple thousand raindrops and a man still bowed by the weather. He coughs and stamps his feet. His hands are jammed deep in his pockets. Someone snaps at him to shut the door and as he backs away, shrugging helplessly, another sorry piece of human debris blows in. “Shut the door!”

Body caught in a flinch the man frees one hand, shows his palm to the lobby while he fumbles for the door handle. “D-don't--” They spray hissing from his fingers. Blue, pink, washed-out green. Filaments of color leaping for the ceiling, tangling in themselves on the way down. “Please,” he says. It's all over him, webbed and knotted. “Please. I'm sorry. It's harmless?”

Don shoulders past—shakes off the man's grip—and plunges into the rain. The cold's a restorative shock. He's soaked through almost instantly, drenched in the sound of the downpour. He moves hurriedly but with purpose, hat clutched to his head, until he finds an awning and a bench. He sits slumped, head tipped back. It's a minute before he plucks the strand of orange—wild as a scribble, and not the last of them—from his arm.

Antonin, unerringly, had put two and two together and made "no one in power will hassle me for killing things if they're zombies." He can't be in Severus' house all the time, and he is really very good at killing things. The way he looks at it, this is almost like community service.

(The analogy would probably work better if he were more careful about making sure the people he killed were actual zombies and not just covered in blood because they were running away. You can't make an omelet without killing a few innocent bystanders.)

And if he sees someone who is clearly alive, he might even help them. For the novelty value.

It's a little later in the evening that Dren walks in on the scene. He's still exploring the city, trying to get his bearings before he decides to commit to anything--or, at least, that's the reason he'd give. Maybe he's just exploring for fun.

He's of two minds on Syriac Well. On the one hand, everything does look very nice. On the other, it also all looks very much the same. He could see himself getting bored of the place rather easily. Then he becomes aware of a horrific noise. Someone seems very upset about something.

He follows the sound, neither hurried nor dawdling. When he finally comes upon the scene in question, he frowns at it, taking in all the details.

Something about that house bothers him. It might be the ominous blackness inside, or maybe the fact that all the house's portals of entry have been thrown open. It's probably mostly because of the distressed figures in front of the place though.

Dren cautiously approaches the bellowing young man and prods him experimentally in the ribs with his cane. "What exactly do you want help with?"

"Thank you." Lena's nothing if not well-mannered, even at her most distant--a good Southern upbringing will do that to you. The right corner of her mouth shifts, starting a curve, almost a smile. Her gaze drops to the task of setting the can back in the basket so that it won't fall out again, but she looks up, half in surprise, at his question.

"I--" Wait, wait, yes, it's all right, she thinks she might have seen him in passing, going to and from meals. "Yeah. I only got here like... three weeks ago? I think?" She stops fussing with the can, hands dropping, awkward.

"Do you still live there too?"

After a long, involved consultation with one of the local homeowners, Sebastian had planned to head home via the local Skyrail station before he was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of someone crying out for help. Rationally, he's reasonably sure that there isn't much he could do to help, but that's never precluded him from offering. He just can't ignore it and continue along.

Upon arriving at the house, Sebastian frowns and briefly commands Alley before pulling out his CiD and scrolling through the numbers there before getting to the city-wide directory and sending a text to the Syriac Well Sheriff's office. As he approaches the lawn, he can hear the man speaking to Dren and repeating himself over and over again.

"She's in there. She's still in there."

"Well, that sounds unfortunate," Dren remarks blandly, then ignores the continuing repetition and eyes the house. There's something off about it, more than just the fact that it's got these poor people out front.

He wonders briefly if he could get any more information out of the jabbering man. For example, if 'she' is in trouble, or if 'she' is the trouble. It's not exactly an easy task to get information from hysterics though. He knows that from experience. And he does so dislike hard work...

He shrugs. "Eh, what's the worst that could happen? ...Something horrible, no doubt." He smiles to himself wryly. Then he finally notices Sebastian. "Hey there, you're not having a fit of hysterics. Do you have any idea what's going on here?"

"Not off-hand, no," he replies while keeping an eye on the house and its former occupants. If one or more of them is (still) possessed, Sebastian would prefer to be prepared in case they advance. There's something to his posture which ought to convey the fact that he's either not easily spooked or he's had a great deal of experience with similar situations. "I've called in the sheriff."

At his side, Alley chuffs and remains watchful. Dren might be able to recognize the breed as one that was once popular among wizards. The Algar Dog is a fair-sized lurcher with a smooth grey coat, large grey eyes, and notably, dull grey teeth.

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( open ) liberate your sons and daughters the bush is high but in the hole there's water

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a night stroll (Echomire)

[canker wedge]

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