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

>Gallmarch is the westernmost point of the city, stretching as far out as land will let it into the sea. It’s picturesque with boardwalks, beaches, and inland trail-like roads that wind through cobblestone that’s always just a little sandy. A laid back, lazy canton, it’s always got a few bars and a few diners open, not to me1ntion food vendors along the beach, and markets and cafes besides.

No Fish Today is the local headquarters for old school music and drinks that aren’t watered down. Looking more like a gutted cafe than a proper bar, it’s been the same for decades and no one’s in any hurry to change the aesthetic. It serves its purpose, and it serves mostly alcohol, though you might be able to grab some peanuts, too.

Less loud music and more ambiance, Shrove’s Wing is a teahouse nestled in an old building masked by trees and overgrown vines. It’s the city’s oldest source for veritea, but there’s plenty of mundane (and delicious) options on the menu as well. The courtyard is a popular place to bring lunch and grab a cup.

The House Ecumenal, Baedal’s conglomerate religion for those following the One God of their various worlds, is not a powerful nor significant presence in the city - not especially well-liked but tolerated peacefully on most days, their reputation has sunk to shameful depths in the wake of the Candlelighter conspiracy. Many have distanced themselves from the House, choosing to practice their own specific beliefs in private rather than partake in fellowship or community. It’s hard to blame them.

Not everyone has abandoned the church, however, and those that remain - clergy of sorts, mostly - are steadfast in their desire to carry on and prove that the Candlelighters were a nasty fringe group, not at all resembling the core of the House. To this end, the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, a grand structure of worship in Chimer, is open to the public many days throughout the week. Tea and snacks are offered to all those who wish to come and view the architecture, and while donations are appreciated, they are not solicited. The House has taken a hard line of late to avoid proselytizing.

Instead, there is a sign posted outside that asks for volunteers putting together baskets for the needy. Those that volunteer are taken to the Cathedral’s courtyard where modestly-dressed men and women of the church are putting bread, soup tins, cold cuts, cookies, and some bottles of milk and candy-water in baskets to be sent out. There are cards for each one, but they hold only a message of good will, and no indication of what organization sent them. It’s a good place to do some good work for an hour or two, and have quiet conversation with kind people who, perhaps surprisingly, don’t mind if you chat about risque subjects (political or otherwise). This is a house free of judgment, after all.

The dead don't, as a rule of thumb, walk in Bonetown. The process of reanimation or unlife generally involves magic of some sort, so they might be able to walk in but they then might also have to be carried out. If they're really dead.

If, for instance, they're infected with something... but these technicalities aren't quite as pressing to the Bonetown residents dealing with a nightmarish contagion pattern that causes unthinking aggression and cannibalism among those infected. Where it came from and who's responsible will have to be sorted out later, though the fact that the spread of the infection begins in Bonetown is quite possibly too convenient -- there are thus some limiting factors to the destruction infected victims can cause -- can't be ignored.

'Convenient' is not the term of the moment, however, not when 'horde' and 'riot' are so close at hand. Full infection takes anywhere from five to twenty minutes, though the symptoms are almost instantaneous. Prelude Street is the worst off: a main road lined with shops, there are people with burst blood vessels in their face and eyes, people being noisily sick, and among a high percentage of those not weak or sick, people losing capacity for coherent thought and speech. It escalates quickly, but in patches. Those farthest gone tend to stay until everything and everyone in their vicinity is thoroughly destroyed.

Astronomical events have a haphazard clockwork to their frequency, and those that gather at the Stardome in Flyside are both new arrivals come to witness such an event for the first time, or older residents who have come out before. It's night, and the coolness of evening creeps into the big crystal dome under which people gather. The Stardome sits like a giant glass jewel in the middle of the park, completely transparent and spotless.

Inside, it's only fractionally warmer, and the ground beneath is the packed earth of the parklands. There are stalls set up to offer free hot chocolate in disposable mugs (just crumble them onto the grass when you're done!), and some stand, some settle on picnic blankets. For those that are interested, there are a few guest lecturers around - a couple of science-oriented astronomers, and one storyteller who freely expounds on the myths and legends behind the stars.

When the meteor shower begins, the Stardome is attuned to capture the best visual. It's expanded, magnified, brilliant lights against the black sky that dance along the domed glass ceiling. Bigger and brighter than if you remained outside, although some do capture it from there, with their own eyes or with a few telescopes set up around the place.

It's a strange day. It starts as insane lightning storms in the cool of dawn, still dark, past the hills of Chnum and out into the farmlands. Unseen by most save for those that are always watching, a man stands as lightning strikes him repeatedly -- or from him. He disappears, after a while, riding the lightning up into the foggy grey sky above him.

A dreary day continues charming, before the first rumbles of real weather begin to brew above the city proper. Thunder cracks, felt like a shiver through the air, clouds thick and ugly grey, throwing Brock Marsh into shade, and some surrounding areas. The heavens open to torrential rain so suddenly that people might suddenly be running for dry cover, water striking silver off of the backs of horses, rooftops, collecting deep puddles at any suggestion of an incline on the roads. At least it's just water.

Except it isn't. Under the influence of the rain, which moves through the city vaguely north beneath driving winds, those caught in its wet experience something strange. When they had no powers before, they suddenly have something new -- everything they touch changes colours, for example, or perhaps they can fly when they hum a tune, or they can turn shoes into marshmallow and snails. Other examples might be super strength, turning invisible, telekinesis, but many of them range for the truly odd. In other cases, those with powers already may find them replaced or added to with the above, or their power has been manipulated in some way, or perhaps they are rendered without any power at all. It lasts for anywhere from an hour to a day, before things revert to normal.

The storm itself lasts for a few hours before finally letting up in Dryside. A rainbow shines in the high afternoon sky, before it too disappears.

The frequency with which Thor Odinson falls out the sky is probably concerning. For anyone involved.

By the grace of gods no one is hurt when he lands hard enough that it seems like he was forcibly ejected from above, the sky already cloudy, thunder rumbling. Pavement flies as debris as he tears a trench through the road before stilling, apparently unconscious, but before anyone nearby can be overly concerned, there's the whistling of something else flying through. A blockish object hits the ground roughly beside him, pinwheeling at a bounce away again as it skips down the road like a rock tossed over a lake, before finally landing, embedded; the hammer rests with its handle erect, half-buried in shattered cobblestone.

All is quiet, for a moment, but just as Thor begins to think about opening his eyes, tension pulling expression in his face, the sky opens and rain comes crashing down, thick and fast.

Gaius Baltar is not actually an astronomer, it should be noted. Granted, his society makes a point of it becoming more general knowledge than cultures that are more grounded, and it should be said that working as a high level consultant for a fleet of spaceships with no landing in sight for the longest time does familiarise one with the basics. Still, it isn't really a scientific compulsion that sees the man stood here.

And he probably won't be the only one who might look at the skies with regard to his place in the world.

He's dressed down and comfortably for the occasion, having accepted a hot drink. Now and then, he looks around with the manner of someone waiting for someone else, but can otherwise be found drifting, or finding a place to sit, or talking with one of the volunteer speakers.

When it rains in Brock Marsh, it may be wise to check that the rain isn't the byproduct of some kind of horrible experiment. Distracted scientists shouting 'quick, get into the chemical bath' are usually unambiguous signs. In this case, Jason can't quite bring himself to go through with this procedure, since rain is not nearly as high on the list of prioritized concerns (and is way too heavy in any case). Not far down the street, there's a guy who just fell out of the fucking sky. He wrecked a good deal of the street in the process, while not appearing to have dislodged any of his own bits. This is a solid individual.

And while this sort of thing does sometimes amount to street theater in Baedal, it only qualifies as such if the guy's not dangerous. Jason joins the first cautious gawkers. It's someone he recognizes as being from his cohort — the shouty guy who claimed to be Thor. And sure enough, that looks like a giant fucking hammer a bit down the road.

No one is going to poke Thor with a stick, seeing as how he looks to be stirring, but the attitude is still there, even as the rain overwhelms the curiosity of many of the people on the scene.

"Kristos," someone to Jason's left mutters, trying in vain to shield themselves with a folded newspaper as they hurry toward shelter. Jason lingers a moment, squinting at Thor warily.

Suddenly, the rain in the vicinity of his head stops falling, which is odd because it hasn't stopped falling anywhere else. Jason reaches up and removes a hat. It is not a hat he recalls owning. It appears to be a Stetson. Seconds after its removal, the rain stops again. Jason makes a grunt of surprise and removes another hat. This one is a fedora, which he flings away in disgust. But then there's another hat, he can feel that much, and he gives up, unaware that he is now the proud owner of a sodden Hello Kitty hat. Whatever, a hat is welcome in this rain, even if some jackass is teleporting them onto his head for whatever godforsaken reason. Back to important matters.

"Hey, you awake?"

[author's note: there is no Ava here, there is only ~~zuul~~ this prompt, enjoy.]

Twilight in Syriac Well is usually an enchanting affair. The dimming of the day's light on lushly tree-lined streets, the gentle echo of hansom cab wheels on pavement, the lights slowly coming on in houses, dotting the gaps between tree branches, the young men in various states of distress and death on the lawn of a well-appointed townhouse...

--Usually.

But not this evening, not in front of this place. It's a beautiful townhouse, four levels plus an attic, apparently lovingly cared for. Unlike other houses along this street, no lights glow from beyond the windows or door, all of which are open. Every. Last. One, revealing only darkness beyond. White, gauzy curtains caught by the evening's breeze billow out from time to time.

Three men in their early twenties are outside the front of the house. The first stands at the curb, bellowing HELP US, SOMEONE HELP, FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, SOMEONE, PLEASE with such volume and force he's red in the face and weak in the knees.

The second sits on the lawn, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms around them, rocking back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, eyes wide and yet unseeing.

And the third? He's over there, on the pavement, horribly twisted in death. It seems he dove out the attic window.

HELP US, PLEASE HELP US, HELP...

Rodolphus stands shunted off to the side, away from no one group of people in particular, just... away. Out of the way, he would say if asked, but if asked, he would be very surprised indeed. He's holding a mug of hot chocolate but only for the warmth, though he does have a jacket on — something dark, of course, and tailored to his somewhat old-fashioned taste. He stares up at the dome almost as soon as he arrives and picks his place, unmoved and uninterested by the conversations and people around him. If he didn't like being in the middle of it, though, he wouldn't have come. Sobek Croix is comparatively isolated from city lights and he could easily have used magic to provide an enlarged view just for himself, if he'd been so inclined.

Gina does keep Gaius waiting, and it's intentional. There's something she likes about watching him watch for her that can be interpreted as endearing as much as it's also something of an asshole move.

She's done away with the lace and velvet of the clothes gifted to her by Severus Snape, but apparently enjoyed the dark colour scheme. The dark cargo pants are practical and a leftover sensibility from her previous life. The thin coat she wears over a beige tank keep the night's chill at bay. The cup of cocoa in her hands helps with that as well.

"I'd forgotten how much I like this," she offers rather ambiguously in greeting, stepping into Baltar's periphery finally.

What Jason gets in return is a rumbling grunt of protest to-- the concept of being awake, probably. There is little very ordinary about Thor, for all that big white blonde dudes can be inherently unremarkable -- armor, for one thing, of a strange and intricate make encases his torso, dressed entirely in alien alloy and leather, arms bare to the elements save for vambraces etched with rune-like patterns. Squinting awake, he raises an arm to shield his face from the downpour, giving a bear-like snort of protest as he sets about climbing out of the shallow grave he's dug himself. He moves as if sore, or tired, for all that falling from the sky ought signify more damage than it has.

Doesn't quite make it to his feet, lumbering instead to hands and knees, scarlet cloak dragging damply from his shoulders, mud already formed to cling to metal and skin both. He peers up at Jason properly then, burning blue eyes vaguely accusing through wet rat-tail blonde locks. Then regards the street. Then Jason.

"What realm is this?" he asks, his voice full with baritone volume.

Edited 2012-09-19 01:33 (UTC)

[below, there will be several vague starter comments, have at. o7]

[Here is where you may find your erstwhile leader to begin the night's festivities. Drinks, amateur acts of all kinds, meeting and greeting.]

[Now that you have a few drinks in you, time to sing! Or something thereabouts, depending on your particular talents.]

[Drinking break! Enjoy the raucous establishment.]

[There's no singing here, only shouting along with the music, but that's okay, no one's sober enough to care.]

[What it says on the tin.]

Having been stood up (and stood others up) enough times in the past for Gaius to consider it a true possibility, there's a little bit of relief when familiar voice turns his attention from where he'd been idly watching someone set up a gigantic set of telescopes through the glass wall of the dome. "Hello," he says, raising his half-finished cocoa in automatic greeting.

His idleness had actually been alone, as well, and there are no voices in his head to guide him. It's his own common sense, then, that has him greeting her that simply, friend-like, for all that other instincts automatically war against it.

"Were you one for star gazing?"

If Thor seemed more aggressive or even just more lively, Jason would take a few steps back. He has faced down metahumans before, even ones as seemingly solid as Thor, but that was at home, where they all look and sound uniformly ridiculous. 'Thor' looks and sounds a hell of a lot like you'd imagine Thor would, which could mean just about anything here. That's serious armor. That's a serious weapon, embedded in the street down there. Jason's instincts are entirely against the common courtesy of offering Thor a hand up, but after a moment of strong hesitation, he does so as he answers. (He has to toss the Stetson aside, which is fine by him. Even if he knew he was wearing a Hello Kitty hat, he'd choose that over the Stetson.)

"Baedal." Still, he's guessing, and he doesn't say it. It's probably kind of audible nonetheless.

Severus is not a social man by any stretch. Generally when he goes out, it's with the confidence (or hope) that he won't run into anyone he actually knows - going out means simply that, leaving the damn house, and he tends to want to be just as unbothered out in the world as in his home.

Such is the case this evening, sitting at an out of the way outdoor table in the cool weather, accompanied by a teapot, ash tray, and empty plate of something finished earlier. He'd been reading but it's too dim for that now, and is instead finishing a cigarette (or working on a pack, who knows) while observing a luminous star moth flit around on the pavement; it's the size of an adult's hand, flicking back and forth and leaving glowing stardust, enchanting the other patrons.

(They'd probably be upset if he nicked it for a potion. Life is hard.)

Her lips twitch as if to suggest that she may have considered smiling. "I was," she admits, tilting her head back so she can look at the sky. There's a touch of wonder in her expression as she takes it all in. "I used to think about the vastness of the universe. You'd think it would stop inspiring awe after all the time spent out in it, looking for something more."

Gina looks back to Gaius then, tone just a bit warmer, "You?"

Yes. Still.

Meanwhile, the Mighty Thor needs no hand up! Except he does, actually, feeling worn down in a way he hasn't since he was cast on Midgard that one time when his life changed, and knows that can only mean one thing. Though he seems grudging about it, Jason will find his wrist clasped in the demigod's grip, strength tested as Thor gets to his feet to rise to his full 6'4" height. For all that his powers have reverted back to that of a mortal man, Thor's worst is still most people's best.

A look cast to the sky is one full of blame, before dropping back to Jason-- distracted by what is on the man's head, a brief squint, but there are all kinds here in Baedal. Including people who wear strange hats. (This, coming from an Asgardian.) The rain continues, unrelenting.

"These little gods do not look kindly upon those who would--"

Wait.

Wait.

Where is his--

"Hammer!" Thor interrupts himself with, upon realising how empty his hands are.

Through an effort of will (and prepared bracing), Jason remains both upright and silent, instead of uttering a very dignified 'hurk'. Regardless of resolve, however, Jason does take a hasty step back when Thor — exclaims, that wasn't really a shout, Jason has heard him shout — about the hammer. It's not about nerve, it's just being pragmatic. Besides, Thor did just say 'little gods' and while Jason isn't entirely sure about how much he believes in the active intervention of various divinities, it seems like a straightforward guess that Thor just tried to leave and they or Vague Forces of Stuff backhanded him right back down. Maybe it'd be best to stand aside.

"Over there." He points, and then pulls off his current hat because it's soaked. What the hell is that. The new hat has a wider brim, which is useful, at least. And hopefully it doesn't have a penis or a swastika on top. (It doesn't.)

People sometimes stare at Penelope when she goes out now-- this is new for her, considering her non-status in her own world. She dreams at night of being inconspicuous, of not having people snap photos of her with their cellphones, of not needing to maintain a professional, perfect exterior 24/7. They're just dreams. Reality is different now.

Thankfully out in Gallmarch, most people tend to have better things to do than harass the notorious, which means rather than worry about her own appearance, for once, Penelope can spend her afternoon harassing people she likes that just happen to also be there. What a coincidence!

Penelope's approach is less than subtle. She drags a chair to Severus's table, plops as obviously as possible into said chair, stows her (enormous) black bag underneath the table, and ever-so-casually pours herself a cup of whatever it is from his teapot. As if she's just entitled to his things. (Don't ask her; she'd say she is. And then she'd look at you like you're a dumbass for having even asked.)

"Nice moth. Dibs," she calls, and sips her (his) tea. Hi, Severus, 'sup.

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

drinks, food and loitering (gallmarch)

house ecumenal fundraiser (chimer)

ZOMBIES! (bonetown)

starlight, starbright (flyside)

god rain (brock marsh, dryside, etc)

(brock marsh)

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a haunted house (syriac well) - warning for potential horrors

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a karaoke night and bar crawl spanning several neighborhoods, avec captain kirk

the start of the night; drinking and amateur acts at Royal Jewels

Later: moar drinking and karaoke at Asteroid X

after that: a bar somewhere in Griss Twist

and then: noraebang at a... place where that happens, idk

the end: a nightcap in Aspic or, as needed, faceplanting chez Kirk

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@ shrove's wing

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