ph_logs | Mingle - Emergency Potluck

Entry tags:

bulletin

Mingle - Emergency Potluck

Pumpkin Hollow Community Bulletin

Main Nav | Permanent Bulletin | Calendar |

WELCOME POTLUCK

Greetings, residents! Those more observant sorts among you may have noticed a large influx of very crowded ferries. In order to welcome our new residents en masse, Town Hall is holding a potluck in Town Square. Please bring a dish if you are able and make a new friend!

All of our newest arrivals need only bring themselves. We look forward to welcoming you all into our community, and may your lanterns always be lit.

This event is open to all! In light of our new influx of prospective players following the Great Sail Migration, we've decided to offer a small public event to tide everyone over until the TDM this weekend.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"To the contrary," Erik answers softly, "I believe it matters a great deal. You've been hurt and I take no offense to your caution. I understand it better than you could know." The look in his eyes is a rare and naked pain, he's letting her see it so she'll know he speaks true.

"If ever you need someone to hear it, I offer my ears to you as well."

"That's a relief to hear." The way the tension in his shoulders loosens says just how much of a relief. "I am a vampire, to be specific. But unlike the ones native to this land, I am in full control of my urges. I'm no monster."

"Haven't seen her since." ...or, well. Not at home, she hasn't. Nikola Orsinov was on the first of her voyages on the damned Serena Eterna, but she's long dead there, too. So that this assurance is only a half-truth may or may not be obvious.

Answering the actual question is— much more complicated. A timeline discrepancy like this isn't new to her, she's seen it in others more than once. Even she and Basira were a couple of months apart, on that first cruise; Daisy had arrived fresh from the Unknowing at first, too, whereas Basira was well into the six months that lay between that day and Jon waking up.

But the possibility of returning home has never been a factor before.

"...yeah, eventually," she starts with, the simplified truth. Her arms fold loosely. The claws on one hand curl against the other arm, but she restrains herself from scratching. "According to you lot it was about eight months I was down there. Felt like— felt like a lot longer. You don't sleep. Everything— it blurs together."

She can't help the little shudder at thinking back to it. Jon used to understand. Even three days down there had been enough for him to understand.

"But I got out. With— with help. Um." Ugh. Daisy's head drops back over the back of her chair and she breathes out through her nose like an aggravated dog. Only after a moment does she raise it to look at him again. "Do you still need statements? And do they still give nightmares if you take them live?"

This might be easier if it's pulled out of her, frankly.

Angel doesn't respond to that immediately, but his face doesn't betray whatever he's thinking.

A long moment later: "I try."

It's complicated. All of it is complicated. But clearly Angel has a deep well of caring for Degas.

"And he'll be lucky to have you too, perhaps? Even if you're not going to be involved with the goddesses, I'm told that having a temple is about more than that."

"Looking forward to it." César grins. "... I'll have to learn how to can and preserve with what tech we have here. Canning's a very exact science especially."

She absorbs Magne's words, expression placid, and nods in acknowledgement before speaking.

"Until things aren't so dire..." Keziah repeats. "What constitutes 'dire' in this case?"

Keziah sees no need to address those examples or defend her capabilities. The explanation is what it is, and should not be argued against. She files away that comment about the bulletin board as a lead for a 'just the facts' type of answer. Besides, she wants input from people who live here, and this is a form of input.

"Same. I'm no Archivist, but I still know way too much for anyone's good. Not that it doesn't come in handy, but then again, so does the Hunt. 'S how they get ya." He smirks a little at his own joke. "How much've you heard about the curse?"

"Didn't exactly do most of it living in a dusty archival basement." And back in her flat she'd had the same routine for... years, really. Ever since she moved into the place. How did this woman maintain safehouses outside of this? Well, the answer is she didn't maintain them, she just let them sit and get dusty. "Pounding sugar, heaving stuff around, that stuff I'm good for. May as well use this strength for something besides tearing people apart."

"You have my sympathies for dealing with such a situation."

A moment of silent contemplation, weighting how much to share. She does not want to seem like she is taking focus from his story when what she wants is to convey the sincerity of her sympathy.

"When I was young, and human, the Arabs came and forced us to convert to their ways or fight them. They called us barbarians. It's not... it's not something I would wish on anyone. And yet... it keeps happening. Different players, different places, same suffering."

There's a huff of air that might be a laugh.

"Pretty much just what we get told turning up." She shrugs, loosely. "Haven't exactly had the chance to ask around. Plus I'm. Honestly pretty used to just waiting for whatever new bullshit there is to rear its ugly head on its own. And dealing with it then."

This strategy has mixed results.

"We can work on balancing your work and free time so that you don't burn out. I know I can't make you do anything, but it would be a favor to me if you would actually take the time so that I can actually come and see you without you being neck-deep in work or else crashed from a lack of sleep." Something she's had some experience with, through living with others that weren't all that good at taking care of themselves, either.

She can't help her smile at the mention of the soapbox that he'd given her, her nose wrinkling with it. It was still such a silly joke, and she was happy that he'd made it. She actually got a lot of use out of it, now that it was primarily where she stored her toiletries.

Magne turns and reaches for the bottle of the sauce that she'd made to go with the cutlets, something she'd had a harder time with due to having to substitute one of the main ingredients. Mirin just isn't something that exists on the island so she knows that her katsu sauce isn't going to taste quite right, but so far it hasn't gotten any negative reviews either. She holds it out to him to put as much as he likes on his helping.

"I'm going to get some of these people set up at the inn, then I'll probably come and sleep it off on your couch so that I get some quiet. If that's alright with you."

Although embarrassed by that very direct callout, César still laughs warmly. "... God, I've missed you so much. I'll put some thought tonight into what you could help with. We can talk about that tomorrow, too."

César's moved out of the Oak & Iron entirely now, so seeing each other now requires deliberate effort. He had also come to the conclusion he needed to slow his roll (physical exhaustion was a great hint!), but hadn't figured out where to begin. But knowing she'll help him means the impossible would be possible. He can't even get nervous, with the way her nose scrunches up at his joke. Magne's just adorable sometimes.

César takes the sauce from her. He's tasted it, and it's a good approximation. He puts on a modest amount, enough he can get a taste without overwhelming it all, then hands it back.

"It's more than fine, except replace couch with bed. I've got four." One of them is his, but there's three currently empty.

No monster, huh. She barely resists the urge to say oh, but I am, and instead just gives him a reassuring look.

"One of my dearest friends is one as well."

That she calls them dearest should tell Lord Osborne that he has no need to justify himself to her.

"And I'm a half-elven sorceress, for all it matters. No idea if there's any native ones of those about, but I suppose I'll see."

Gerry gestures to himself. "Ask away."

A man with jet-black hair that seems to be slightly graying can be found piling up a mountain of food. Cherry pie, donuts, anything sugary that he can get his hands on, paired with the richest black coffee that he can find. He scarfs it down in a frenzied state, like one who has not eaten in a very long time. And initially, he speaks to no one and keeps to himself.

After a certain point, he pauses in his excess, mumbles something about needing to remember some self-control, and decides to take a deep breath and eat each bite slowly, savoring it. In between bites, he takes much more care to observe his surroundings, watching the other party-goers curiously and taking in the scents of trees on the breeze, trying to name everything he can.

Eventually, he snaps his head to the person nearest to him at the table and announces in a voice that is both flat and a bit too loud, “Hello. Dale Cooper here. By any chance, do you happen to have a pen and some paper that I can use?”

"I don't think I could do that again if I tried. I'm... not the ruthless king I used to be, it seems. It made me sick to see her like that."

He fixes his dark gaze on Max, and adds, "But I can't promise I won't do what I think is necessary to keep a world from crumbling into ash. Say what you'd like about me, but I doubt you've ever seen someone be Unraveled." There's way, wayyyy too much creepy emphasis on that last word.

Dale has looked at a tall, fully-feathered bird-man, with full wings peaking out from the back of his brown overcoat and sharp talons on his hands and feet. Which is all very ridiculous, but perhaps even moreso is the fact that he nods and pulls out a notepad and fountain pen.

"Of course. Cerrit Agrupnin, by the way."

“Thank you, Mr. Agrupnin,” Cooper says, graciously accepting the pen and notepad without much reaction. He’s never seen a bird man before, but he’s seen enough strange figures in his life that he’s learned to hold off on judgments.

He mumbles his words aloud as he begins to write.

“Diane, time and date unknown.

It has been approximately five years since my last recording. Though keeping track of time has proved difficult. Recorder is gone, so I hope letter-writing will suffice until I can get a new one.

Not sure where and when I am. Time seems anachronistic, folks from different eras or maybe realities. Buildings seem to be industrial era. Wherever I am, it is far too early and is not part of the Lodge’s plans for me. I can only hope this has no implications for my adversary.

Hand cramping. A lot to catch you up on, but it’ll come later.

Cooper.”

"Date is March 5th, 16:54. Also, that letter's got no way to get out of here to your world."

He's trying to be helpful, here.

“Thank you.”

He scratches out the date and replaces it.

“Year still unknown?”

He shakes his head at the second comment. “Fate works in strange ways, my friend. If it’s meant to reach her, it will. In the meantime, I just like writing them. Clears my head.”

"I drink blood. Mind you, the ones I drink from do not have to die to feed me." Important to note, he feels.

"In fact, all of my other faculties are far enhanced to compensate. You give me hope. I have recently discovered I have a desire to cook for my loved ones, and now I regret not having the skill." He had a chef in his home for so long and never once took advantage of that. What terrible irony.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ellarinne, truly. I'm not offended by your honest criticism. I am Lord Erik Osborne, former vampire lord of the Ozark Mountain Clan, and I am now known as this town's premier whore."

"The pleasure is mine," he answers smoothly, though internally he is searching his mind for any memory of a House Keziah. None, as far as he knows. And he's made it his business to know.

"I was the progenitor of my own clan as well, the Ozark Mountain Clan, to be exact, over which I was Lord. But I will wager that you have no knowledge of my clan any more than I have knowledge of yours?"

"Ah, no, 16:54 is the year as they reckon it here. The time's shortly after three, I think. There's some who carry watches here. I'm afraid I'm not one of them."

The feathers of his crest lift gently, a little embarrassed by the confusion.

"You will have privacy even from me. That is one language I never got around to learning." But give him enough time here...who knows?

"I'm told the end pieces are the most favored?"

Local weeb is standing in front of his own food and stares down at the plate in a bit of awe. "... is that sushi?"

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 71 of 103

Mingle - Emergency Potluck

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Agent Cooper | Twin Peaks | New Character and New Player

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

AHHHH I FORGOT TO REPLY TO THIS - Fresh Fish!