August/September top-level

[paramnesiarules]

Who: Helen Richardson (paramnesiarules) & anyone else who wants to meet the new Spiral-touched weirdo~

What: First meetings galore!

When: Last week of August and first week of September, before Dahlia's big birthday bash

Where: Anywhere there are people!

Warning(s): Discussion of madness, trauma, and depersonalization.

The Oak & Iron

On her first morning in this strange new world, Helen embarrassed herself terribly.

She'd been quite pleased with how she was holding it together -- sure, her memories of speaking with Mayor Poe were a bit fuzzy, and it took her a few minutes to remember where she was when she woke up in her room in the inn...but she'd stayed calm. Cool. Professional. She's gotten out of bed, washed her face, combed out her hair -- even taken a moment to admire the old timey charm of the secondhand clothes she'd been given, like something out of a period drama. She'd gone downstairs. She'd ordered breakfast -- just something simple, bacon and eggs and a slice of toast. She'd sat down and waited for it to come to her -- and that was when everything fell apart.

It was the smells that did her in. And the sounds. And the...colors. Her egg, when her plate was set down in front of her, was a rich inviting yellow, nearly orange. The bacon was red-brown with white streaks of fat, and smelled warmly of cooked pork and grease. At the table behind her, two people were talking quietly about a party that was supposed to happen in a few weeks. The wood grain of her own table was smooth and warm under her hands. Everything was soft and...somehow gentle. There were no hard corners or harsh smells, no eye-searing artificial colors. Everything was natural and gentle, homey even though it was just an inn. Like it had been designed to make people relax and feel safe -- and it probably had been.

It was too much. Helen tried to hold it back, tried to stop it -- but she failed. With no other recourse she covered her face with her hands as, as quietly as she could, she began to cry.

Greymare Library

The scratching of her pencil is awkwardly loud in the quiet room. Helen cringes and tries to draw more quietly, but she doesn't stop. She's almost done, and once her map of the island is finished -- maybe she'll feel better? Maybe she'll feel <i>safer</i>, once she knows where everything is and where it's supposed to be. Once she can be sure that she'll <i>notice</i>, if anything changes...

She draws a final line and puts her pencil down with a sigh. One last thing, and then her little project should be complete. She's not sure which of the people wandering the stacks are patrons and which are employees are the library, so she simply corners the first person she sees and asks them plainly, "Excuse me. Do you work here?"

Temple of Seasons

The local church is small and quaint, and seems to exert a pull on Helen that fills her with a quiet, trembling fear. The doors are thick and heavy, and seem to almost whisper to her, promising safety and tranquility, but -- she can't bring herself to touch the handle. She sits on the front steps instead, arms wrapped tightly around herself, and tries to pretend that she's just taking a break. Just a little rest, that's all. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Tawny Beach

The beach is crowded, but it bothers her less when she can look out on the open ocean. It stretches out to the horizon, a flat, blue plain broken with the white caps of cresting waves. Like a badly-installed carpet beginning to bunch and pull up from the floor, she thinks, and the thought is amusing rather than nauseating. In all other respects it is completely unlike an interior hallway -- and if her eyes should start to leak again, it's easily blamed on the salt air. Now if only she could shake this ridiculous and cliche conviction that people are staring at her, everything would be...just. Perfect.

Comments

Oak & Iron

[mindflayed]

"Must you?" Comes the not at all empathetic voice from a nearby table. Imbros has all his paperwork and journals haphazardly spread out as he writes up notes on the past few weeks.

[paramnesiarules]

"Oh, piss off --" Helen starts to snap, responding to that bored tone before she's even laid eyes on the person speaking to her. She turns -- and jumps in shock. "Jesus Christ!"

She clutches at her chest, staring wide-eyed. "What -- what the hell are you supposed to be?" Welcome to your very first brush with a mindflayer, Helen...

[mindflayed]

"Supposed to be?" Oh that's a fun quandary. Is he inadvertently trying to be something he's not? That's fun.

"Why don't you tell me?"

[paramnesiarules]

"Obviously I don't know, do I? That's why I asked." Helen studies him carefully for a moment before grimacing and saying, "You look like someone grafted a live squid to your face. Is that normal where you come from, or are you unique somehow?" A little rude, sure, but he started it after all. She was just minding her own business, crying quietly into her bacon, before he started this conversation.

Oak & Iron

[when_a_grids_misaligned]

She's attracted the attention of the least colourful person in the room, some ghostly-pale white kid with an unruly black bird's nest of hair who's dressed in an assortment of clashing greyscale patterns. They're staring at her over a plate of pancakes.

"Are you just really hungover, or...?"

They mean well. They sound concerned, at least.

[paramnesiarules]

"Ah -- shit, sorry..." She fumbles for a napkin, wiping her eyes before giving the kid a shaky, half-hearted smile. Losing it front of teenagers, now? That's just embarrassing. "Yeah, you could say that. Been having a rough, uh...rough couple of weeks." Or something.

[when_a_grids_misaligned]

If Moiré could read the narration they would protest that by the end of the month they'll be old enough to drink in the US. Probably. It's not like they know how long they really spent in Arcadia, but they look a lot closer to the nineteen years old they were when they went in than the twenty-five they'd have turned in 2016 if they'd never been.

Hang on, this place is Freehold-adjacent. There's people dropping in all the time from other dimensions, and some of them are just a D&D world or whatever's going on with Don Quixote's world but sometimes the entire dimension is an evil boat or something. Or she died. People come back from that here. They can't just assume that she's crying into her breakfast for normal pub-related reasons because they don't see a mien.

What are they supposed to say in this type of situation? There's a reason their motley didn't send them to talk to people. "Well, the good news is... whatever happened at home can't get you here."

[paramnesiarules]

"Heh. That obvious, is it?" Helen sighs, setting her shoulders. "Well, that is some comfort, at least. I might have been brought to an entirely new world, separated from literally everything I've ever known, but at least that specific monster can't get me." Just, you know, dozens of new ones. That's very comforting.

Temple

[theydrewfirstblood]

"Hey--you all right?"

If anyone knows the look, it's John Rambo: be small, be invisible, hold on tight so it doesn't hurt so bad. Keep your head on a swivel.

He's spending just a little more time at the temple, given that he feels more at church in the forest than anything, but he's taking this paladin thing seriously so he brings Serranai gifts here, too. He worships in the forest, but at the temple...

He sees it as visiting. Brings a gift for each of the Mothers, the most personal for Serranai...and today, he's in town, he's got offerings in his pockets?

And someone is on the steps. Looking kind of terrified...if this is an accident, he's a fluffy bunny.

Sinking down to sit beside the woman, John watches her, gaze and expression soft.

"S'ok if you're not. This is a good place for people who are kind of a mess, it's the whole reason I come here."

[paramnesiarules]

"Oh, sorry. Am I --" In the way, she'd meant to say, but then this man is sitting down next to her and looking at her so sympathetically that Helen can't bring herself so meet his eye, so...she guesses not.

She laughs awkwardly. "Do you mean the church, or the town? It's got a habit of collecting strays, or so I hear."

The Temple of Seasons

[blindwatchersees]

As she sits, as people pass by and the doors swing open and close, the same smell keeps greeting her. It's that smell you smell when you walk into your house after a long trip, and know it's your place. Whether it's a trick or just a coincidence, the inside of the Temple is exuding the scent of familiarity.

[paramnesiarules]

It's like jasmine tea, with just a hint of brand new carpet. Not old and crusty, but fresh and soft and clean. The kind of carpet your feet would sink into, leaving a little trail of footprints behind you...Helen presses her face to her knees, feeling nauseated. Clearly this place isn't met for her. She shoves herself to her feet and walks away. Maybe she'll feel more comfortable closer to the water...there are no carpets or rugs in the sea.

[blindwatchersees]

One way or another, her wanderings lead her to the boardwalk. The smell of the sea hangs heavy and light at the same time, fresh salt and spray tinged with the musk of organic life. It's threatening to rain, but the most that's fallen so far is only a shadow of what could be called a fine mist.

Suddenly, there's a thud of hurried footfalls on the wooden planks.

"Why, I'd recognize those curls anywhere! Helen! Helen, my lass!" It's a dapper-looking bearded gentleman who's calling to her, somehow dressed to the nines in commoner's clothes.

[paramnesiarules]

Helen flinches at the sudden call, whirling around to put her back to the safety rail lining the edge of the boardwalk. Social scripts come easily to mind, but her laugh is brittle as she looks at him warily and says, "Oh, oh hi! Wow, how are you doing? How long have you been here?"

She's never seen this man before in her life, she's quite sure of that. Somehow she feels like she knows him anyway, and that. Terrifies her.

Oak & Iron

[cacophonish]

Somebody's taken a seat at her table. How long has he been sitting there before he decides to make himself known? He seems content to sit there in companionable silence while Helen cries into her hands-- at least at first.

Then, eventually, he speaks up.

"I get it." He sounds sincere, totally sympathetic. Like, just the right amounts of sympathy. Not so little that he comes across as fake, and not so overdone that he comes across as fake and patronizing. "Bacon makes me cry, too."

[paramnesiarules]

Her laugh is broken and rather soggy, but it's still a laugh and not a scream. Helen fumbles for a napkin, wiping her eyes as she says, "Is that so? Then I won't be too hard on myself. Sometimes you just gotta take a moment for all the cute little piggies who died for your breakfast, right?"

Because that's definitely what she's crying about, here. The pigs.

[cacophonish]

He laughs, always a little too sharp and too hard these days, but it's clear that he's laughing along with her, and not at her. Still, there might be something familiar to the cadence of it-- or something adjacent to the familiar.

"Exactly. Honor the piggies." He leans in closer and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "Unless they're cops."

[paramnesiarules]

Her answering laugh is too high and brittle, rising as it does on a sudden wave of anxiety that she ruthlessly tries to suppress. "Right, of course." She eyes him uncertainly.

"Ah, I'm Helen," she finally adds, holding out her hand for a shake. "Just got here yesterday. Yourself?"

Library

[spaghettification]

"Yes, I do. Welcome, is there aught I can help you find?" Siebren is, as usual, floating a few inches off the ground. This helps only a little with the sensation of being pinned down and shaken for information. Cornered, it's something he has been many times before. But he pretends that he doesn't notice it, now.

[paramnesiarules]

She's making him uncomfortable. She's not sure how she knows that, when his face is impassive and she has to crane her neck a little just to make eye contact, but she knows.

She clears her throat, trying to appear normal -- it's just a librarian Helen, who cares if he's floating off the ground? -- and says, "I heard that a number of watch towers were recently built around the island. Are there any publicly accessible maps of their locations that I look at?"

[spaghettification]

"You would be more likely to find that information at City Hall, or with Jean and the militia, I think. A few, I can point out. Crane's Ridge, up past the mine. The clock tower in town gets used as one. And so forth."

He's keeping his cool. This is worktime, not time to panic.

[paramnesiarules]

"I need to know where all of them are," Helen says firmly. "Who do I talk to at City Hall?"

Her heart is beginning to beat more quickly, an un-sympathetic excitement rising in her blood. She wants to -- to grab him, and drag him back to earth. And engulf him somehow, what does that even mean? She's human, damn it, she can't do things like. And even if she could...she wouldn't. She's sure she wouldn't.

She backs off a few steps, nearly banging her shoulder into one of the stacks. "Ah, sorry, sorry!" She laughs awkwardly. "Must've had too much tea at breakfast, I guess. I'm a little wired at the moment!"

Wildcard - Butterfly's Fang Salon

[apocryphalarchivist]

There are many things Jon expected to see, in this strange, jointed business he's just caught wind about.

A peculiar split interior was the first expectation that was met, with the two sides divided cleanly by wooden dividers. It isn't bustling, but it's slow enough for him to look as he pleases, which is a welcome change of pace from many of the more-fast-paced businesses he frequents. A desk with a receptionist just as standard, and he's quick to approach, fully ready to ask about a list of offered services, so he can see if there's anything in particular he might be after. (Maybe he ought to get a tattoo? He hasn't gotten a new one since university, after all...)

Asking for that list falls short when he finally takes a good look at the receptionist, though. What he hadn't been expecting was for her to look familiar, a sort of recognition that feels like it's come from a lifetime ago that leaves him wide-eyed and stunned.

"Helen?"

[paramnesiarules]

Sheogorath is a very generous employer, but as promised his paperwork is a solid mess. While a few potential clients quietly browse the sketchbooks full of Sheogorath's work -- Helen has already made an entry on her to-do list reminding her to organize them into more professional-looking binders -- she takes a moment to work on the inventory sheets. An artist is only as good as their tools after all, and she's determined that her new boss will have the best possible tools she can get him.

She did glance up when the bell over the front door rang, but didn't see anything exceptional about the man who walked in. He looked like another idle browser, in fact, so she was all set to leave him to it when he walked up to the desk and -- and said her name.

Helen looks up at him, eyes wide. It takes her a minute to place him; they only met the once, after all, but the validation he gave her left a weighty mark. "Jon?" She stands up from her chair. "Oh my god, it is Jon isn't it? Jonathan Sims, from the Magnus Institute? You took my statement!"

[apocryphalarchivist]

At first, there had been a back-seated anxiety that had risen, but had been quelled as quickly as it'd come. He'd been expecting to see long hands, for her visage to start bending and changing as she moved, but there were no such changes as she stands from her chair. There is a mark, a weighty scar worn from the Spiral, but she is not the Distortion. This must be Helen before she was taken - perhaps from the moment when she'd become something else entirely?

Regardless, the sight and revelation brings a delighted smile to his face.

"I am! God, I feel like I haven't seen you in an age," Jon half-lies - if this Helen hasn't lived the Distortion's life, she doesn't need to start knowing about it. Not yet, at least. "How have you been? Have you been in town long?"