paramnesiarules (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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ph_logs2024-09-03 04:14 pm
paramnesiarules) wrote in ph_logs2024-09-03 04:14 pm
August/September top-level
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.
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.
no subject
no subject
She has to laugh at herself. "God, listen to me go on. I must sound utterly ridiculous."
no subject
He pauses, considering his words carefully. Normally he wouldn't be so guarded, but Helen is a special case, uniquely positioned on a precipice of Being.
"My Isles... they are made for people who have come to realize that the world does not make sense in the way most people think it does. It is a safe place in some ways, a terrifying place in others. A home for those who don't seem to have a home in the world where people insist on doing 'the sensible thing.'"
no subject
"But," she continues, straightening her second-hand jacket. "I hope you don't expect me to give up all sensibility altogether. Somebody has to keep the appointments straight and the supply closets full."
no subject
“You know, I’d love your thoughts on what your work attire might look like. I can fund it, ought to really, being your employer. Do you prefer puffed or bishop sleeves?”
wrap?
Sure thing!
“Well… I’ll see about getting that made then. Oh, Helen, dear… I do really think we’ll be able to make this work out for you.”