A month and a half’s time in Pumpkin Hollow is spent unceremoniously, and the routine Ripley’s found herself leaves little room for observing the town’s splendor. Mineshafts, the occasional meal at the O&I and brief run-ins— some more strange than others— with the townsfolk is about all she’s had the time for. And the nightmares, obviously. How can one forget about the nightmares?
”Can’t be that extravagant, can it?”
A tremulous purr sounds in response. Wigglesworth’s mismatched eyes stare up at her.
”I just have to show up.”
Not quite. Much to her dismay and misjudgment, here she stands; an unbidden member of the Court’s procession, made only marginally less painful by CT’s company. The woman in question is dressed in a delicate floral pattern, neckline scooped to reveal hills and crests of caramel skin and beaded jewelry. A star-shaped scar stamps below her collarbone. Another drags a long line up her chest. Ripley admires her respectfully, as in her face goes briefly pink upon first seeing her. Is it hot in here? Right, they’re outside…
She walks arms-linked with her companion, hand rested on the muscled flat of CT’s upper arm. Her own dress shimmers, splits to reveal a slender leg as they make their way through the ceremony. ”You know,” She mutters, “When I nominated you, I didn’t think it’d be so serious. Are these things always…?”
The question fizzles out as she looks into the crowd, constituted by several dozen people she’s never seen before. Twists of flowers hang from baskets and spill over the Court table in lavish, colorful spreads. Not quite so colorful, though, as the well-dressed group who eagerly awaits their Flower Queen named.
Dahlia Leeds.
Ellen smiles a little, watches the poor girl sob for reasons she isn’t privy to.
Applause rings out through the crowd and the festivities begin.
…Which means she can leave, right?
If only.
Ripley takes up her seat next to CT, raising a glass of... What kind of tea is this again?
"Congrats again on the special nomination." She cracks a sarky grin, then drops it for something akin to exhaustion. "Though maybe it's more of a cruel and unusual punishment than I initially thought."
no.2 I Can’t Possibly
As folks drink their choice of wine or enchanted tea, it’s a mere matter of time before the Festival Green is taken over by dancing. A fiddler commands the crowd’s energy with his cheery beat, most of whom rise to the occasion without holding back. Ripley is decidedly not among them. Would sooner tear her own heart out than embarrass herself by stumbling onto the dance floor. Ask her to keep a rhythm? She'll laugh in your face. Yes, it'd take a dedicated dancer to coax her from her perch. For now, she prefers to stand with drink in slender fingers, watching the crowd sway and plenty entertained by it.
That is, until a shape— familiar or not, who’s to say— parts the crowd to reach for her.
She looks pointedly horrified. Thin brows raise, her mop of curly hair almost frizzing in protest. “Oh— oh, no. I don’t really—”
no.3 This is a Rental
[CW: Thorn-induced gash]
At some point during the evening, the mood sours. The sun dips low over the horizon and new players take the stage, ushering in notes of minor key which permeate the air like a thick miasmic cloud. Were their appearance not disturbing enough to give those enjoying themselves pause, then certainly the crowd of thorns will do the trick. They creep across the ground to encompass the players, cutting dresses and pricking trousered ankles, sparing no one— including Ripley.
She's caught by a monstrous one, like a dragon's spine, which cuts a neat red line cut into her bare thigh. Blood springs to the surface, trailing down her skin faster than she can clamp a hand atop it. Shit. Shit. This is a rental! If she stains this dress that's more Brass down the drain then she can spare. What the fuck is going on here?
Maybe it's time to leave.
Maybe she ought to find Connie.
Maybe—
Tears, like the blood, begin to flow freely. She doesn't know where they've come from or why, only that a sudden weight begins to torment her chest, goaded on by music. A ribcage instrument harkens memories better forgotten. She fights through bodily pain but every effort to do so is doubled-down by another kind of hurt. Fear, fire. Hair ripped clean from the scalp, sweaty palms clutching the handle of a cat-carrier. She sees her mother. She sees her captain. Hears the shrill cry of her peer's last moments alive. Smells the blood and death and— god.
"Excuse me—" Ripley snaps; isn't sure herself if she'd meant to flag down the person in front of her or try and shoulder through them.
no.4 Wildcard!
Want to pull Ripley aside? Offer her a drink, drag her to braid some garland? Maybe you recognize her from a dream. Maybe you’re overcome by sadness and need a shoulder to cry on. Or maybe you’re just a sucker for tall women with resting mean-face. Whatever the reason— surprise me!
Ellen Ripley | Alien (1979) | no.1 Closed to CT, others OTA
[ Closed to CT ]no.1 Eat, Drink and Regret Your Decisions
A month and a half’s time in Pumpkin Hollow is spent unceremoniously, and the routine Ripley’s found herself leaves little room for observing the town’s splendor. Mineshafts, the occasional meal at the O&I and brief run-ins— some more strange than others— with the townsfolk is about all she’s had the time for. And the nightmares, obviously. How can one forget about the nightmares?
”Can’t be that extravagant, can it?”
A tremulous purr sounds in response. Wigglesworth’s mismatched eyes stare up at her.
”I just have to show up.”
Not quite. Much to her dismay and misjudgment, here she stands; an unbidden member of the Court’s procession, made only marginally less painful by CT’s company. The woman in question is dressed in a delicate floral pattern, neckline scooped to reveal hills and crests of caramel skin and beaded jewelry. A star-shaped scar stamps below her collarbone. Another drags a long line up her chest. Ripley admires her respectfully, as in her face goes briefly pink upon first seeing her. Is it hot in here? Right, they’re outside…
She walks arms-linked with her companion, hand rested on the muscled flat of CT’s upper arm. Her own dress shimmers, splits to reveal a slender leg as they make their way through the ceremony. ”You know,” She mutters, “When I nominated you, I didn’t think it’d be so serious. Are these things always…?”
The question fizzles out as she looks into the crowd, constituted by several dozen people she’s never seen before. Twists of flowers hang from baskets and spill over the Court table in lavish, colorful spreads. Not quite so colorful, though, as the well-dressed group who eagerly awaits their Flower Queen named.
Dahlia Leeds.
Ellen smiles a little, watches the poor girl sob for reasons she isn’t privy to.
Applause rings out through the crowd and the festivities begin.
…Which means she can leave, right?
If only.
Ripley takes up her seat next to CT, raising a glass of... What kind of tea is this again?
"Congrats again on the special nomination." She cracks a sarky grin, then drops it for something akin to exhaustion. "Though maybe it's more of a cruel and unusual punishment than I initially thought."
no.2 I Can’t Possibly
As folks drink their choice of wine or enchanted tea, it’s a mere matter of time before the Festival Green is taken over by dancing. A fiddler commands the crowd’s energy with his cheery beat, most of whom rise to the occasion without holding back. Ripley is decidedly not among them. Would sooner tear her own heart out than embarrass herself by stumbling onto the dance floor. Ask her to keep a rhythm? She'll laugh in your face. Yes, it'd take a dedicated dancer to coax her from her perch. For now, she prefers to stand with drink in slender fingers, watching the crowd sway and plenty entertained by it.
That is, until a shape— familiar or not, who’s to say— parts the crowd to reach for her.
She looks pointedly horrified. Thin brows raise, her mop of curly hair almost frizzing in protest. “Oh— oh, no. I don’t really—”
no.3 This is a Rental
[CW: Thorn-induced gash]
At some point during the evening, the mood sours. The sun dips low over the horizon and new players take the stage, ushering in notes of minor key which permeate the air like a thick miasmic cloud. Were their appearance not disturbing enough to give those enjoying themselves pause, then certainly the crowd of thorns will do the trick. They creep across the ground to encompass the players, cutting dresses and pricking trousered ankles, sparing no one— including Ripley.
She's caught by a monstrous one, like a dragon's spine, which cuts a neat red line cut into her bare thigh. Blood springs to the surface, trailing down her skin faster than she can clamp a hand atop it. Shit. Shit. This is a rental! If she stains this dress that's more Brass down the drain then she can spare. What the fuck is going on here?
Maybe it's time to leave.
Maybe she ought to find Connie.
Maybe—
Tears, like the blood, begin to flow freely. She doesn't know where they've come from or why, only that a sudden weight begins to torment her chest, goaded on by music. A ribcage instrument harkens memories better forgotten. She fights through bodily pain but every effort to do so is doubled-down by another kind of hurt. Fear, fire. Hair ripped clean from the scalp, sweaty palms clutching the handle of a cat-carrier. She sees her mother. She sees her captain. Hears the shrill cry of her peer's last moments alive. Smells the blood and death and— god.
"Excuse me—" Ripley snaps; isn't sure herself if she'd meant to flag down the person in front of her or try and shoulder through them.
no.4 Wildcard!
Want to pull Ripley aside? Offer her a drink, drag her to braid some garland? Maybe you recognize her from a dream. Maybe you’re overcome by sadness and need a shoulder to cry on. Or maybe you’re just a sucker for tall women with resting mean-face. Whatever the reason— surprise me!