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ph_logs2025-05-21 07:05 pm
pumpkinhollow) wrote in ph_logs2025-05-21 07:05 pm
Entry tags:
May Event - All Too Familiar
May Event - All Too Familiar
Content Warnings: Walking dead, character deaths, potential for gore | Special Thanks to Meghan and Kalineh
It was a fine spring day when mysterious letters began cropping up all over Pumpkin Hollow. Letters whose apparent senders do not remember writing them, whose recipients or discoverers were harmed by reading them. Eventually these mysteries, though still unsolved, come to a quiet halt as stealthily as they began, but not before a mail carrier in a cowboy hat trots out to Elsie’s tree with a letter in hand, unmarked aside from being addressed to her.
Elsie,
River la Croix has been hiding something in her forge for a while now. It is called the Book of the Dead. In its pages are hundreds of spells from across time and space with the power to give life to those no longer with us.
Your father is doing his best to revive your mother. But this island’s barrier is blocking his will, resisting his magic. I can no longer watch you suffer in solitude when a solution exists. All you have to do is decipher the text, and its powers are yours. Your mother will be returned to you.
River does not want to part with it. She will become suspicious of you if you ask, and it will become harder to acquire it. You will have to take it without her notice by levitating it out of her forge. She, like many others, is fearful of the Book’s power. This fear isn’t entirely unwarranted for them, but for you, your connection to the Feywilds’ magic will be enough to grant you access to that otherworldly power.
Good luck, and all my love to your dear mother when she returns.
Fond regards,
A friend
Could this be it? Could this be the miracle she's been waiting for? Hope swells painfully in her chest as she clutches the note close. She mustn't celebrate too early. She still needs to get the book. At least her mysterious friend has already told her where to find it. Her jaw sets in a look of determination, and she speeds away into the dusk.
It doesn't take long to reach the forge. River has defended it well, but Elsie slips into her own shadow and sneaks beneath the door without so much as a whisper of sound. Only her hand extends from the puddle of shadow on the floor inside, like a disembodied arm hovering before the flames. Mustering her will, she reaches out to the ancient book and commands the winds to lift it. Sweat beads her shadowy brow while she concentrates, the flames flicker and dance around the slowly levitating book. Just a little more, a little more… There!
It's heavy in her hand, and remarkably cool to the touch despite having been pulled from the fire. She retracts her arm and the book back into her shadow and slips out the way she came. Her heart thumps in her chest as she races back to the safety of her tree. To her mother, who will soon be able to wrap flesh and blood arms around her like she once did. All that's left now is to read. Her friends have been teaching her how. Her mother will be so proud of her.
Carefully now, she opens the book, feeling her skin crawl as a sudden unease grips her very core. No, she will not be deterred. The language is unlike any she's ever seen. The letters, if indeed they can be called that, feel jagged and painful to her mind. Still, she will Not Give Up. She screws her eyes shut, thinks of her mother, and holds tight to her desperate hope to be reunited.
When her eyes reopen to behold the page before her, understanding strikes like lightning. Suddenly, she knows she can speak the words. As they escape her mouth, an unknown magic swells into the space around her, then beyond her. The ground shakes. The air turns foul. And as the trinkets in Elsie’s tree chime together in the unsettling breeze, ringing out with notes more sour than usual, it quickly becomes clear that the advice she received was not from any friend.
The forms of people begin to pry themselves loose from the ground all over town, as if emerging from water, leaving the ground unbroken as they lift themselves out of the ground. They bear horrid injuries, shambling along grotesquely, telling a story of death. However, these are not skeletons from the graveyard, housing the souls of long-dead locals. These are things of flesh and blood, however exposed they might be, wearing newer faces.
Much newer.
Since the barrier went up, many people have died, only to have their bodies vanish and replaced by a new one. Those bodies now walk the town, seeking to unleash a wrath brought on by the corrupted magic of the Necronomicon. Anyone who has died inside the barrier will have a violent, undead copy of themself representing each death wandering the island looking to increase their ranks. Which means that there will be many, many, many Yoricks.
Destroyed copies will remain destroyed for the standard overnight period of any other person. But there are too many of them to defeat this way, and their destruction is impermanent. Thankfully, help is on the way!
In the midst of the undead and their attack on the citizens of Pumpkin Hollow, tiny glimmers of hope appear in the form of folded paper birds. The little gold birds flit from fighter to fighter, small whispers promising that if enough enemies can be felled then the High Priestess can intervene. The necessary number is unknown, but if a bird alights upon someone, they will feel their weariness vanish for a short time, and perhaps, should she feel like it, they may receive a temporary boon to use against the undead.
Eventually the High Priestess will show herself, making good on the promises of the little birds. With a smile, her magic will wrap around the remaining undead, returning them to the unseen graves and binding them into Death once more, leaving the living to pick up the pieces.
She gleefully rips open that letter, hoping it's another message from her father. It isn't and, at first, she's crushed. But only until she starts to actually read it.
Elsie,
River la Croix has been hiding something in her forge for a while now. It is called the Book of the Dead. In its pages are hundreds of spells from across time and space with the power to give life to those no longer with us.
Your father is doing his best to revive your mother. But this island’s barrier is blocking his will, resisting his magic. I can no longer watch you suffer in solitude when a solution exists. All you have to do is decipher the text, and its powers are yours. Your mother will be returned to you.
River does not want to part with it. She will become suspicious of you if you ask, and it will become harder to acquire it. You will have to take it without her notice by levitating it out of her forge. She, like many others, is fearful of the Book’s power. This fear isn’t entirely unwarranted for them, but for you, your connection to the Feywilds’ magic will be enough to grant you access to that otherworldly power.
Good luck, and all my love to your dear mother when she returns.
Fond regards,
A friend
Could this be it? Could this be the miracle she's been waiting for? Hope swells painfully in her chest as she clutches the note close. She mustn't celebrate too early. She still needs to get the book. At least her mysterious friend has already told her where to find it. Her jaw sets in a look of determination, and she speeds away into the dusk.
It doesn't take long to reach the forge. River has defended it well, but Elsie slips into her own shadow and sneaks beneath the door without so much as a whisper of sound. Only her hand extends from the puddle of shadow on the floor inside, like a disembodied arm hovering before the flames. Mustering her will, she reaches out to the ancient book and commands the winds to lift it. Sweat beads her shadowy brow while she concentrates, the flames flicker and dance around the slowly levitating book. Just a little more, a little more… There!
It's heavy in her hand, and remarkably cool to the touch despite having been pulled from the fire. She retracts her arm and the book back into her shadow and slips out the way she came. Her heart thumps in her chest as she races back to the safety of her tree. To her mother, who will soon be able to wrap flesh and blood arms around her like she once did. All that's left now is to read. Her friends have been teaching her how. Her mother will be so proud of her.
Carefully now, she opens the book, feeling her skin crawl as a sudden unease grips her very core. No, she will not be deterred. The language is unlike any she's ever seen. The letters, if indeed they can be called that, feel jagged and painful to her mind. Still, she will Not Give Up. She screws her eyes shut, thinks of her mother, and holds tight to her desperate hope to be reunited.
When her eyes reopen to behold the page before her, understanding strikes like lightning. Suddenly, she knows she can speak the words. As they escape her mouth, an unknown magic swells into the space around her, then beyond her. The ground shakes. The air turns foul. And as the trinkets in Elsie’s tree chime together in the unsettling breeze, ringing out with notes more sour than usual, it quickly becomes clear that the advice she received was not from any friend.
The forms of people begin to pry themselves loose from the ground all over town, as if emerging from water, leaving the ground unbroken as they lift themselves out of the ground. They bear horrid injuries, shambling along grotesquely, telling a story of death. However, these are not skeletons from the graveyard, housing the souls of long-dead locals. These are things of flesh and blood, however exposed they might be, wearing newer faces.
Much newer.
Since the barrier went up, many people have died, only to have their bodies vanish and replaced by a new one. Those bodies now walk the town, seeking to unleash a wrath brought on by the corrupted magic of the Necronomicon. Anyone who has died inside the barrier will have a violent, undead copy of themself representing each death wandering the island looking to increase their ranks. Which means that there will be many, many, many Yoricks.
Destroyed copies will remain destroyed for the standard overnight period of any other person. But there are too many of them to defeat this way, and their destruction is impermanent. Thankfully, help is on the way!
In the midst of the undead and their attack on the citizens of Pumpkin Hollow, tiny glimmers of hope appear in the form of folded paper birds. The little gold birds flit from fighter to fighter, small whispers promising that if enough enemies can be felled then the High Priestess can intervene. The necessary number is unknown, but if a bird alights upon someone, they will feel their weariness vanish for a short time, and perhaps, should she feel like it, they may receive a temporary boon to use against the undead.
Eventually the High Priestess will show herself, making good on the promises of the little birds. With a smile, her magic will wrap around the remaining undead, returning them to the unseen graves and binding them into Death once more, leaving the living to pick up the pieces.
QUESTIONS/COMMENTS/CONCERNS
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Re: QUESTIONS/COMMENTS/CONCERNS
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Agent Carolina | Red vs. Blue | Closed + Wildcard
CW: Gore throughout.
She wakes to the sound of feet claving earth and becomes suddenly estranged from the room around her. Paint-chipped, fisted walls and sheets strewn on floor melt away into a darkest hour, one that looms imperceptibly in the atmosphere, and Catherine Church– or Carolina, as most know her– snaps into focus.
This is war. She feels its hearty beat. Death’s breath wafting across her yard. In through her windows, and although the drumming of innumerable undead feet have not yet reached her property, she knows they’re coming. This is war. This is precisely what she’d been made for.
Carolina steps into panic with assertion. She pockets her sending stone. Slips on her boots. Throws her entire collection of ammunition into a backpack (stuffs her pockets full, too), grabs her choices of firearm and makes for the door. One is a large colt rifle. A heavy hitter. The other is a handgun appropriate to the time period. Neither satisfies her, nor will they do the job as well as she’d like. They’re secondary to herself. She is the weapon. Her quads and calves flex in anticipation of being put to proper use. Carolina was made for this. This is war.
I’m tingling, tingling, tingling | CLOSED to Gerry Keay
One shot– two shot– three– shoulder absorbing the shock of fire and metal like it were her own appendage. Tissue and fetid blood paint Carolina’s face. She moves on. This is war. No time to think, just act act act. But Carolina is thinking. Her mind is a well-oiled locomotive barreling forward on its fixed path to its fixed destination.
Gerry.
She sets out to find him first, anxieties cinching some deep channel inside her stomach. Her body explodes in a combination of muscle-movement and firing synapses, propelling her through the throng. She can only hope her scrawny friend is able to handle himself as adequately as he dances.
One shot. Reload. Gunpowder on her fingertips. Smoke in her throat. Bone and muscle erupt in a rotted cacophony. She doesn’t recognize any of these people. These things. Suppose it’s better that way.
She skids to a stop at his door and raps hard.
Open up… Open up.
Bodysnatcher | CLOSED to CT
Help is needed elsewhere– everywhere– and although it grates on her nerves, Carolina parts with Gerry to make herself useful.
The question now; where to go first?
She starts for the residential areas. Individuals who hole themselves up in their homes will find they’re inevitably trapped, and with no place to go they’ll leap senselessly out through their windows or succumb to the dirty, festering jaws of their neighbors. One shot– two shot– a hand on her shoulder.
Carolina turns, roundhouse kicks an undead in its temple. The force of her heel combined with its porous, rotten skull sends it collapsing inward onto itself. Brainmatter wets her shoe. She feels fantastic. This is war.
It's only fitting, then, that war presents her with a likely enemy.
Two shots. Two bodies collapse. Reload. Black cakes under her nails. Between her fingers. A groan behind her. Not baritone, like the man whose mess smashes into her shoe soles, but lighter—
Carolina turns. Her stomach drops into her feet.
There, CT greets her. Pale brown skin has turned gray, blood letted from a gash across her throat. Where soft fat forms curves and muscle, she now appears almost… deflated. An animal hung and drained. Dead eyes fix onto her. Jaw parts to spill out putrid black liquid.
And in a burst of speed, CT is on her. Sends her colt rifle flying out of her hands.
A low flying panic attack | CLOSED to Crichton
Crichton finds her in no fit state to fight, sitting on hands and knees above CT’s dead-undead corpse, neck-deep in the horror of having killed her twice. Once in the belly of a bunker, joined by Agent Texas who sent her two tomahawks flying, and now.
She can’t move.
Her rifle is kicked far away, her handgun stowed in her backpack.
Heavy footsteps fall around her. Jaws part. Nails scrape at the air in her direction, gaining, gaining, each step bringing her closer to death, but she can. Not. Move.
Oh, Reckoner / Take me with ya | CLOSED to Valdis
The farmlands. It seems to her like the most sensible place to lead panicked townsfolk. Far from the crux of action, where they can take shelter in the yawning farmhouses there. She'll post herself up outside, a turret-woman taking out undead with exact precision, ensuring that no strays cross over the unmarked barrier. This is what she was made for. A hunter, soldier, weapon.
And so, so tired.
But just when fatigue seems imminent– when she’s certain she’ll fall to her knees and succumb to the ever-active hoard before she can enact her plan– a paper bird touches down against her shoulder. A woman’s whisper on a rotten wind. Do not stop.
She hadn’t planned on it.
Nor does she plan to run face-first into the snout of a wolf larger than she’s ever seen. It appears like a black shadow in front of her, its neck fur plumed out, its tail high.
Carolina’s pupils expand. She stumbles, reaches for her gun, hot animal breath wafting against her face.
“You’ve got to be kidding me–”
A monster I’d like to know | CLOSED to Nimona
Fields sprawl with intruding bodies– more than Carolina can count. It’d take a miracle to see that Baker Ranch goes untouched; that its inhabitants– those who cannot or will not fight– won’t be ripped to pieces between the teeth of the undead. Yes, a miracle. A strength she isn’t capable of, no matter how many golden birds touch down upon her. No, what she needs is backup.
And by god she’s just found it.
“Hey, you! Pink! We need you over here!”
Wildcard:
Have something else in mind? Hit me!
Oh Reckoner
Stand down.
Her recognizable voice sounds in the woman's head.
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bodysnatcher
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Tingling, tingling
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a monster i'd like to know
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cw: zombie gore/decapitation
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[Closed Post - The Plot Thickens]
As the magic swelling around her goes out into the earth, she suddenly feels woozy. The next thing she knows, she's waking to the smell of grass and the taste of blood on her lips. Her head is pounding and...did she bite her own lip when she passed out? That realization lurches her to her feet. She turns, eyes full of hope, only to feel it all crash down around her. Mother tree is... still just a tree.
And the book is gone.
[Closed For Bastion & Cassandra, Separately]
Elsie paces beneath her tree, lost in deep in thought with the nails of both hands between her nervously chewing teeth. She's made a terrible mistake! Those undead bodies rising from the earth can't be a coincidence. She couldn't mistake that foul, rotten magic for anything but evil. If she'd only known. She should have known the note was a lie! This is all her fault! Will her friends be angry at her? Will they outcast her again for this? That doesn't matter right now. She has to do something to fix it. But what? What can she do when she doesn't even have the book as proof?
She has the only next best thing--a journaling pad she'd been using to practice her letters. In a fit of desperation, she's scribbled out all of the strange symbols she's able to recall. It isn't more than half a page in total, but it might be enough. Now, she needs to find someone she can ask to read it. That's a little harder to do amid the chaos, but just when she's starting to lose hope, she spots a familiar friend.
"Help!" she cries, gripping the journal protectively to her chest as she sprints to them. "Need help!"
[Closed For Amarantha]
After hours and hours, maybe more than 24, running around doing anything and everything she could think of to help fix the disaster she's sure she caused, she is finally forced to collapse against her tree out of pure exhaustion. She's too spent to curl up in her shadowy tree hollow, so she does the next best thing by tucking herself into a tight ball under its roots. Tears slip silently down her face as she shivers and weeps, brushing her fingers against her mother's bark and wishing so desperately for a hand to hold instead.
"Sorry. Mother. Father... E... sorry."
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Closed, by Invitation
<3
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wildcard as discussed!
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cw: body horror
Re: cw: body horror
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Snakes Tolliver | The Wild Wild West | OTA
Die DIE DIE! And stay dead this time!
He's attacking the zombies anywhere and everywhere with guns, knives, swords, even explosive devices he's crafted himself. He's had it, he's completely had it, this reminds him of the Parade and he is so, so done.
If a zombie gets too close to him or to somebody else, he will spring at it, shooting, stabbing, slashing, and if all else fails he may just start beating it into the ground with both fists. His eyes are wild, filled with rage and anger and the memory of helplessness when being at the demons' mercies again and again.
Die DIE DIE!
He won't stop attacking, won't stop fighting, won't stop beating the zombies into dust. This time he's not going to be helpless and just take it. Never again.
His usually combed hair is coming loose, falling into his eyes and going in every direction. He barely notices after a while.
Someone please help him, calm him, before he ends up added to the zombie population.
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"Officer Tolliver!" he calls out, silver sword flashing as he fights his way to Snakes' side. "Are you well? Are you injured?"
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fever (dark urge) | baldur's gate 3 | ota
the moon is full and shines an evil blinding light.
And so, armoring herself in robes, Fever goes out to do what she does best. Destruction arcs and courses from her fingertips in a myriad of forms, magic coupled with physical force from weapons. So many undead, but so much pent up frustration at the world. They will fall to dagger and staff and so much lightning - other elements make their appearance, but Fever's indulging herself. It crackles and sparks around her, fueling her to dart around and reposition herself, the essence of the storm clinging onto her wherever she goes.
Wholesale slaughter isn't the only reason to be out, and those that need a hand might just find one coming their way, either as support or as cover to escape somewhere. And if moments allow, she's also reaching out to those she knows via sending stone to check their location, ensuring they remain if not fully safe, then out of immediate harm's way.
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cw: gore/biting
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under a monolith, her likeness marble white.
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zombie queen, black light guides you.
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ghuleh, ghuleh. (wildcard.)
Pyotr Stamatin | cw: themes of self-harm and suicide ideation
The sounds that rise to his windowsill are so familiar to Pyotr, it's nearly nostalgic. Screams, the clamor of running and combat, the sudden roar of a nearby building catching fire; he might almost be back in Town-on-Gorkhon during the plague. He sits by his window for a time, calmly observing the carnage, before at last a monster with Erik's face begins to batter itself against his building's front door. He smirks as he registers the creature's state of undress.
To such a presentation, there can be only one response. He unlocks his own front door, leaving it open a crack so whatever makes it up to his floor can just...come inside.
Much, much later, an angry ghost stalks the streets, ignoring the chaos in favor of searching without pause or rest for a particular person: Lord Erik Osborne. Pyotr isn't usually interested in conflict, but today he finds himself in quite the unusual mood. He's ready to have it out with Erik, to really give him a piece of his mind.
Wildcard
It's not like he can spend every one of the next twenty-four hours fighting with Erik...and on top of that, there's now a rather chewed-up zombie wandering around with the ability to pull the emotions out of people and...eat them? Gross.
Anyway, if that sounds interesting to anyone, please toss your characters at him here <3
Wildcard | cw decapitation mention
Wilson glances up and down the street and ducks behind a wall, quickly weaving a rope so that he can make a spear.
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cw: gore and nastiness ahead
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CW: eye gore/cww: themes of self-harm and suicide ideation will likely be ongoing throughout thread
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Ellen Ripley | Alien (1979) | Closed to CT
'In the dark, In the dark.'
The swell beneath Crane's Ridge is quiet. Not quiet as in an absence of noise— hydraulic machines wail incessantly; metal pings off rock in its singular quest to chip, chip, chip; water leaks, a natural erosive, like music— but in its distance from chaos. Quiet and in the dark.
It's the middle of the workday when the dead come crawling back into life. Above the surface, neighbors flee their houses to find safety while others put their physical prowess to the ultimate test against themselves. Here, it's quiet.
Ripley pads through a long, intestine-like channel, tools clinking. She's one of three who work this particular shaft. A ways behind her, two men sit on wooden crates eating sandwiches. Under them, seventy-five pounds of explosives each.
"I hope you like the taste of lead," She says. They don't hear her. They shouldn't be eating with their gloves on, but they do anyway, not caring for the taste, instead performing the action of eating simply to do so. To take a good, honest break.
Far, far above ground and then some, a call to her sending stone. She doesn't answer.
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Goddammit, Ellen Ripley. Of all the times to not pick up your stone—
It's a long trip out to Crane's Ridge—longer today, amidst the newfound chaos, even despite the train being much safer than being out on foot right now. She's been on the move since the dead first began rising, cutting through town and trying to check on people along the way, assess the situation. But some people aren't in town, where the worst of the horde is centralised, and those people may not know what's going on. People like Ripley. Who isn't picking up her stone—
She keeps trying along the way. Not that it changes the lack of answer, but it feels better than doing nothing the whole time she's stuck pacing the train carriage. By the time it comes to a stop at North Station she's practically vibrating, and she's out of the doors in an instant, making a beeline for the miner's station.
She can't go charging down into the mine, she knows she can't just go charging down into the mine, but it still drives her a little nuts to have to stop and ask the other workers where Ripley is and if they can get hold of her.
"Things are getting weird in town again," is all she has by way of explanation, scattered as she is.
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Daisy Tonner | OTA
One Shot, Heavy Hitter [cw: eye trauma, violence]
When the dead first begin to rise, there is only one of her amongst them.
Problem being, one of her is enough.
From a distance and at first glance you would be forgiven for not thinking much of the short blonde woman in floral print. Look again, and the picture shifts. Blood runs down her cheek from an eye once pierced by a blade, left mangled, without sight. More than that, the way she stands is all wrong—except, no, it's not that her joints are dislocated or misshapen, it's that everything about her screams sharp.
Animal. Predator. Danger. Every instinct in your body screams at you to run the second her intact, sharp and yellow gaze lands upon you, but it's exactly that instinct that will be your ruin.
Hunters love it best when you run.
There is nothing in her but the Blood, like this. She needs no encouragement to tear her way through townspeople who stand no hope of outrunning her, let alone defending themselves when she catches them. Even the lucky few with weapons in hand will find her wounds heal in the span of a blink, never so much as slowing her down. Claws and teeth and brute strength, unstoppable and immovable.
[ ooc: encountering Zombie!Daisy is essentially guaranteed to end in at minimum injury, if not outright death, for the vast majority of characters. I would absolutely love to play this out and plot around it, whether you're up to die or want to get away injured, but I don't want to downplay how much of a genuine threat she is. ]
Can't Stop, I'm a Natural Killer
The real Daisy, the living Daisy, who hears the blood thrumming in every vein but has learned to listen past it to the quiet beneath, knows exactly what it is she has to do.
A version of herself is out there, yes, but not just her. Valdis, Fever, and others like them—heavy hitters who, without restraint, can be a massacre all their own. Promises made for dire circumstances feel more relevant now than they ever have before and Daisy has every intention of keeping them, where she can.
And she can help others. Tear through undead as easily as her other self tears through the living. Give people chance to escape, to survive. They don't have to know how she relishes in the violence of it all, how much of a release it is to not have to hold back, to have hands coated in blood.
(There's no meal, in this. No hunger to be sated by things that don't know to fear the pursuit. But there's still a freedom in it.)
She just has to keep it together enough not to be tempted by the fear all around her.
Wildcard
[ Hit me or come poke me. Plotting comment here if needed. ]
Wildcard (as discussed)
Which means she's far off her intended route when she sees Daisy, snarling, facing off against Daisy.
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sorry for the holdup, hmu if you'd rather fully handwave details
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Natural Killer
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sorry for the holdup, hmu if you'd rather fully handwave details
One-Shot Drive-By!
Natural Killer
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Not even Shen Qingqiu himself could tell you how many times he died the previous summer, when he wandered lost in bewildered in the thickest parts of the woods, wrestling with his own damaged mind and crazed thoughts after he suffered the mental touch of Nyarlathotep. But now the mystery is laid to rest in the most horrid way possible: four monsters with his face stagger through the town, all of them sporting terrible head wounds, all leaking noisome black tar from their eyes and mouths with their hair hanging loose down their backs like vengeful ghosts. The first monster, face marred by deep scratches around the empty sockets that should have held his eyes, mutters and groans a litany which the other three echo in tortured tones.
H' h' ah'legeth h' ah'legeth ah'legeth oh! ahfhtagnor yg' darth, ah'li'drn ot shuggothh, ahagl h' ah ah'n'ghft? mgep hh' n'ghft'drn mgep h' r'luh h' l'hru'ul ahororr'e?
And the other three mournfully echo, H' h' ah'legeth h' ah'legeth ah'legeth, as they trail behind him.
One is the Loneliest Number
Shen Qingqiu has taken up a position above the main door of Town Hall, controlling his sword with hand signs as it flashes and dances through the air, neatly avoiding all living persons even as it skewers the zombies and cuts them to shreds.
"Quickly!" he calls to the people below. "Get inside!" He looks out for anyone who seems to be struggling; if need be he'll leap down to carry them through the doors himself.
Four is the number of death
What happened to this guy? Purple's pretty sure that's not a normal colour for human fluids, and it doesn't even look like it's what killed him, unless the seeping blood and bonus holes all over him and his backup dancers' heads came afterwards. The way the oozing, moaning SQQ squad can enunciate so clearly with perpetually dribbling mouthfuls of thick black goop is unsettling.
The eyeless SQQ zombie gets a little too close for comfort, and they swing their shovel at his head. "Fuck off!"
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cw: body horror even by zombie standards
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[closed to Jonathan Sims]
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Hector/Inspekta | Great God Grove
The Beginning
When the commotion first begins, Hector almost assumes that he's just missed the start of some festival. Things have been so busy, it's entirely possible that something like that has slipped between the cracks, right? Head down, always buried in his work. He awakens that morning, confused, but in no particular hurry to peel himself out of bed and see what all the ruckus is about.
It doesn't take long for acrid smells and sounds of terror and bloodshed to show him that this is a mistake. One look out the window shows a living nightmare, the dead setting themselves upon the living, cruel magic and claws and weapons ensuring that another will join their ranks the next day.
It looks like the apocalypse.
Out— out are the lights— out all! [Closed to Capochin]
And, over each quivering form / The curtain, a funeral pall / Comes down with the rush of a storm [Closed to Patty and Godpoke]
While the angels, all pallid and wan / Uprising, unveiling, affirm [Open - Inspekta Classic]
That the play is the tragedy, “Man” / And its hero, the Conqueror Worm [Open - undead Inspekta]
[ I'm good for characters to attempt to kill him, or for Zinspekta to kill other characters! He won't go down easy, but if interested, we can discuss dice rolling for it! :D ]
All it takes is one simple attempt to pursue the living, failing to find them behind the door of a gardening shed, for the sagging form of a Drainfolk, covered with blue and yellow flowers and deep, cerulean blood, to turn into something far worse.
Spiraling through the sky like a distorted dragon of tattered reds and golds, a false Inspekta searches the ground, seeking anyone it might be able to find. The usually pristine coat of the god is torn open, fluttering weakly in the breeze; lining the insides are vines and flowers, a mockery of a skeleton fused to the inside, a tortoise-spine shedding bloody petals in the breeze. Wild eyes snap to anything that moves, setting any number of hands that had descended upon the ground, some scuttling upon all fingers, some in a mockery of walking, upon their target.
The hands snare victims, but they don't kill them. They steal them away, and the razor-sharp teeth of the false god see to a much grislier end instead.
Finished with his latest quarry, but ever-insatiable, a beheaded body is dropped unceremoniously to the ground, before colorful eyes set upon their next target. The form of the undead Inspekta curls, winding, before it launches in a flurry of petals and blood towards whatever poor soul it's got its sights upon.
The hunt begins anew.
Wildcard
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Luckily it doesn't fly far enough to actually hit -- she's strong, but not that strong -- but Patty's still left staring, stunned, at the specter of Inspekta. She quickly rubs her eyes; she must be seeing things, right??
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that the play is the tragedy (cw: gore, death, etc) (get his ass)
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All the lights are out
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while the angels
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aw fuck the eternal worm came back for the isle
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Hand in hand, come human error and plain bad luck
As an undead Neil shambles through the streets of town, hands crackling with red lightning and path followed by a wake of buzzing, swarming black particles that chew through the flesh of fellow undead and living townsfolk alike, it becomes frighteningly clear why this might be the case. A slim, sword-sized wound is punched through his chest all the way to his back, his eyes somehow both devoid of life and unsettlingly keen as they scan the streets for victims.
And then they find you.
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By the time her path crosses his, Daisy is already covered in the gore of all the undead she's torn through as easily as tissue paper—and, perhaps, dashes of her own, though all evidence of any wounds is long gone.
The crackling lightshow should be a warning sign, but you chain enough kills together and even an experienced Hunter can get... cocky. Caught up in blood. And so all Daisy sees, before she begins to tail the shambling man, is another threat worth dealing with.
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crunchetize him, captain!
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On my stomach, on my heart, chain mail
If you have the misfortune of being on the streets under the open sky, goddesses help you.
If you choose the cover of trees, you are in even poorer luck.
Baker Ranch [OTA]
John Rambo isn't here anymore, and Radar's still getting his feet under him as a permanent resident, but he's not alone. Edgar's there, ready to fight like always, and Johnny Boy, the stone construct Serranai gifted Radar to help watch over the ranch, guards the perimeter to keep the worst at bay. (He can't be everywhere; large as the property is, sometimes a zombie might slip through the cracks. But whenever he gets ahold of one, he makes short work of it.)
Radar might have called you on your sending stone to say he's got somewhere safe you can go. Or maybe you stumbled across the ranch unprompted as you fled from the horde. Either way, Baker Ranch's doors are open to the living, and Johnny Boy will escort you to the house if you need a little extra protection en route.
Radar O'Reilly | M*A*S*H | OTA
First: secure the perimeter. Next: herd all the big animals into the barn, then the smaller ones into the house, and secure them as well. Someone'll need to go out a couple times a day to check on the barn group, but Johnny Boy can take care of it in a pinch -- whether that's feeding the animals himself or guarding whoever's on rotation while they head out there. Third: contact his friends, either for backup or to let them know shelter's available.
Fourth: sit tight. Probably the hardest part, honestly. But he covers that reasonably well, too: "You want anything to eat?" he might ask you, or "I got a deck of cards if you wanna play something." If one of the smaller animals tries to kick up a fuss at you, he'll interrupt them with a "Hey! Be polite, they're a guest!" and do his best to corral them away.
And if he knows you're tougher than he is (which is... almost everybody), and he needs to go outside for barn duty or anything else, Radar will likely sidle up to you and mutter, "You got a minute?" He really, really doesn't wanna be zombie food. It's been a hard enough month already without getting killed on top of it.
[got another idea for a thread? come plot with me in the usual places!]
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Major Margaret Houlihan | OTA
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father mulcahy | M*A*S*H
the earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain [closed to gaeta]
It is the frightful dead who make it in before any parishioners do.
Mulcahy, to his regret, loses track of Degas quickly in their flight. He checks on the cemetery--a predictably bad decision, but he had to look. It is certainly one of the least safe spots to be, and he cannot even make it over to lock the gates. He should--he should get someone to help him try. He needs help.
On the way towards the library, something peels itself out of the path in front of him. Black clothes. White hair.
Mulcahy beholds a self with sheer, white-hot, seething, venomous hate twisting his face. It gnarls him; and in his throat is a gaping second mouth, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding, and Mulcahy sees, naked before him, a work of the dark.
(Mulcahy beholds a shrinking, pale, pathetic reflection, with panic twisting his face. It has withered him, and Mulcahy feels only disgust. A vicious, reflexive disgust, the same that one gets upon seeing vermin: I cannot stand this thing to live.
"You," Mulcahy gurgles through the blood.)
Mulcahy does not dodge the lunge, or climb out of the tackle; he does not avoid the hand around his throat or the nails digging into his skin over his jugulars. He lands a knee to the stomach; he wrestles, he does not box so much as pummel, and feels the blood fleck over him. It is not an elegant fight. Equally matched, it is not a quick one. There is no grace in this.
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cw blood, wounds
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a lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree [closed to fever]
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i do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain [wildcard]
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so long as we've fond and fearless fools
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Melanie King | Closed + Radio and Wildcard
A better line of work... [Radio Broadcast]
Melanie's about due to start her segment on relevant monster research when things start to go to hell outside. Half-way through an update about First Aid and Sally Boyle's ongoing trials on Hanahilator treatment, there's a knock on her door. At first, she ignores it—she's got a show to finish and really, people should know better than to knock during it by now, like come on. Basic broadcast etiquette.
But the knocking gets more insistent, so eventually she huffs, sighs, and rolls her chair over to open the door. Anyone still listening will then hear:
"What do you want? Seriously, I know I'm blind but surely you can see the 'on air' placard is ou— wait, what? There's what coming out of the ground? Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me."
Some muffled sounds of movement and hushed voices are followed by her clearing her throat.
"Well, today's segment on the Hanahilators is going to have to have to be cut short there, folks, because as I'm sure some have you have already noticed: we've got zombies! Get inside and barricade your doors and listen in here for updates as we get them."
Melanie continues to broadcast throughout the rest of the crisis, with breaks here and there for rest, beating a stray Yorick or two back from the door with her cane, and when there's nothing new to report.
And at some point, she's joined by one Anya Kovaks, who'll be sharing emergency first aid tips for folks out in the fray.
..than Motherfucking Vigilance [for Anya]
"...that's all for now. This is Melanie King, broadcasting from the Pumpkin Hollow Radio tower," Melanie says in her radio voice, before hitting the broadcast switch and sagging back in her chair with a groan. "At this rate I'm going to have no voice left by the end of this."
Don't give me vigilance [Wildcard]
[ Hit me, if you wanna come by the radio or catch her during a brief break in Town Hall. ]
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"I could help out," she offers. "People probably need first aid tips, right? I know how to do surgery with kitchen implements, I could--- maybe help people."
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Zivia Birnbaum | OTA
Zivia is at work when the first shouts of warning start, and immediately goes into action. The building's pretty solid and can serve as a safehouse, like they did during Thatcher's Blight last year; they'll need supplies, people to stand watches, all the practical considerations. If there's one thing she knows how to do, it's organize.
And once that's taken care of ... well, this is as good a place to wait it out as any, in company.
Outside (pressure on the people, people on the streets)
One other thing she can do now is provide a modicum of protection, and that means an additional responsibility. Periodically she steps out of Town Hall to gather supplies, to look for people who need help -- and, once the whisper suggests a solution, to take down as many undead as she can.
The last time something like this threatened Pumpkin Hollow, Zivia didn't have access to her magic. This time it's different.
Undead (watching some good friend scream let me out)
Of course, the last time something like this threatened Pumpkin Hollow, Zivia died of it.
Which means her corpse is one of those lurching about the streets, wearing a loose jacket over a long linen nightgown and shoes but no socks, dirt in her short graying hair. Of all the undead in town right now, she is hardly among the most threatening; nonetheless, like her living counterpart, she's out there to kill as many as she can manage.
Wildcard (this is ourselves under pressure)
[Hit me up on discord or the plotting post if you want a specific prompt!]
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[roll a D20]
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PEOPLE ON THE STREETS, DEE DAH DEE DAH DEE
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Kept meaning to do this since: coworkers in town hall oops--
oops!
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Music Alwyn Szereban | OC | OTA
Music slinks through town, sword in hand, trying ever so quietly to make it to the temple. The undead walk the isle, and clergy are always a safe bet in dealing with them. If nothing else, she hopes consecrated ground will at least give them pause before killing her. She tells herself that her own survival comes before all else. But she can't help but help.
Once A Devil
They whisper, when the sun is up. There's a venom to their voices that comes as easily as song, that feels so dissonant with the person who usually wields that voice. They stalk unseen, scavenger birds marking and distracting prey for real predators to pick off.
It's at night that they hunt for themselves. When things are dark, when the shadows hide the evidences of death, they call out to their prizes, thankful to see another living person to survive the night with. They've found the perfect hiding place, you see, and they'd be happy to lead you back to it. Come over, before the dead hear us.
The oldest of them is covered in small, scattered scars, an untold number of insect bites. The youngest is frailer, withered, knuckles bloodied from trying to beat through her own front door. The remaining zombie bears no blemish at all, but her voice bears a strain that's hard to place. All three carry knives the still-living Music doesn't yet know she's missing.
A Coward's Ruse
There's a duel in a clearing outside of town. A sword lies on the ground to one side, as two identical women fight to gain control of a kitchen knife they both have their hands on. Both of them are carry cuts and stab wounds, both of them bleed the same blood. They both look up in frantic relief whenever someone approaches.
"Don't believe her for a second! I'm the living one! Help me kill her!"
"Don't believe her for a second! I'm the living one! Help me kill her!"
A Coward's Ruse
"Fuckin what," he says, flatly.
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Edgar | Snowpiercer (2013) | OTA
The dead are out there, but like during the plague, they mostly aren't coming out as far as the farms. Baker Ranch has a sturdy fence, a new and even sturdier guardian, enough food and drink stored to wait out a good long while, and enough space for people to bunk down all over. It's as safe as anywhere right now, and Edgar's determined to keep it safe.
Find him walking the perimeter, looking after the animals, getting communal meals together in the kitchen, or sitting awake when he ought to be sleeping.
Away
Sooner or later the word gets around: the dead will stop walking if they can just re-kill enough of them. And that means keeping a hiding place safe isn't enough anymore.
Edgar will gladly take a partner to go out corpse-hunting with him, or might run into anyone else while hunting alone. Or, for that matter, might run into anyone's walking corpse. That's what he's there for, after all.
Gone
And of course, at least one corpse of his own -- burned all over, eyes wild and white in a blackened face -- is out there walking too. Hunting, the same as he is.
He may not look like much of a threat, even with the heavy stick in his hand, but maybe don't get too close.
[Want a starter that isn't up here? Drop me a line!]
gone
Oh, that isn't good.
(She thinks: did something else get him besides the bugs? If he died some other time and didn't tell her, she's gonna bite his ankles so hard and then go murder whatever murdered him.)
Tentatively, as she steps toward the path of the charred zombie, she says, "Ed?"
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Home
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cw: violence/eye gore
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Agent Connecticut / CT | OTA
Please, please tell me what they look like [Constabulary]
As soon as CT's back in town and sure that Ripley is going to keep out of trouble, she makes for the station. It's as good a place as any to try and barricade to provide at least stretches of safety and it's where she keeps most of her resources. Gun, bullets, armoured bracers. And she's in charge, now, at least of the DSA, so it's her job.
So, she does what she can. Secures the exits, delegates duties where it makes sense to, checks in with whichever enforcers will pick up their stones, and starts a very rough board keeping track of what's happening.
She ducks in and out of the station throughout the crisis, whether to catch her breath and eat, drink, rest or to update what they know about the situation as word gets around that they need to kill as many of these zombies as possible.
This is going to be a long few days.
Did they seem afraid of you? [Around Town, cw: violence]
Out in the fray, CT plays it carefully.
Stealth has always been her weapon of choice and the more she can keep to the shadows, keep herself unnoticed, the better odds she has of catching one of the undead unawares before they can catch her. Knife in hand, she creeps around town and tries to pick off the most isolated of the walking dead with a blade through the neck or skull.
Sometimes, she shows off another trick up her sleeve: an illusory duplicate of herself draws the attention of a zombie and either she jumps it, or beckons someone it was threatening away to safety with her.
Most of the time, this is enough. Most of the time, it doesn't have to turn into a big fight.
(She isn't exactly seeking out faces she knows, but should she come across them... isn't it only right to make sure they're dealt with?)
Of course, she isn't always so lucky. Sometimes she misjudges and finds herself caught between a number of corpses, having to fight her way out the hard way. It's during one of these moments that she reaches for her sidearm and finds— nothing, nothing but an an empty holster. What the fuck—
In her distraction, one of the zombies lunges at her and she barely jumps back in time. "Shit—!"
They were kids that I once knew [Wildcard/Zombie]
Carolina deals with the CT that died after the cult investigation one day, but it rises again on others and can be found around town, throat slashed.
[ Also hit me if you have anything else specific in mind. ]
Constabulary
"You know," he says with hammer still in hand, "this reminds me of hurricane season in Florida, only, I think I'd prefer the rain over this..."
A few beats, and then he adds, "By the way, I don't think I ever told you how my chat with Carolina went, did I?" His timing, as always, couldn't possibly be worse.
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Tomorrow, at the Constabulary
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Cassandra de Rolo | Critical Role | OTA & closed
When the first news comes to the shop -- someone shouting through the door, customers crying out in alarm and hurrying to leave -- Cassandra finds herself standing at her desk, frozen.
The dead, rising. No. No. No.
2. oh shame is a prison as cruel as the grave (Greymare Library)
It's only once they reach the safety of Greymare Library that Cassandra realizes she hasn't thought to check on anyone else's safety. She finds a quiet corner, and does her best to ignore the internal castigating voice as she pulls out her sending stone to contact people. Crichton, Phil, Helena, Fever, Valdis, Max; others as their names occur to her, as she realizes she hasn't seen their faces yet.
[If you've had any CR with Cassandra, feel free to tag with her contacting you by stone or handwave that it happened! Alternatively, if your character is at the library, you may run into her here.]
3. love is my weapon, gonna take my giants down (outdoors)
Once word comes in that killing the undead will do something, Cassandra feels that she has to try. (Is she making up for earlier cowardice? Surely that's no one else's business.)
In company or on her own, with several daggers and her magic boots and belt from the casino shop, and a bag for gathering supplies while she's at it, she ventures out into the town. If she can take down undead and have them stay down, and that will hasten the chances of making them all go down ... well, that'll be some good work she can do, won't it.
[Have your character patrolling with Cass or running into her by chance. Or, by arrangement, have your undead character cross her path!]
4. ain't no grave can hold my body down
Wildcard!
oh fear is a liar
"Move or fortify? Either way we can grab whatever might be useful from here or my apartment. Any chance you come to work armed?"
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Drive-By
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driveby (shame is a prison)
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2, driveby.
a prison as cruel as the grave
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Wizard | Dragon's Crown - Closed & Wildcard
[Sylus was an early riser, particularly with the amount of trips out of town and back that he’d had to make over the last month, and today was no exception. The usual process of animating a golem and setting about glorified lumberyard work that he’d been tending to for the better part of a month wasn’t on the docket, though, as something about the morning felt keenly… off. The air felt rich with the scent of magic, and the energy of the city around him felt more like what he’d encountered in the dark corners of Hydeland than the usual sleepiness of Pumpkin Hollow. Rather than raise the domestically-sized golem he uses in his day-to-day activities Wizard commits a portion of the lumber staged outside the Arcanium to creating a construct equal to the wooden titans he strode alongside in his former life, and calls to Sorceress to make sure he’s not simply being paranoid.
The crossroads on which the business was situated gave it more open space to work with than most residences would have, should things become violent, but also meant that it sat squarely in the meeting point for three different flows of traffic… something that became an increasingly clear concern as throngs of people began to be viewable down the roads in any given direction. Initially Wizard thought that it might just be other villagers, as townsfolk love to congregate and grow hysterical together whenever a crisis occurs, but something about the crowds was just as off as everything else about the morning. Focusing on the nearest of the crowds it was clear that they were considerably more disheveled than most of the people he’d seen around town but, upon seeing Mr. Aberdeen, he assumed that something might have happened and those affected had simply made a run for it. It wasn’t until seeing another Mr. Aberdeen that he realized that the crowds weren’t simply dirty or injured, and when more and more versions of him became visible it was clear that these creatures weren’t of the living at all.]
“Scarlett?!”
[He raised his staff and began to fill it's reservoir with energy.]
“Ready yourself. We’re about to have company.”
[ WILDCARD ]
(Have an idea or have something specific that could benefit from a silver-haired spellcaster floating into it? Send it my way! I'm open to pretty much anything!)
CLOSED
Something isn't right. Even the most novice in magic would be able to sense it.
It's when she's pulling on her dress and tying up her hair when the Sorceress hears her partner call to her.
The witch is quick to grab her own staff, charging it as she makes her way downstairs and towards Wizard.]
What's going on?
Re: CLOSED
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John Crichton | OTA - CW: shooting, zombie gore
A growl from the tree line lifts his head. Well, well... there he is. Crichton zombie number three shambles forward as if summoned by the thought. His rotting neck gapes open, exposing white bone to the salty air.
Crichton sighs, checks his rounds, and readies to fire, "Sorry to have to do this, handsome..."
He is, isn't he? Or, is there some worrisome part of him taking a little too much gratification from putting down his own doubles.
[ooc: or wildcard me, it's all good]
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Thoonk. Like something being shot from a pneumatic tube.
Whoosh! A very large object rushing through the air directly behind his back.
CLANG. Metal hitting pavement.
Crunch. The unsettling sound of splintering bone.
To Crichton's rear right, a funny little cowboy with a lip-shaped megaphone, looking slightly mortified.
To his left, oh hey there's that third Zrichton, inexplicably crushed to death by an entire anchor twice the size of his body.
What the hell happened?
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lmk if this is kosher!
all good!
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phil connors | groundhog day: the musical
and with thick-set masses of memoried flowers [closed to crichton]
He generally tries to avoid the skies since it's a really easy way to get picked off by the handful of intensely murderous zombies who are also in the sky, not to mention the damage he's done to his own wings making it much harder. But it's faster and quieter than moving by the ground, and it's the easiest way to keep an eye on things. So, once in a while, very rarely, he will be making the rounds about the fields outside of and beyond the farmhouse.
Just in case.
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hide that red wet thing i must somehow forget [wildcard]