May Event - All Too Familiar

[pumpkinhollow]

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.

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.

Comments

the moon is full and shines an evil blinding light.

[abhorrently]

It might be strange, the emotion that rises in Fever's chest when she hears the news. There's frustration, yes, and worry for everyone she knows - but there's also a certainty that slides into place like a hand to sword hilt. This is something she can do. This is something she can help with more than dancing to some demon's tune. And it's been so, so long since she didn't have to think about the surroundings, about what people would remember. These shambling corpses are no better than the ones in the cursed lands - it will be a mercy to put them down in any capacity.

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.

[yournewsidekick]

Nimona just had a chance a couple months ago to get her own ultra-destructive jollies out. She sees the light show from afar, and even if she doesn't know for sure what's going on, she knows, you know? It's the destruction of something caged breaking its bars at last. The fierce delight of stretching your limbs as wide as they'll go after too long stuck in one shape.

So pretty soon there's another spark among Fever's conflagration: this one a familiar pink, laughing riotously as it falls in next to her and pops into teenager-shape. Nimona pounds a fist into her opposite palm and grins. "You want backup?"

[abhorrently]

There's a joy to it all - a vicious and flourishing type, Fever in her utter element with a sharpness to her gaze and her smile. Alive in the way that only pitched combat makes her, blasting back two shambling Yoricks with a wave of violet light and sound. Strength validated, skill on display. And free in a way that so rarely gets to take form.

Nimona isn't just allowed, she's welcomed, and Fever immediately nods. Her focus isn't as infinite as the magic seems to be, but considering their odds...

"How much do you trust me?"

Because there is an idea brewing in her head that she'd love to see come to life.

[yournewsidekick]

Immediately: "If you've got literally any kind of plan and it involves a bunch of zombie blood, I'm in. Or zombie explosions." A tiny gasp. "Zombiesplosions!"

Please please say it's zombiesplosions, Fever, you'll make her so happy.

[abhorrently]

"Now, I'm not sure I can make a zombie explode outright without some careful setup, which I can attempt. But, my idea was a little simpler, a little more elegant, perhaps."

She lets that hang in the air before following with:

"I can temporarily make you twice as fast as you usually are."

Everything that implies, Nimona.

[yournewsidekick]

Nimona's eyes widen. "Metal," she breathes, with the kind of reverence usually reserved for shrines to Gloreth or exceptionally big slices of pizza. She explodes into movement, zipping in circles around Fever and bouncing on her toes. "Do it do it do it!"

Now, she's no math genius, but she's pretty sure twice as fast means hits everything twice as hard. Or at least it means twice as many punches, shapes, and dead zombies. And it's not even her birthday!!

[stoneoftherose]

Pyotr's ghost trails after her, in awe of her destruction even as his heart aches with the pain he's caused her. Once or twice he tries to speak to her, but it does no good -- whatever talent she has for speaking with the dead, it appears not to function without a body to receive her power. Or perhaps it is simply that she has no way to sense his presence... He has to make this up to her.

He calls her as soon as he wakes back up in a flesh body, ignoring his own precarious situation high in a tree. "I'm here," he tells Fever, the moment he hears her voice over the sending stone. "I'm back, I'm sorry."

[abhorrently]

"What happened to you - never mind, have you gotten yourself somewhere safe? There's a few solid safehouses for people, they're being guarded, and we can stop whatever happened from recurring."

She's...well. She's barely touched down in days. Minimal rest, eating just enough to keep going, and riding the high of killing and victory to keep going. When it's over, then she'll take a break, but without the same amount of headaches and general physical malaise that she used to have, Fever wants to push herself. How far, how fast, how strong?

But a call is a call, and she's taking a breather to answer it.

[stoneoftherose]

"Ah..." A little helplessly, Pyotr takes stock of himself, finally admitting, "I appear to be in a tree, near the center of town. None of the creatures on the ground seem to be able to reach me, but I don't like my chances if one of those flying monsters show up."

Sheepishly, he asks, "I don't suppose you could...come get me?"

[abhorrently]

"I'm getting you, and then I'm taking you to Town Hall to be with the others. These beings aren't enough to break through our defenses - not when a number of us are dealing with the more dangerous threats. Just hang on - you'll see me soon enough."

She can't fight with the sending stone in hand, at least not effectively, but she's headed for the center of town. If he sees her first, she hopes he shouts, otherwise she's scanning the trees for him. Clearing a path.

[stoneoftherose]

"Yes, alright. I'll try not to get myself killed before then." At the very least he can manage to sit tight until he sees her, although the way the creatures are starting to cluster around the base of the tree is a little alarming...

How fortunate that he's an old hand at being pulled from sticky situations. And Fever is a far prettier sight than his scowling brother; he calls out to her immediately, waving her over without a care for whether she's the real Fever or a monster wearing her face.

...Hm. Perhaps he should have taken a moment to consider that before acting...

[cyansoldier]

"I'm not interrupting your party, am I?" Carolina's voice sounds clear and assertive through the din.

Does Fever look like she requires assistance? No. She looks like an elemental anomaly. A well-dressed, human-shaped weather phenomenon. Lighting chases out from her fingertips. Fire fries a dozen bodies at once. They charge her, their skin sloughing off in blackened heaps. Mindlessly blood-lusting for the unattainable, and topple stupidly over themselves to reach her. No, she's doing perfectly fine on her own, and Carolina cannot help but to throw herself into the mix. For fun.

Her rifle is an archaic tool in comparison; long muzzled with a sturdy wooden stock and click-action. In her belt, a hunting knife and untrustworthy handgun. They're accessories to a more dangerous weapon; herself. She wields them well.

An undead lurches from behind, hooking its arm around Carolina's neck and snapping ferociously into her ear. She sets her jaw, gropes its collar and in a brutal blur of force, flips it over onto its back. Fetid spine thuds. Limbs gesticulate. She rams her gun barrel into its mouth, past the yellowed teeth and flapping tongue— fires.

"When I heard dead bodies were storming the town, I didn't anticipate there being a dress code."

[abhorrently]

It's a brutal, graceful display - elegant in its raw simplicity. Fever admires it for that, and while guns have never been truly appealing when one has other options before them, (no matter how Crichton might talk up his at points) they do have solid uses.

"I never was much for heavy armor. Weighs me down too much."

It barely helps her block, but the robe's true strength lies in what it does block, and how it brings her back. And it's good to wear it for proper purpose, she finds.

"But this party's still in full swing - you're not even late, if you'd care to join."

She can moderate her fire around another person easily enough, and she'd like to see Carolina's skills on someone else, after enduring enough of them through herself.

[cyansoldier]

Fever's eyes scorch two small marks into her skin. She doesn't splinter under the pressure of being watched. It goads her. Fans a flame she hasn't indulged since she was struck down— no, long before that. Before Texas. Before the implementation of AI. Training sessions wherein the Director himself would press his nose to glass and watch her. Watch her.

Watch me.

See what I can do.

"Don't wanna hide what you're working with?"

Two corpses flank her on either side; a lanky market woman still wearing her produce apron, and a walrus of a man who smells like the sea. Salt crystals and blood cling to his beard. They throw their arms up and out in sloppy, unpardonable offenses. Brainless, stupid things. Training fodder. She'll enjoy this. Already is.

"My pleasure."

She's on the lankier one in an instant. Throws her gun's barrel across its neck to trap it in a headlock. Biceps and shoulders flex to crush metal against larynx. It pops, gurgles, goes limp. Carolina drops it, shoots twice in Mister Walrus's direction. Twin brass bullets obliterate him— one through the shoulder, tearing limb from trunk, and another in the chest. He keeps charging.

Click— a fourth bullet slides into place. Carolina pulls the trigger.

Nothing. Jammed.

That's fine. She'll fix it in a second.

"Do me a favor!" Carolina hollers, tossing her rifle in Fever's direction. "Hold that for me."

[abhorrently]

Gorgeous. The thought flies across her mind, and she does not know nor care if it came from the foul depths or a conscious declaration. As much as she gets hands on, there is one's own unique pleasure in observation, in bearing witness to triumph. And oh, she has no doubt Carolina will triumph. After enough times being thrown into the dirt by her? Fever can say that confidently.

The rifle flung towards her is caught with both hands, but Fever never takes her eyes off Carolina. There's more than one way to kill an undead, after all. Many, many more.

[cyansoldier]

The fisherman speaks in salt brine, barnacles and death. Smells of some leathery, prehistoric thing forcibly unearthed from the sea. He bounds toward Carolina, one limb flapping by the thick elastic muscle and nerves still clinging to bone.

He swings his torpedo arm. She parries, rolls and springs to her feet. Considers, in the time it takes for her lungs to draw in fresh breath, for her brain to send message to muscle, that she could end him now. Reserve her energy. This is a marathon, not a sprint.

Where is the fun in that?

She'll draw it out, just this once. Put on a show.

Carolina throws her fist into the man's whiskered face. He sputters. Spits blood like water from a faucet. Teeth scatter, dice across the ground. He swings, misses. She swings, hits. They dance like this until his face swells and her knuckles go red. Until the white tinsel of his beard is dyed scarlet. A lovely pack, pack, pack sound; song of skin on skin. Her perfect chorus.

Punch, dodge, roll. She stoops low and severs the rubbery achilles tendons keeping the corpse upright. He bellows like a foghorn. Collapses, twice-dead weight, pile of fat and bone. Incapacitated but not yet finished.

She presses her boot into his shoulder, folds him in on himself and delivers a killing blow to his neck.

In that time, the number of undead flanking the pair has doubled. Not ideal.

"We've got ourselves a welcoming committee."

cw: gore/biting

[lordoftheozarks]

When Erik answers his sending stone, he sounds uncharacteristically frazzled and he's not even trying to hide it.

"Actually, if you're free, I could use some assista--ARG!" his request is cut off by a snarl of pain as his very own zombie self, call him Zerik, bites down hard on his arm and yanks off a cold hunk from his bicep.

"Out near... Valdis and Max's farm house."

[abhorrently]

"You're in luck - I'm not too far off," she replies, and she already starts heading in the familiar direction. If Erik needs her assistance, it's got to be a nasty one, which by now she feels accustomed to dealing with. Hopefully, it'll be obvious when she nears where exactly they are.

[lordoftheozarks]

"Thank you," is all she'll hear before the call drops because he needs both hands to wrangle himself. 

No doubt she'll find him easily. The zombie he's currently engaged in a knock-out-drag-out fight with is a twisted and mutated version of himself, sporting feathers and talons and a beak where his mouth should be. That, and he is very, very loud when he screeches his frustration at not being able to land a blow to Erik's face.

By the time she comes on scene, she'll find Erik flat on his back beneath the beast, holding back his double by the beak with both hands as the monster attempts to force a killing blow. 

"The eyes," he calls to her. "Go for his eyes. I'll hold him."

[abhorrently]

Drenched in zombie gore, she looks a sight when she appears, wild-eyed and breathing harder from the exertion. But it all fades when she sees the situation in front of her, sprinting until she's close enough to be in position.

The eyes. She can remember that.

Whatever in the hells happened to him to have him die in such a state is something she can interrogate him about later. Instead, she reaches for her lightning, knowing she'll need to fry him. But there's something different in it, when she brings it to being, something she can feel in the same way she knows that to keep casting won't harm her. A...refinement, so to speak - a way to draw her hands back, pull the lightning into something like darts, slim and crackling. An array, neatly divided into two, and all of them draw back with her hand. Tension on invisible bowstring. Aim. Steady.

"Perure!"

And they all fly directly at the Erik-creature's eyes. Each a projectile of pure lightning, coursing through to scorch him from the inside out.

gore/eye gore specifically

[lordoftheozarks]

The flash of it all hurts the true Erik's eyes to look at, so he closes them and turns his face away. That's fortunate, since moments later the bird-man's eyes sizzle and pop, sending a hot spray over his cheek. Then, with another loud sizzle and flash bright enough to leak through his eyelids, the screaming creature finally stops convulsing above him. His ruined eyes and face are quite the horror show. Erik is glad to wriggle out from beneath it.

"Thank you," he says, exhaustion evident. "He almost wore me down."

A glance back at that ruined corpse. "Was that a new trick?"

[hadnoright]

It's been at least a full day of this, when Daisy seeks Fever out. Even now she's covered in the gore of the undead she took the time to kill on her way across town, as she trails the familiar scent of slaughter and ozone to reach her. They are bloodsoaked and in their element, in this sea of unquestioned violence, and yet still there is a frayed mania to Daisy when she finds her.

"So. Small problem."

[abhorrently]

Fever, by contrast, is at as much peace as one can be while hacking down a mess of corpses. She feels alive, invigorated, and her mind beautifully clear. It's a beautiful thing, to solve problems with unquestioned amounts of violence. Truly, there's very little news that could be brought to her at this moment that she would not receive with grace and charity.

Having hacked a second other self to pieces earlier, she'd then continued in her task of culling the numbers, and the blood of the twice-corpses stains the robes she wears, while the scent of smoke and burning flesh is in the mix of every other.

"Oh? Nothing that our talents combined can't handle, I'm sure. What is it?"

[hadnoright]

"I died." Blunt and to the point as ever. She'll undersell it but she won't dance around it—well, at least not that it happened. Getting how out of her might be a touch harder. "So. We've got a second me running round."

One's bad enough. Everything that makes it easier for her to keep fighting also makes her a nightmare to fight in turn. Never before has her own constant healing been such a pain in the goddamn arse.

[abhorrently]

"...That's very much not a small problem, Daisy."

The good cheer and murderous relaxation have vanished from her, because this definitely ranks on the news that would immediately throw her out of her mood and into immediate contingency plans.

"I need to know how, so it doesn't happen to me while we're trying to take the other you down."