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

Baker Ranch [OTA]

[incomingchoppers]

Just like when Thatcher's Blight swept through the town last summer, Baker Ranch proves to be a good spot for hunkering down against the undead.

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

[incomingchoppers]

He's been through a hundred lockdowns in Korea and a couple more on the island besides. For the first time all month, Radar feels like he knows exactly what to do.

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!]

[priestessofthewilds]

A paper bird alights on Radar's shoulder when he sits outside the barn early in the ordeal. He will feel his wariness fade a little, replaced by confidence.

[Roll a d20]

[incomingchoppers]

[12!]

The ragged, stretched-thin feeling dulls. Radar finds he's sitting up a little straighter. He blinks at the small paper bird, then, cautiously, picks it off his shoulder for a better look.

[priestessofthewilds]

Unbidden, the paper bird unfolds into the image of someone who looks very much like Radar holding a pair of scales. Text scrolls across the image.

Justice

[Radar will feel bolder, less nervous and more confident in his protection of Baker Ranch, he instinctively knows the decisions he makes are fair and wise. In addition, he will be able to hear the thoughts of the living birds who flit through the sky, forewarning him of any danger that may reach the perimeter, and any allies.]

[incomingchoppers]

Huh. It kinda looks like one of Bronwyn's cards. Except that's him in the middle, and...

A wash of calm overtakes him as he studies his own face. Radar even starts to smile, a little. Yeah. Yeah, okay. He can do this. He looks up at the birds winging overhead, listening to their song, hearing something in between the notes that he knows he can understand, just like he knows he can keep the ranch safe.

Radar gets up, dusts off his pants, and pockets the card. Time to get to work.

[cyansoldier]

Radar finds her knelt on the front porch, taking five minutes to catch her breath before she throws herself back into the rotted congregation. She bears the brunt of battle well; dried blood plasters to her nostrils, her sleeves are claw-torn, knees scuffed, muscles screaming. None of this deters her. She refuses to fall.

When prompted with 'got a minute?', Carolina rises from her spot using the stock of her rifle, ready to make herself useful.

"Yeah. What is it?" She doesn't smile at him, but she doesn't frown either.

[incomingchoppers]

"It's feeding time," he says, still low, like he's afraid of being overheard. He glances up at the sky, listening hard: "We got about ten minutes til more get close enough to be a problem, and Johnny Boy's keeping an eye on the gate. Can you cover me while I'm going to the barn?"

Radar says all that with a quiet assurance that's a far cry from the high-strung kid she crossed paths with a couple months ago. Sure, he's still a little fidgety around the edges, but who wouldn't be with a bunch of zombies around.

[cyansoldier]

Something about the image grates her; a kid in his twenties, maybe a little older, responsible for keeping safe a barn's worth of people and animals. Keeping them fed, keeping them clean, maintaining the perimeter, assuaging nerves— his lap ill-suited for all of it. Too small for the responsibility that usurps him now. Wasn't there a man on this property before?

Invisible strings draw Carolina's features taut. She speaks quietly, because he does. It feels right. Safe. "Sure. That way?" She points with the muzzle of her firearm to a barn. Animals bleat and whine inside.

"Go ahead. I'll follow."

[incomingchoppers]

"Thanks," he murmurs, and together they make their way toward the barn.

The thoughts he picks up from her, skipping across his ears like stones across a pond, could've been said by half a dozen doctors or nurses back in Korea. How many times did Hawkeye mutter the exact same thing during surgery? They're just kids. The past month more than ever, Radar's felt that push-pull: wishing he was still a kid, knowing he isn't and can't be, a slowly growing pride as he gets his feet under him mixed with the terrible grief of knowing John won't catch him if he falls. He still doesn't completely know what to make of Carolina, but the familiarity of what she's thinking -- yeah. It's a little extra bit of steadying even beyond the guard at his back.

The chickens swarm Radar as soon as they're inside -- they couldn't fit the whole flock in the house and still have room for human people -- and he breaks into a laugh. "Yeah, yeah, I know, hold on a sec, I can't feed you if I can't get to the food! C'mon, scoot -- "

He edges through the smaller, feathery-er horde to the feed bins. From her stall, a heavily pregnant, dappled-grey mare hooks her neck over the door to eye Carolina curiously.

[maximumcake]

Valdis has official duties as the head of the constabulary, so very early into the chaos, Max decides to gather up the his and Valdis's three pokemon (plus one indignant cat) and take them out to the Baker Ranch to shelter in safety alongside Edgar and his newest housemate, Radar.

"Sure, what do you need?" he asks when Radar approaches him. Max might be a big sweetheart, but that doesn't mean he can't fight hard when he needs to.

[incomingchoppers]

"We're runnin' low on food for the rabbits and it's out in the shed." Radar grimaces. "I thought I brought in enough for a couple days, but I think Nibbles's got the same condition I do, where if he doesn't eat a whole lot when he's stressed he starts feelin' like his head's gone wobbly."

And then he starts eating the sides of his hutch, again, and really the last thing they need is Nibbles pulling another escape act. One of these days he's gonna get out, get too friendly with Bao, and gift the ranch with a whole bunch of tiny Nibbaos.

"Can you keep an eye out while I get more? You don't gotta go too far from the house, the shed's right out back."

[maximumcake]

"Poor bunny," Max says, "if only I could stress bake for him, too." Rest assured there has been no shortage of snacks for radar to soothe himself with.

"Of course I can." He reaches around and brings out a small knife he keeps in a sheathe at the small of his back. It's razor sharp and well-balanced. "I'll watch your back, you carry the food."

[incomingchoppers]

Edgar sure picked a keeper, all right. Moving out to the ranch full time has been pretty rough, but secretly, Radar hopes it means he'll get to eat Max's cooking more often.

"Thanks. Copy that," he says. He eyes the knife with mild trepidation -- wow, Max was just carrying that around like it was no big deal?! -- before peeking out the back door. "...Looks like it's all clear."

Carefully, caaaaarefully, he starts tiptoeing toward the shed.

Major Margaret Houlihan | OTA

[soldierslikeus]

When Margaret arrives at Baker Ranch—having decided it only makes sense to take Radar up on the offer and get away from the worst of things downtown—it's with a bag full of first aid supplies from the clinic. With people fleeing the undead horde it seems only sensible to be prepared to treat any wounded that make it to safety, and it's what she's best equipped to do. No different than any particularly rough day back in Korea, really, is it? At a certain density of casualties, it's not entirely unlike being swarmed by a hoard of the walking dead.

So she gets herself to the ranch, checks in with Radar, and sets up a small first aid station that she mans on-and-off through the peaks and lulls of activity, keeping an eye out for new arrivals that might need it. If you come to take shelter at the ranch for any length of time and seem to be injured, you will likely be accosted by an army nurse insisting you come get checked over. ("You're no use to anyone if you die of infection and add another body.")

When unneeded as a nurse, she flits between trying to make herself useful elsewhere and sitting tight enough to strangle her seat. The worst part of any onslaught (besides, well, either the falling bombs or the zombies) is the waiting it out until the all clear comes and things can get back to what passes for normal. But she's used to it, by now. Still, it's unpleasant. Last month's quiet seems to have been a rare reprieve in the onslaught of strange things happening around here. ("Is this really what it's like around all the time?")

[cyansoldier]

Of the group who gathers at Baker Ranch to collect their bearings, and who neglect to have their wounds properly seen, Carolina is among them. She posts herself up on the porch between bouts of fighting, clutching her rifle in ready-position like it might sprout legs and run away from her. Peace is a luxury that will come later. Among that luxury is having her wounds seen.

In the several hours she's spent in combat, Carolina garners quite a collection. Most notably are the red nail-tracks down each forearm, ending at the backs of either hand. Her skin has the appearance of freshly sowed dirt, outer layer pushed aside in long lines to reveal a deeper, pinker inside. On one forearm is a bite mark, deep enough to have broken skin. Her nose is bruised, but no longer bleeding. It's a miracle her hair is still up. One hell of a hairband, that is.

What had once felt like sawing knives now has the quality of a persistent yet ignorable ache.

Apparently, the blonde woman who comes up on her right agrees to disagree. No, actually— she disagrees twice over, and demands that Carolina follows her to a makeshift medical cot.

"I'm supposed to be watching the perimeter," She says, absent of the energy required to sound stern and begins to follow anyway.

[soldierslikeus]

"We have plenty of able-bodied men to keep up the watch while you get seen to," Margaret insists in a tone that straddles neatly between military discipline and medical professional. On her collar, she still wears the gold maple leaf of a Major, paired with the gold caduceus staff of the nurse corps—even here, stubbornly clinging to her hard-earned rank and qualifications. "Look at those arms—if those wounds get infected you'll struggle to even hold a weapon."

Infection is bad enough a concern with human bites at the best of times, let alone when the one inflicting is it undead and rotting. Margaret is already thinking about how best to handle the damage before she succeeds in getting Carolina to sit herself down.

She pulls on a pair of gloves and beckons. "Let me have a look."

[cyansoldier]

Carolina doesn't protest. She stares at the insignia pair on the woman's collar with remote interest until the two shapes blur together into one shiny mass. They're ancient, outdated symbols no longer in military rotation, but nevertheless impressive. A piece of history. Had she a little more bandwidth, she might have recited a lesson from her school days; of the Battle of Kapyong and Old Baldy; of Korean Soviet-made infantry and M1 Garands stripped of their cosmoline.

They saved old histories for the children; an age they could be readily forgotten and replaced.

"I've had worse," She says unconvincingly. Perhaps because she sounds so tired. Had she always felt this tired? Or has the opportunity to finally sit down rendered her so?

"A tight wrap and I'll be fine."

Carolina sits, doubly weighted and stares down at her firearm. She doesn't want to let it go. High alert. Steps around the corner. Not their corner, but a corner. Danger everywhere. Can't rest. Not for a second. Hollow eyes shine in a dark place she can't see. She's certain.

[soldierslikeus]

"I'm sure you have, but unless you're interested in experiencing worse today, you need to let me do my job."

She takes one of Carolina's arms by the wrist and elbow and examines her wounds with the clinical eye of a nurse, brow furrowed with study. Nasty, nasty things—not the worst she's ever seen, either, of course, but bad enough. She grabs a cloth and soaks it in a bowl of saline she has on hand, and starts to clean the nail tracks. No point in bothering with the 'this might sting a bit' with this one, she thinks, tough as she's making herself out to be.

"I see that allowing women into combat roles hasn't made for any less bull-headed soldiers," she comments almost idly, as she dabs away. A guess, but one she doubts is off the mark—she knows a soldier when she sees one. "I suppose we have always been a stubborn breed."

[impostor_syndrome]

"It's fine," Purple insists, with what appears to be a fossilised segment of a long bone sticking out of their leg just below the knee, snapped off sharply at both the front and back end. There's a thick scabby crust around the entry and exit wounds. "I can make the most of it. I'm not going to get infected and die in the next five minutes."

[soldierslikeus]

Margaret, not even blinking: "And what about beyond the next five minutes? I dare say this is going to last a lot longer than that."

[impostor_syndrome]

"I'll burn that bridge when I come to it," Purple says, crashing one figure of speech into the other on purpose. "In the meantime, think about how many zombies I can spear on this thing!"

It's definitely not sticking out far enough to spear more than one zombie at a time. Also, they've already got a bloodied shovel slung across their back and a sheathed knife on their belt, raising the question of how many more spiky bits they could possibly benefit from.

[tehilim127_1]

By the second or third day of this, Zivia's started making the rounds of all the safehouses -- passing on Amarantha's message more directly than by sending stone, carrying needed supplies, and supporting the defenses as needed. This afternoon Baker Ranch, not in need of foodstuffs or soap or medical supplies, gets mostly a few treats for morale: a bag of assorted candy and a stack of light reading checked out from the library.

Pausing by the first aid station, Zivia slows at a familiar face. "Hey, Margaret. How're you holding up over here?"

[soldierslikeus]

Reflexive, at first, Margaret says: "Oh I'm holding up just fine—nothing more familiar than work to be done."

And then her eyes and brain have a catch-up about why this woman's face is familiar and she blinks. Ah. Yes. "...Zivia. That's right, isn't it?"

[tehilim127_1]

"Got it in one. They said you're good for medical supplies, for the time being?"

They never really did get a chance to talk, after the nightmare visit. Zivia's going to let the other woman decide whether or not to bring it up.