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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.
i do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain [wildcard]
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[roll a d20]
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Crouched, he blinks curiously at the small thing, leaning in. Whispered: "Well, hello, little bird."
[6.]
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The Hierophant
[Any supplies gathered by Mulcahy during this time will last longer and go further than expected, much like that story he may know about the fish and the bread.]
so long as we've fond and fearless fools
And maybe also why, after Degas joined her at Town Hall and then realized he'd left his jacket at the Temple, Zivia encouraged him to sit tight while they worked out a plan to retrieve it -- and then on pure impulse headed out to get it herself.
It's an oddly quiet stretch of midafternoon as she approaches: a small compact figure with a bag over one shoulder, the only human-sized thing moving in the sunlight.
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In fairness, there are a lot of things in the sky right now; a large noodly dragon, relentless colliding storms, a vision of hell, and all other manner of hateful, flighted dead. It isn't just Phil that the living have to look out for. But he is very, very much among them, and it is vanishingly few who will see him coming.
He flies high, and he flies silent. He does the right things; stays out of the sun, makes sure his shadow doesn't alert his quarry. He pursues patiently by sight and by sound. Minute and careful decisions that keep him on track.
So no one could blame Zivia if she did not notice the volant raptor coming at all until, perhaps, she spies his incoming dive in the reflections of the Temple's windows.
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She's worked this miracle several times already since this started, and the gestures are second nature by now. One hand wraps around her silver pendant scroll, the other out before her -- "Yevoshu v'yiv'halu me'od, kol oivai, yashuvu, yevoshu raga!" -- and the undead will fall back in panicked retreat, or disintegrate entirely.
Except it doesn't.
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And then he stills. Nothing happens.
Wide, bright yellow eyes find hers. His pupils contract, his feathers raise, his wings spread in a display of intimidation. All animal, all predator.
He steps toward her, talons like sickles clacking on the cobblestones.
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Zivia takes an involuntary, pointless step back, her heart knocking at her ribs.
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In the same moment his jaws widen, his pupils shrink again, he turns--he leaps into the air with a mighty flap, the gust kicking up every speck of dust and leaf in the area as--ft ft ft ft ft, a barrage of blades fly past where he had just been, having heard the new incoming threat long before Zivia could have hoped to.
The blades, having struck some poor house's walls, release their stiffness, curl up, and fall delicately to the ground. They're... leaves.
The beast shrieks in rage and dives for her again, desperate to snatch an easy target before it gets significantly harder. Rapidly approaching: the sound of hoofbeats.
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Zivia rolls to her side, trying desperately to summon another spell.
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Hootbeats hit the cobblestone and Zivia gets about a half second's notice before she's abruptly off the ground and moving very fast--the beast hits the ground again behind her and the houses are moving past, then lurching up and away--
There are vines wrapped securely around her waist, holding her up in the air, then down onto the back of a giant, leafy goat. Mulcahy's face comes into view as he turns around.
"Zivia?!"
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A tiny ragged laugh escapes her. "Am I glad to see you."
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Because they cannot stop for more than a moment. As soon as she does, the goat leaps forward again, hooves pounding rooftops as he jumps from surface to surface with extraordinary dexterity and speed. Behind them the beast lifts into the air again; and bounding off of the rooftops for leverage, leaps into flighted pursuit.
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And yes, she holds on as tight as she can, clinging with both hands to the vines and with the crook of her elbow to her bag.
"Can we get under cover?"
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It’s interesting, the way Mulcahy rides this creature; there are no reins to speak of. He merely keeps tight hold of both horns. When he leans, the goat leans into a turn; when he braces himself for a jump, so does it, but there’s little to no delay between the gestures. Less follow-the-leader, more choreographed dance.
The beast shrieks. It at least isn’t getting too much closer too fast.
“What on Earth were you doing out there?”
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"An errand?! Zivia! What possible errand--" he lurches as Connor makes the jump from rooftop to ground, "--at this time? At the Temple? I assure you, we turned all of our faucets off!"
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"Believe me," she pants, "it's looking less like a good idea every moment -- look out!"
That last is, possibly, directed at the goat, as it seems they're dangerously close to crashing.
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"Can you still do any magic, Zivia?" he hollers after the recovery. "Can you slow down the zombie at all??"
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"I think so," she shouts back, "I just need a second -- can you get us to a spot where we can see it coming? A flat roof, maybe?"
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Forward, left, right, forward--through the streets they run, dodging around stoops, trees, and all manner of debris until the goat leaps upwards, deftly ascending by windowsills up to the rooftops again.
And behind them, now in plain, open sight with nothing to separate them, the monster beats its wings and shrieks.
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Trying to turn the undead creature won't work, but she can throw something in its path. She wraps a hand around her pendant and shouts aloud, "Sitri u-magini Atah, lidvarcha yikhalti!"
And bursting forth from around her comes a flurry, a cloud, a swarm of tiny flitting lights. Their shapes are indistinct; they might be flames, or might be letters in an ancient language, or might be humanoid figures moving too rapidly to identify.
If the monster gets close enough to them, it will hurt.
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The beast beats its wings harder; and coming up to their tail, talons flexing, digs its feet into the rooftop below it for a boost, throwing itself face-first into the swarm. In an instant flames erupt from nowhere and take him. It shrieks and fumbles, colliding with the rooftop underneath it and falling away.
Five seconds pass. Ten. Fifteen. No sight of it. It seems that, if the thing is still alive (and it most likely is), it's given up the chase.
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"Okay," she finally says, slowly, "I think it's gone."
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wrapping?
wrapping!