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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.
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This, Valdis will know. This is a familiar trick, and a simple one. But the gesture she's forming? Isn't a familiar one at all.
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In the quiet moments between practice Fever had taught her about the magic she weilds, mimicking different motions, explaining the spells she knows along with other pertinent information she might need. Enough to allow her to survive in battle with a magic user, enough to allow her to get close without severe injury.
This isn't a lecture with Fever, and she doesn't recognize the spell being woven. Instinct demands she retreat ever so slightly, so retreat she does, darting away and moving to get behind the undead image of her partner.
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Pivoting on her heel, lightning is seized from the sky and flung down at the beast, locked directly on her target. Electricity courses through muscle and nerve, and the dead thing's gaze is focused onto Valdis, ready to do this again, again. She flies again, trying to force Valdis to keep adjusting to new positioning, never allowed to settle.
(And Fever had explained, some spells require attention. A concentrated effort to sustain it, else the connection would fall apart under its own weight. Keep a caster occupied, and try to distract them. Jostle their mind, she had phrased it as.)
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She doesn’t make a sound despite the pain coursing through her nerves, the burned skin already healing, new fur and flesh growing over the wounds. Fever’s words keep coming back, and now that her allies are clear, there’s nothing holding her back from attacking the magic holding the undead Fever.
Icy claws dig into the very essence of the sorceress, ripping and tearing at the consciousness even as Valdis does her best to stay ahead of Fever and that dreaded lightning. She barely manages to dodge another direct hit, but she knows she’ll grow tired of this spell quickly if the sorceress is allowed to continue.
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(But. As she hunts, she is hunted. As she is only dead, a true soul is not too far behind. Still a ways away searching, but unwilling to give up. The thing wearing her face must be slain. Must be undone. Any means necessary.)
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The attack on the essence doesn't cease, still ripping and tearing as if at flesh, but hopefully her real claws will strike true as well.
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Enough. She came in with a different plan, and the spell she sends out now flares green, radiating necrosis, and aimed directly at Valdis's flank. If allowed to connect, it will sink in - a bitter and vicious cold, setting up for what comes next. It won't last, but it will be something to try and slow this beast.
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A surge of renewed violence against the magic animating the woman begins to sever the force keeping her alive. If it continues for long, the magic will snap and fail, leaving Valdis as the victor, but it's complex and powerful, it will take precious minutes she may not have.
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With the necrotic energy fighting Valdis's own healing, her hands twist into another unfamiliar alignment. Time to stop fucking around, then - the beast's hide is thick, and a dagger won't pierce deep enough. But she knows what will, and calls upon the wells of power in her body, those that brim with utmost hate. See it done, overpower this Hound's will with her own, that no matter how she tries this sorcery will find her weak spot and tear her apart. There is rage, but the clawing hatred that overflows from her is thick and clings to everything it touches.
A thin green ray shoots from her finger, directly at the spot where the last spell hit. Small though it appears, the sheer force of the magic has to do something, and she wants her opponent to feel every bit of it, rather than just trying to shrug it off. Concussive, violent, a strike of energy that wants to tear one apart as much as the undead does.
Pity she couldn't have hit the head.
CW: Gore
It's pain she hasn't felt before and all at once her attention shifts from attacking the magic animating the insane sorceress and toward her own body, her magic surging to try to counter the spell now spreading beyond where the pain is dulled. Her first instinct is to tear her own leg off in an attempt to physically counter the spell, but replacing a leg takes far longer than replacing flesh.
She stumbles away, parts of bone showing where the muscle has died off, tendons open to the air. If it weren't for her sheer stubbornness and indomitable will, she knows she would not be upright. Her jaws clatter with the pain, and a roar tears from her throat, a warning to anyone that might be nearby to move quickly as a blast of death energy kills every lesser thing within twenty feet. The grass dies, turning to dust, the flowers fade, insects cease to move, small animals collapse where they stand as Valdis draws life from the very surroundings to speed her healing.
The dying bone begins to come back and slowly, very slowly, muscle, tendon, skin and fur begin to fight back against the terrible spell that has struck her.
more gore in here.
But there is something Valdis will feel, rapidly approaching, faster and faster. For all the hatred in the dead thing, it lacks the true core of Fever, her soul in all its myriad facets, and that soul heard the roar and started running towards the source.
Close enough to see the scene, close enough to witness the situation now, tearing across the landscape, and when she sees her dead self, sees Valdis so injured, takes in everything that could be happening - and all her concern and everything else is washed away in an instant. The hatred the dead one manifests is nothing compared to what Fever feels, a bone deep rage that does not spiral out of control but cuts like a new blade. In this, one can see that she never lost the air of the executioner, the dyed-in-the-wool assassin, hierophant of Murder. It only slumbered, waiting for the right call to action.
There are many, many things she thinks upon seeing her other self, finally having tracked her down. And through the haze, one thing feels honest and true, the hilt of her blade - barely any brain left to rot, and this replica still managed it.
Light illuminates her hands, her eyes, trailing off in lilac shifting to a soft pink. Her stance shifts, power flooding up into her, and when the spell flies from her hands, Fever's not far behind. The undead is paralyzed when it collides, everything arrested in violet light, shimmering chains etched in a sigil in the earth, and Fever flies forward, moving on nothing but reflex.
Got you.
The knife is ripped from its wielder's hands, and Fever moves - in a single motion, both forearms of the zombie are laid open, nerves severed. Pierce the larynx and twist. Fire in her offhand, a bolt that is shot directly into the existing death wound, left to burn. No mercy. No mercy. Ruthlessly efficient, opening up every single place a major blood vessel might be, piercing over and over again, as if possessed, tear her apart, tear her apart. Knifepoint in the eyes, in the abdomen to eviscerate, rip and rend and destroy her face, nothing but meat as she carves the once-corpse-now-returned to pieces. Even when the binding spell ends, there is no way anyone, much less an already injured being, could survive. Lungs rent, intestines spill, hands left unable to cast, voice gone, red force missiles to the head one-two-three like colliding a skull to stone.
It's not enough, and it won't be enough until she thrusts her hand into the gaping abdominal wound, reaches up, finds the heart in there, digs her nails in and tears it free so she can throw it to the ground and crush it with her heel.
Oh, it'll never be enough. But the storm passes, and though she is drenched in her own gore, Fever casts aside her double's knife to rush to Valdis's side. Hatred washed away by a tide of concern, agitation, worry. It's all mending, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Bloodstained hands anxiously reaching for her, finding her fur, only soothed by the life still in her partner's eyes.
There aren't words in the right order just yet, but she wants to offer comfort, help, support. If only she had ever learned to heal, instead of just hurt people.
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Magic, not from her enemy, strikes, a spell she does recognize and an opportunity for her to retreat further. Her Fever appears, the violence in her soul sharp and painful, but Valdis doesn’t turn away from the carnage Fever inflicts upon herself.
It’s the same violence Valdis would turn into her own image, but filled with far more hate. The blood splatters and flows, but she stands, waiting for her partner to finish her vendetta. The shift is as swift and sudden as her appearance, concern flowing in powerful waves. Bloodied hands bury themselves in her fur, and Valdis turns her head to curb her neck around Fever in a horse like display of affection.
The raw muscle glistens across her flank, still dripping blood, but skin flows across it, closely followed by that thick black fur.
The next time either of those spells hit, she will have stronger resistance, small blessings, but none that will soothe Fever.
After all, this had been one of her partner’s worst fears. Harming someone she cares about. She lets Fever hold her, relieved they are both ok, willing to wait for words.
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"I'm sorry I wasn't faster. If I'd found her sooner..."
Then Valdis wouldn't be suffering so. What can she do, when no art that she knows can heal? This is what she feared, knowing that there was another her out there. This is why she had torn across the isle to try and find her, wanting to prevent her dead self from the harm she'd inevitably bring.
"You must be in agony - I can get you somewhere to rest. The safehouses..."
Of course her partner must know. But right now, she doesn't see the head of the constables, doesn't see some immortal warrior or Hound. All she sees is Valdis, harmed, and if she will heal, at least let her heal in safety. Fever will not go if she cannot walk, and she will keep off the once-dead until she can.
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If you had faced her undistracted, you might have been hurt and I heal far easier than you.
She’s not wrong about the pain. The raw muscle hurts like nothing else, still weaving itself together as her body tries to heal from both spells. She could lie to Fever about the pain, but she knows she wouldn’t be believed, especially when no one wouldn’t be in agony over the injury.
The adrenaline is quickly fading, the pain growing with each passing moment as the injury fails to heal, she directs more of her energy to it, forcing out the damned spell and willing skin to flow faster. Her legs shake for a moment as everything she has goes to the wound.
I will be slow, but I can walk
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She presses a kiss into Valdis's fur, feeling more settled now that she's returned the other her to the grave, but she's going to worry and fret. Just because Valdis can heal doesn't mean it's fine that she got hurt.
"If I had fought her earlier, she would have been gone earlier. Wouldn't have done this to you."
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She nuzzles Fever, trying to reassure her.
And she would have come back and potentially harmed me or others anyway. You cannot blame yourself for this, the fact that I'm still standing is testament to what you taught me as much as my own abilities.
Neither of them had counted on that one spell, the one that tried to dissolve her flesh, still the undead Fever had been frustrated by the difficult opponent. The Queen of Hounds does not fall so easily.
Valdis takes a step, a low rumble rising in her throat as the slick muscles move, sending pain shooting through every nerve. She steels herself for the next few steps, her gait uneven and stiff as she tries to move the injured leg as little as possible. She's a massive liability to Fever right now and she knows it. If the necrotic spell doesn't wear off soon and allow her to heal all the way this could get difficult quickly.
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At least the spell won't linger for too long.
"Where do you want to go? Home? Or one of the safehouses?"
Probably wherever Max is, so that she might actually sit down and rest. She doesn't stop touching Valdis, one hand still on her side, as if she's worrying that she'll blink and the woman will disappear.
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Which is closer than home, and why she is guarding this particular area. She's swift so anywhere on the island isn't far if she hurries, but at this pace, even the Ranch seems a little daunting. She can feel the sting fading, so she's knows that she will be whole soon enough.
I should be healed long before we reach it.
Valdis continues to limp forward. Each step gets easier, less painful than the last, it seems the spell is indeed wearing off and soon enough the fur finishes closing over the wound and it's as if nothing ever happened. Unfortunately, Fever will not see it that way, nor would anyone else had they witnessed it. Some would be in awe, some terrified, some would whisper as to what kind of creature could do such a thing, come back from such a wound in so short of a time.
But not Fever, Valdis knows her too well to assume she will let it go so easily. She's certain her partner is already imagining killing her other self again, punishing her for what she did.
Her stride evens out, perfectly normal now.
See? Never anything to worry about.
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Highly specific, but she can guess at her own thoughts well enough.
"Just because you can heal it away doesn't mean I like that she attacked you. And just because you're fierce and strong doesn't mean that I won't worry over you. Would you simply brush it off of I got injured, even though these robes let me mend myself?"
Baker Ranch. That's where they'll go, then, and then Fever will be off again.
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She doesn't expect that to be reassuring, and she tries her best to be understanding of Fever's concerns. Now she knows how Max feels every time she she worries over him.
No, I would not be pleased if someone harmed you, nor would I let it go lightly, but are you fussing because I was injured or because it was someone that wore your face and used your powers that did it?
It can be one and the same, but she would like to know just how much Fever blames herself, if only to gently counter the fears.
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There's a strange feeling in her, like a hue of a different emotion washed in another color. Layers and layers over absolute blackness, over the color of the abyss.
"I wish she held on longer. I wasn't done with her. But that matters little in comparison to making sure you're safe."
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I am a warrior, I will not stand on the sidelines in any conflict. Did you really think we could avoid magic users forever?
Valdis knows she has no choice but to accept the worry, that worry is what happens when someone loves and values another. Fenrir had never worried, but she had long since realized that he had loved the power, not the one who wielded it.
This world is filled with magic, something I have little experience fighting. If I don't adjust, I will die, it is as simple as that. It always has been, and it always shall be. I didn't die this time and those spells will be less effective should they ever be thrown at me again.
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A little sigh, and she presses her forehead against Valdis's side for a brief moment. She worries because she always will, because no matter immortality or skill or experience, all it takes is one wrong move. One mistake. One overlooked moment.
"If you see a being with my face, tell me. Let me handle whatever it is. I do not ask this because I don't trust you, but because I know how I think. And the way I think, muddled and mangled as it is, is not something that I want you have to puzzle out while the full force of the storm is being brought down upon you."
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I cannot stand by or wait for you to appear, and I will not flee if it would put others in danger.
She's not sure what Fever expected her to do, she needed to cover her people and once her doppleganger saw a worthy opponent, Valdis suspects it wouldn't have been easy to flee.
You once made me promise to kill you should you ever turn or lose control, do you not believe I will be able to do so? If that is the case, then teach me how to defeat what you fear.
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Because fear would have gotten her killed. Fear would have left her more injured. No, no.
"This is about the fact that she needs to be killed utterly and totally. If there is a sliver of a chance she will survive, that needs to be eliminated. She needs to be torn to shreds and burnt, flayed until she forgets the rest of her self, her lungs pierced so she can draw no breath, her eyes torn out so she cannot see, her eardrums shattered so she cannot hear, her tongue cut out so she cannot speak, and worse visited upon her.There cannot be even a flicker of hesitation in your heart when you face her. Do not give her a single, single drop of mercy, even if she asks for it. It will only come back to harm you."
Her list of torments is spoken calmly, sweetly, like a prayer for a blessing. And in her heart, there is absolute certainty and conviction when she says it. This is necessary. This is what one must do, to prevent a return.
(Retreating into the net of roots inside her own head, knowing she'll have to exorcise it all out on other zombies later to keep things perfectly contained.)
"I am prepared to take every measure that must be taken to see her die. Are you?"
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