ph_logs | May Event - All Too Familiar

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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

He is, in fact, popping the zombies at her heels like he's winning first prize in a carnival shooting gallery. He doesn't miss once. They can't afford to waste the ammunition when only head shots can do any meaningful damage.

"We need higher ground. There's too many!"

Carolina grips her rifle stock in one hand and shakes out the other in a quick flutter of fingers. Think, damnit. She sets her path for the market; a hub of activity, no doubt, but she's got an idea.

Behind them, the raucous of zombie foot traffic.

"We'll climb the market stalls, make it to a roof. It's our best option." Only option.

Great, more climbing. Why hasn't he learned the spell for flight yet? He should get on that.

"Ladies first," he tells her by way of agreement. She's got the weapon with long range covered, so he lets her take point while he watches their ass.

"How many rounds do you have left?" he asks as he slams open his revolver and loads six more shots, closing it with a snap of the wrist. "I'm down to my last dozen. Got more at home but that's further than the market."

Of all the people— It's a shame she doesn't have time to feel properly incensed at Crichton's appearance. The armada of rotting teeth and claws revokes that right, and she's left hollowed and frustrated. Can think of no other face than CT's.

"I've got five."

Two shots ring out. Two bodies eviscerated. Carolina careers over them, black smoke trailing like death behind her.

"Three more in my bag. A handgun, if we need it." We'll need it. "We'll pick off as many as we can, then we can make a break for your place."

The market greets them as city for the undead. Putrified citizens throw themselves into walls, against glass, through still-open doors in their search for the living. They train their noses high, flare their nostrils, take in the heady, warm life expelling hard from functioning lungs. Hounds.

They turn their heads in dreadful unison.

Carolina skates to a stop. "That way— the wooden stall with the hats. Go, go, go!"

They'll need it.

The market is a mess, and considering that Crichton lives in the most concentrated area, they can only expect it to go downhill from here.

"Gettin' my cardio in today," he groans as he takes off for the booth. Just to be cheeky, he snatches a bowler hat off the rack and pops it on his head before he gets back to climbing. Any commentary on that will be met with "I'll pay it back!"

And, just to make Carolina's day worse for her, she'll be treated to the sight of a dump truck trying to haul himself up to the roof... and failing. It's just a little too tall for him. "Can I get a boost?"

“It means you need it!” She barks back. Considers— with the casual detachment of a person debating between snacks— sweeping out his legs and leaving him to the hounds for being an idiot. “If you get ambushed because you’re too busy playing dress-up, I am not saving you.”

She would, unfortunately, save him.

Save him from the embarrassment of scrabbling up the side of a wall, that is.

Carolina scoffs. “What, and spoil one of these thing’s chance to take a bite out of your ass? You’ve got plenty to spare.” Then, shouldering past him, she positions herself against the wall with knees bent and hands cupped in her lap. “Come on, hustle.”

"Kind of looks like you are," he shoots back. Shame? Never heard of her. Unfortunately, he doesn't look half bad in the hat, either. The ashy grey color really compliments his eyes.

"I come with a built-in airbag, so sue me."

She needn't have told him to hustle, because as soon as her hands meet, he's stepping up into them and preparing for launch. Once he's up, he'll lay down belly flat on the roof and steadies his aim. Immediately, the goofy smile evaporates off his lips. "Shit, we got a fast one. It' too far off for the pistol right now. Either get up here quick or throw me that rifle so I can take it out before it's on your back."

It's one of several reasons she'd like to deck the damn thing off his head; who makes a bowler hat look good? John Crichton, apparently.

"I think I will. You'd better be worth your weight in brass."

Up he goes, scrabbling onto the roof to safety. Carolina is close behind him— or, would be if they weren't in the company of such a speedy guest. Whatever decision she makes, it needs to be quick. The undead scrambles on all fours toward her, joints popping laboriously. Indiscernible from the common rabid animal. She curses under her breath.

"Catch!"

And up goes the rifle.

"Hey now, you can't sue a guy for being good lookin'." And up he goes before she can regret giving him the opening for that one.

The rifle arcs through the air--he catches it expertly in one hand. For once, he doesn't even take the time to celebrate his own badassery; he's too busy aiming down the sight and taking one impressively well-placed shot right between those dead eyes.

"Bullseye! How you like me now?"

"I'll like you better when you get me up there!" She barks, throwing her hands up over her head, fingertips just catching the lip of the roof. Crichton's got a few inches on her, height-wise... She'll need a running start.

(And behind her, the war-drum of footsteps. The hoard, nearing. Beat beat beat of hungry soles against the earth; sound of death-frayed cadences and swiping of claws.)

Speed burst; dust coughed up under her heel. Carolina kicks against the stand and claps her hand around Crichton's, hauls herself to safety.

And below her, spilling against the market stand like a wave crashing against a cliffside, the three dozen hungry mouths. Dead claws go for her ankles, missing by the narrowest margin.

Carolina smacks him hard on the shoulder.

He's booming with laughter even as he stretches out his hand to her. He knew she'd come around~

"Any day now, sweetheart!" He figures pissing her off will help her jump higher. Did it work?

He hears the sickening crash of zombies more than sees it, since he's putting all his effort into not dropping her into the metaphorical piranha pool. So, when she smacks his shoulder, that just brings on another laugh.

"Yeah, okay, I earned that one." He offers her back the rifle, "Truce?"

Carolina snatches the weapon. "I wouldn't truce you if we were the last people on earth. And do not—" uh oh, there's that lethal tone again. And that crazy look in her eye. "—call me sweetheart."

You know what? Just for that, he's earned himself another hard thwack on the arm. Let it be a lesson on unnecessary terms of endearment.

"If you say so, sugar lips." She may notice he is scrambling back to his feet rather quickly after saying this, almost like he knows he's putting himself in danger of another, harder, thwack. But does that stop him? Of course not! His shoulder might be throbbing but it was worth it.

"We're almost to my place now. I know the route from up here. Come on. I don't want to find out if any of those zombies know how to climb."

"Sugar WHAT?" Oh, it's so over for you, John Crichton. You're getting fucking pistol whipped into next week. No, scratch that. She's about to shove her foot so far up his ass that she'll be wearing him like a leg-warmer.

Carolina snarls, pelts a pebble at the back of his neck and stalks after him toward the house.

They clear gaps between buildings, land with varying degrees of grace.

"It would be a shame if someone tripped you and conveniently failed to notice."

Which, of course, means watch your legs.

He cackles like a little gremlin as he takes off for the next rooftop. She can't pistol whip him until she catches his ass. Her aim is good, though, so she's rewarded with... what can only be described as a perfect impression of the Wilhelm scream as he stumbles and catches himself on his hands--giving her plenty of time to close the distance.

"Hey now," he grunts as he gets up, "if you trip me into them, I'm haunting you for the next twenty-four hours." The reminder does get him to start checking below before making the next jump. Good thing, too, because they do have a climber now.

"Whoa! Heads up!" He says as he points down.

"A whole twenty-four hours where I don't have to see or hear you? You're really selling this."

And anyway, she doesn't believe in ghosts.

She didn't believe in zombies either, prior to today— but here they are. Crichton the Friendly Ghost might not be such an impossibility— not that she's eager to find out. She'd already had to kill (re-kill?) one friend. (Connie's face is a gory flash in her mind, then. She nearly misses her jump.)

Breathlessly, "Don't you mean heads down? Shit—"

The corpse makes it over the lip of the roof and throws itself at Crichton.

"Ever seen Poltergeist?" he asks casually. He will go vengeful spirit on her if he has to!

"Hey! Watch it, ankle biter!" The heel of his boot thunks loudly against the zombie's head as he stomps it back down out of mid-air. (Had he been on Earth to see the movie 300, he almost certainly would have shouted "This Is Sparta!" Alas, we will simply have to imagine it.)

"Don't trip now, we're almost there." They're almost where CT's house is, too, if she's paying attention. They're neighbors.

"What, like the movie? No, I haven't." No time for movies when you're fighting a war to end all wars— and another on top of that. "Guess you'll have to reenact it for me. Really get into character. You know, by dying."

Carolina launches herself across the gap. Minds the heavy thunk of a body dropped and trying to scramble back up again. A bullet through the skull keeps it down.

The neighborhood is familiar. Not in the sense that she frequents it often, but that she deliberately goes out of her way to avoid it— which requires knowing what to avoid.

She skids to a stop. Her voice comes automatically and without her say-so. "You live next to her?"

"Yeah! Like the movie!" Crichton says with outsized enthusiasm. Hey, look, someone got the reference. That never happens. "Damn, wish we still had TV around here. I'd watch it with ya." Her half-hearted threat on his life barely registers. She's not serious, and he knows it. She'd have left him in the dirt long ago if she were.

There's a rather sly look on his face now as she blurts that last part out. Ha, so she finally noticed. "Next to CT? Yep. We're next door neighbors."

She feigns disappointment, hand pressed flat against her chest. "How else am I supposed to waste my time now?" (Never mind that it actually sounds... sort of nice. Taking a break. Watching a stupid movie. Something York or Washington might have roped her into, back when she was inclined to take breaks.)

Next door neighbors, he says. The muscle across Carolina's jaw pulls tight, teeth gnashing teeth. "She's not going to be there, is she?" No, she tells herself, of course not. Relax. Handle it.

Carolina vaults over the edge of the last building and hits the grass silently.

Come to the dark side, Carolina, they have cookies and popcorn and action movies.

"Knowing what a workaholic she is? Not a chance." If she's not at the office, she's out kicking ass with the rest of them. Home is the last place he'd look for CT during a crisis.

He lands with a grunt beside Carolina, straightening up just as swiftly and keeping his head on a swivel, all without breaking the flow of conversation.

"Keep your shirt on. I'm not plotting some surprise meeting between you two. Wouldn't do that to her. Come on, it looks clear. Let's get inside."

He's the one with the key to the front door, so he leads. A very worried yellow larval creature is waiting anxiously for him just inside. Crichton barely clears the doorway before Runt jumps up on him while whibbling out loud, indecipherable but undeniably anxious admonishments.

"Hey, Runt, shh. It's okay," he coos, scooping his alien son into his arms to rock like the world's most lopsided baby. "Papa's here, we're safe."

"Yeah, well, sorry for being a little apprehensive. Killing someone's reanimated corpse tends to do that sort of thing." Not home. That's good. She'll cross the path of seeing CT again— after all that— later. And if she's lucky, she won't have to mention it at all. Better to forget it ever happened. (As if.)

Crichton shoulders through the door and Carolina is quick to follow. Inside, they're met by— the weirdest goddamn baby she's ever seen in her life. Yellow, wriggling, inhuman— and for a minute, she's convinced he's being attacked. ...No, he's cooing at the thing.

Unhindered disgust plasters onto Carolina's face. She points. "What the hell is that?"

"Yeah," he sighs, "Sorry. I forget sometimes how numb I've gotten to stuff like that..." He's seen so many horrors by now they all start to run together. What's one more for the pile?

Turning so she can see the front half of Runt, with his not-so-little crescent moon shaped head tilting curiously to consider her, Crichton does formal introductions, "This is Runt; he's my pride and joy. Adopted, obviously. Right now he's in his larva stage, but sooner or later he'll grow up to be a nice strong Wayne. Be nice, Runt, she may be cranky but she is our guest."

Runt seems to be contemplating whether or not biting her might still be worth it, but ultimately he behaves himself, snuggling in closer to Crichton instead, possessively.

She hates how endearing the picture is; Crichton consoling the weird little package in his arms, and that package reciprocating, obviously finding comfort in his being there. A good dad, she wagers. 'Runt'— fitting name— peers at her suspiciously. The weight of that little stare is enough to make her think twice about insulting him... out loud. She holds up her hands in a limp surrender.

"Um. Hi." (This is stupid.) "I'm... Carolina." (Yeah, this is really stupid. Can this thing even understand her?)

Looking at Crichton now; "What's a Wayne?"

Crichton looks pleased as punch, which probably just makes all of this sting more.

"Wayne is his species name. That's like asking 'what's a human?' They're from another planet and they have very different physiologies compared to us, so when I found him washed up on the beach I knew he wouldn't make it without a custodian. See, I knew an adult Wayne back on the other ship. He explained some of how they mature to me back then. I was bound to be the only one who knew what to do with this little guy, so I took him in. As you can see, he's a very smart cookie. He's growing so well." Crichton is the picture of glowing fatherly pride. Look at them nuzzling each other and everything, disgusting.

"He can't form words yet, but he understands us all perfectly I promise. Even if he sometimes pretends like he doesn't to get out of doing chores."

Runt ducks his head, guilty as charged apparently.

May Event - All Too Familiar

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