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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.
John Crichton | OTA - CW: shooting, zombie gore
A growl from the tree line lifts his head. Well, well... there he is. Crichton zombie number three shambles forward as if summoned by the thought. His rotting neck gapes open, exposing white bone to the salty air.
Crichton sighs, checks his rounds, and readies to fire, "Sorry to have to do this, handsome..."
He is, isn't he? Or, is there some worrisome part of him taking a little too much gratification from putting down his own doubles.
[ooc: or wildcard me, it's all good]
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Thoonk. Like something being shot from a pneumatic tube.
Whoosh! A very large object rushing through the air directly behind his back.
CLANG. Metal hitting pavement.
Crunch. The unsettling sound of splintering bone.
To Crichton's rear right, a funny little cowboy with a lip-shaped megaphone, looking slightly mortified.
To his left, oh hey there's that third Zrichton, inexplicably crushed to death by an entire anchor twice the size of his body.
What the hell happened?
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"Oooh," he hisses in quiet sympathy with his own poor zombie. "That's gonna leave a mark. Where the hell did that come from?"
He turns away from the pavement pizza and finally realizes it's not the Animaniacs coming back for a sequel on the island, but that funky little cowboy with the weird megaphone.
"Thanks for the help. But uh... should I ask where the anchor came from? You can't do that with a grand piano, can you?
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After a beat, they look back up and shrug. Maybe it's worth a shot!
(Get it? A shot? Har har har.)
Anyway. Pokey gives Crichton a wave to follow. Time to get out of here! Quick, head for the Burger King! Surely nothing unhinged will happen there.
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"After you," he says, trotting alongside. Under his breath, he can't help but ask, "How the hell did we get a Burger King here anyway?"
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Once through the door, they swipe their forehead with the back of their hand. Phew. Then, Godpoke offers Crichton a piece of paper with a series of questions.
are you hurt or needing first aid or supplies?
do you have a safehouse youre currently trying to get to?
is there anyone else you know of that needs help?
do you want a chocolate chip cookie? capo says we can have one
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"Huh," he says as he reads down the paper. "Sure, I won't say no to a chocolate chip cookie." Apparently, 'cookie' is like a sleeper code word for making his stomach growl like an angry lion. Rrrrrrrrrrrrolw
That was embarrassing...
"For the rest of these, no, I'm okay. This leather duster might have me sweating like a pig out there, but it's great at stopping teeth. I'm not hurt, just a little tired from patrol. I'll take a short rest here, and then I need to get back out there to run some more supplies."
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But for today, dessert first. Godpoke hops the counter, using the little tongs to grab two cookies from the display, then comes back with one for Crichton and one for themself. Cheers!
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"Oh, damn, that's good," said with a very full mouth. "I'll have to come back for seconds once this whole mess is done. Mmm, mmmmph. Runt would like these."
lmk if this is kosher!
But ever since Arthur and John disappeared, he's been too paranoid to let his most important people out of his sight. He's split off little pieces of himself, instinctively creating Dancers to watch those he knows in the shape of small birds or insects. It's how he finds Crichton as quickly as he does when things start going to shit.
And it's why, in Crichton's moment of hesitation when he wonders about his own gratification, he loses the chance to shoot himself in the head. Because a massive wolf-shaped shadow with swirling black tentacles spawning like a mane slams into the thing and crushes it.
all good!
Wait.
"Yellow??"
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Of course it is.
It shakes its head restlessly, making the rack of its antlers rattle against the branches.
What's happening? It feels...
He can't put his finger on it. A growl rumbles through his chest and makes the air shiver. What's happening feels...
Whatever, it doesn't matter. He paces forward until he's close enough for Crichton to see he only comes up to this thing's shoulder.
I need to find Gwen and Sally.
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(Credit where it's due, he manages not to spasm when Yellow's voice enters his mind. He's never going to love this, but he's had more friends than foes use this ability with him now so he's adapting as well as he can.)
"Oh," he says mildly sarcastic, "of course." Like he's supposed to know on instinct when the monsters are his and not the enemies. Especially when they're so...tall.
"Are you trying to say this feels familiar to you? Like, eldritch type familiar?" Is this Nyarly at it again? Swear to god if that son of a bitch shows his face he'll... he doesn't know what but it will be creatively terrible.
"Yellow! Hold on, I need to find them too. Let's stay together."
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Yes.
It does feel familiar. It's like the septic sensation of something netting his spirit and dragging it out of the Dark World. It has a foul edge that feels like the Dark World itself. The place where things that cannot die go when they should be dead. Yellow shudders. The reaction shows as a ripple of color under the skin of the shadow wolf, like a flashlight pressed against a fingertip.
When Yellow leans against him, all Crichton will feel is fur far softer than any wild wolf.
You'd be safer on my back.
A pause, and with an Extra Dose of Gruffness. And out of my way.
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"Sure," he says with a sly expression, "I can aim cleaner from up there, too." He knew you cared.
"I'll need you to bend down for me, I can't jump that high."
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It occurs to him that he should probably say something about how kings don't bow, but he doesn't care enough to actually do it.
What was the thing I destroyed?
Other than improbably animate flesh.
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"On Earth we'd call that a zombie. Those are animated dead bodies that want to eat the living. Falls under necromancy when it comes to magic, and that only strengthens the case for this being something Narly would do. Does seem like his style."
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"Hey, spaceman. Up top!"
This is exactly all the warning he gets before webs sail over him to latch onto a zombie coming up on his other side, yoinking the thing off its feet and then several other feet into the air.
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"Thanks! Think you could give me a lift up to a rooftop? I got the worst charliehorse and I can't outrun these damn things."
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"Is that just a convenient excuse for the fact you can't climb?"
She fires off a couple extra balls of webbing to pin the zombie against the nearest surface—not foolproof but good enough for now. She knows they should be killing these things but it's a hard switch to just flip on a dime.
"Anyway, brace yourself!"
Two strings of web shoot out to grab him by the shoulders and pull him up to join her.
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Okay, the real reason might be BECAUSE THIS IS FUN AS HELL, WHEEE! (You can't take the thrill junkie out of a flyboy completely.)
"Yee-haw!" he whoops excitedly as she yoinks him up, landing firm on his feet and remembering to bend the knees this time. "Thanks for the lift. By the way, which direction are you headed?"
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The sheer energy of that yee-haw gets a burst of laughter out of her—"Are you trading in your spaceman credentials for cowboy boots? Wait, space cowboy is a thing. Nevermind."
How could she forget 'see you, space cowboy'. Missed joke opportunity, truly.
"I was heading back out toward the dorm to check on everyone, but I've been pretty all over swinging in to get people out."
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"I'm going that general way, but stopping at the city hall. Got ammo restock in my pack," he does indeed have a backpack on. In reality, this was the real but less fun reason why climbing wasn't going to work.
"Can you watch my back on the way over? The fewer rounds I need to use myself, the more I'll have to distribute when I get there. We've got eyes on a herd of yoricks moving in on the place. They'll need the help."
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"Huh. Y'know. I feel like we should call a group of Yoricks a soliloquy."
Yeah, yeah, she can hear the crowd booing from here—she stands by it though. Man, there must be a lot of that guy running around, he dies like every other day. They're gonna have to invent bubble wrap and wrap him in it if the barrier finally goes down.
"Yeah, I can watch your back. I'll try and keep 'em out of the way or line 'em up as appropriate. I uh— well I haven't added much to our kill total right now, I'll admit."
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It's moments like these that he remembers that despite it all, he's still talking to a young adult, at best. Asking for that level of violence from her should be wrong, shouldn't it? He would have thought so, once.
"Hey, listen, you don't have to go that far. You can line them up for me and I'll take the shot, okay?"
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good wrap?
wrap!