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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.
no subject
"I'll definitely take you up on that."
The knot in her stomach, tight and bruising at the idea of nightfall, slackens a little. CT will be okay. There's an entire fleet of enforcers to back her up, a sun still high in the air. Whatever crawls over the horizon, they'll see it coming. In the meantime, she'll sit crooked in her desk chair with whatever title is stashed in its drawers. Succumb to half-sleep with cheek pressed to hard wood, waiting for a hand to shake her.
"If you haven't come back by sundown," Ellen starts, stubborn as all hell, "I'll come drag you back myself. It'll be my turn to wash you up."
no subject
CT laughs, a fond sound, and smiles a crooked smile. "Mm, that seems fair. I wouldn't expect anything less, really."
Stubborn as ever, but she wouldn't have Ellen any other way. This is who she is—who they are, even, whatever they're becoming—so that's how she wants her to be. (So long as she's not getting herself hurt.)
She crouches down to be on Ripley's level and considers her actions, for a moment. Brushes curls from her face, studies her for a moment, then—
Steals her mug, takes a swig, hands it back and stands back up. Keeping her on her toes, clearly.
"But I'll try not to make it necessary."
no subject
The hand in her hair arrests her. Draws perfectly sensible thoughts forward until they're crushed and forgotten against her forehead. The proximity leaves something to be desired (selfish), while at that same time encompasses everything she could possibly want; CT studying her like a computer lock.
Does she, in some reflexive way, prepare to be kissed? (Yes, she won't deny it.)
Does she expect her drink to be stolen instead? (No, not at all.)
(God, you idiot.)
Ripley laughs, all air and shock, like she's narrowly avoided tripping down the side of Crane's Ridge. "Asshole."
no subject
CT grins and winks at her, as she walks backwards out back to the bullpen. "Me? The picture of innocence? An asshole? I never."
(She'll make up for it later, probably.)
no subject
CT leaves and takes the warmth in the room with her. Looking down into her mug, her own face. Swirling and non-solid; a black coffee reflection easily broken by movement. Are you judging me? Yeah, actually. Go and make yourself useful.
A little more resentful than necessary, Ripley downs the rest of her cup and goes to make herself useful.
There is no seamless transition from day to night; no sunset pouring in through the windows. It squeezes between boards in paper-thin shafts, dissipating before it has the chance to pool. Without a clock to reference, it could have been that cold, dank evening forever. Creeping in as tendrils to snuff out the lamps, their last semblance of 'day' gone, like that.
Ripley does watch the clock between tasks (why wouldn't she?), and those who enter and exit through the Constabulary doors offer brief glimpses as to the time of day. At the first sign of sunset, and with no sign of CT, Ellen gathers her ax and prepares to take off.
Crichton stops her at the door. She isn't having it. Crichton, move. Met by, let's be smart about this, yeah?
I am being smart.
No, you're not.
Back and forward they go. Her, a stubborn nuisance. Him, gradually talking her down from the ledge. Her, limply setting her ax down. Him, patting her on the shoulder and smiling. Don't worry. She'll be back. Trust me.
More coffee. Completing tasks as they're given; some, alongside Crichton. Others, done by herself. She dreads not making herself useful; of burdening herself and others by freezing.
Evening comes. Lamps are snuffed, night patrols arranged. Those who had flocked out during the day make their scantly-constructed beds on the floor and prepare to sleep. Ripley is among them, sprawled out against her wishes on the floor beside CT's desk. She nods in and out of half-sleep, a book opened and lying on her chest.
no subject
It takes longer to make it back across town than it should have. With a gun in her hand it would've taken half the time, but the second the pistol went missing from her hip it made everything about this day more difficult. Hindsight says she should've made for the station the second she lost it, replaced the damn thing and got back out there properly armed, but she didn't do that, did she? She kept going with just the knives to her name and now it's turning dark.
But she makes it. Knocks a signal on the door so they can clear the barricade and let her in, then help them push it all back into place before leaning back against it and catching her breath.
No serious injury. Bruises and scrapes and blood that's definitely not her own, nothing more. The limited armour she has did its job and if nothing else she's used to avoiding taking hits in close quarters, even if the pistol would have been much preferred.
Gauntlets and chestplate removed, one by one. Outer layer shed so the blood can dry without getting everywhere. She drifts across the room toward her desk and stops at the edge of it, looking down at Ripley, half-asleep.
She exhales. "Hey."
no subject
Sleep ebbs forward and retreats. Swells against the blockade Ripley's set and makes only the slightest progress in passing through. She's conscious enough to recognize the squeal of door hinges. Not conscious enough to discern the number of footstep pairs entering the Constabulary. She feels the light weight on her chest but seems to have forgotten it's a book. Could be a hand. Could be that she's home, Tig having worked his way on top of her, her bed, harder than she remembers.
All this to say; she hears CT before she sees her. Feels her presence the way one knows they're being stared at without returning the look themselves. Ripley shifts. Squints through low light, struggling to crawl out from that half-conscious bog.
"CT—"
No, really, it's CT. She lifts herself on her elbows. The book flops onto its side. Alert brain and exhausted body wrestle with each other. "Are you okay?"
no subject
"I'm fine," CT assures, holding her arms up to show the lack of injuries as best she can. She keeps her voice low, enough people around trying to sleep that it only seems polite. "See? I'm a bit sore but that's about it."
She circles around and crouches down, resting a hand on Ripley's leg. Exhaustion is settling in, but she's got some fumes left in her.
"I went further than I meant to and something stole my pistol, so getting back was harder than I'd have liked. Sorry."
no subject
Ripley pivots toward her, pulling details through low light, making certain she hasn't come back with any injuries. The palm on her leg is warm, welcomed.
"And was it necessary or unnecessary to go on without it?" She asks in a way that suggests she already knows the answer, and tighter than she perhaps she intends.
no subject
CT grimaces apologetically. "...probably less than entirely necessary."
She figured she could manage and, well, she did, for the most part. She's not hurt or any worse off than she was before, except for the missing service weapon. Still, she realises she stretched the definition further than she should have.
"I got caught up in what I was doing and didn't think. And I should've. I'm sorry. Really. I won't make that mistake again."
Hopes she won't have time. Hopes this will pass soon.
no subject
"Ah-ha."
An attempt is made to keep her scolding resolve steady. Her mind, a revolving door of what if's and proper protocol's, waiting for their chance to leap off tongue. The ensemble falters. CT makes herself a very difficult person to stay mad at.
Ripley softens despite herself. Scoots closer and tucks wild strands of hair into place behind CT's ear. "You look exhausted. How'd it go, out there?"
no subject
CT's head tilts toward the hand. "Well, having my weapon stolen assumedly by a zombie definitely didn't make it any easier. Shooting them in the head takes a lot less effort than knifing them, but it was fine. Gruesome, as ever, but it seemed as if we'd thinned the horde quite well."
Of course they'll all be back up on their feet again tomorrow, likely joined by new bodies, if this doesn't end overnight, but it's still a good sign. A sign they're making up the ground they need to for this to end.
"But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't ready to at least try and sleep some of it off."
no subject
"Maybe some zombie sharpshooter's got it now, and it'll pick us all off one by one. You know—" she prods a thumb against CT's cheek, "—Western style." Not that she's actually seen or read a Western all the way through. Hasn't the taste or patience for hyper-masculinized heroics.
"The effort will be worth it in the end." She doesn't think it's a lie, and so she doesn't mind saying it. No false promise. It will be worth it.
CT's head weighs double where it nudges her palm, exhaustion gathered in knocks at her neck, behind her skull. Ripley can't feel them but she can imagine their shape. Day's worth of effort twisting round and round, contorting, solidifying. She scratches lightly at the base of CT's neck. Wordless good work.
"What're you waiting for, then? Come call it a night."
no subject
CT exhales, a single thread of tension unspooling from her spine. There no doubt is some zombie sharpshooter out there who made plenty of use of her sidearm, but there's no use in dwelling on it now. Either someone took it out or they didn't. Either it's still around and armed or it isn't. She'll think about that in the morning.
"Mmkay. Make some room?"
no subject
Ripley scoots, laid on her side with slender legs tucked on top of each other, head propped on an arm. There's plenty of space on her makeshift cot— thin blanket thrown onto the floor, another balled up into a makeshift pillow. It's not the pinnacle of comfort, and it doesn't need to be. CT's book occupies the space between them. She reaches out and continues combing through her hair.
"I knew a girl in school who'd invite me over to spend the night," she starts after a long, comfortable silence. "I don't remember anything about what we did, but when she said I could sleep in bed with her, I got so embarrassed that I told her I preferred to sleep on the floor. And—" a hushed laugh, "—she said, every night? And I told her, yeah, every night."
She drops her head into her arm, smiling. "I was too embarrassed to back track, so every time I saw her I'd throw my back out sleeping on that stupid floor."
no subject
CT settles down, one arm under her head and the other resting between them. It's not the first night she's spent on this floor and it's no worse than an overnight field assignment, sleeping on the ground in bulky power armour and an internal alarm set on her implants.
"Wow," she laughs. "Way to go teenage Ripley. Getting a headstart on back pain so you don't embarrass yourself in front of a girl. Very smooth."
It's charming, really, the picture of it. Simpler days. Teenage feelings and not knowing the best ways to handle them.
"I mostly embarrassed myself in the usual ways. Stumbling over words, picking the worst times... stuff like that." A low hum. A huff of laughter. "I did once climb four storeys and cross a gap between buildings to sneak in through my girlfriend's window. Which isn't really embarrassing, but in hindsight I'm not sure what I'd have done if we got caught."
no subject
"Oh, stop it." She says, prodding CT's arm, wanting exactly the opposite. "I never claimed to have the keenest romantic survival instincts."
If they'd been on-par with her ordinary survival instincts— a youth's clinging to rules and regulations or else the world comes undone— she might have spared herself the back pain.
Ripley's brows quirk. "Ahh, so you were the rebellious type. You should have packed a parachute. If you got caught, you could eject straight out the window and sail smoothly, all the way to the ground." She laughs, a ridiculous image. Like the opera dress; her way of getting down the side of Crane's Ridge in a pinch. "Hiding under the bed's always a viable option."
no subject
"That'd be a fun one to explain in the morning. Hi, Ma, I'm down on Level 0, can you come pick me up?" She mimes holding a communicator in front of her mouth, a gesture more like holding a microphone than anything else. "Don't ask how I got down here, but I promise I didn't climb down forty storeys freehand."
She probably could've free climbed all the way down if she'd ever really wanted to, but even she wasn't quite reckless enough to try. A few storeys at a time is one thing, but more than that and you're playing a dangerous game.
"I couldn't even hide under her bed, it was a solid frame. So, really, we got lucky. Or her mom and dad just didn't care. Either or."
no subject
Ripley rolls her face into the crook of her elbow to stifle laughter. It's endearing; CT swinging legs over the edge of a platform, peering between grates and pillars in search of disgruntled Ma. Awkward next meeting with girlfriend, elbow skyward, scratching her nape. 'That was a close one.'
Blinking thoughtfully through the dark, "Did you ever try and climb up on your own? Go as far as you could?"
Icarus reaching through the steel grid.
no subject
"Mm, I climbed more often than I used the lifts. A lot of us in the lower sectors did. Cheaper that way." A means of saving money, turned quickly into a part of the culture down there. "But I think the highest I ever actually climbed was— somewhere in the 60s? One of the buildings that stopped there with some clear air above it. I liked sitting on rooftops like that."
Rooftops, platforms, ledges, fire escapes. Good spots to have time alone or to hang out with friends. She still misses it sometimes. But she doubts it'll ever feel quite the same anywhere else.
no subject
Of course you had to pay for lifts. She isn't surprised. Leave it to upper management to establish the need for something, then punish that need by slapping a fee on it. What about the elderly? What about the children, too young and too clumsy to make it up cold rungs? What happens to the people who can't climb, who can't pay? Are they expected to sink?
She's too tired to be properly angry, although the aspiring public interest lawyer in her puts up an honest fight.
"Mhm... Breathing in deep, seeing the sky. It sounds nice, in its own way. Not so cramped."
no subject
"Yeah, it was. It was one of those places no one could touch to ruin."
The way the city was always growing, always changing, there was never any real control over those who chose to free climb or spend time on those little hard to reach places. Up in the upper sectors, maybe then law enforcement might take notice, but not down lower.
She exhales. Her eyes hang closed for longer than she means them to.
"I've probably lost my touch with the parkour a bit, over the years. It's been a long time."
no subject
Her affection for compact below-spaces is minimal, so much that when she picked her employment she'd felt herself act automatically. Left Town Hall, employment papers under her arm, like escaping from a dream, conscious and reeling. The suffocation you might experience on a common commercial freighter is solved by looking through its ports, out into the black sprawl where no single object is without space to exist. Without them, you feel yourself like one too many teeth stuck into the mouth.
Ripley rolls onto her back, eyes closed. Puts to use the empty, black background of her mind to pull buildings from the ground and send them skyward. She knits these pillars together with guard rails, grates and tethered lifts, then tucks herself well below the line of comfortability. A starting-point to climb.
And she climbs clumsily. Grips cool rails and wills her feet not to slip. She climbs from one junction to the next in her search for clean air. Peers down and is slapped by vertigo. Determined, she hauls herself over the lip of the flat-capped building, sky at her fingertips— and slips.
She's caught by the arm. You really shouldn't be up here.
"And here I thought you spend all your free time jumping between buildings."
no subject
CT breathes a laugh and rolls half-over, twisted at the hip, back against the ground and legs curled aside. "I mean, I could probably handle the gaps between rooftops around here. But I think I'll leave that to that blonde kid that always seems to be up there."
Some of that old agility shows itself in flashes of combat, repurposed for the battlefield. One of the things that made her good enough to get on the Project's radar of exemplary soldiers. Nothing is sacred in war.
(...she doesn't know where she'll go, if she makes it home and survives long enough to go anywhere. She can't think that far ahead.)
"...I turn 30 in August," she muses. People live longer in her day, even live healthier, but— "Probably won't be long before I start really feeling the impacts of active duty, I guess."
no subject
30 in August.
Ellen's attention drops scene and relinquishes the image to 30 in August.
She realizes— the way you realize you've put your shirt on backwards three hours after the fact— that CT's never mentioned her birthday in the sixth months she's known her. An odd thing to do completely out of the blue, she's aware, but the handing over of this ordinary-yet-personal fact strikes her as... Well, as something. Is it presumptuous to call it progress? Progress entails an end point, a goal, to which Ripley has none.
(Remember? You're not complicating this.)
She turns her cheek to look at her, tucks 30 in August in some cardinal place in her mind. CT throws attention up into the ceiling.
"So's the joy of aging," Ripley sighs melodramatically. "Soon you'll have to get readers for all that paperwork you do." Poking her, "It's aaall downhill from there."
(no subject)
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(no subject)
wrap! everyone say goodnight to the gays