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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
Because they cannot stop for more than a moment. As soon as she does, the goat leaps forward again, hooves pounding rooftops as he jumps from surface to surface with extraordinary dexterity and speed. Behind them the beast lifts into the air again; and bounding off of the rooftops for leverage, leaps into flighted pursuit.
no subject
And yes, she holds on as tight as she can, clinging with both hands to the vines and with the crook of her elbow to her bag.
"Can we get under cover?"
no subject
It’s interesting, the way Mulcahy rides this creature; there are no reins to speak of. He merely keeps tight hold of both horns. When he leans, the goat leans into a turn; when he braces himself for a jump, so does it, but there’s little to no delay between the gestures. Less follow-the-leader, more choreographed dance.
The beast shrieks. It at least isn’t getting too much closer too fast.
“What on Earth were you doing out there?”
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"An errand?! Zivia! What possible errand--" he lurches as Connor makes the jump from rooftop to ground, "--at this time? At the Temple? I assure you, we turned all of our faucets off!"
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"Believe me," she pants, "it's looking less like a good idea every moment -- look out!"
That last is, possibly, directed at the goat, as it seems they're dangerously close to crashing.
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"Can you still do any magic, Zivia?" he hollers after the recovery. "Can you slow down the zombie at all??"
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"I think so," she shouts back, "I just need a second -- can you get us to a spot where we can see it coming? A flat roof, maybe?"
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Forward, left, right, forward--through the streets they run, dodging around stoops, trees, and all manner of debris until the goat leaps upwards, deftly ascending by windowsills up to the rooftops again.
And behind them, now in plain, open sight with nothing to separate them, the monster beats its wings and shrieks.
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Trying to turn the undead creature won't work, but she can throw something in its path. She wraps a hand around her pendant and shouts aloud, "Sitri u-magini Atah, lidvarcha yikhalti!"
And bursting forth from around her comes a flurry, a cloud, a swarm of tiny flitting lights. Their shapes are indistinct; they might be flames, or might be letters in an ancient language, or might be humanoid figures moving too rapidly to identify.
If the monster gets close enough to them, it will hurt.
no subject
The beast beats its wings harder; and coming up to their tail, talons flexing, digs its feet into the rooftop below it for a boost, throwing itself face-first into the swarm. In an instant flames erupt from nowhere and take him. It shrieks and fumbles, colliding with the rooftop underneath it and falling away.
Five seconds pass. Ten. Fifteen. No sight of it. It seems that, if the thing is still alive (and it most likely is), it's given up the chase.
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"Okay," she finally says, slowly, "I think it's gone."
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Mulcahy reaches down to pat his heaving side, then skritches behind his ear. “Good work.” (Connor, feeling the pride and esteem through the touch on his horns, holds his head a little higher.)
He looks over his shoulder at Zivia. “So where are we headed now? I think the Temple is a bit of a lost cause if you ask me.”
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The talon that snagged her jacket, it seems, also scratched the shoulder beneath. Not too badly, but she's bleeding a little; enough to start digging in pockets for a clean handkerchief.
"Where were you heading from here?"
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Connor turns right down a side lane. "Do you know a 335 Briar Road?"
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So they head down that way with Zivia's direction. Once they come across the home, a quaint little two-story place, he fishes out the keys--which have cloth around them to muffle the sound--and unlocks the door, ushering everyone inside. He steps in and locks it behind them again.
"Okay. They said they had some in the bathroom and some in the kitchen. I'll look here," he says, already moving towards the kitchen. "Could you go find the other supplies?"
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Over her shoulder, as she goes: "Do we have a list of what we're looking for?"
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A small commotion as he loads his findings into a bag.
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The linens closet is, as luck would have it, right next to the bathroom. A few extra washcloths and pillowcases pad the bottom of the makeshift bag -- and if they're needed for cleaning or for makeshift bandages, so much the better.
Soap, rubbing alcohol, something labeled as tonic with some ingredients she'll need to look at more closely later, a bottle of cough syrup she hesitates on and decides to bring just in case. Something with a handwritten label that she can't quite make out; maybe the owner will be able to identify it.
"I think I've got everything," she calls out, stepping back into the hall.
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“So have I,” he says, meeting her. “Now if it’s alright with you, let’s see that cut of yours.”
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And she cranes her neck to peer at her shoulder, and winces. "Yeah, probably should. Let me take off the jacket and see how bad the damage is."
no subject
As she shoulders her jacket off, his fingers lightly brush her back; a washcloth wipes away the blood so he can get a better look at it, even as it wells up again to the surface.
"This shouldn't need stitches, thankfully, though of course we'll still have to get the doctors' final say on that. I can wrap this up until we make it out there if you like."
no subject
wrapping?
He dresses the wound as best as he can with what they have, where they are; wipes away the blood, applies disinfectant, and wraps it the way he's been shown a hundred times. It's solid, tight work.
He stands, gathering his things. "If you're alright to keep moving, we should go; I don't think it's wise to stay in one place for long like this."
wrapping!