October Event - Statement Begins

[pumpkinhollow]

STATEMENT BEGINS

Statement of the Entire Town of Pumpkin Hollow, Recorded October 18th, 16:55

{ CONTENT WARNINGS: All of them. In seriousness, this event covers almost all major human fears, so please be sure to avoid the names of Fears that would affect major squicks/triggers, and check the CWs of each prompt on the first line of the drop-down sections! }

Like so many of these terrible times, it all starts on a normal day. The gala was a night to remember, certainly. A welcome reprieve for most, considering the general lack of horrors. Not for everyone, of course, but no party is perfect.

However, during her visit in September, a little spider managed to get into the ear of the Crawling Chaos. She wove a clever tale of a terrible fate that consumed the world, creating a factory farm for pain, chaos, and fear. She told an awful story of skin-stealing clowns and an endless war, of worms in the dirt and in the skin, of unraveling flesh and twisting minds and an all-consuming darkness. Puppets and colossal beasts, sprawling oceans and crushing earth, wolves that prowl the woods in human skin and hungry fire. She painted the Father of Bats a wicked picture that would only require the use of that little fissure down in Paradesium to realize. And he and she, both in their human disguises, shook hands.

Of course we’ll probably just pin it on Jon Sims again. He seems to be the source of a lot of trouble, doesn’t he? It would only make sense. After all, those in the know will recall that this whole scene looks awfully familiar.

You are carrying out some normal activity. You are mid conversation. You are on the trolley home. You are anywhere you might be on any day. And then suddenly, between two breaths, you are not. There is no fanfare, no creeping dread. You simply blink, and find yourself in hell.

Happy Halloween, Pumpkin Hollow. This one won’t be any more forgiving than the last two.

Southern Coast

THE LONELY | Jack's Marina and the Bluffs

Also called "The Forsaken" or "The One Alone." This is the fear of isolation, either due to being separated from others by tangible barriers or social/emotional ones. The fear of having no one to reach out to, of abandonment, of being unloved or unwanted, of being cut off from society.

CWs: isolation, solitary confinement, memory loss.

The Tundra, a mighty vessel of a freighter ship, pitches and sways lazily in the waves just beyond Jack's Marina.

Workers bustle to and fro on the deck of the ship, but for all the quiet that hangs heavy like a shroud, you almost wouldn't know it. Your work is mundane, menial, repetitive. Isolating, above all else--- there are no tasks that would require any more than two sets of hands. Your voice and face betray you in equal parts, leaving you as cold and still as the waters that stretch between you and Pumpkin Hollow. You may look at your crew-mates, but you are a world away from them, and they the same to you. Should you try to find a way to close those distances and get caught, punishments are swift, harsh, and show you that you can become yet more alone, when you're abandoned in the brig.

Complaints go to the feedback box only. Your captain won't be seeing you any time soon. Best that you sort things out on your own.

Should you not be fit to work, you'll instead find yourself on the beaches of Marrow Isle, or on the sloping cliffs of the Bluffs. Here, you can speak, you can cry out, you can do anything that you like - but why would you bother? You're alone. You can't even properly keep yourself company, with the way your memories of everything at all wash in and out, like waves that lap against the shore. You may think that, once, you were someone. But maybe you never really were anyone at all. Maybe you've always been destined for this. Maybe things are better this way.

It hurts, but it's comfortable. You were made for this. It's something you've always known, but never wanted to admit, isn't it?

You were destined to be alone.

THE END | Fall's Promise Cemetery

Also called "Terminus" or just "Death". Represents the fear of dying, especially painfully, as well as the fear of what comes after (or lack thereof, in some cases). Its victims and its servants alike tend to be those who have had close calls or near-death experiences, if they survive at all.

CWs: existential dread, mortality in general - specific CWs will vary per prompt.

Falling flat on your back, you hit cold earth. The scent of grave dirt fills your nostrils. Looking up, you see a gray and dreary sky, and six feet of sheer earthen walls.

You’re in Fall’s Promise Cemetery, in a grave marked for you. It’s awkward, but easier than you expected to get free and climb up onto the graveyard lawn. All around you, you see headstones over open graves, bearing the names of your friends, your neighbors.

Leave the cemetery. There’s nothing stopping you but the fence, but it’s easy enough to hop. Suspiciously so, in fact. Except the moment your feet hit the ground on the other side, you find yourself somewhere new.

What is it about death that scares you the most? Not the temporary deaths within the barrier, per se, but true death? Is it the pain, the suffering, the feeling of your life slipping away? A certain scene, perhaps, the idea of dying in a particular way. Gunned down, drowned, burned alive, torn to pieces in some strange, inexplicable way, or the helplessness of simply fading away in a hospital bed. Some fear less death itself, but what comes after. Eternal punishment, the unknown, or nothing at all--- a complete cessation of existence. Even if you believe in paradise, there’s always everything you leave behind to think about. Or maybe it’s just time. The memory of you, and all that you were, fading into obscurity, until no one remembers your name or your face.

Whatever it is, the scenario you wander into is tailored specifically to the source of that terror. Illness, violence, oblivion, a legacy left unmade, the mourning of your loved ones, the End has dreamed up a way for you to live through it--- and die through it. Sometimes these scenes will mutate, fuse with that of your neighbor, creating a mode of mutual destruction designed to creep into your soul, pry loose your deepest terror, and then end your life… for now. It only takes a few hours before you live once more, a gift that you can keep if and only if you manage to escape. But rest assured, it will not be easy, and it will not happen on your first time through this domain. Your life comes to its sordid end, and you fade into a dark and dreadful silence.

Falling flat on your back, you hit cold earth. The scent of grave dirt fills your nostrils. Looking up, you see a gray and dreary sky, and six feet of sheer earthen walls.

You’re in Fall’s Promise Cemetery, in a grave marked for you.

DOWNTOWN HOLLOW

THE STRANGER | Greater Downtown Hollow

Also called "I Do Not Know You". The fear of the uncanny valley, things that are almost human but not quite, perversions of the human form, and existential dread regarding identity and selfhood.

CWs: mutilation, dismemberment, body horror, depersonalization, unreality.

The streets of Downtown Hollow are bustling, just as before. Festival banners flutter in the breeze and carnival barkers shout on every corner, peddling their wares. But something has changed. Something doesn’t feel right. Everything feels wrong.

Were people’s eyes always that dark? Were their limbs always that long? Were their voices always that stilted? Surely these buildings weren’t always made of plaster. These doors opened once. But then again, how can you be sure you’re even opening it right? Are you even sure of what a door handle is supposed to look like? Are you sure that’s your hand reaching for it?

On the wind, you can hear the shrieking sound of a steam organ. And you don’t know why, but it fills you with the deepest dread.

Shambling mannequins, grotesque automatons, wax figures, and sawdust-stuffed dolls haunt the streets of Downtown Hollow, wearing faces that don’t belong to them and don’t fit them right. It’s hard for your eyes to perceive the faces of other real people correctly as well, with those that you come across looking distorted to you somehow. And all the shops are selling the same sort of things--- parts of people. Skin, and faces especially, names, memories, personalities, even souls. How does one buy a soul? Why, simply trade yours in. This one’s an antique. Or maybe it’s shiny and new. What’s in a name, anyway? Maybe you even spot something for sale that belongs to someone you know. Or knew. Your mother’s name at a booth, your ex lover’s heart in a glass case, the face of a friend who died long ago hung on a wire like a piece of drying meat.

If you’re unlucky, you might even see something you’re sure was once yours.

Was it, though? It’s hard to tell. The creatures wandering the street are prone to grabbing people at random, dragging them screaming off the streets and peeling away flesh and identity and reason until you’re as stripped bare of identity as they are. Can you even remember your name? Is the face you have the one you started with? It’s oh so hard to be sure. But surely someone now, aren’t you?

If you don’t have a “you” to trade for something new, that’s alright. Find a knife, a razor, a shard of glass. Carve yourself a new self at the pumpkin-carving station, or assert yourself in the pecking order. You’re just as capable of taking what you want, just as surely as any silly clown doll, aren’t you?

THE WEB | Greymare Library and Town Hall

Sometimes called "The Spider" or "The Mother of Puppets". This in part the fear of spiders themselves, but also the fear of being caught in someone else's web. The fear of being manipulated by someone else or having your actions controlled, being part of someone's master plan.

CWs: manipulation, loss of bodily autonomy, public humiliation.

The Mother of Puppets thrives on the illusion of choice. And as such, her domain features two charming venues for your perusal.

The first is the Black Widow Library. Greymare? No, you must be mistaken. This expansive institution is filled to the brim with tomes. But you feel particularly drawn to one, your hand lifting to take it almost instinctually. As you hold it in your hands, you feel a dread you cannot explain. What’s there to be afraid of? It’s just a book. Open it. Despite the way your stomach knots, and terror floods your brain so acutely that you feel lightheaded, you crack apart the cover, and read.

This is a story about you.

Your eyes pour over the text, absorbing information voraciously as some sordid tale featuring you as the protagonist spills out over the page. A knife raised in anger. A relapse into a toxic habit. An act of violence upon your own person. Whatever the tale is, you frantically scan the page, unable to stop until you know what happens next. When you finally lift your eyes from the page and snap back to reality, you find that the dreadful story has come to pass. Except for the last line of the book. ”Our hero, seeking solace from the terrible tragedy, reaches up to select a book from the library shelf…”

If you’re not in the mood to read, perhaps some bureaucracy in action will prove more interesting. You are in Town Hall, which is utterly packed today, knowing that today is the deadline to get your papers done. What papers? What are they for? It doesn’t matter. You need them. Otherwise, there could be consequences. What are they? Maybe a fine, or jail time, or worse. You’d rather not imagine what “worse” could mean.

The lines are insanely long, and the stress you feel is immense. How long will this take? Will you even have time to get your papers done today? Maybe you should come back. No, no, the lines could be longer if you do that. You have to stay and stick this out. You cannot afford to be late on this.

At last, you reach the front of the line. Your legs are weary as the disinterested receptionist listens to your request, produces a form, asks you a series of increasingly invasive questions. You feel like you could have written all this in yourself, but you can’t say anything. What if you can’t get any help because you protested? You answer the questions under duress, but you answer them all the same. Your stomach tightens. The receptionist hands you the form and instructs you to go to another room. You helplessly move on to a waiting room, taking a number and sitting again for hours, weighing the misery of being here against the anxiety of not knowing what might be next, or whether it’s worse than whatever punishment you might face for not having your papers done.

You spend an impossibly long amount of time being shuffled from room to room, queue to queue, asked to do increasingly ridiculous, inane, or degrading things in order to get yet another bit of documentation before being sent somewhere else. Sometimes you’re told you did something wrong, and you have to go back, and wasted all that time waiting. Each time, you feel utterly obligated to comply. What choice have you got? The instructions only continue to escalate, from humiliating and violating to repugnant and cruel. The longer it goes on, the clearer it becomes that this place and these people can do whatever they want to you. And there is nothing you can do to stop them.

THE CORRUPTION | All Pumpkin Hollow Clinics

Also known as "The Crawling Rot", "The Flesh Hive," or sometimes simply "Filth." This represents the fear of corruption of bodies and spaces via disease, rot, insects, mold, and other things evoking feelings of deep disgust. The fear of unsanitary or revolting things. While this fear is almost always extremely literal, it can sometimes also manifest as toxic love.

CWs: parasitism, illness (recoverable and terminal), allusions to hospice abuse, medical abuse, trypophobia, insects (dead and alive + swarms), unsanitary conditions, body horror, disease, rot and decay.

The small clinics of Pumpkin Hollow have been linked together intrinsically by the crawling contagion, forming the labyrinthine halls of what has become Pumpkin Hollow's very own Jane's Grace Medical Center.

Each smaller facility has become a wing of this hospital, and all the patients are very, very ill. Diseases the likes of which have never been seen on the island have their hooks in any person unfortunate enough to have encountered someone contagious, and even still, they spread like wildfire, clashing together inside ailing bodies on hospital beds to create new, stronger plagues to stand the test of time. The sick wards are filled with those ailing, stretchers lining the halls outside of wards too full to accommodate them; patients weep, groan, scream in their agonies, while weeping rashes spread, sores bleed, wounds infect, and the stench of decay and death permeate every hall.

Doctors, some familiar faces, others covered by far too many medical masks to reveal any discernible features, will do their very best to see to it that they're able to treat these poor people. Contaminated implements, with normal sterilization procedures proving impossible, will simply have to do.

The lucky ones among the patients are simply sick. Some even more fortunate than that are delirious with illness, barely able to understand what is happening to them. Those with less luck are so very aware, or worse yet, become infested with any of the crawling, skittering masses that squirm their way between bedposts and tools alike. Skin bulges with scabies, pinholes spread as strange worms find new homes, and bedbugs chew beneath the bed-ridden bodies of those too ill to leave them.

The most unfortunate ones, deemed incurable, are placed where the hopeful few can't see their fate. A hospice wing for those "terminal" few, where any who know them are assured they will rest easy for the last of their scant few days.

Deathless as this place is, the dying do not die. Instead, their festering, weak bodies are piled into beds together, and they are forgotten. No matter how the rot takes them--- skin sloughing away, organs failing, joints collapsing--- they will never truly die.

There is an abundance of suffering to go around, but one question yet remains: are you a doctor, or a patient?

THE SPIRAL | The Oak & Iron

Also called "It Is Not What It Is" or "The Twisting Deceit." It is the fear of madness, losing one's grip on reality, being gaslit, deception of the mind and the senses. Manifests as hallucinations or illusions and can cause victims to improperly perceive time. A common appearance is that of a door that should not be where it is and impossible spaces, as well as fractal images.

CWs: unreality, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, gaps in memory, madness, self injury (mild).

Welcome to the Oak & Iron! Finally, someplace familiar. The lovely timber, stucco, and steel building where you spent your earliest days and coldest nights in Pumpkin Hollow. The cozy interior welcomes you warmly. An unfamiliar receptionist works the counter--- a woman with the curliest hair you’ve ever seen in your life, dizzying amber eyes, and a dazzling smile.

You’ve lost your home in a terrible apocalypse again? Oh no, how dreadful. You poor dear. Well don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. Room and board is on town hall again, don’t you fret. Here’s your key. Your room is just down the hall. Go and get settled, love, you’re going to be just fine.

Everything is going to be fine.

You wander down the hallway. Then another, and another, and another. You’re sure the building didn’t used to be this big. Where is your room? You look at your key again, and it seems like somehow you missed it, even though you’re sure you were checking each number. You double back. This hallway seems different. Did you go the wrong way? No, it can’t be, you just came from this door. But this can’t be right. You turn around again, and the door you’d just come through is gone.

Okay, well, clearly you just got turned around. It’s okay. It’s fine. You keep going, looking for another door. You check your key again. The number isn’t what you remember it being. When did your fingernails get so messed up? It almost looks like you were… digging, at one of the doors. When did that happen?

Somehow, you end up back at the front desk. The woman there offers to help you find your room and you are just so incredibly grateful--- but as you’re looking, you accidentally become separated from her. How could you be so careless? Where did she go? She was right behind you. Where is this goddamn room?!

You find the woman again, frantic now and exhausted from wandering. She calms you down, gets you some water, assures you it’s all going to be okay. You must just be so tired. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll find it together.”

THE DESOLATION | Larkin Estate

Also called "The Lightless Flame," "The Blackened Earth," or "Asag." This is the fear of pain, agony, random destruction, loss, and burning. It often manifests in the form of destructive fire and things associated with it. Forest or house fires, destruction of potential, loss of loved ones, sabotage of success, and severe burn wounds are common. Its victims tend to lose the things they love most or die before realizing their potential, as well as come to harm by literal fire.

CWs: burning, suffocation, potential animal endangerment, entrapment, unreality, the potential for loss and grief.

Smoke sears your throats and stings at your eyes as you stumble your way through the Larkin Estate, granted the elegance it once had, only with intention to take it away again.

Tonight is the night that the estate burned, collapsing in on itself, bright and burning, like a dying star. You are dressed to the nines in formal-wear that hardly befits you, and regardless of where you find yourself--- guest rooms, servant's quarters, the grand dining room--- you can hear the fire roaring just down the hall, growing ever-closer with every passing moment. None of the windows will open, not even enough to let some of the smoke pour out of the burning home. Impact shatters them, but by the time you move to climb out of it, the glass has returned. The doorknob sears the flesh of your palm when you try to open it to escape.

Worse yet, over the flames, you hear them.

People you know, people you love, perhaps even people who shouldn't be here, scream in the distant manor, begging for help, calling out to you. They're always just out of reach, should you brave the flames that destroy your flesh down to the bone; no matter how you try, you'll hear them consumed by fire, over and over again, just as you are. You do not know if your pets or Pokémon are here, just as you are, or if they're hidden away in the home, but the unknown in that makes it all the worse. Everything you know, everything you've worked for, everything you love, ends here. Your future and everything it could have held is cut off, here and now, in an uncaring, hungry inferno.

But perhaps you escape from your room, and the flames aren't able to catch you before you flee from them. Maybe you're able to find a part of the estate that's yet to catch fire, and your burns have time to begin to heal. Maybe you find other survivors in the calamity.

Peace is granted to be taken away. Collapsing beams will separate you, and the fire spreads relentlessly, seeming to only burn hotter and more viciously the second a piece of hope enters your mind.

All will be consumed by desolation until nothing but ash remains.

THE EYE | Pumpkin Hollow Clock Tower and Surrounding Area

Also known as "The Beholding" or "Ceaseless Watcher". The fear of being watched, stalked, followed, or exposed. Fear of a lack of privacy, fear of judgement from others. Fear of knowledge that could destroy you, and obsession with knowing. Manifests in the form of any eye, either real or symbolic. This can include drawings or photos of eyes, mirror images, camera lenses, and more. Its victims usually have experiences related to being watched intently, followed by unseen eyes, or other similar experiences.

CWs: scopophobia, stalking, paranoia, invasions of privacy, feelings of being watched or spied on, aggressive surveillance, maiming.

The heavy gears of the Pumpkin Hollow clock tower tick heavily, but remain unseen, in this monument of scrutiny.

Each level, once largely empty aside from scaffolding and staircases, is now a maze. Towering marble, austere and polished to perfection, is woven together with clear glass to create tight corridors. Cameras, befittingly old but strange no less, are perched in every corner of the room - and as soon as one becomes visible, the dreadful sensation that they know everything about you begins to sink in. These cameras not only watch your efforts, but they know you, all the way down to your core. Every foul thought, every cruel secret, every lie; everything is catalogued by some unseen force, one that will gladly expose what you truly are to the world.

The only way to escape this is to find your way out of the maze. The glass walls of the tower offer no suggestions, no hints, and the watchful eyes of the crowds below have nothing to give you, just the same. The only thing they cast your way is judgement for any single movement.

You aren't alone in this tower, no matter how high up you climb. Be it through one of the many glass panels in the maze, or finding someone in your corridor, you may find a fellow detainee. You may be able to help one another to escape this place faster with two brains, two sets of eyes...

Except, of course, that this person will learn your darkest secret the second you meet each other's gaze.

Those who are outside the tower fair no better. Searching spotlights will find you just as you feel as though you've managed to hide from them, drawing the attention of the watchful crowds that fill this place, full of shrouded figures who's only discernible feature are their bright, watchful eyes of countless numbers. Those closer to escape, reaching the outskirts that lead to other domains, will find these crowds thinned, will find a new threat: cameras, boxy and clumsy, skitter along on clattering tripods, roving in packs. Should they spot you, they will descend upon you, their sharp stands maiming you in their attempts to drag you back, and their lenses pressed close to your face, shutters snapping loudly as they drink in every moment of your terror.

Don't count on escaping without being seen. Your hope is better placed in hoping that whoever sees you will be trying to avoid your attention, just the same.

Northwest Hollow

THE SLAUGHTER | The Farmlands

Fear of random, unpredictable outbursts of violence, pain, and death. Its most common manifestation is that of war and combat. However, it can apply to any form of random or mass violence.

CWs: war, gunfights, torture, harm of civilians in a war-zone, gore, loss of bodily autonomy, fits of unprovoked violence, military brutality, hypnosis.

The heartbeat in your ears thunders like the drums of war as you rush into the fields of battle, the weapon in your hand now a cruel extension of your own body.

Gunfire rains down upon you and your brethren, but no matter how many times you are mowed down, no matter how many bullet holes sear through your flesh and organs, you continue to rise to the occasion, over and over and over again. Your enemies have found you again, and they will see nothing short of your new home torn to pieces or burned to the ground. The only thing standing between your comrades and total destruction is your tools and your will to cut them down without reservation.

The sidelines of battle host only an illusion of being any safer than the battles themselves. Little farmhouses can only offer so much safety in the wake of stray bullets or carelessly-tossed explosives. Worse yet, they often become a target; how long will it take until the enemies set their sights upon one, to beat those inside within an inch of their lives, or shove a weapon into their hands, forcing them to take up arms against their own friends, neighbors, family?

Should the war drums in their chest be overwhelmed by the sounds of beating drums from the battlefield, maybe the weapon in their hands will no longer be an unwelcome addition.

The war is eternal, and your desire for blood to be spilled is insatiable.

THE VAST | Ripjaw Falls and the Black Jade Sea

Also known as the "Falling Titan" or simply "Vertigo". It is the fear of heights, falling, endlessness, and the existential dread associated with inconceivably large spaces like the open sky, the depths of the sea, and the entirety of the universe. It also addresses the fear and despair surrounding being very small in comparison with grander things so as to be pointless or infinitesimal.

CWs: megalophobia, thalassophobia, heights, very large open spaces, existential dread, infinitesimality, natural disasters.

Occupying a section of sea that looks far greater than it is and the bluffs which overlook it is the domain of the Vast. Stone to your back and toes hanging off the edge, whipping wind steals your breath as you try to inhale. Don’t panic, don’t scream, don’t look down, lest you tumble in to meet your fate on the rocks below. You’ve never seen Ripjaw Falls this close up before, have you?

The dreamlike quality of this miniature apocalypse tricks your mind, lengthening the drop. Below you, jagged rocks that ache upwards, entreating you to break your body, or a deep and dark sea. Above you, a ravenous, cloudless sky. Stand on the ledge until your legs fail you or bite the bullet and leap right in--- you can fall into either. Fall up forever into the endless blue or down, down into unfathomable ocean depths where air is always just out of reach.

If you wander into this domain from elsewhere, don’t worry; your helpful host Avatar will make sure you end up where you’re meant to. Maybe if you’re particularly unfortunate, you’ll be present when she brings about the collision of Concorde with her own Dark Planet--- a colossal rogue planet with a churning surface of hungry black and phthalo blue, consuming the entire sky until it leans in close to kiss the surface of the Earth on which you stand. There is nowhere to run. The collision is imminent. You have no choice but to be consumed by the inky surface, and find yourself afloat in the immense vacuum of space. Stars burn impossibly far away. You could float for a thousand years and never find solid ground, and you have never felt so small.

If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone to float with you in any of these spaces. It offers little solace. Pray that the endless expanse doesn’t see fit to rip you apart.

Northern Wilds

THE HUNT | Hatchet Lake and Surrounding Woodlands

Another fear born from that of animals, this is the fear of being prey or being chased by a relentless, violent pursuer. Manifests as predatory animals and monsters, animalistic tendencies and characteristics, and hunting of all sorts.

(CWs: violent pursuit, predatory behavior, animalistic urges, betrayal, violence with intent to kill, may include use of weaponry including knives and guns.)

Run, rabbit, run, rabbit,

Run, run, run!

It does not matter if you've been dropped in the woodlands behind Leeds Estate alone, or if you've been dropped with comrades. There are glaring truths that rule this place, and as soon as dead leaves crunch beneath your shoes, you know them implicitly.

One: You are being pursued.

Two: Everything that chases you is faster than you, stronger than you, smarter than you.

Three: You have done something wrong, and this misstep has not gone unnoticed.

Monsters in strange shapes and human forms alike prowl these woods, and running among them, you may find yourself changing, just the same. Rustling foliage and glimpses of bright eyes catching moonlight prevent you from ever truly being able to take a break, and every moment has the capability to be a fight for your life.

The options before anyone trapped here are laid out clearly: stay and fight, show anything that would dare challenge you that you are the apex predator here, or run, and save your fight for another day. Hunting or running in a pair or a pack poses it's own challenges; after all, won't the people nearest to you be able to see your weaknesses? Won't they kill you when they get the chance, to bolster their own chances? This, of course, is if you don't try to kill them first.

If the worst comes to pass, and something incapacitates you, don't worry. You won't go to waste. The Flesh Domain you'll be dragged to will see to it that no part goes unused, and once they're done, you'll be right back to play hide and seek all over again.

THE FLESH | Leeds Estate

Also occasionally referred to as "Viscera". This is a strange Fear that is primarily born of livestock animals and their fear of butchery. However, this also has expanded into human fears such as the existential dread of just being electrified meat, gore, body horror, and other more subtle fears and discomforts with one's body or physicality in general.

(CWs: body horror, gore, cannibalism, meat processing, dismemberment, torture, force-feeding, disordered eating.)

The stench of iron invades your nostrils as soon as you register your surroundings. Whether this is where you originally came to, or you were dragged into the belly of Leeds Estate from the Hunting Grounds out back, the first thought is always the same--- it reeks here. The second thing you register is the screaming, and the buzzing of sawblades.

Normally, Leeds Estate is immune to these types of horrors somehow, and serves as a safehouse in the event of emergency. This time, however, is different. After all, how could the House of the Dark Feast not entertain such a kindred guest as the Flesh?

The basement, which once held a lavish wine cellar, now is home to masked butchers and mechanical meat saws. Livestock are strapped to tables or suspended on hooks, where toothy rotary blades, bone saws, and wicked cleavers carve them apart, all while they are still alive. Layers of flesh are peeled back from bone, organs discarded, hunks of meat chopped into bite sized chunks, all while the livestock are awake, aware, and screaming. And in between cuts, the butchers sort the cuts of meat, critiquing them aloud, pointing out all manner of flaws. But these livestock are not cattle or sheep--- they’re people. And you’re next.

Once you’re stripped sufficiently bare, you’re set aside, body hurled into a “resting room” where you and countless others like you lie in a heap, waiting for your spent bodies to slowly, painfully regenerate. Maybe if you’re particularly unfortunate, your body will heal wrong, and fuse with that of your neighbor into some unholy abomination. It’s also possible that instead of the resting room, you’re merely discarded out the back door, where a Hunt domain offers new horrors that may very well land you right back here.

If you don’t end up as livestock, there’s a chance you are condemned to another fate--- one that is a different flavor of awful, emphasis on “flavor.” Upstairs, there is a dinner party being hosted by one Olivia Fleischmann, a Flesh Avatar and Infernal Servant of Aster. Gathered around the dinner table in evening-wear, goggle-eyed diners eagerly await plates full of meat, fresh from the butchers downstairs. They sit around Olivia’s table, speechless, shoveling their food into their mouths. Unable to stop themselves, and unable to ever shake that gnawing, aching hunger in their bellies, they inhale meal after meal after meal. You can be one of the insatiable few invited up to the dinner table as well, if that would suit you better. It’ll surely be a dining experience that you will never forget.

THE DARK | Lockwood Forest

An extremely old and deep fear of darkness, the unknown, and things that lurk out of sight in the darkness. Also sometimes called "Mr. Pitch" or "The Forever Blind". Often manifests as profound, endless darkness, shadowy figures, monsters that hide in shadow, deep and dark bodies of water and blindness.

(CWs: unreality, extreme darkness, hallucination.)

Once upon a time, there was a forest, dark and deep. The pine trees were as tall as a hundred men and covered the rolling hills and mountains with thousands of angry green teeth that cursed the sky and shrouded the land. And, most notably, it was laid with a blanket of eternal night. It was a cursed land, where the sun never rose and moons hid their faces.

This is where you find yourself now.

When you open your eyes, you almost can’t trust that you actually did so until you blink a few times. It is impossibly dark. So dark, and so sudden, that you feel alarm rising in your throat immediately. How did this happen?

You stumble in any direction and reach out, trying to get your bearings. Leaves and brush crunch beneath your feet, and your hands find their way to something--- a rough, cylindrical surface. A tree?

You look around, but to no avail. You still can’t see anything, it’s just an impulse. If you continue stumbling, you’ll find more trees. More brush, low lying plants, things of the like. Take care not to trip over rocks. It’s not hard to suss out that this is Lockwood Forest. But why is it so dark? Tipping your head up, you find that you can’t see the stars, or any of Concorde’s three moons. How could this happen?

Something snaps behind you. A broken twig. What was that? Far off in another direction, you could swear you hear a growl. The longer you try to see, the more your eyes play tricks. This is distinct from the simplistic, comfortable darkness of closed or even damaged eyes. This is the infinite, wide-eyed, disorienting blackness of the Forever Dark. And in that awful dark, your eyes begin tricking themselves into seeing shapes. Movements. And the sounds do not help. You need to get out of here.

Stumbling through the shadows, you go on and on, becoming wearier and more disoriented. Any time you stop to rest, you have no more than a few minutes before you hear something else. Breathing. A heartbeat. The sound of jaws opening. The crunch of leaves underfoot. Is it a person? Is it a beast? You can’t tell. You can’t leave it to chance. But as time trudges on you begin to feel a dread settle over you. One that says you could wander these blackened woods for a century and then ten more and never, ever find your way out. Surely it’s been hours now. Days, maybe. And yet, the dawn never breaks.

Every so often, you think you catch just the faintest glimpse of light. A shred of moonlight or the flicker of a candle flame. The first time you see it, it comes as a relief. An allusion to progress or rescue, perhaps. But once you see what it is the light catches, you are sure you were far better off without. There are things in these woods that want to harm you. You can only dream up what they might look like as a whole, but what you’ve seen can mean nothing good. You need to get out.

Good luck with that, though.

THE BURIED | Crane's Ridge Caverns

Also known as "Choke" or "Too Close I Cannot Breathe". Claustrophobia, the fear of being trapped without enough space, suffocation, being buried alive or drowning, or otherwise being crushed.

(CWs: claustrophobia, limited air, possible mutilation by crushing, intense hopelessness and despair.)

The caves of Crane's Ridge, though once thought to be almost entirely known known, now stretch eternally into the darkest recesses of Concorde.

This far below the surface of the world, you can feel it. How the planet breathes, like the rising and falling of a chest, an eternal rhythm unseen by the rest of the world. In these tight, ever-narrowing passages, the world's inhale crushes you, pinning you into place. Bones bend, fracture, break, circulation cuts off. You are in a snare of stone, mud, and soil, of dust and debris that threaten to fill your throat and eyes, suffocating and eternal. And yet, every time you begin to lose hope for finding your freedom, the world exhales at last. The walls grant you small freedoms. You are able to squirm, crawl, sink nails into hard soil and drag yourself, given these fleeting hopes of escape. For some, maybe they will find themselves in a new cavern, wide enough to stand, air scarce and stale. For those less fortunate, maybe they're only granted enough time to reposition themselves.

Whatever the case may be, the world will find a way to bear down upon all beneath its surface again with merciless force. If the stone, dirt, and mud are not able to crush you, the burdens of the world above that you cannot escape from will feel that much more present, and threaten to smother you under their weight just the same.

Perhaps you're one of the fortunate few who seems to have found a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether it be a fellow victim in this inescapable place, or a literal light at the end of the tunnel, maybe you've found some glimpse of freedom. All silver linings come with a catch, however; mudslides and earthquakes will drag you back down into the darkest recesses that you'd just managed to claw your way out of, and other people, desperate to attempt to escape with you, may pull you back in just the same, like crabs in a bucket.

You are stranded, Forever Deep Below Creation, and the longer you are here, the more the sun and the sky begin to feel like nothing more than a distant dream.

THE EXTINCTION | The Train

Also referred to as "The Future Without Us". This is a relatively new Fear that plays off of several others, but has begun to establish itself as unique as environmental issues and weapons of mass destruction become more of a pressing issue. It is the fear of apocalypse, of a mass extinction event created by human hands through violence or negligence.

(CWs: apocalypse, environmental destruction due to human behavior, human extermination, existential dread.)

There is a place where you can be safe from all this terror. You’ve seen the smoke signals, the flares up on the mountain’s peak. Emergency signals. Safety.

But how to get up there? The mountain itself is a domain until right near the peak. One owned by an entity that threatens to suck you beneath Cranes Ridge if you try to travel through it. So, you must take the train. Probably for the best--- no matter where you are in town, the journey to the South Station where the Hunt and Stranger domains meet was most assuredly a long and dangerous one.

There is someone already here, finding himself in the very front of the train---- Edgar, one of the young fellows from Baker Ranch. It is still, and seems unimpacted by whatever it is that’s going on. Maybe it’s an extension of the safe zone? It seems like the only thing amiss here is that it’s surprisingly full of garbage. Far more of it is plastic than seems appropriate for the location, and there seems to be some foul smelling liquid on the ground in a few cars. Oil? How odd. But it is otherwise empty, and cold.

After some fiddling with the controls however, it almost seems like the train might be non-functional. Until, of course, Edgar tries his hand. For some reason, the train will only run for him. But that could mean nothing.

Of course, it doesn’t. As soon as the train leaves the station, a belch of unruly, stinking smoke coughs out of the stack, followed by an excessive billowing forth of black and choking smog. Coal burns angrily within the engine, and the windows of each car begin to display visions of a terrible future. One where the land decays, burns, and freezes over with endless snow. Where oil and smoke and chemicals poison the land and kill everything in sight. Trash piles take human forms and attack passengers, spilled oil bubbles, smog rushes in through cracked windows to choke those inside. Riders are overcome with the feeling that this train and everyone on it are personally responsible for the death of the world. And none feel this more deeply than Edgar himself.

As soon as the train stops, however, the visions do as well. That’s a relief. It seems as though the Extinction’s youth as a Fear makes it less effective as some of its siblings. However, it does remain the only somewhat-safe way up to the top of the mountain. And it can only be run by one person--- the person most deeply impacted by the onset of the Extinction’s terror.

It seems as though the Future Without Us will make itself an Avatar yet.

THE SAFE ZONE

Regardless of if your freedom was hard-fought by trying to escape from the grasp of the Fears, or if you were plucked by an unseen hand and brought here for your own good, there is safety at the summit of Crane's Ridge.

It's a small foothold near the peak of the mountain, only enough for a small collection of people, but here, the terror that has swallowed the rest of the island cannot reach you. Wounds can begin to truly heal, both mental and physical, and the sky is clear, dotted with glimmering stars. All three of Concorde's moons shine above; with the way so many of the domains obscure the sky, this is the first time you've been able to see it clearly. It's difficult to enjoy such a beautiful night with the sounds of torment echoing out down below, of course. But at least, for the moment, you are safe.

Survival is no given here, as well; fires are lit and tended to keep people warm, and supplies to tend wounds are scarce. Survivalism skills here are more valuable than ever before.

Fortunately, with some reach there, Celestine, who admits to being the one who plucked certain unfortunate souls out of the start of the fray, can aid with the worst of it. But with the Barrier trapping the Fears inside as much as it prevents her reach fully inside, there's only so much she can offer to the few who have escaped towards her safety towards the sky.

Even with the hardships, though, the peak of this mountain holds a glimmer of hope. With any luck yet, together, those free from the Fears' grasp can keep each other alive until the calamity ends.

General OOC Information

Life Within the Fear Domains

It is important to note that the Fifteen Fears are derived from primal, existential, universal things that all living creatures have wired into their brain to some degree, as a matter of survival. They are based on not only the fears of human adults, but animals, and even children. As such, they are adaptable. They are capable of flexing and adapting to suit your terror. They don’t just feed on fear. They are fear. And as such, they know exactly what shape to take in order to cut to the heart of your terror.

That said, you must put your character in a situation they are meaningfully afraid of, or opt out. It’s not feasible to spend this entire event completely unafraid and in control of the situation, nor is it canon-compliant to TMA. (Avatars may be partially exempt from this, but it’s complicated---- see the Avatar section for details.) No-sells, moments of personal triumph, overcoming the Fears in their own domain, or avoiding a character’s personal terrors wholesale are not suitable for this event, and the event itself may not be suitable for certain characters as a result. If that’s something you want for the future, let’s do a rain check! But in this specific situation, fear is the goal. Opted out characters do play an important role in assisting and caring for new arrivals to the safe-zone and will be prioritized for interactions with Celestine, so please let me know if this is your plan!

Because of the dreamlike quality of the Fears and how that interacts with the barrier, for the duration of this event, (almost) no one is capable of completely dying. Instead, you will be able to sustain impossibly grave injuries and remain alive, allowed to slowly regenerate if you remain at rest long enough, keep going as normal despite the damage, or even simply reset to hale and whole in a blink, all in the name of reliving the torment. The only exception is the End.

Those who find themselves in the End and have it as a key source of their terror will be offered the opportunity for a rare ability--- to respawn from death in as little as three hours for the duration of the barrier. However, because this is a very generous gift, it comes with a high cost. Each cycle through the End’s gauntlet of deadly visions will be a chance to escape, but leaves victims with a new, carried-over injury. Players MUST roll a 17 or higher on a D20, or repeat the cycle. There are no modifiers--- the End adjusts to meet you at your level. You don’t necessarily have to write out every cycle, provided that you thread out at least a little bit, but you should make some narrative decisions as to injuries, scars, and exciting new traumas your character sustained during each cycle. You do not have to try for the bonus if the dice rolls are kicking your ass, but you do have to keep every attempt that you make canon. Additionally, it should be noted that this is NOT the same as becoming an End Avatar, although they can be linked. Characters who receive the bonus do get to keep it until the barrier goes down, but will feel a persistent, creeping anxiety about the barrier’s fall and the possibility of death returning, culminating in a profound terror when the barrier does indeed go down. The Fears don’t do anything to help anyone without a cost, after all.

Becoming an Avatar

Something that is possible within the Magnus Archives universe is becoming an Avatar of one of the Fears. This is when a person makes an agreement with one of these entities, accepting power from that Fear’s domain and becoming an extension of it, which can happen after prolonged supernatural exposure. It typically only happens to those with a strong predisposition towards it for one reason or another. Examples include things like aligning with one Fear that feels “safer” in order to protect oneself from another, or developing a relationship with a Fear that thrills you rather than being solely frightening, makes you feel important or powerful, or has a symbolic connection to you and your personal history.

This is effectively a deal with the devil--- accepting it does make you much more difficult to kill, and gives you thematically appropriate powers that often have a lot of utility, but it also means becoming an extension of that Fear and abandoning your humanity. In the podcast, Avatars have a biological obligation to feed terror to their patron by terrorizing people deliberately, and this remains true of Avatars that are present or created during this event. Once the incursion ends, it won’t be a requirement, but the temptation will be incredibly pressing, and you will find yourself handsomely rewarded for feeding what feeds you. Those who serve their patrons even in their absence will find their powers expanding, their physical strength increased, and their mood lifted. It’s amazing what a good meal can do for you!

In order to become an Avatar, there’s a few things that one should consider. It’s possible to functionally have an Avatar role over the course of the event, but shed it when the Fears leave. However, if you decide to carry it with you into the rest of the game, it is not reversible after this point. Additionally, becoming an Avatar is always consensual. Even if you don’t fully understand the gravity of what is happening or how it will impact you going forward, Avatarhood is always a deliberate choice. It involves a death of the self, whether that is a “death” of the body that marks the moment of transition or whether it is an ego death, this plot beat is a requirement in TMA canon, and thus is required here. Becoming an Avatar leaves you forever changed. And lastly, it should be thematically appropriate. It’s important to consider that you are becoming an embodiment of fear--- Desolation Avatars aren’t fire itself, but the fear of fire and everything that goes with it, for example. Even if something seems symbolically connected to an aspect of your character, it’s important to consider that terror is ultimately the linchpin of being an Avatar, which may be in conflict with other aspects of your character. Someone with a relationship with Mortanne, for instance, and an avatar of the End would find that they have little in common despite the shared motifs. If you’re not sure, reach out! Talk to a canon-familiar mod today to see if becoming an Avatar is right for you!

And lastly, becoming an Avatar isn’t an immediate given. It’s usually a process. In this case it’s expedited by the intensity of the miniature apocalypse, but it should still be something that one grows into with key character moments. As such, we’re asking that the change not be hand waved--- please make sure you write something out! Incorporating it into a thread is strongly preferred, but a solo writing piece such as a top-level feature may also be appropriate depending on the situation. Have fun experimenting with evil powers!

The Aftermath

Since the incursion is mostly an overlaying of dream logic with reality, townsfolk will find their environment has mostly gone back to a surprising degree of normal when the switch abruptly flips off at midnight on Halloween. However, everyone will reappear wherever they were the moment the incursion started, but in whatever physical condition the incident left them. This may result in a large amount of very abrupt deaths, so have fun with that! Those in the safe zone will be able to visibly see the change revert back from their vantage point on Crane’s Ridge.

Additionally, the train will also go back to normal, except when it is being driven by Edgar. That certainly can’t mean anything bad or scary at all.

Happy Halloween!

This event ICly be taking place from October 17th to midnight of the 31st.

Comments

Leon S. Kennedy | Resident Evil 4 (Remake) | OTA

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

I. I learned in the field, when to fight, when to yield [ The Hunt ]

[CONTENT WARNINGS: Zombies/mind-controlled cult members, probable knife violence ]

When it happens, Leon thinks for a moment that he's just having a nightmare again. It's not the first time he's been asleep, dreaming of something mundane like washing the dishes, then in an instant found himself in the Raccoon City Police Department again, or the jungle surrounding Javier Hidalgo's mansion, or the decaying village of Valdelobos. Of course, usually he doesn't realize that he's having a nightmare at the time, but maybe he's just lucky this time. Taking a deep breath, he flips the kitchen knife he'd been washing - still in his hand, by whatever grace afforded to him in this moment - into a reverse grip and stops to listen.

He has to strain his ears for it, but what he hears makes him grimace - groaning, gurgling, chanting. "Corazón, corazón, gloria las plagas." The snapping of twigs under careless, shuffling feet, too many to take armed with just a knife.

"Shit," he hisses under his breath, gaze darting about to try to find some place to lie in wait until they pass, or some way out that won't involve crashing through the underbrush and making a ton of noise in the process. Finding neither, he huffs in irritation and makes the snap decision to run for it, leaping through the bushes - and potentially past some other soul unlucky enough to be caught up in this mess.

II. See if silver don't kill her, it makes quite a shield [ The Hunt ]

[CONTENT WARNINGS: Hallucinations, altered mental states, zombies/mind-controlled cult members, almost definite knife violence, hunting traps turned against people]

As it becomes more and more clear that whatever's happening here is more than just a shitty dream and not letting up any time soon, Leon's mind becomes, well. Less and less clear. Something takes a hold of him - fearful, yes, but also visceral, angry, even indignant at the thought of being hunted again (again, again). The moment he puts enough distance between himself and the latest batch of shambling pursuers, he sets about putting a plan into motion.

This one corner of the woods becomes just that much more dangerous, thanks to him. Hunting snares, sized up to deal with more robust prey, have been placed at random intervals throughout the area, made of skillfull but hastily twisted grass rope and hidden under the leaves. Most people, in possession of two hands and likely a lot of adrenaline at this point, will probably be fine and able to free themselves if or when they get caught, but maybe you're unlucky. Maybe the one who set the trap is lurking nearby, waiting for one of his many pursuers to stumble in and give him a chance to thin out the pack.

"Gotcha." Leon doesn't leave it to chance. The moment he's sure his quarry is distracted trying to free themselves, he drops from the tree he's been hiding in, knife in hand and a steely, determined look in his eyes. In the moment, whatever or whoever he's caught doesn't register - the smell of rot fills his lungs, and all he can see is another monster out to get him.

III. Broken ice, got a price, cut me up more than twice [ The Flesh (processing) ]

[CONTENT WARNINGS: Cannibalism, torture, dismemberment/limb loss, difficulty breathing, sexually loaded comments, gender dysphoria]

Of course, there's only so long he can last out there like that. More than once he gets dragged all the way to the Leeds estate. This time he's missing his right arm, groaning through gritted teeth at every bump and jostle as he's hauled along by his left. The butcher, a hulking figure at the back door to the kitchens, looks him over and sneers, before tossing the zombie that dragged him here a chunk of brain.

"Be more careful next time. You're bruising the meat."

"Fuckin'... flesh wound," Leon mutters, delirious with pain but still doing his best. The butcher hauls him up by the front of his shirt, pulling him into the kitchens, where she lifts him up and slams him down onto a meat hook back-first, driving it in between his ribs. He howls, agonized, trying to kick her away, but she takes the blow like it's nothing, reaching up and tearing away what's left of his shirt.

"Huh," she snorts, looking over the scars covering his torso. With no ceremony or reverence, she reaches out and digs her fingers into the gnarled, years-old bite marks on his shoulders. "Looks like someone tried to beat us to it. A shame. Scar tissue's tough to work with."

Her hand trails down his chest, a broad, callused fingertip tracing along the surgical scars that sit beneath his pectoral muscles. The gesture makes him squirm, gentler though it is, and she grins with too many teeth. "I'm sure these would've been good eating."

"I'd say 'buy me dinner first'," Leon spits, blood seeping between his teeth, still trying to shy away from her touch with little success. "But somehow I'm - hhhhrk - starting to think we have pretty different tastes. Maybe we just call this whole thing off."

"Oh ho, a spicy one, are we? We'll see how well you can mouth off when I'm through with you." She licks her lips, the toothy grin not leaving her face for an instant. "Just you wait while I get my knives."

And with that, she bustles off, leaving Leon on the hook - very literally. With one final burst of energy, he thrashes his legs, trying to swing hard enough to free himself, but to no avail and a lot of pain. "Fffffuck," he groans, panting with the agony of it. Frantically, he looks around the room - and catches sight of someone else, hanging or lying in wait for processing. "Hey. Hey. You still alive?"

At this point, he's not really sure if he hopes so or not. This is the kind of shit he wouldn't wish on anybody.

IV. Crying no, baby no, just be nice [ The Flesh (dinnertime) ]

[CONTENT WARNINGS: Blood, gore, surgical horror, dismemberment/limb loss, cannibalism, autocannibalism, uncontrollable hunger, emeto/nausea]

In what kind of feels like a farcical recreation of Dahlia's gala dinner, Leon finds himself dressed in a suit (one that is immediately ruined by the blood still seeping from the Y-shaped incision across his torso and the stump of his right arm) and marched up to the dinner party. His stomach turns as he's led past the tables stacked high with glistening viscera, knowing where it came from, and he makes a point to avert his eyes and look pointedly as his feet as he's forced to put one in front of the other - until he's sat down at one of the tables himself, that is.

There's a human hand on his plate. A very familiar right hand, surrounded by thin cuts of meat that he can only assume are what's left of his own goddamn arm. His demon escort pats him on the shoulder and smiles.

"Dig in."

"Fuck offffffff," Leon replies, too exhausted at this point to even try to be witty about anything. He tries to get up, but realizes with a sinking feeling that he genuinely doesn't have the strength. How long has he been at this? When was the last time he drank anything, or ate? His stomach growls, despite his continuing nausea, and he closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths and not think too hard about the smell of blood and meat all around him.

V. I'm up every night, I'm holding up the light [ Aftermath ]

[CONTENT WARNINGS: limb loss/dismemberment, cannibalism, autocannibalism, emeto]

And with another blink, it's over. Leon finds himself standing in front of the kitchen sink, the water still running and the basin still full of suds, just like none of that had happened at all. The evidence to the contrary, though?

Agony. His arm, scabbed over by now but still very missing no longer attached to him, throbs, and he doubles over the sink, bracing himself with the hand he has left as he vomits into it - as much from the pain as a semiconscious choice to get everything he ate over the course of that god-knows-how-long out. For a long moment after, he just watches the water circle the drain, slowly tinged with less and less red until it runs clear again, before scooping a few handfuls into his mouth and rinsing it out.

He closes his eyes, takes deep lungful of air that doesn't reek of fresh meat, and stumbles outside, looking for anyone who might be able to confirm for him what just happened, but also, perhaps most critically, a fucking doctor.

VI. To the blood on the bark, gotta paint it just right [ Wildcard ]

[ Need something else? Plot with me by PMing this journal or at quodvide on Discord! Happy to write additional prompts if needed.]

ii cw: limb removal

[peoplepleaser]

The kinds of traps Kabru is used to avoiding are those you find in a dungeon-- spike pits, oil traps, and the like, triggered by pressure plates. Back then he had the sharp senses of his half-foot and kobold party members to catch them and point them out before Kabru could stumble into them. A simple snare trap, though? He's never had to be on the lookout for those. Adventurers don't typically bother with such methods, and obviously monsters aren't capable of making them. He stumbles right into it, putting an abrupt stop to his escape through the woods as it snags around his ankle.

Before he can try to use the sword in his hand to cut himself free, he hears a murmur, a voice. A person. Even with his movement limited, Kabru turns to face the incoming threat, eyes catching the glint of a weapon in his right hand. The other man is already too close for Kabru to strike at his vitals, but he can do something about that. Setting up traps to catch others in the woods? He might as well be helping the monsters. Someone like that can't be allowed to continue, an enemy of humanity.

The limb seems to come off almost too easily, but Kabru can't think about that now, moving the blade up to the man's throat. "Step back or it will be your head next."

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

The truth of the situation starts to dawn on Leon a split-second too late - no BOW he knows moves like that, not even the faster ones, and the look in his eyes is far too lucid, as well. The sword has already swung through his arm before he can pull back and deescalate, though. Thrown off balance, he stumbles back, his remaining hand clutching at the bleeding stump of his arm as he bites back an anguished scream.

(On some distant level, it occurs to him that he should be bleeding a lot more than this. That this is the kind of injury that you bleed out from fast, and for all the abuse he's been able to put his body through in the past his pain tolerance should not be keeping him upright right now. But that's not exactly his biggest concern right now, and it gets shoved down hard.)

Dropping to his knees once he's staggered out of immediate range of the sword, he takes a minute to try to pull himself back together enough to look up at the person wielding it.

"Thought I was the only - fuck - the only person left out here," he manages to gasp out. There's a weird mix of emotions in there. He's pissed, obviously, but it's not like he didn't start it, and in a way he's kind of relieved that he's not out here alone with a bunch of zombies, even if he is probably going to bleed out any minute now. Not that he'd wish whatever's happening on anyone else, but misery does love company, or something.

[peoplepleaser]

The moonlight catches eerily in Kabru's eyes, making them seem unnaturally bright in the otherwise dim light of the forest at night. Some instinct in the back of his mind tells him to finish it, to cut the man's throat now-- but he pauses at the words. Hesitates, eyes still narrowed in suspicion but blade stilled. "Something like this", he tips the blade towards the trap still wrapped around his ankle, "isn't going to snare any of the monsters I've seen in these woods. What are you trying to catch other than another person? Or am I meant to be bait for something larger?"

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

Leon snorts, indignant at the accusation. His eyes flicker to the knife still in his hand, now much further away from him than one's hands should ever be, ideally speaking. Not worth trying to lunge for it. Too much of a provocation, too little too late.

"Plenty of things out here that used to be people," he grunts, through gritted teeth. "Things that can't remember anything other than how to hunt and kill, now." Is that true? Leon thinks about the villagers in Valdelobos, half-lucid but consumed by murderous fervor at Saddler's command. How much were they aware of?

Fuck. Not important. He's been having that crisis on and off for almost a year and a half now, he can keep having it later.

"The traps weren't supposed to keep 'em for long. Just - long enough for me to thin out their ranks and figure out what the fuck is happening."

[peoplepleaser]

Kabru tenses when his eyes flick to the discarded knife-- and the hand still attached to it-- but that the man doesn't dive for it is a mark in the column of hearing him out. There are of course plenty of monsters that take humanoid shapes that Kabru has encountered, even some that did indeed used to be human. He just hasn't seen any out here... but maybe this man has. As far as Kabru can tell, he doesn't seem to be lying.

Kabru cuts himself free of the snare, then lowers his blade, holding a hand out to the other man. It's an olive branch, and an apology, but he'll still keep his weapon close. Can't be too careful. "What sorts of monsters have you been seeing out here?"

ii

[lovethyneighb_or]

He's caught something in a trap—something angry and black-silhouetted. Satisfying prey for a Hunter, if it weren't for the fact that the moment he gets too close, the trap turns out to be empty.

What? What are you doing? There's nothing here. Not even tracks or a whiff of a scent.

Come on, get up. You're wasting your time here. You've got the nose, haven't you? The sight? The keen eye for tracks and the prey-drive to seek and kill? There are things out there that need taking care of.

... Aren't there?

Fog begins to rise from the ground.

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

Leon grunts in confusion and frustration when his quarry flickers out of sight, his grip on the knife tightening as he casts about for where they might've gone. The disappearance was so fast that it makes him wonder if there was anything there at all, but there's no time to be doubting his own senses when they're all he's got to rely on. Scowling, he resets the trap and moves on to check the next one.

Or tries to.

The fog rolls in - or up - quickly, and despite his usually keen sense of direction he finds himself losing track of the landmarks he made a point to memorize while examining the area initially. Squinting into the gloom, he stops next to a tree that he swears shouldn't be here, in this direction, and tries to get his bearings.

[lovethyneighb_or]

Nothing is familiar anymore; the lighting has changed, the conditions have changed, and it shifts more than it has any right to. Stone glistens and wood and dirt darkens. This tree shouldn’t be here—neither should this bush with yellow buds, or that barely-visible deer path.

Well. If Leon wants to keep trying, he should start walking.

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

In the absence of any other options, keep walking he shall. The scenery is hard to make out in the fog, but this is definitely a different forest entirely from the one he was in prior. Leon's no naturalist, but he's observant enough and has spent enough time hunting on Marrow Isle to notice when the trees go from generally familiar to not.

At least the distant stomping and shuffling of undead feet has stopped. There's that, at least. Somehow that doesn't put him as much at ease as he would've thought.

[lovethyneighb_or]

And all of a sudden, the tree line opens up to a vast, grey waste.

Sand, dirt, and withered chaparral is all that’s visible with the fog this dense; all else is a dull white.

Walk forward, Leon, because there is nowhere else to go. Walk, and after ages submerged in the all-white, find the first sign of former life: an unmaintained path with a wooden post and a few arrowed signs pointing in various directions, one larger and higher than the rest. The lettering on them are long past the point of legibility. This was a place worth coming to, once.

Just be nice (cw: dismemberment, cannibalism referenced throughout)

[aphroditish]

Olivia tuts at the sight of the hand. "You know, I told them they really need to stop doing that. Most people aren't really so avant garde as to want a garnish that looks too much like the thing it came from these days. Let me take that off your--- Hah, I won't finish that."

The Hostess rises from the table, plucking the hand off his plate by the thumb. She sets it off to the side of one of her own.

"You poor thing. It must be so hard to eat. Maybe I can help, hmm?"

cw: uncontrollable hunger, all above warnings continue

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

Leon feels a surge of weird, furious possessiveness as the woman picks up his hand (that's his hand) and moves it. He knows there's not much point in keeping it - it's not like someone could just staple it back onto him and call it good - but. Well. It's his fucking hand. But even beyond that, lurking underneath, is a feeling Leon can only describe as a dog snapping at someone trying to take its bowl away. His plate looks empty without it, and he tries to remind himself that that's probably a good thing.

"Avant garde is one way to describe it, sure," he says, sounding a little strained and distant from a combination of all the stress of the situations he's been finding himself in lately, the pain, and the gnawing hunger that's threatening to consume his thoughts. "Not sure the garnish is the problem, though. You might want to check on the kitchens - pretty sure most of what they're getting up to in there is some kind of health code violation."

Consumption of human and other sapient beings' flesh is not approved by the FDA.

[aphroditish]

"Health code? This place would have a Michelin star if either of those things existed here. Sadly, neither can be found in Victorian gothic fantasyland. Oh well."

A slender hand with pointed, gleaming red nails slides around Leon's shoulder, and with her other hand Olivia plucks up a forkful of the meat on the plate. "Say aaah."

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

Leon, awkward about being touched at the best of times (and this is, surely, not the best of times) jolts at the hand on his shoulder. Half-snarling at the woman as he looks up at her, he unfortunately misses her picking up one of the delicate cuts of meat on his plate, and opens his mouth to say something stupid about how food critics must love the taste of fear and suffering only to receive a mouthful of still-bloody meat, shutting him up as effectively as anything.

Rare steak is not generally Leon's preference - he's more of a medium kind of guy, appreciating the texture better - but this? It tastes incredible, dripping and just barely kissed by the grill, cut so thin it practically melts when it touches his tongue.

And he's so much hungrier than he realized.

Before he can think about it, he swallows, his remaining hand balled into a white-knuckled fist at the edge of the table.

[aphroditish]

"There's a good boy," Olivia purrs, going to get him another bite. "You must be starving. Dealing with those butchers and all those monsters is hungry work. But you'll be well fed with me."

Degrading, infantalizing, sexually-charged, and malicious all at once is this woman's tone, to the point where no matter how one reads it, each interpretation feels dangerous. Uncomfortable. Predatory. She's fully in control and can peel back layers of flesh and muscle with her eyes to cut down to where your insecurities lie. She holds Leon's chin with one hand and offers the fork with the other.

Broken Ice

[amourtician]

Anzu speaks from just to the side of Leon, hidden behind an unidentifiable slab of meat. His voice shakes.

"No, but I haven't laid down and accepted I'm quite dead yet, thank'ee."

He steps into Leon's field of vision, still prim and straight-backed even as his clothes are soaked in gore and speckled with gravedirt. He's carrying his Gladstone bag. Surgical staples at his wrists peek through where his French cuffs have ridden up, and ring his neck like a choker.

His eyes are wide, fearful, but he keeps himself as under control as he can manage. He even smiles at Leon, even though his face twitches and the smiles comes out crooked.

"Is that hook embedded anywhere structural, sweetness?" he asks, briskly. His voice catches only once. He's holding it together, he tells himself. He's holding it together and he can panic outright later.

cw: blood in lungs, hook also in lungs, limb loss

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

Leon tries to breathe a sigh of relief and rattles out a wet, disturbing cough that tastes too much like iron for his liking instead. He grimaces, tries his best to redirect the expression into a weak smile, and sort of succeeds.

"I'd say you look like hell, doc," he says. "But I think the situation's proving that 'hell' might be a lot worse than I imagined."

If he doesn't make jokes at times like this he might have to actually think about what's happening to him and that wouldn't be any good at all. Anyway, with that taken care of, it's time to get down to business.

"Hard to tell. Think it's between the ribs, right of the spine - uh, my right. It's definitely through one of the lung, which - I'm not a doctor, but I think I should be dead or at least not as talkative right now, between that and, well."

He waves the stump of his right arm, looking deeply tired. It's got a very makeshift tourniquet tied around it, but even so.

Re: cw: blood in lungs, hook also in lungs, limb loss

[amourtician]

Anzu closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. The lack of professional composure he's displaying is positively withering him inside, but if he lets himself display the proper amount of empathy and engagement with the patient right now, he will scream and that'll be worse for both him and Leon.

He wishes, for the second time this day ("day"?), that Eli were here. She's the surgeon. She knows what to do with collapsed lungs and severed limbs better than he.

At least Leon's joking. That is lightening the mood. Or at least allowing Anzu to better pretend that this is just a routine round on a trauma ward, like one during the revolution, during the counter-revolution. Allows him to pretend he's tending to people what might have a chance of recovery.

He opens his eyes, and says, very seriously, to Leon, "feh. Good thing I hold by those what believe not in hell, nu? But, ah. Now, then—"

He runs his gaze over Leon again

"Canst thou feel thy legs, darling? If the hook went not through thy spine, we might, ah. We might be in a better position than thou might have thought."

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

"Yeah. Debatably alive, still kicking," he says, wiggling a foot gingerly so as not to rock himself back and forth on the hook. "You got a plan?"

He tries not to let himself sound too hopeful. Really, he should be telling Nyura to get the fuck out of here before the butcher comes back. He really can't imagine being of too much use out there as he is now, even if he can find something weapon-adjacent nearby. But he's just... so tired. And he really doesn't want to get carved up and served to... Jesus, who's even up in the dining room? Would it be better or worse if it's people he knows? Fuck.

[amourtician]

"Hold still, darling," Anzu says, setting down the Gladstone bag and taking off his morning coat. He delicately undoes his cuffs, dropping the cufflinks into an inner pocket of the Gladstone, and rolls up his sleeves.

"I'm going to try and lift thee up off the hook," he says. "And then, nu. Feh. If I drop thee, be prepared to go limp and roll, nu? Thou know'st how to fall safely, I'm sure."

He reaches up and grasps Leon firmly by the waist. He's not entirely sure this will work ... but he has to try. Moving forward, having a plan, executing a plan, no matter how futile or ridiculous, is all that's keeping him from sheer panic right this second.

From sheer panic and from thinking on the plain fact that his bridegroom isn't here, that he has no idea where Leib is. He can't let himself think about that. Keep busy. Keep pushing forward. Run from the absence at the centre of thy life.

He makes to lift Leon off the hook, and then he realises he might have made a grave tactical error. Leon's rather heavier than he looks.

But it's a little too late to turn back.

Wildcard -- The Hunt

[xiaoxiuya]

Between one blink and the next, Shen Qingqiu finds himself...elsewhere. Instead of a war-battered forest pockmarked by craters and landmines, he finds himself crouching in an alleyway between two modern brick and mortar buildings, an actual car blocking one end. It's on fire, because he lives in hell.

As if to rub in the point, his robes have been replaced with the kind of tactical suit he's only ever seen in American cop dramas, and his sword with...a police baton, which is honestly just fantastic. Some kind of gross reeking substances covers the business end. He tries to scrape it off on the nearest wall with mixed success.

[Sidequest generated: Biohazard. Survive the destruction of Raccoon City!]

Are you fucking kidding me??

With no better options, Shen Qingqiu sneaks out onto the sidewalk, eyes open for enemies or maybe a gun store. This is America, right, or at least some version of it. There should be one every few blocks, right?

(He's never touched a firearm in his life, but it can't be that hard, can it?)

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

He's in luck - well, sort of. The end of the alley that isn't blocked by the flaming car opens onto a broad street (also largely blocked off by more crashed cars, also on fire), lined with storefronts including one bearing a neon sign that reads Gun Shop Kendo. One of its large display windows has been smashed, but it's not on fire, so that's something.

(Other notable landmarks include an imposing building with a tall clock tower with a sign over its doors declaring it the Raccoon Police Department some distance away, though judging from the plume of smoke rising from one side of it that's also definitely not been spared the fire.)

In any case, as Shen Qingqiu leaves the alley, a muffled shout comes from within the shop, followed by two loud bangs and accompanying flashes of gunfire. Seems he's not the only one here, or the only one who had this idea.

[xiaoxiuya]

"Shit!" Shen Qingqiu ducks behind the nearest non-burning car, hiding until the surprisingly loud clamor of gunfire has come to an end. Holy shit, what are sfx artists even getting paid for? It never sounded like that in the movies.

He waits until (relative) silence has fallen before peeking back out. Seeing an absence of maniacal, gun-wielding Americans lying in wait to shoot him, he begins to creep towards the gun shop, as silently as possible.

cw: body horror (eyes and teeth in the wrong places, viscera, etc)

[nothingbadeverhappensto]

He'll hear the voices before he sees their owners, the empty shelves of the store blocking his line of sight.

The first, familiar but distorted - Leon Kennedy's, but with an awful, wet, rasping thickness to it like a bad chest cold. "No, no no no I can't do this. You have to run, you have to run, you're not gonna kill me with that, go!"

The second, an older man, speaking over him; "Stay back! I don't know what the fuck you are but I'm warning you -"

The two of them come into view, and it's not a pretty sight. The older man, bearded and broad across the shoulders and middle, aims a rifle at... what's left of Leon. A hulking, front-heavy figure, almost leonine in silhouette has crammed itself into the store, its grotesquely swollen neck and shoulders lined waving tendrils of glistening exposed muscle. Both of its arms have elongated to support a quadrupedal gait, the right one grown into a pillar of meat and teeth and claws, and a long ridge of bone erupts from its back, extending into a long, whiplike tail. Perhaps most unfortunate for Shen Qingqiu, though, is the array of eyes dotted around the creature's flesh, some of which swivel to look directly at him as soon as he's at all visible.