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Entry tags:
TAKE AIM & GIVE ● APRIL 2026 EVENT
EVENT: TAKE AIM & GIVE
ᛗ
Won't You Wait For Me? — Week 1
( content warnings: Psychological horror, atmospheric dread, themes of isolation and abandonment, feelings of being watched, paranoia, supernatural influence and loss of control. )
New Vessels will awaken randomly across the city in the dead of night with their Nightmares and welcoming item— courtesy of Espera— In one piece of mind and body. You may even wake up next to the Veteran vessels you met within the Dreamscape. Gather yourself, extra clothes, a blanket or two, and enjoy the working heaters during this never ending winter. The strange animals won't hurt you if you don't hurt them. Nothing of value is worth noting, only that you are safe for now, if you choose the right place, and you should get some footing under you in the days to come. Luckily, you have others to help you get situated.
But Veterans will quickly begin to notice that for once in the many months they've been here, nothing is wrong. Nothing actually happens, even as the month's full moon pours pale blue into the sky and agitates our Lycans. Even as mildew becomes a sheet of frost in the morning. Even as the chill nips and makes its stay comfortable long past the amount of time winter should be had.
The nights pass without forcefully caused incident or . . . "Divine intervention", if you'd call it that. The Murmur hums low and distant, like a machine idling somewhere underground. No sudden dreams. No new Hosts clawing their way out of dark places. No anomalies worth reporting. Three is still gone. Two may blink a soft hello to you through the lights. Espera is quiet, unsettled. And One— One cannot be reached, and those who attempt it will find themselves facing a cold, cold wall.
It is . . . Quiet. Too quiet.
Established Tethers feel familiar again— warm, settled, almost comforting. The ache that usually comes with connection has dulled, replaced with a strange sense of ease. Some Vessels sleep better than they have in weeks. Others feel watched in the absence of Sleep's usual pressure, as though something has stepped back to get a better view of them all.
TOKEN EFFECTS
New Vessels will awaken randomly across the city in the dead of night with their Nightmares and welcoming item— courtesy of Espera— In one piece of mind and body. You may even wake up next to the Veteran vessels you met within the Dreamscape. Gather yourself, extra clothes, a blanket or two, and enjoy the working heaters during this never ending winter. The strange animals won't hurt you if you don't hurt them. Nothing of value is worth noting, only that you are safe for now, if you choose the right place, and you should get some footing under you in the days to come. Luckily, you have others to help you get situated.
But Veterans will quickly begin to notice that for once in the many months they've been here, nothing is wrong. Nothing actually happens, even as the month's full moon pours pale blue into the sky and agitates our Lycans. Even as mildew becomes a sheet of frost in the morning. Even as the chill nips and makes its stay comfortable long past the amount of time winter should be had.
The nights pass without forcefully caused incident or . . . "Divine intervention", if you'd call it that. The Murmur hums low and distant, like a machine idling somewhere underground. No sudden dreams. No new Hosts clawing their way out of dark places. No anomalies worth reporting. Three is still gone. Two may blink a soft hello to you through the lights. Espera is quiet, unsettled. And One— One cannot be reached, and those who attempt it will find themselves facing a cold, cold wall.
It is . . . Quiet. Too quiet.
Established Tethers feel familiar again— warm, settled, almost comforting. The ache that usually comes with connection has dulled, replaced with a strange sense of ease. Some Vessels sleep better than they have in weeks. Others feel watched in the absence of Sleep's usual pressure, as though something has stepped back to get a better view of them all.
TOKEN EFFECTS
• You have a persistent sense that something important is being withheld from you; could be affection, truth, or attention, and from just about anyone.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Heightened emotional awareness toward your tether(s), bordering on preoccupation.
• Moments of peace feel undeserved, as if they're borrowed time.
• Increased vulnerability to Sundowning symptoms at night: restlessness, fixation, difficulty grounding, etc.
• A temptation to cling to what is familiar rather than question why it feels wrong.
• Subtle physical discomfort when separated from your tether(s): pressure in the chest, static under the skin, etc.
• Protective instincts begin surfacing early, even without a clear threatin sight.
• A sense that your usefulness is being evaluated at all times.
• Dreams where your tether is distant, blurred, or just out of reach.
• Instinctive distrust of the quiet, even as others welcome it as the disguise of calm.
ᛗ
Take Aim On My For Once — Week 2
( content warnings: Psychological and emotional abuse, manipulation, depictions of toxic attachment and obsession, relationship deterioration and interpersonal conflict, themes of abandonment and self-isolation, worsening mental confusion, intrusive supernatural presence, feelings of being hunted or targeted, sustained emotional distress and destabilization. )
Well, that didn't last.
Tethers begin to hurt gradually and unmistakably. Conversations between your bonds may sour without warning. Comfort turns abrasive at the drop of a dime. Being close feels dangerously like standing in front of something loaded, with your friend's finger tightening on the trigger.
Sleep's presence presses closer through the Murmur at last, intimate and merciless. Her attention burns with precision, never warm and much less inviting— unless you know the invitations of a temptress. When She slips wordlessly between the empty spaces of your day to day, brushes upon your psych like a fish's tail flitting against your legs in the water, it is with intent. When She watches you, it is to study you.
One immediately, pathetically, really— takes the bait in his solitude. She purposely ignores him, giving you all minor scraps of attention, and he runs after Her anyway like a desperate pup. If this is how she loves— if love is meant to wound— then he will endure it. He withdraws from his black hole of self-punished isolation. Pushes away safety. Cuts himself further off from those who would soften the impact. Whatever remains of him turns toward Sleep alone, asking Her to aim true. Those who have felt the pain of real loneliness at least once in life will hear the echoing chamber of his serenade from time to time: How you love like weapons kill . . .
Unfortunately, One's song, feelings, emotions— warp the very reality you live and feel very day. Some Vessels feel the same pull, while others recoil. The strain finally reveals itself:
Established Tethers begin to misfire— Familiar bonds will grow volatile and emotions will echo too sharply. Comfort curdles into agitation, and being close to each other feels like pressing too near a wound that won't close. You're irritable, and your Tether is irritable right back. Established pairs will have negative effects on each other rather than positive during this week. The Murmur distorts around your connections, vibrating unevenly, as if something is interfering with the signal. Sundowning worsens where bonds are strongest, causing nighttime confusion to bloom faster, deeper, harder rather than slowing down. The closer you are to your Tethers, people who are supposed to be your ground, your pillars, your safe haven— the more it hurts.
The shot hasn't fired yet, but you can feel the crosshairs. As quickly as she can, Espera does what she does best, exhausted but resolute:
"You must . . . Find new Tethers. Just one will do. At least for now. Two will assist where I cannot."
Those who go outside and walk the city in search of a new bond will be aided by blinking lights— that will then lead you straight to someone else, in equal need.
TOKEN EFFECTS:
OFFERING EFFECTS:
Well, that didn't last.
Tethers begin to hurt gradually and unmistakably. Conversations between your bonds may sour without warning. Comfort turns abrasive at the drop of a dime. Being close feels dangerously like standing in front of something loaded, with your friend's finger tightening on the trigger.
Sleep's presence presses closer through the Murmur at last, intimate and merciless. Her attention burns with precision, never warm and much less inviting— unless you know the invitations of a temptress. When She slips wordlessly between the empty spaces of your day to day, brushes upon your psych like a fish's tail flitting against your legs in the water, it is with intent. When She watches you, it is to study you.
One immediately, pathetically, really— takes the bait in his solitude. She purposely ignores him, giving you all minor scraps of attention, and he runs after Her anyway like a desperate pup. If this is how she loves— if love is meant to wound— then he will endure it. He withdraws from his black hole of self-punished isolation. Pushes away safety. Cuts himself further off from those who would soften the impact. Whatever remains of him turns toward Sleep alone, asking Her to aim true. Those who have felt the pain of real loneliness at least once in life will hear the echoing chamber of his serenade from time to time: How you love like weapons kill . . .
Unfortunately, One's song, feelings, emotions— warp the very reality you live and feel very day. Some Vessels feel the same pull, while others recoil. The strain finally reveals itself:
Established Tethers begin to misfire— Familiar bonds will grow volatile and emotions will echo too sharply. Comfort curdles into agitation, and being close to each other feels like pressing too near a wound that won't close. You're irritable, and your Tether is irritable right back. Established pairs will have negative effects on each other rather than positive during this week. The Murmur distorts around your connections, vibrating unevenly, as if something is interfering with the signal. Sundowning worsens where bonds are strongest, causing nighttime confusion to bloom faster, deeper, harder rather than slowing down. The closer you are to your Tethers, people who are supposed to be your ground, your pillars, your safe haven— the more it hurts.
The shot hasn't fired yet, but you can feel the crosshairs. As quickly as she can, Espera does what she does best, exhausted but resolute:
Those who go outside and walk the city in search of a new bond will be aided by blinking lights— that will then lead you straight to someone else, in equal need.
TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Emotional pain from your tether(s) will register as proof of connection rather than the warning that it truly is.
• Increased tolerance for emotional harm if it means staying close.
• Intrusive thoughts that frame suffering as something you must endure to be worthy.
• Sundowning escalates faster when near your tether(s).
• Desire to isolate from others who question the health of your bond.
OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Compulsion to remain present even when it hurts. Retreat feels like failure on your part.
• Self-destructive protective behaviors: taking on emotional or physical harm meant for your tether.
• Heightened aggression or defensiveness toward perceived threats to the bond.
• Difficulty recognizing when care has turned into damage.
• Instinct to endure rather than escape, mirroring One's withdrawal.
ᛗ
Give Me All That You Can Give
( content warnings: Manipulative and coercive intimacy, themes of emotional dependency and possession, loss of autonomy and personal boundaries, obsessive attachment, supernatural influence. )
Rounding the month's third week, the pain between Tethers stops abruptly, cleanly, like a weighted thread snapped at the grip. Tethers no longer wound, but they do not loosen either. Instead, they tighten, drawing Vessels closer into something dense and consuming. Sleep's presence floods the Murmur, no longer distant, but intimate in a way that leaves no room for you to breathe in the slightest.
One reflects back to her like radar bouncing off wall. Their voices overlap in the dark of your dreams, devotion echoing devotion, and occassionally, should your heart be open, they duet. Love stops hurting because it no longer needs to. Instead, it takes. And takes, and takes.
Protection becomes instinct to some, while attention becomes fixation for others. Needs may be spoken aloud and without shame, and expected to be met. One and Sleep's cruelty mirrors closeness taken too far upon you, with their care sharpened into unhealthy possession.
No one is alone this week, but that does not mean you are safe.
TOKEN EFFECTS
Rounding the month's third week, the pain between Tethers stops abruptly, cleanly, like a weighted thread snapped at the grip. Tethers no longer wound, but they do not loosen either. Instead, they tighten, drawing Vessels closer into something dense and consuming. Sleep's presence floods the Murmur, no longer distant, but intimate in a way that leaves no room for you to breathe in the slightest.
One reflects back to her like radar bouncing off wall. Their voices overlap in the dark of your dreams, devotion echoing devotion, and occassionally, should your heart be open, they duet. Love stops hurting because it no longer needs to. Instead, it takes. And takes, and takes.
Protection becomes instinct to some, while attention becomes fixation for others. Needs may be spoken aloud and without shame, and expected to be met. One and Sleep's cruelty mirrors closeness taken too far upon you, with their care sharpened into unhealthy possession.
No one is alone this week, but that does not mean you are safe.
TOKEN EFFECTS
• Growing expectation that your needs should come first within the bond.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Difficulty tolerating distance, silence, or unmet demands.
• Emotional comfort derived from your tether's sacrifice.
• Increased confidence when obeyed or prioritized.
• Rationalization of control as intimacy: this is just how we care for each other.
• Obsessive vigilance: tracking moods, movements, threats, real or imagined.
• Territorial behavior toward others interacting with your tether.
• Willingness to sacrifice sleep, safety, or selfhood to remain useful.
• Anxiety when not needed; relief only when depended upon.
• Difficulty distinguishing your own desires from your tether's
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ᛗ
I Won't Fight Fair
( content warnings: Snakes, intense stalking and predatory behavior, vivid hallucinations and psychological breakdown, intrusive body horror and parasitic infestation, loss of bodily autonomy, graphic implications of illness and bleeding, supernatural possession, severe mental distress and destabilization, themes of obsession, emotional exhaustion, and abandonment. )
Something is watching you by the tail end of the waxing crescent.
A Host moves through the edges of the city, seen in reflections, dreams, empty tunnels and storefronts. Corners, windows, and alleyways. While it never seems to attack you in its stalking stages, its presence alone is enough to unravel nerves already stretched thin by earlier devotion and demand. The sense of being observed does not come with footsteps or breath. It arrives in reflections that linger too long. In slithering silhouettes that do not move when you do. In scaley serpents pouring through the mouths of familiar faces before snapping back into place.
A manifestation has entered the network. The Murmur carries its presence poorly, as if whatever this Host has become does not belong fully to Sleep, nor to the world that remains. Yet, those who feel its attention describe the same progression: The certainty of being singled out, the maddening inability to prove it, and the slow understanding that distance does not help.
The Basilisk stalks its chosen Vessel across nights and waking hours alike. Appearing only at the edges of vision, behind glass, at the far end of alleys, or standing impossibly still beneath broken lights. When ignored, it draws closer. When acknowledged, it stills, and grows your paranoia. It seems to feed on your awareness.
The longer it watches, the weaker its target becomes. Rest drains poorly from those already hollowed by obsession and demand. Sundowning deepens catastrophically. After horridly vivid hallucinations of the Basilisk catching you in the nasty form of friends and loved ones, blood follows you through nosebleeds, blackened veins, and a cold setting into the bones no matter how close the heaters warm.
When it finally closes true distance on the sixth day of stalking, it does not tear or bite with violence— at least not first. It makes you spiral before it forcibly enters your body, through the mouth— Until you, too, spew over with slithering creatures burrowing into your skulls, and making their parasitic home. It will crumble into sand when the waxing gibbous is at its prime, leaving the city damp with dissatisfaction. The only way to escape it? Pass it on to another Vessel through any kind of physical harm. A cut, a punch— anything to make them bleed.
Only then will the Basilisk leave you be. If you survive the end of the week, all Basilisks will dissapate into dust.
One is exhausted. Hollowed out. Whatever he gave, whatever he surrendered, did not fill the space it left behind. Sleep is close, closer than ever . . . And still so unreachable. When the pressure finally lifts, it leaves him standing alone, emptied by devotion that was never returned in kind.
Tethers completely stabilize, but there's a bad taste in your mouth for the days to come.
TOKEN EFFECTS
OFFERING EFFECTS
GENERAL EFFECTS (ANY WEEK)
Something is watching you by the tail end of the waxing crescent.
A Host moves through the edges of the city, seen in reflections, dreams, empty tunnels and storefronts. Corners, windows, and alleyways. While it never seems to attack you in its stalking stages, its presence alone is enough to unravel nerves already stretched thin by earlier devotion and demand. The sense of being observed does not come with footsteps or breath. It arrives in reflections that linger too long. In slithering silhouettes that do not move when you do. In scaley serpents pouring through the mouths of familiar faces before snapping back into place.
A manifestation has entered the network. The Murmur carries its presence poorly, as if whatever this Host has become does not belong fully to Sleep, nor to the world that remains. Yet, those who feel its attention describe the same progression: The certainty of being singled out, the maddening inability to prove it, and the slow understanding that distance does not help.
The Basilisk stalks its chosen Vessel across nights and waking hours alike. Appearing only at the edges of vision, behind glass, at the far end of alleys, or standing impossibly still beneath broken lights. When ignored, it draws closer. When acknowledged, it stills, and grows your paranoia. It seems to feed on your awareness.
The longer it watches, the weaker its target becomes. Rest drains poorly from those already hollowed by obsession and demand. Sundowning deepens catastrophically. After horridly vivid hallucinations of the Basilisk catching you in the nasty form of friends and loved ones, blood follows you through nosebleeds, blackened veins, and a cold setting into the bones no matter how close the heaters warm.
When it finally closes true distance on the sixth day of stalking, it does not tear or bite with violence— at least not first. It makes you spiral before it forcibly enters your body, through the mouth— Until you, too, spew over with slithering creatures burrowing into your skulls, and making their parasitic home. It will crumble into sand when the waxing gibbous is at its prime, leaving the city damp with dissatisfaction. The only way to escape it? Pass it on to another Vessel through any kind of physical harm. A cut, a punch— anything to make them bleed.
Only then will the Basilisk leave you be. If you survive the end of the week, all Basilisks will dissapate into dust.
One is exhausted. Hollowed out. Whatever he gave, whatever he surrendered, did not fill the space it left behind. Sleep is close, closer than ever . . . And still so unreachable. When the pressure finally lifts, it leaves him standing alone, emptied by devotion that was never returned in kind.
Tethers completely stabilize, but there's a bad taste in your mouth for the days to come.
TOKEN EFFECTS
• Emotional whiplash as devotion peaks and begins to withdraw.
• Guilt over what you demanded once the pressure lifts.
• Fear of abandonment or loss of control as balance returns.
• Difficulty trusting affection that doesn't require sacrifice.
• Lingering paranoia from the Basilisk.
OFFERING EFFECTS
• Burnout: physical exhaustion, emotional numbness, or delayed resentment.
• Shame or confusion over how far you were willing to go.
• Hypervigilance persists even after the threat fades.
• Difficulty releasing control without feeling unsafe.
• Sense of having given everything and being left empty-handed.
GENERAL EFFECTS (ANY WEEK)
• Characters may have dreams involving weapons, open hands, or eyes in the dark.
• The Murmur feels louder when alone than when surrounded.
• Difficulty articulating where love and affection ends and harm begins— both may bleed into each other.
• Residual emotional fatigue even after the month concludes.
QUESTIONS
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Lortel Kehelland | The Extra's Academy Survival Guide
plotting post ✦ siren song permissions ✦ universal DNI/opt-out ✦
WEEK 1 — Won't You Wait For Me? (SEMI-OTA)
(cut for introspection)
[ she doesn't realize it immediately. that dream drained her, more than she could have ever expected. more than a single one of their collective nightmares ever has before.
Lortel wakes up slowly, trying to blink open eyes that feel tacky with sleep. it's more disorienting than usual to be back in Manhattan, after everything that happened. everything she went through in that wretched tower.
it will later be a source of acute, shameful agony that she didn't realize it sooner. the guilt of not realizing right away, of somehow not just knowing. why didn't she know? she loved him.
it's only when she finally sits up—at home, in bed, in the Blue Note, the only small mercy this day will afford her—that she starts to realize. something feels ... wrong. she finds herself staring around her room, her frown slowly growing deeper, sharper. something's not right. the sensation grows acute; she lifts a hand, clutching at her shirt where it lays over her heart. what is this feeling...? why does she feel like she's—lost something?
her heart stumbles. something is wrong. someone is missing.
it takes her a second longer to realize it's noah.
that's when the horror sets in, rising panic swift behind. this—can't be real. no, no no no. the end of their tether feels like a rope that's been snapped clean; there's nothing there anymore. whatever once belonged at the other end has come unmoored, and it's gone.
noah.
her heart kicks up. she curls over it, its thundering pulse in her throat making it suddenly strangely hard to breathe. cold dread surges from her core to flood every corner of her body.no, no, not noah.
please not him.
no.
no. no. please. please don't do this to me.
please don't leave me.
you said you loved me.
that's about when she bursts into tears. gasping, wretched gales of tears, so hard she can barely breathe at all. why can't she breathe?
Lortel curls over tighter, shivering so hard her teeth are chattering, injections of adrenaline with every pump of her heart curdling her blood. she curls and curls until she's little more than a trembling ball on her bed, arms circled beneath her legs to hug them close.
someone is crying. wailing and weeping of a broken heart. it takes her an extended moment to even connect that sound to herself; to inhabit her body enough to feel it, to realize. she feels—shorn off. lost. empty.
noah. not noah. not noah, please, please, no...
she can't breathe. she can't breathe. alongside the grief comes a rising tide of panic.this can't, this can't, this can't be happening, this isn't real, it can't be real, he can't be gone, not him, she
she's getting dizzy, crying so hard she can't get enough air. if she had her wits about her, she might realize she was starting to hyperventilate. she does not. all she does is curl up tighter, until her forehead is pressed to her knees, face burying into the divot between them to muffle the way her sobs shear off into screams. as if she can somehow make herself so small that this unbearable pain can't reach her anymore.
she can't. she can't. she doesn't know
it was so foolish to love anything, wasn't it? all it did was give her something to lose.how.
losing Sunny had been hard enough. she'd tried not to think about it, not to talk about it, to let the insistent sussurus of her heartbreak rain only in the quiet of her thoughts. but Noah had been there to catch her, when her knees had buckled from the shock. she hadn't fallen, because he was already right there, holding her in his arms.
and now he's gone, and in this moment, it is the most horrible agony she's ever known.
she's survived so much. starvation, beating, broken bones, men with cudgels screaming in her face and stomping on her limbs. manipulation, betrayal, a world where she could trust no one and never rest, always moving, always scheming, always inventing some new way to stay alive, to keep her head above the dark, disturbed waters of the ruthless and cutthroat ocean of greed Elte had plunged her into.
none of this had ever prepared her for a broken heart. she'd so long chosen to trust no one and expect nothing, to spare herself from disappointment. she's never loved anything enough to be stung by its loss. she'd finally let down those walls, and look where it got her.
a second snapped and empty tether, with only nothingness at its abrupt, horrific end.
she feels like she's drowning. like she might never stop drowning.
it is abject cruelty that a human body can even hold this much pain.
dying violently at the hands of the Cleric was bad enough. it was just one more fascinating new flavor of terror to add to her routine, daily nightmares. actively hunting and trying to kill her own friends, the people she loves, trapped as a powerless passenger in her own body and unable to do anything to stop it— ... well. that was worse.
losing noah ...
any one of these things would have been bearable. she wouldn't have broken. any two of these things would be punishing, but manageable, if only barely.
all three is too much. it snaps her completely in half. ]
A. (CLOSED TO TETHERS/EXISTING CR)
[ her control catastrophically fails. her emotions explode out of her, a tsunami of choking grief that will flood her every tether with cloying, tarrish despair. she has no awareness she's done this; will have none, unless anyone cares to tell her. until and unless someone comes, physically, to get her, she won't even move for hours.
in the day following, she'll be loath to go much anywhere—but won't refuse visitors, if they come. ]
B. (OTA) CW: mild mention of animal hunting/death
[ Neither Megumi nor any of her other friends can stay by her side at all times. It takes only a few days before she wanders outside—though in rather a different state than usual.
She never wanders far from the Blue Note, and she is utterly lacking in her usual level of polish. She wears boots and pajamas, her hair down; she stays warm with a long coat and a heavy blanket she keeps tugged around her shoulders. She's drawn, pale and exhausted and unsmiling. Enterprising explorers, should they wander into the burgeoning complex of fortifications beginning to surround the block on which the Blue Note is situated, may just find her sitting on the curb staring at the sky.
But she'll venture further, for lack of anything better to do, for lack of anywhere for her grief to go. Her feet take her to Washington Square Park, where she'll sit on a bench, petting the head of her Nightmare—an enormous tiger—as it sits beside her. She speaks to it in low tones, at times; at others (though only just once a day), she'll loose it to chase and hunt an animal for her, petting its head when it returns, expression never once changing as it leaves its kill at her feet. She always brings them home, barely seeming to notice if she gets blood on her clothes. at one point, she'll find herself in the wide open courtyard where used to stand a number of permanently-installed tables for chess; most are in ruins, but one or two are intact. she sits before one, having gathered a collection of small stones; these she moves idly around the board in what are clearly chess moves. join her, and she'll glance up at you without smiling. ]
Do you play? [ said soft and hoarse. her tiger, sleeping curled up by her side, will not react whether you sit or depart.
She'll wander up 6th Avenue without real purpose, sometimes poking at storefronts already long picked clean, always pausing when she seems to think she's gone too far and turning back. If and when she sees another person, she'll always pause, not freezing so much as simply going still, holding herself in place as if deciding whether she truly wants to be here. Her Nightmare, at her side still, will nudge her hand with its massive head; friends and anyone she has even a mildly positive acquaintance with will be regarded quietly and calmly. all others will be on the receiving end of a thunderous low rumble of a growl, though the tiger will not approach. ]
Shh, boy, [ she'll whisper, without real strength. ] Shh.
(ooc: if we've discussed other plans, or you'd like to interact with these prompts in any other way, feel free to wildcard me or hit up my plotting post to discuss!
a reminder that the psychic blast in option A is completely optional for all of her tethers.)
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Wildcard || CW: Body Horror | Self Harm
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WEEK 3 — Give Me All That You Can Give (CLOSED TO ASH & MEGUMI)
Toki Wartooth | Metalocalypse | ota
[doing nested prompts! wildcard options always available as well. bring your own prompt, plot with me, or ask for your very own starter here or at
Week 1A
But Toki'll deal with that later. There are far more important things to consider right now. After all, he's riding what appears to be a giant, shadowy, fluffy black rabbit, and how much can you worry when you're on one of those? It's a cute sight aside from the size of the thing and Toki's demonic appearance. Maybe it's a little scary, actually.]
Don't worry! He's new at this but I don't think he's gonna stomp on you!
[That'd be brutal.]
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Week 1B
hope this works!
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Week 2
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Week 3
ko tenjin | handead anthem | offering: seraph.
////////////////////////////// notes ///////
🌟 restless wandering in search of a mysterious tether ... !
🌟 whatever you want for the 2nd & 3rd week prompts ... ! i'm afraid i'll have to talk specifics, but i'm very happy to write a starter for you if you want.
🌟 paranoid parasite psychosis ... !
you can also just wildcard. open to temporary or permanent tethers, as well as any sort of warping of them. intense + overprotective + strained, etc., all good with me. )
guren ichinose ☾ seraph of the end ☾ token: runecaster
please feel free to ask for personalized starters or wildcard your own!
☾ WEEK ONE
☾ WEEK TWO
☾ WEEK THREE
⤷ cws of the basilisk prompt all possible here
week one
Seishirou could offer out criticism, instruction, or the knowing glance of every respectable adult who, upon encountering a not-so-small child alone on the street feels duty-bound to scour the earth or nearest bar for his irresponsible mother. Alas, they're short supplied of deadbeats; Fushiguro Touji may monopolise, but can't cover the entire market.
It's down to Seishirou, face tight like a wrenched wet cloth, to gently break the lines of his stalking rigidity and slip by one [1] Ichinose Guren and his countless aggregated instances of private mental meltdown, given human form. He lingers by the drawings, before his fingertips — lily white, hardly so torn, learn, little boy — ease onto the first rune and start wiping away points of chalk, bleeding lines, smearing contours. Suddenly, inexplicably, surely by accident under the wallowing watch of an early morning sun, many, oh so many of the runes become...
...emoticons. Cat and other pet faces. Ungainly stick figures. )
Not at all. I couldn't think of a better arrangement.
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week one
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edging week one into week two i think
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week two
Week 2
heather mason — silent hill 3 (offering: lycan)
‣ permissions/opt-out ‣ info ‣ plotting post
‣ contact — pinkwestwood @ discord |
— week one
his words, tense movements and almost terrified expressions all made her incredibly wary of what might occur. additionally it was no fun being in the prime of her youth, forced into a transformation beyond all terrors. silent hill was not kind about body horror, and this place seemed like it wasn't either.
still regardless of outward appearances, she was on the prowl for this man. she'd been stalking around the area like a menace, eyes peeled and trying to keep tabs on him. the only issue was she couldn't actually find him on her own for some reason. especially not when she was painfully hard not to miss—
it was obvious this teen wolf was wrapped around corners and walls spying on someone. especially when she jumped up at the sound of anyone approaching her. )
W-Who...who is there?
( don't mind her turning her head nervously at the prospect of being caught red-handed. )
week one
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— week two
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gojou satoru / jujutsu kaisen / token: illusionist
closed, week one | hallowedly
it's a little archaic, all things considered. sure, they have the cell where they'd stuck yuuta, and eventually, yuuji, papered in complicated wards scrawled in ancient characters, and this is a little too simple, almost too simple, but--something about it feels right, like he's hovering on the edge of a secret. without his abilities, he can't read any cursed energy here, so it's like walking into a lion's den--or, as he finds it, an empty hospital. nothing to be worried about after all.
it's clean, which is more than can be said for his uniform, caked in a bit of dust and dirt from the walk. rather than duck back out again, he takes to wandering through like a child on a museum trip, rounding himself back to the entrance once he's had a thorough look at all the possible items for his five-fingered discount.
the fridge, of course, is the last place he stops, rounding back to it. he expects to be hit with a wave of decay, the unholy stench of rotting animal carcasses, and he isn't fully disappointed: but the samples in here are a little too fresh, enough that he's reaching in pluck up a dish as though to decide what the hell it even is. brain? it looks like brain. he's only so familiar with the sight because--
there's the now-familiar creak of the door, which is his only warning--to which he jerks the sample behind his back, slouching behind the fridge door so that only his bright blue eyes and shock of silver hair is visible over the top. he's totally busted. maybe busted. surely no one cares, right? it's not like anyone's paying rent or property tax on this thing--finders keepers, and all that. )
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week two
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iii. WEEK THREE.
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week one
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week two
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week one;
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ii.
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week 1
i
Week Two
Johnny Silverhand; Cyberpunk 2077; Token: Artificer
[Let's be honest with ourselves: he woke up sick.
Homesick -- from waking up before the crack of dawn, the kind of shit Nomads get up to, chasing the earliest rays of the desert sunrise with a cigarette the cheapest, nastiest fake ground coffee Night City convenience stores had to offer. But he craves that routine now.
Sick with grief -- knowing he'll never experience it again.
Literally sick -- because the body keeps the score, even fifty years later. He would have preferred to wallow in his misery for a while, but the dry-heaving got him up faster than anything else in his life ever had. A pounding headache provides a backing track, his skin covered in a sheen of cold sweat, and an inexplicable pain cuts through his waist.
For a brief moment, he wishes he was back in that hellscape of a dream, propped up on what he imagines his body was supposed to function, instead of this reality.
Eventually he gathers the gumption to get up and properly take in the sight of the derelict building he's woken up in. The first mirror he runs across startles him, as if a stranger had come up to his side -- it's not the face he got used to...seeing. Did he always have this sickly pale pallor...?
Johnny manages to get himself a shower, if it can even be called that. Clean running water at least sheds him of his sweat, and the cold water doesn't do much to bring the blood back to the surface -- but it at least feels good on his face. It'll have to do for now.]
Week 1/Week 2. CW: vivid withdrawal symptoms and what i'm gonna call "post-death syndrome"
[Johnny is new here, and that means he doesn't know the standard danger that these streets house. Even if he did, it probably wouldn't have dissuaded him. Not like he lived anywhere where getting shot was just a typical risk while taking a walk.
You will find him:
A. Wandering the streets of Manhattan with two priorities:
1. Mapping the place into his Kiroshis the hard way. If this was his own home planet, he could have downloaded it from the nearest welcome center, but no, it's either using a paper map, the Murmur data, or manual digitizing cartography. He's choosing the latter, because it means he'll always have it on hand. Also, he'll just get to know this place better in the process.
From the outside, this appears to be just him taking a casual walk, in a very methodical combing pattern across Manhattan's grid-like streets. Every so often, he stops by a major landmark or a sign and stares at it for a few seconds while his eyes light up in a brilliant blue as he mentally transcribes notes onto his map. The light fades, and he moves on.
2. Salvaging and scavenging. This is a process that comes as naturally to him as anything else. It's easy to catch him in the act of breaking and entering into whatever he cares to: homes, businesses, cars, the subw--okay nope he's definitely not fucking with any of that any time soon. He does it with a practiced lack of hesitation or "look both ways" paranoia, smashing locks and breaking windows and using the Hand to bend fences and weakened protections, traversing over infrastructure that creaks in ways that would scare anyone else off.
He's making for pretty good time on this. The only thing slowing him down is that his carrying capacity is limited by how many satchels he's willing to carry at any given time -- and he's never willing to leave himself completely open to attack, no matter how quiet the city is right now.
B. Having various degrees of A Bad Time:
It starts as soon as he wakes up, but it gets to a fever pitch in the second week.
While his routine won't change, it will get burdened by his symptoms worsening. Most of the time, this manifests as an awful cough that grips him when the cold winter wind reaches too deep into his lungs. He'll stop in his tracks and an otherwise silent street will come alive with a choking, wet, suffocating, painful crescendo of a coughing fit until it finally produces a large wad of brown-yellow-greenish phlegm that Johnny spits out onto the ground unceremoniously...before he starts trekking on like nothing just happened, even when the pain in his midsection flares up.
But sometimes it's worse. Sometimes the coughing blows up the low-grade headache that has become persistent background noise. He tries to walk it off whenever it happens, but it doesn't always work. Sometimes he finds a nice, quiet, dark, insulated corner inside a building to curl up in an upright fetal position just to nurse his headache.
And...
it...
feels...
so...
good...?
He knows he has a masochistic streak. He knows he has a self-flagellation streak too. But this is hitting different. Usually he wants someone else to kick him around a little, make him feel a little more alive for a couple hours. But there's something about it coming from the inside that makes him feel greater, makes it feel like something's chipping away at rusted hinges, makes it feel like he's earning something.
He wants a smoke so bad. But he wants to not have one even more, make it hurt more, draw it out, feel it harder.
At least the Hand is nice and too-cold against his feverish eyes.]
➥ B, Week 2 (CW: Mild Mentions About Nicotine Addiction, Brief Self-Harm, Again for Science)
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A2
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Week 1/A.1
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week 1.
1/2
2/2
— week 1a
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Week 3. Open to Offerings only; D/s nonsexual (unless you want it to be, world's your oyster) themes
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Vander | Arcane | Offering: Lycan
Week 1
He did notice that the atmosphere of the city was calm, uncomfortably so. The air was still cold and the full moon agitated him, but overall, it was practically serene compared to what this place generally was experienced as.
i. Distilling the Spirit
[Great Jones Distilling Co. was a place he had discovered during exploration of Manhattan back in February, and he had set about using the fact that there was electricity again to fix up the place. In February he had cleaned and dusted the place, sweeping debris up and hauling it outside.
He filled two of the boiling tanks so that he could scrub them down from old product that had evaporated and left a nasty film on the inside. That would contaminate taste. For that, he needed something to scrub, which left him wandering the nearby neighbourhood for scrub brushes that hadn't turned to dust or been contaminated with fungus.
He hummed softly as he rummaged through a dumpster for boxes, but most of them were brittle and falling apart. Too bad. He turned away from it and began wandering back to the distillery from a side door, pausing to pick up the brushes he had found to rest against his shoulder.
Want to come nose around the distillery with him? Come on, friends!]
ii. Making a Withdrawal
[Vander was standing outside of a bank, surveying the entrance with a large patched up back over his shoulder. He had a crowbar in hand tapping against his leg as he considered how best to break into a place like this. While his main goal was investigating if this particular branch had a small vault for safety deposit boxes, he thought that keeping the windows intact was in his best interests.
He pushed off the old lamp post he had been leaning on and approached the front door, which was helpfully unlocked. He made a point to prop open the doors as a safety measure in case he had to escape.
He crept in, listening and looking for signs that a Host or other monstrosity may have been trapped in here. All was quiet, though there were papers scattered on the floor and couches were rotten and overturned. He spied the service counter and beyond it exactly what he was looking for.
He stepped back out again, looking around the streets. He gestured with his crowbar.]
Would you like to rob a bank? I'd like someone to watch my back while I attempt the safe in here.
Distilling the Spirit
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distilling the spirits.
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making a withdrawal
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Week 2
Week 3 - Closed to Maria
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Julian Bashir | Star Trek: DS9 | Offering: Kimera | OTA unless noted otherwise
[Current Kimera appearance: full owl wings, lion fangs, snake eyes, scales along half his face and down his arms, a full lion's tail. The hair framing his head is longer and thicker, hinting at a lion's main.]
[Assume at all times this man is dressed like an absolute clown since his uniform was trashed. Federation fashion is all weird synthetics, odd textures, asymmetrical cuts and hems, and completely clashing bright, loud patterns. He found enough modern clothes that fit that aesthetic to make himself utterly unfashionable. In the OR, he usually wears a white "bunny suit" set of surgical coveralls over everything for sterility. At the clinic, he wears a white doctor's coat with holes cut out for the wings.
Week 1 - The Usual Haunts
[This place may have the proportions off, so the catastrophe is a bit more prevalent. But he'll still take the pause. Even if he knows it won't last. He absolutely doesn't trust it to last, knows it'll just be the calm before the next storm. That means it's time to prepare.]
[During the pause, he disappears quite a bit to the OR at Mt. Sinai, reinforcing the building. Those who wanted to help by cleaning, scavenging supplies, or fixing up diagnostic equipment can join him there.]
[He's quite bossy, very particular about how he wants it arranged, with a lot of:]
No, it needs to be over there.
[But grateful for the help expanding the utility of the place and getting it functional again.]
[However, he's most often in the clinic at the Columbia University dorms, making himself available to anyone that needs medical care - or medical training, if they're new and would like some. When no one's there, he can usually be found chilling there reading medical textbooks to make sure he's familiarized with the available surgical equipment and devices.]
[When the newcomer walks in, his feet are on the desk in front of him. He leans back far enough to look at the newcomer upside down, perilously close to toppling his chair. The way he cranes his neck is just a touch owl-like.]
Did you need something?
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Week 1 - Red-Handed
Week 1 - Germ Theory [locked to Victor]
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Maria | Silent Hill 2 | Offering: Wraith
[the quiet is a bit much. this isn't normal and Maria has to wonder what it means. there's a discomfort in her chest. Sleep doesn't believe much in breaks and when she had first woken up, it had been trapped underground. this is a far different situation and Maria doesn't feel very jealous of the new people. somehow this feels more ominous.]
I think this is what they call 'the calm before the storm'? Something like that. [to whoever was close by for a conversation. Maria didn't need to know somebody to start a conversation or even have that much of an excuse to start one up. she was extroverted and really, being able to get out her concerns made her feel better.]
What do you think is going to happen?
▸ Week 2
cw: loss of self and memory
[Maria has depended very heavily on her first tether. being a Wraith, her hunger is always present. she needs to feed on energy and on emotion. she'd had that in droves and right now, with that tether struggling, Maria is struggling. it feels like she failed somehow, like she wasn't good enough. the pain and hurt she feels near all of her tethers doesn't seem much like Sleep's fault and more her own.
right now, her skin has only grown more and more pale. she looks like a husk of herself because she had been scared of anybody seeing her. of somebody realizing just how bad she had failed.
her memories are fading, though. and she feels confused at her surroundings because this isn't Silent Hill and that's where she's supposed to be. for right now, she isn't totally lost to that fog. Maria remembers, here and there. where she is. who she is. it doesn't feel like it will last, though.
when she sees the glimpse of a rat running into a trash can, she is quick like a cat to go after it. Maria has not been this hungry since the subway fiasco but this feels even worse. Maria is desperate enough not to care how she might look and that's been on the forefront of her mind. appearance is everything when it comes to survival in her mind.
there's a sound and it's a person. she turns to them, walking towards them. her movements are jerky, like it's difficult for her to really move right now.] I'm sorry. I'm usually not such a mess but can I ask for a really weird favor...? [she's quiet, her voice rough.]
Week 1
[ Ironeye's way of doing so seemed to be sharpening the tips of his arrows. He had a few of them resting over his knee as he sat with a dagger, doing just that. ]
Not a sailor, I take it?
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week 2
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— week 2 because we're jumping right into this
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week 2
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karen kasumi — x/1999 — token, pyromancer
🔥 week one: one shoe missing.
[
she wakes up on a dirty mattress, with box springs digging hard into the small of her back, and her first thought is, oh, i'm dry.
some adult humor to get the ball rolling, is her follow-up; she rolls her shoulders and stretches her legs as she eyeballs the slats of sunlight pouring in from a broken skylight. where is she? the architecture looks aged, the wallpaper and furniture eaten through. even the back of her thighs itch from the layers of dust under her, and when she casts her gaze about, she can see english-alphabet writing etched into the brass crafter's plate on the bedside table. early morning by the lean of the sun beams, but they're faint, as if obscured, and the wind whistling through the broken windows don't sound street-level.
where is she? not in someone's barrier; she would sense the other dragons if it were, and the outdoors seem too peaceful for the kind of fighting they do. and the dream lingering in her mind like a bad morning aftertaste——did it really happen?
karen pushes off the bed and goes to the window, peers out with one hand firm on the ledge——and would you look at that. this isn't home anymore. she recognises nothing beyond the shape of the words on the sides of buildings, and the storefronts, and the few road signs left intact by whatever disaster has befallen this place.
new york, but not. some high-rise apartment in manhattan, if the whole state had collapsed under a kekkai and was displaced into reality. this is what the end of the world looks like.
nothing for it, then. better to make herself a moving target than a sitting duck; she goes through the apartment for something substantial to wear, cleans up best that she can, and like some b-movie action heroine in a red dress arms herself with an iron poker.
cast iron starts melting at around 1,100 degrees celsius. she hasn't tried to burn all the way to white heat just yet.
for most of the week, if she's not (re)connecting with her fellow dragons in some form, karen can be found travelling alone:
— a) looking for——clothes? heels and lingerie, specifically, which is difficult when time and weather loves to destroy leather and lace, and all the silk between them.
— b) if you're really lucky, you may find her standing in a field, dressed in very little and repeatedly shaping fire, progressively getting into a sour mood. she might even send a blast your way without meaning to.
whichever of the two scenarios you find her, she immediately straightens up and turns to you with a bright expression. ]
Didn't see you there, sorry! Am I in your way?
🔥 weeks two & three: feeling the itch.
[ she can sense it two-fold: first through her physical perception, noticing the agitation and building distress among her peers, then through the thrum of their psychic connections, pulling and pulling until the thread's all tense, taut as a drum skin yanked to brittleness. powderkeg of a situation, all of it; it sets even her own teeth on edge, knotting the muscles on her shoulders and back in sympathy. tylenol won't help this, nor would a deep-tissue massage. what's the saying, sometimes you have to burn through it?
no, that can't be right. even her shadow-horse companion, ever lingering, seemingly whinnies at her. reach out, make friends, tell stories that are neither true or false. something's telling her (insisting to her) that it's the right move.
what's the worst that could happen? ]
Penny for your troubled thoughts? I hope I'm not disturbing you.
[ ooc: feel free to choose where and how karen might come across your character! if you're not sure about a location, we can say she's found yours near a church or chapel. ]
🔥 regarding week four:
week i | wildcard-ish
Kasumi Karen's a mother-scorned belle of another kind, taught in Tokyo's slums to sing her moans pretty for her supper. He pretends, gaze deep in intimacy paid for by the hour, not to notice the exaggerated curvature of her choice scarlet (woman) bra, the sibilant fall of her chiffon skirts, the gender ambiguous musk of her perfume that might spare a client the late-night questions of a dog-nosed wife — or the string of Hosts plastered ungainly against the triple-glazed windows of Bergdorf Goodman's second shop, some slobbering, some hanging on for dear fungal unlife, most losing the battle with balance after scaling up to stare.
Really, Kasumi. Choose the bear.
A beautiful woman should be used to undue attention from all sides, even on a casual midweek early morning. Thankfully, most of their followers are rapidly entering hibernation, unlatching and dropping off where they've been suction-cupping to the windows, like drooping flies. Sakurazuka Seishirou pretends not to notice that either.
He is a king of studied negligence, gracefully knelt to offer Kasumi the other shoe of her Chanel slingback pair, because sensible enemies should find the manners to coexist in a luxury department store. )
While I appreciate your openness to new ideas so far... are we quite sure we won't compromise to anything below a 65-milimeter heel?
heeeeeeey
guuuuuuuurrrrrrrl.
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week 1, (a)
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week 1-a
victor frankenstein — token: necromancer
( He wakes in the dark of night in a state of wild disarray, dressed in the borrowed uniform of a Danish navy-man, hair long and beard unkempt. The prosthetic on his right leg is quite obvious, the silver foot of it laid bare, as he has arrived without any shoes. That, he thinks, will be the first order of business — once he's able to discover where he is, and where he should be going. What little belongings he has, he tucks under his arm, setting off with an obvious limp in his step, unaware of the dangers that lie within the city.
Settling in allows him the chance to recover himself a bit, tidy his appearance up so he doesn't look like some great beast of the wild. He's taken quarters in the Devil's Nest, and that's where he lingers for the first night and the following day, processing everything. Those he met in the dream world, the promises and plans he made, all of it is at the forefront of his mind. On the third day, he feels himself growing impatient and restless, and he can no longer keep himself away. He needs something to do, someone to talk to, anything at all to keep his mind from feeling so hollow.
He's in a far better state than before, after having washed and shaved, bringing himself back to some manner of respectability. He seeks out those he knows first, greeting them with his usual charm, as if picking up where they left off. For everyone else, he is perfectly amiable, if not a bit wary. )
All I wish for now is a cane. ( He mentions offhandedly, when speaking of the town or how he's settling in. ) But I can manage without it.
week two
( Victor splits the majority of his time between the Devil's Nest and the clinic, his nose almost incessantly lost within a book. He is nothing if not obsessive, overcome with the ferocious desire to know every medical advancement that's taken place since his death. More often than not to the detriment of himself, forgetting to eat and sleep and unable to keep track of the hours. He feels irritable in a way he can't explain, his temper short and fierce.
It is only by Espera's urging that he finds the resolve to escape his madness, setting out on darkened streets in search of a new connection. Following the blinking lights, uncertainty and wariness filling the whole of his person. But there is still a desire there, a need, as always, to be the object of someone else's attention. )
week three
( Victor has always been something of a demanding creature, irritable when feels he's being ignored, prone to vicious, violent acts of jealousy. He cannot help but feel as if a part of himself is missing, leaving a gaping hole in his chest, a painful reminder of his loneliness that nothing in this city can fill. He is quick to temper, snapping at acquaintances and strangers alike, uncaring to soften his words with his usual charm, )
Oh, forgive me, am I boring you?
( He had been rambling, speaking on some medical or scientific discovery, something he found greatly interesting on one of his trips through the city. One glance away from him is all it takes, his partner's eyes focusing on something else for the briefest moment, intentionally or not. )
wildcard
( feel free to wildcard if we've plotted something specific! plotting + permissions )
week three;
It's a long walk, fractured by misplaced spring's mist and brisk dilly-dallying to ooh, aah and create a garden variety of other touristic noises along Central Park's still barren stretch. This, scholarly and impassioned and a firework in wait, was not Seishirou's choice of a walking companion. It can't be helped. He has been trotting along, entertaining the conversation with strategic humming, nodding and non-committal shrugs, but has seemingly fallen out of his favour with a recent transgression — a man can't be helped fiddling to light his cigarette. )
Forgiven. ( Brisk, with the wave of his free hand. Bygones, hereby by the by, and gone. ) But don't let it happen again.
( There's a smile melting the edges of his mouth, taming the shrew of his unkindness. He could push Victor Frankenstein down, could slit his throat, could disappear his flesh and his bones and his impudence. He could do a many great deal of things, and that he plays this game instead if the unilateral lark. )
You were saying? About the academy.
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➥ Week Two (CW: Mild Blood, Very Mild Hint of Self-Harm for Science)
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week one;
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week two.
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Ironeye | Elden Ring: Nightreign
[ ooc:![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
Tetradecimal d: ![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tetradraws
Info Post: here
I may slowly put up additional starters as time permits, please lmk if there's something you'd like to arrange!
General warnings as applies to Elden Ring characters -- 'Frequent Violence or Gore, General Mature Content' ]
Week 1
She thinks you're going to steal her food.
[ There was faint amusement in the low, slightly roughened voice of the man seated beside her. Dressed in light scaled armor, he looked from his perch like a true anachronism. A man out of time. ]
Well, are you?
someone needs to get them both to wear sweatpants
fashion disaster incoming
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Week 2 - (un?)fun with tethers
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silco | arcane | offering: merrow
info • permissions • plotting • safe rooms
contact: dm/manda@discord
week 1 - ota
Silco has projects. After years of work to build a power base, running an organization, staying focused on his plans, he doesn't really know how not to do that anymore. Doing nothing just to relax? Cultivating some kind of hobby? No, he'd much rather create something for himself to do, something tangible, something with moving parts and things to keep track of.
So in this week of relative quiet, he can be found out in the city, scouting locations for safe rooms, making note of places building supplies might be easily scavenged. He has a map covered in penciled markings and a notebook partially filled with jotted down notes. Right now, the map is folded up in the notebook as he peers into a storefront. He tries the door, and it shudders in its frame - not locked, but tightly jammed.
Silco, thin-framed and lacking the sort of muscle to easily break down a door, steps back. He narrows his eyes - then looks up at the sound of a footstep. Convenient.]
Have you a moment to spare?
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okay if we keep the ama thread canon? if not, I can change things
yeah! let's do it!
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week 2 - ota
week 2
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week 3 - locked to Greed
CW: Brief Mention of Blood
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jinx / arcane 🌊 aquamancer
bio | permissions | opt-out
plotting comment |
WEEK 01.
WEEK 02. → NON-TETHERS // LIMITED TO 3 PEOPLE.
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WEEK 02. → TETHERS // LIMITED TO 3 PEOPLE.
WEEK 03. → ON VIA MURMUR // TETHER. cw: possessiveness + jealousy
cw: typical silco manipulative shit probs in this whole thread
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Lady Maria | Bloodborne | Lycan | OTA
[The truth is, Maria doesn't trust the peace and quiet. And to her, it isn't entirely peace and quiet: She feels the waxing of the moon, feels the burst of energy it gives her. That there is nothing to take said energy out on though is... both relieving and frustrating. It means she must find other outlets for her restlessness.
During the first week, she is either busily tending to the grounds at the Met Cloisters, or making her way through the streets, thinning Hosts. Every time she dispatches one, she frowns, slightly, as though disappointed in them. Why, she doesn't make immediately clear, as she flicks the blood off her swords. Her long legs take her swiftly off the scene, however, so if one wants to catch her out and about, be quick!
If one decides to come to the Met Cloisters instead, she seems very very intent on a very, very small selection of plants that are outside the Cloisters. A large patch of grass seems to have been uprooted and tilled - comparatively speaking, there are only a few plants in one little corner of this area, but perhaps more surprisingly is that they're growing, despite the cold weather.]
[2: Weeks 2/3 Combo Breaker!]
[She's not exactly surprised that the quiet didn't last long - as relatively unquiet as it had been inside her own head. But the way the silence breaks is... both intriguing and frustrating. Maria's tethers had dwindled of late, and she finds the sudden painfulness of what remains... annoying, but perhaps not as immediately shocking as others. After all, she and her one remaining tether did not even live in close proximity anyway. Still, she can feel it, abrading on the back of her mind, irritating both her and her inner Beast until she feels like she wants to sink her teeth into something soft and fleshy and bloody.
She resists the urge, but it's still there.
Then, Espera speaks to her, and a sort of of course relief washes through her. Establish new connections. With whom? She has no idea; she's met a number of people here, but the number of people she would want to spend time inside the head of, or whom she wants to spend time inside her head is... minimal, to say the least. The Tethers are useful, but that doesn't mean she likes the idea.
So, she meanders back closer to the Times Square and Central Park area every so often. This is where most of the people brought here tended to convene, so it's the best place to try to find someone in the same boat as her.
At some point she freezes, sword hand gently flexing over the handle of her Rakuyo. Inside her awareness, she can feel something huge and powerful (Sleep, surely) brushing by, like a shark testing the "taste" of something in the water. Rather than fight back, or cower, she stands still... and she "stares" right on back, calm, steady, and just as observant. Two can play at researching. And as the second week folds into the third, Maria does the exact same thing: Watch. Wait. Observe. Note. Curious way of doing things, Sleep. The sudden overwhelm is neither sudden nor overwhelming to her.
Except, to the outsider, it may just look like she just randomly stopped walking in the middle of the street and zoned out so uh... maybe see if one can get her attention?]
[3: I Won't Fight Fair]
[Now this one is vexing. She had seen it out of the corner of her eye; writhing, hissing, tangling itself into nonsensical, non three-dimensional knots. It stops when she looks at it, but seems to take her looking away as a sign of submission, of weakness.
She hates it. For another month, she is hunted, and the Beast within her chafes at it. The basilisk comes closer, and she feels her heartbeat quicken, the urge to run right there in her legs, but instead she moves forward toward it and gives a mighty, but extremely inhuman growl. It stills, maybe even flickers a little in retreat, but in the wake of the snarl echoing off the walls and down the empty alleyways, Maria feels a flash of heat through her - embarrassed, mortified heat. She is no creature, no animal, no Beast, so why does she keep acting like one?
The basilisk surges closer again, using the hesitation as an opening to get closer to her, and she whirls upon it, drawing her sword to cleave into it.
Except what she's aiming for is not the basilisk, and instead she has to just barely come up short before impaling whomever it was that just entered her immediate vicinity. With a frustrated grunt, she flicks the tip of her sword away from the person she... very likely almost ran through with her sword.] Apologies. It's here. The... thing. Whatever that snake creature is.
[4: Wildcard!]
[For all your wildcard needs! My plotting toplevel is here! Or just hit me up via other methods if you wanna plan something1]
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his pose is casual for those who are not aware of sword fighting, the way his feet are planted and the grip on his sword is firm. ]
I was tracking it.
[ that is all easthies offers, not offended at almost having been run through. accidents and all that, who hasn't gotten stabbed once or twice while training? knights have an oath not to hurt or kill, but exceptions have to be made in this place. whatever is hunting them is one of those exceptions. ]
It was not my intention to startle you.
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Harrier Du Bois | Disco Elysium | Offering
Week One
Harry’s base (one of them) is an old mechanic shop. It’s a small ugly box of a building that he’s turned into a splash of color in a grey world. As advertised the garage door is rolled open and crates and plastic bins have been set up for anyone who wants to peruse his finds. Look! He’s even organized them a little. Loosely. He couldn’t always make up his mind about what function in particular he was sorting by.
There’s boxes of accessories, of belt buckles, bangles, and glasses and more. There’s hats in haphazardous piles balanced on the heads of mannequins. Their blank faces have been decorated with abstract designs and words. Some words are crossed out but some say things like WORLDFUCKER or notably in one case ENEMEY OF THE STATE but his sizing of the first few letters was off so he had to awkwardly shrink them to fit the whole thing on.
As for the clothes themselves, Harry has found quite a lot. Many of them just don’t fit a big shapeshifting man like himself. And with the wings if he wears something, he basically has to cut holes in the back. That ruins it for anyone else who could use it later. They're all mostly normal stuff but Harry has a talent for finding the more particular and specific. There’s mesh tops, short shorts with words on the butt. He’s personally never seen so many graphic tshirts: cartoon bunny shirts with catty phrases, realistic animals roaring fiercely, logos he doesn’t recognize that he hopes aren’t racist.
There’s also a plastic tub off to the side, empty and awaiting donations.
Harry himself is reclining in a plastic beach chair with a notebook and chewed up pencil. When he spots someone he waves and his feathery headcrest bounces up.
“Hey man! Welcome to my…world of wonders? My mutual aid oasis?
He spreads his arms wide. A true showman.
“Please take some of this crap off my hands.”
II. YOU LAUGH AT EVERY JOKE (closed to new players)
“Take whatever you need, new blood.”
Newbies, Harry is particularly interested in you. He’s not good at playing that interest off. He’s a curious guy, a chatter box. With a feigned nonchalance he'll ask while you look around:
“So…where are you from?
Not looking up from his notebook, though he’s stopped writing entirely a minute ago.
“It’s cool if you don’t want to talk about it. No pressure. I’m from a shit hole myself.”
Nodding now.
“So I totally get it. Home can be a really painful topic.”
iii. FILL YOUR HEART WITH SMOKE (closed to CR)
That talk about giving the newbies priority wasn’t inaccurate, they do totally have their pick of whatever. But he also has some things tucked away for friends who show up. They'll find him looking through his boxes, mumbling to a belt buckle that says BITCH on it in big pink glittery letters.
“Don't take it personally, baby. You deserve a better home than I can give. I’ve never even worn you and I can’t imagine I will. I think you’re for girls…maybe even handsome young homosexual men.”
A wistful sigh. He traces the letters with a forefinger-claw.
iv. JUST SMILE ALL THE TIME (wildcard)
(Harry will still be leaving his post to scavenge and hunt hosts in big beast mode, and tend to his shrines in human mode if you’d like a scarier introduction.)
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dan heng | honkai: star rail | offering: drake
permissions -
week one;
his own has not seemed to evolve, since he had been gone for some stretch of time, he can only imagine - but that's all right, he likes her just how she is, however she chooses to be. dan heng of all people is not one to tell anyone or anything how it must appear to others.
her presence is soothing, when the world feels.. strange. more strange than usual, in fact, for the absence of strangeness. for the quiet that is so quiet it makes his skin feel itchy beneath the surface. shēnyè, his nightmare, remains a calming tether, and she walks beside him through the city as he patrols, needing to move to take the edge off of his buzzing paranoia.
it's all right. he has to keep calm, body and soul. ]
[ ooc; dan heng can be found patrolling virtually anywhere! ]
week one - for jing yuan;
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week two;
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Re: week two;
week three - closed to close tethers;
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week four;
Little Cato【^✪ᆽ✪^】Final Space | Token: Chronomancer
[Current Chronomancer appearance: pupils in his eyes rotating in time like the hands of a clock, clockwork runes that glow over visible fur anytime he uses his powers]
[Already dressed in scavenged mismatched clothing he thinks looks cool and functional, will be carrying around a whole arsenal he gathered before he even meets anyone: modified golf bag to carry rebar carved to a pointed spear, a crowbar, and a youth cricket bat. He's shaved down some metal bar stock into throwing knives he carries in a little pouch in his skirt. Wearing a half-face airsoft mask on the lower half of his face that looks like part of a skull.]
Week 1 | cw: dead Hosts/mention of what cats do with birds on doorsteps
[He notices someone passing and briefly points his spear back inside the store before casually draping it over his shoulders while catching his breath.]
S'a good scavenging spot. I already took what I need. Bunch'a super dead monsters inside, though, so don't freak out if you go in.
[A pause, then a grandiose flourish of his hand.]
You're welcome.
[Then he gives a thumbs up. ]
[Just because he's staying back from the group a bit out of distrust and doesn't mean he's lost his instinct to try to help everyone. It's logical to him that that thinning the herd of monsters during less dangerous times will make it safer for people to scavenge and travel.]
[So they're maybe going to have to get used to this: dead Hosts randomly left places as friendly gifts of safety, almost like a cat leaving dead birds on a doorstep.]
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Week 2 or Week 3 | you get to choose in your subject
Week 4 | Infected [only 1 tagger please]
Week 4 | Infecting [only 1 tagger please]
rosie ❥ original ❥ offering: seraph
❥ week two.
❥ week four.
( █ cw for: references to sex work and physical/sexual abuse )
❥ wildcard / plot with me.
❥ week two.
So the sound of Rosie singing is a welcome distraction. A distraction Fugue ends up following even though she's uncertain whether or not this was truly meant to be a public performance. Unfortunately, by the time that realization hits her, she is already two verses into the song and scrambling internally on what she should do before the third starts.
With an inward sigh (really now, Fugue, are you so off your game with just this?), she intentionally makes her footfalls heavier to denote her presence while also humming along in tune to Rosie's melody, loud enough to be heard but hopefully quiet enough to not interrupt her song. ]
Mo Ran | The Husky and his White Cat Shizun
[Anyone who comes across Mo Ran will notice something different about him. Well, not about him, in truth. It’s the cat that can be found near him. The cat is black, fluffy, and has noticeable phoenix eyes. Usually, it’s wrapped around him like a scarf, or standing on his shoulders. Sometimes it winds between his legs as he walks. Regardless, he’s never seen without the cat nearby.]
I know I haven’t been here for vey long, but doesn’t this feel… a little too uneventful?
[Things are never this calm. He’d been defending people with his life not so long ago.]
…Might be a good time to stock up, just in case.
[The cat baps at his face with a front paw, which might be agreement. Or might just be a cat acting like a cat.]
II: Week 2
[In all his time here, Mo Ran has not wanted to form tethers. He’s been afraid to, for a number of reasons.
The result is, of course, that he’s not affected by fraying tethers. But just because he’s not affected doesn’t mean that he’s not worried when he sees people suffering.
He hears Espera’s words and frowns to himself. Truly, it’s a bad idea. There’s a lot about himself he doesn’t like, and doesn’t want complete strangers knowing about. Or even people he’s spoken to before.
Nevertheless, Mo Ran does not like seeing people in distress or pain, which is why anyone who looks particularly affected— especially those who have spoken to him before— will get approached.]
Are you… are you okay?
III: Wildcard
((Come up with your own prompt! I'm open to doing something with the basilisk, I just couldn't think of a starter.))
week 1!
And Sakurazuka Seishirou, artfully fumbling to coax loose the lock to the cigarette soldiers presenting for duty in the crisp cases behind the cashier boxes. The pin in hand has, somehow, failed to do the Lord's work — whatever the Lord, whatever the apocalypse — so far, but he hums along, ungainly bent to study the problem before applying himself once more to the makeshift solution. )
Shouldn't we be counting our blessings, rather than bringing on more jinxes? ( From Mo Ran's mouth unto high hell. )
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Viktor | Arcane | Runecaster
WEEK TWO - just take aim, break me apart
So Viktor walks. He doesn't feel cold like he once had, back when he was human and so thin that a winter wind could rattle his bones. There is at least a warmth in his attire—long brown slacks that are both too short and too baggy, a mossy green knitted sweater with moth holes in the sleeves and around the hem—which will hopefully make him look somewhat more approachable, perhaps less confusingly alien and other. Perhaps the soft glow of moonlight around his wrist will welcome someone wandering through the darker parts of the city, or the enticing flicker of a campfire at night will beckon someone, anyone, close enough to speak with. ]
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CLOSED - all my darkest impulses
Harang Kang | The Snake and Flower | Token: Illusionist
Token: Illusionist
Nested open prompts down below. Wildcards are welcome! You can also talk to me on plurk
Won’t You Wait For Me? – Week 1
It took him a couple days to get up the courage to step outside. He felt along the buildings as he slowly mapped out the path back to the empty house he was staying at. Each day he ventured a little further and it wasn’t long before he started contemplating alternative routes he could use if he had to lose pursuers.
His nightmare was a constant companion. Their shadowy form resemble ink brush strokes, as if they were painted into existence. Their strange misty touch was now a comforting feeling, even if the creature was too pushy sometime, much like their namesake. He stifled a small gasp when his nightmare suddenly nudged him hard enough for him to stumble and trip over a box of various items.]
Hey! What was that for?
[He froze at the faint note that rang in his ear when he brushed against the string of a guitar. The memory of Jeonggo thrusting a Haegeum in his face and telling him to play something flashed in his mind. The air around him smell faintly of cherry blossoms as the memory resonated with his new illusionist abilities. His expression looked pained for a second before he hid his heartache behind a soft smile.]
You jerk. Couldn’t you be more gentle?
[He sat down and rested the instrument upright on his knee as he traced its shape.]
What did you find? It doesn’t feel like a Bipa.
[He experimentally plucked at the strings and slid his finger into different positions to learn the range of the instrument. He could play any instrument if he heard it once. His fingers stopped and illusionary black scales appeared on his hands at the bitter memory of what happened when he made that claim. The comforting smell of cherry blossoms shifted into the sharp scent of cinnamon for a brief moment before he stubbornly pushed down his rising hatred and focused on his music instead. The scales disappeared and the cherry blossom smell returned as his movement became more confident and he let himself get lost in the Korean sounding melody he composed.]
Take Aim On Me For Once - Week 2
Give Me All That You Can Give - Week 3 (closed to tethers)