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I WILL NEVER FADE.
WHO: Everyone in game.
WHAT: The second half of our first event, plus a new area to explore.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core and, where relevant, the ruins.
WHEN: After the escape rooms.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
WHAT: The second half of our first event, plus a new area to explore.
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core and, where relevant, the ruins.
WHEN: After the escape rooms.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.
Image by Interstellar
THOUGH I WILL DISAPPEAR.
So you escaped... Or maybe not. Or maybe you just got here. Either way, no matter where you are, there comes a time when you inexplicably feel something shift. Nearby mirrors heal any cracks and turn into liquid silver at your feet. But the silver doesn't flee from you this time; instead, it stretches in every direction. The entire floor becomes a mirror, with you (and anyone else) at its center.
It doesn't reflect whatever's above you, however. Instead, it shows you a sky, based on your current or last location; sunsiders will see a perfect blue sky with white clouds, while moonsiders see a flawless starry night. Even if you can't see it, you can feel it, like you can feel it slide through a time-lapse day-night cycle as the walls around you dissolve. Because, you realize, this isn't just a pretty reflection. It's a memory. Not yours, but a memory of something that once existed in the very place you stand.
And then, surrounded by sky on all sides, the memory becomes real.
For a moment, everything is eerily still...and then the faux sun and moon appear overhead. Time bends, speeding up in eddies around you, while you yourself seem to slow. The sun and moon spiral around each other, like warped reflections, before they collide and burst into bands of light.
The sky above and below fractures like glass. It reminds you, perhaps, of how many mirrors you have (or haven't) broken. The world collapses into darkness and you see an abyss so vast it loses its depth, with only a luminous halo to give it form. It's somehow visible whether your eyes are open or closed (or if you don't have them at all), like an afterimage seared into memory. It's unlike anything you've seen that emits light. In fact, it might devour it.
You can no longer see the mirror beneath your feet, but you feel it buck and crumble, violently rearranging itself into a new form. It casts you into space and you hang there for an instant, weightless.
And then you fall.
It doesn't reflect whatever's above you, however. Instead, it shows you a sky, based on your current or last location; sunsiders will see a perfect blue sky with white clouds, while moonsiders see a flawless starry night. Even if you can't see it, you can feel it, like you can feel it slide through a time-lapse day-night cycle as the walls around you dissolve. Because, you realize, this isn't just a pretty reflection. It's a memory. Not yours, but a memory of something that once existed in the very place you stand.
And then, surrounded by sky on all sides, the memory becomes real.
For a moment, everything is eerily still...and then the faux sun and moon appear overhead. Time bends, speeding up in eddies around you, while you yourself seem to slow. The sun and moon spiral around each other, like warped reflections, before they collide and burst into bands of light.
The sky above and below fractures like glass. It reminds you, perhaps, of how many mirrors you have (or haven't) broken. The world collapses into darkness and you see an abyss so vast it loses its depth, with only a luminous halo to give it form. It's somehow visible whether your eyes are open or closed (or if you don't have them at all), like an afterimage seared into memory. It's unlike anything you've seen that emits light. In fact, it might devour it.
You can no longer see the mirror beneath your feet, but you feel it buck and crumble, violently rearranging itself into a new form. It casts you into space and you hang there for an instant, weightless.
And then you fall.
AND JOIN THE STREET PARADE.
As you fall, a voice crackles in the dark. It might take you a moment (or much longer, given how distorted it is) before you realize it's your own, projected through a radio. It runs through basic greetings and stock phrases, before it's suddenly interrupted by the crunch of something beneath your feet.
You don't remember ever landing. But if you reach down, you'll find a thin layer of ice, fracturing under your weight. It becomes more visible by the second, as the darkness fades away. Somewhere, your voice says, "Thank you."
The rotting dimensions, along with the sun and moon, are gone. Instead, everyone will find themselves in the same place, under a massive blot in the sky. It looks more like a perfect circle of spilled ink than anything dimensional; it seems to absorb light instead of casting it, similar to the abyss you saw. Yet somehow it gives the illusion of twilight as the storm finally calms, like a giant returning to its slumber. The ground stops rumbling. Buildings slow their decaying ascent as the blot inches its way across the mimicry of a sky, like it belongs there. Given enough time, it rises and sets, though the crepuscular lighting never seems to change.
The flooded buildings are covered with a thin layer of ice, no matter the temperature indoors. It warms up outdoors, but it's snowing at a steady, almost peaceful pace; large flakes drift one way and then another, like a child's snow globe. They cover the ground in a thick blanket, unbroken besides whatever paths you trail through it.
The shadows, unfathomable as always, leave no footsteps.
You don't remember ever landing. But if you reach down, you'll find a thin layer of ice, fracturing under your weight. It becomes more visible by the second, as the darkness fades away. Somewhere, your voice says, "Thank you."
The rotting dimensions, along with the sun and moon, are gone. Instead, everyone will find themselves in the same place, under a massive blot in the sky. It looks more like a perfect circle of spilled ink than anything dimensional; it seems to absorb light instead of casting it, similar to the abyss you saw. Yet somehow it gives the illusion of twilight as the storm finally calms, like a giant returning to its slumber. The ground stops rumbling. Buildings slow their decaying ascent as the blot inches its way across the mimicry of a sky, like it belongs there. Given enough time, it rises and sets, though the crepuscular lighting never seems to change.
The flooded buildings are covered with a thin layer of ice, no matter the temperature indoors. It warms up outdoors, but it's snowing at a steady, almost peaceful pace; large flakes drift one way and then another, like a child's snow globe. They cover the ground in a thick blanket, unbroken besides whatever paths you trail through it.
The shadows, unfathomable as always, leave no footsteps.
HALF SICK OF SHADOWS.
The shadows' strange behavior gets stranger once the earthquakes cease. Instead of aimlessly wandering around, they sometimes gather at the thresholds that keep them outdoors, twitching and contorting as they sway rooted to the spot. And it's clear, once you draw near: They're waiting for you.
They swivel as one, bodies distorted, and slither-walk-climb towards you. They reach out with hooks and arms and claws, beckoning with an inexorable determination.
They won't attack when in this state; they just pursue. Contact seems to be the name of the game, which doesn't seem like the greatest plan when a glancing touch burns like ice. But stand still long enough and one of them will try to attach itself to you, as if it could melt into your flesh.
It's painful. And, well, experimenting with this could very well give you frostbite.
Longer term contact gives the impression of longing and a vast universe, as if something always lies just beyond the horizon. Like a thousand tiny synapses, you feel how small you are, lost in a sea so much bigger than yourself. It lasts only until you shake the shadow off.
As soon as you divest yourself of the shadow, it steals your silhouette for a handful of seconds, before dissolving. Afterwards, it feels like you can't stop seeing little flickers of movement out of the corner of your eyes. It may last for hours. If you're really unfortunate, they last for days.
They swivel as one, bodies distorted, and slither-walk-climb towards you. They reach out with hooks and arms and claws, beckoning with an inexorable determination.
They won't attack when in this state; they just pursue. Contact seems to be the name of the game, which doesn't seem like the greatest plan when a glancing touch burns like ice. But stand still long enough and one of them will try to attach itself to you, as if it could melt into your flesh.
It's painful. And, well, experimenting with this could very well give you frostbite.
Longer term contact gives the impression of longing and a vast universe, as if something always lies just beyond the horizon. Like a thousand tiny synapses, you feel how small you are, lost in a sea so much bigger than yourself. It lasts only until you shake the shadow off.
As soon as you divest yourself of the shadow, it steals your silhouette for a handful of seconds, before dissolving. Afterwards, it feels like you can't stop seeing little flickers of movement out of the corner of your eyes. It may last for hours. If you're really unfortunate, they last for days.
COME ALL YE.
With the world's impromptu upheaval, there are new stairwells in the core. They're striking because of one feature and one feature alone: There is moss growing on them. They're the first sign of something else truly alive in this world, something that isn't alien to it.
Stepping foot inside makes the ground eat up the exit behind you, swallowing you down and guiding you through a long descent...or ascent. If you're lucky, it transitions to a level hall; if not, well, you have your work cut out for you. It isn't a short walk—roughly around an hour, though it might seem longer or shorter, depending on your company.
Regardless of whether you enter the stairwells with someone else or alone, navigating them is a tricky business. Sometimes, the paths fork off in different directions. If your friend (however loosely you may use the word) gets too far ahead of you, it's possible the maze will warp and split you up completely. On the other hand, you never know when you'll round a corner right into someone else.
Unlike the halls, which are largely clear of debris, there's old detritus all along the floor. Some of it's garbage like dirty plastic wrappers and bottles, while other times there are bones. They crumble to dust at a touch.
There are other artifacts, increasingly archaic. It's like stepping through time, as if you were digging through the earth to find things that died before you. If you look closely at the walls, you might even think there are fossils embedded in them.
Stepping foot inside makes the ground eat up the exit behind you, swallowing you down and guiding you through a long descent...or ascent. If you're lucky, it transitions to a level hall; if not, well, you have your work cut out for you. It isn't a short walk—roughly around an hour, though it might seem longer or shorter, depending on your company.
Regardless of whether you enter the stairwells with someone else or alone, navigating them is a tricky business. Sometimes, the paths fork off in different directions. If your friend (however loosely you may use the word) gets too far ahead of you, it's possible the maze will warp and split you up completely. On the other hand, you never know when you'll round a corner right into someone else.
Unlike the halls, which are largely clear of debris, there's old detritus all along the floor. Some of it's garbage like dirty plastic wrappers and bottles, while other times there are bones. They crumble to dust at a touch.
There are other artifacts, increasingly archaic. It's like stepping through time, as if you were digging through the earth to find things that died before you. If you look closely at the walls, you might even think there are fossils embedded in them.
HAVING AN AVERAGE WEEKEND.
Once you finally step out of the ancient labyrinth, you'll find yourself in a brand new location, jarringly green and wild, ancient and strange, new and beautiful. You've found the ruins.
While it might seem smaller than the core, it's impossible to get a sense of scale. The world starts to look flat when so much of it's the same colors. It's difficult to see far in most locations, with the way trees knit themselves over the landscape. It feels vitally alive, however, if oddly still. It's also quiet, with the sounds of life muffled by vegetation.
Animals roam the ruins, but they're elusive; those you do encounter are aggressive or fearful towards humans. Mammals and invertebrates are common, while amphibians are uncommon; reptiles are rare, and birds even rarer. Anything larger than a medium-sized dog is an unusual sight, especially within the ruins themselves.
You may notice some strange markings and carvings, all in an unknown script. No translation magic will work on them. The strange little messages are rare, but if your eyes slide across something just right, they might find something carved, painted, smeared, or scratched into a random surface.
Radios function well in this area, despite the plant matter usually creating interference. They tend to turn on even when you're not using them, though they don't play any sound without your help. Instead, it's possible to hear the soft hiss of white noise across the ruins.
Notably, there is currently no day-night cycle, but it does sometimes get brighter or darker. This doesn't seem to follow a set clock, however, and whether it's influenced by the rising or setting of a sun at all is unknown.
While it might seem smaller than the core, it's impossible to get a sense of scale. The world starts to look flat when so much of it's the same colors. It's difficult to see far in most locations, with the way trees knit themselves over the landscape. It feels vitally alive, however, if oddly still. It's also quiet, with the sounds of life muffled by vegetation.
Animals roam the ruins, but they're elusive; those you do encounter are aggressive or fearful towards humans. Mammals and invertebrates are common, while amphibians are uncommon; reptiles are rare, and birds even rarer. Anything larger than a medium-sized dog is an unusual sight, especially within the ruins themselves.
You may notice some strange markings and carvings, all in an unknown script. No translation magic will work on them. The strange little messages are rare, but if your eyes slide across something just right, they might find something carved, painted, smeared, or scratched into a random surface.
Radios function well in this area, despite the plant matter usually creating interference. They tend to turn on even when you're not using them, though they don't play any sound without your help. Instead, it's possible to hear the soft hiss of white noise across the ruins.
Notably, there is currently no day-night cycle, but it does sometimes get brighter or darker. This doesn't seem to follow a set clock, however, and whether it's influenced by the rising or setting of a sun at all is unknown.
PAST AND FUTURE RUINS.
Welcome to the ruins! Some quick things to remember:
- The archive is OOC knowledge only; characters need to ICly learn info through trial and error. Or gossip.
- It's impossible to see the sky overhead, but sunlight does make it down somehow.
- All plant life, including those in the archive, glow if an area is dark enough.
- All flora and fauna, including those in the archive, bleed black. Many of them may also smell of rot.
- Attempting to remove a living organism from the ruins will kill it. Removing anything with special properties will nullify those properties, unless they're treated (boiled, cooked, etc) first.
- You can handwave something's existence if it's generic, not permanent or recurring, and won't interfere with other players' fun (e.g., random fruit trees, nondescript rodents, general weather).
( RUINS: EXPLORATION | ARCHIVE )
ruth aldine | marvel | ota
She's walking with her latest attempt at a cane, not quite assured but nowhere near the tentative steps of the last few...days? Weeks? It's been about a week for her--for you, maybe longer. Who knows? Regardless, walking: slipping outside in search of supplies, wrapped up in a worn navy peacoat so large her hands don't make it to the cuffs. And then the world breaks.
There's no other way to understand it, the sudden shift of the world around her: time takes on the qualities of heat waves off blacktop, undulating and curving around her, nearly physical as it winds away. She's trapped in it, a stone in a river (mixing metaphors, it's that disorienting) reaching slowly, awkwardly to touch her nose. No blood.
Everything's broken, "now" isn't even now, and there's something swallowing up every space inside her mind, branding itself dark and light and everything. She hardly knows what she's saying. "Sorry this no, no this sorry isn't happening sorry--"
[after]
Yes. Pardon. Yes. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Thank you. No. Pardon. Thank you? Hello.
It speaks and speaks, tinny and faraway, and not at all like Ruth when her speech is invaded with rogue words and phrases. It--she?--says them like this is practice or demonstration, clear and purposeful as she falls like Alice through emptiness and waits for impact.
Instead, she gets the slow realization that at some point, she already landed. Her mind is...not clear, no, but lacking the hideous urgency from before. Ruth's touching her face again, and there's still no blood. Her limbs move only through air, not the thick ruin of time.
"What--pardon--what's going on?" Under the circumstances, she's not sure she wants to rely on something that'll sicken her. If there are shadows, if there's something yet more dangerous--first, ask. "Sorry. Where are we?"
[a green place]
It smells green--and it's nowhere near as cold as anywhere else she's been in the last few weeks. When Ruth finds her way out of the endless hallways of the stairwells, she can't help but pause, just to feel how quiet and still it is. A few leaves rustle, and she turns her head toward the sound.
"We sorry, we could stay here." Couldn't they?
[hm.]
The tricky thing about the green place is that it's thick with plant life, and Ruth doesn't recognize any of it. She knows the very basics of surviving in unfamiliar territory--the Savage Land lecture, if you will--but she hasn't spent much time putting it into practice (let alone into practice entirely sightless). And so little here is familiar that the feel and scent of plants alone is of limited use.
"Do these yes, pardon look poisonous?" she asks, crouching by a stalk that definitely has berries on it. They smell fine, but...unfamiliar. It's hard to say.
[a crystal cave]
And then it starts pouring. Ruth doesn't know if it's night--not a blind thing, a night doesn't feel right thing--but she's tired enough that she's been trying to scout out a place to sleep, but there's no way her sleeping bag's going to get through this weather. It was designed for children to take to birthday parties at friends' houses.
She hurries in search of some shelter, swinging her makeshift cane as quickly as she can, trying to avoid any hidden roots or stones--and eventually, it smacks against something hard. Getting closer to it, she follows the stone with her hands until she finds the entrance to a cave. She's soaking wet, nearly itchy with all the water, and doesn't take more than a moment to consider something dangerous might be inside. If that's the case, she'll deal with it when water isn't streaming down over the tip of her nose. She ducks inside.
[whip triffids]
"Ow, sorry, ow, sorry, ow--" Wandering into the path of a whip triffid was not a good idea. (It also was definitely not on purpose.) There's one wrapped around her right calf, another around her cane, and she's doing her best to smack them both away with the aforementioned cane.
A little help would be appreciated.
[wildcard]
[We can obviously do anything else you'd like, too! Ruth will be around in the ruins, though her explorations will be a little more hesitant than some characters'. We can also use in-person conversation as an opportunity to discuss her whole "commune with the setting" plan as well, if you want!]
cave
Trapped in the crystal, Dolores listens too. It's—he tells himself he'll leave once he finds the word. It's a little like being mocked, seeing his gestures, his body language mapped onto her. When she was always...not graceful, exactly, but at home in herself. He keeps shutting his eyes. He keeps thinking if he lets his vision drift, his gaze unfocus, maybe she'll move of her own accord.
It's a while before he tears himself away to investigate.
“Ruth?” He should feel guilty for staring the way he does, knowing she'll never know: an openly appraising look, taking in the blindfold and the curtain of dark hair, gaze softening at the realization of how young she is. “You're drenched. Here, I have a coat.” It's a tricky business shrugging and teasing his way out of it without sending pain streaking down his shoulder. It takes much too long, involves some gritting of teeth. He talks as he goes about it.
“I found you a cane, but it's um.” Near the cave's entrance there's a smoldering fire, one that won't survive the rain unless it's tended to. Smoke threads the air, thin but noticeable. William motions to it before adding, half a second late: “Burning.”
no subject
And then the cane. Ruth turns her head toward the scent of wood, breathes out. There's a little smile in her voice. "It's pardon, it's okay."
Kind of him to think of her, even if he ended up needing the wood. She comes a little further inside, noting the occasional stone and carefully stepping over or around it. In various crystals, other figures make the same tentative path: a well-dressed older woman, a golem-like figure wearing a black and yellow uniform over his stone skin, a wiry man whose dark hair seems to drift back from his head like a wisp of smoke. "Sorry. What happened, yes, to your arm?"
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Gauging her reaction as he goes.
Afterward he stands there some more, unsure if he should move. He's hurting her: that much is clear. “I landed on it.” Faintly wry, though his words are careful to the point of brittleness. “It's not bad, I'm ambidextrous.”
People flicker on the wall—wildly different, each of them, all picking their way through the cave with her. He doesn't check on Dolores.
“I'm sorry.” For giving up on ever finding her. For this, whatever this is. Fuck it. William hooks the coat on a convenient outcropping of crystal and heads back to the fire. Hunkers down to coax it back to life. “If I'm not as close, does that make it easier?”
no subject
She's not bleeding from the nose, anyway. (Yet.)
"It's sorry, it's all right. Thank you. It pardon won't bother me." Being near somebody else sounds like a decent change of pace, after all the time she's spent alone. So, following his voice, and the smoke, she moves tentatively over to the fire until she can feel its warmth. "Sorry we don't sorry have a healer."
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Does it never stop? That's what he wants to ask.
“It's beautiful in here,” he says, watching a spark drift toward the roof of the cave. “Blue—sorry. Have you smelled the ocean? Like that, and the way you feel right before you fall asleep.” The fire isn't blazing—it's not built for that—but it's generating enough warmth that William scoots back.
“Are you comfortable?”
no subject
"Mm-hmm. Please." She's quiet a moment, trying to remember the scent of saltwater. It's never too far away--not in New York or New Jersey, anyway--but more than the Shore, she's reminded of Muir Island, its crumbling buildings haunted with ugly memories. "In Scotland once...Pardon. Yes. I sat by the tide."
A pause, wrapping her arms around her knees. Somewhere behind her, the gangly man does the same, the collar of his vest hiding his jaw. "What does it sorry look like?"
no subject
William settles back, mindful of his shoulder. Inadvertently meets Dolores' eyes. “It's crystal,” he says, some dredged-up emotion still in his voice. He sounds as if he's never seen it before. He clears his throat, wonders if she even knows what he's talking about. “Imagine if, uh”—he smiles to himself—“you peeled a stone. The light...”
He closes his eyes a moment and looks again at the glow filling the cavern. The way it bounds, sometimes, from crystal to crystal.
“It's eerie. Not creepy, just...” He takes a breath. “Your reflection's been changing the whole time.” He sounds almost embarrassed, as though admitting something, as though caught reading her diary. “Right now it's a man. With very distinctive hair.”
no subject
And then Ruth pauses, tilting her head. That could be a few people she knows, but people've started to meet Logan here. (Has William? She's not actually sure.) Lifting a hand, she mimes running it up non-existent hair: up from her head, back slightly, but mostly up. It wouldn't make much sense, if not for the reflection of David doing the same: in one crystal, his hair dark, in another, more like rainbow tentacles stretching up into smoke.
"Him?" she asks, wondering if it's necessary, and waits for laughter or recognition. It's extraordinary, the desire to check for herself--but she's trying to stay inside her own thoughts, not reach out from her mind into the rest of the world.
(But if it's him, she's not sure she'll be able to resist.)
godmods her reflection into doop
He rests his chin in his hand, fingers tapping restlessly along his jaw. Watching the doubled image, the profusion of color swimming through the crystals. “Who is he?” he asks after a while, the note of hope in his voice sharper than he'd have expected.
inaccurate, nobody loves doop
The way she comes up short, trying to finish that sentence in a way that means anything, probably means something in itself. Everything sounds so trite--or worse, too fragile. She might as well hand over her heart and hope William's hands aren't too rough to hold it.
"--my nemesis. Yes. Sort of." The truth, or something like it, even if it's only a fragment of the whole. Behind her, David's smile is as tentative as Ruth's, his head tilting down with hers, just a little too much to look like himself.
how dare you he was my wedding videographer
Why “was”? But he's not ready to ask.
“Before you got here”—he smiles her way, though she can't see it—“I was thinking about where they came from. I—” His voice snags and he loses it completely, takes a slow breath. “If it's like a prism—if it splits us into...” The people they're made up of.
He doesn't voice the alternative: that somewhere, sometime, Dolores and David look in a mirror, or a pool of clear water, or at the wall of this same cave, and see them looking back. “What did he sound like?”
why tho
(She would've assumed this was just something crazy, visions without any meaning. William's an optimist.)
"Like yes haggis an' bagpipes." Her voice lightens immediately, the smile on her face growing less private. She rearranges herself: crossing her legs like she's going to meditate, straightening her spine, bringing her chin up. The closest she's going to get to him, here in this cave. "Och. All a wee sorry, a wee bit trippy--"
Her Scottish accent is never going to win her an Oscar. But remembering his brightens everything about her, if only for the moment. It's lonesome, too--all past tense--but that was true two minutes ago, too. He's always a quiet spot in her mind; he isn't always a story she can tell.
William, she realizes, might want for the same thing, that ability to tell pieces of the people he's split apart into. Her posture slumps a little forward, curious. "Who're yes, who's following you? Pardon."
no subject
At her question, he goes silent. Wrestles with the urge to start safe: my mom, my sister. “Dolores.” It's not that hard to say. It comes out lopsided, riding a swell of feeling—affection, sadness, desperation—at the end. William takes a shaky breath.
“We left our world together.” Hand in hand, that makes it sound like, when he'd found her in a tent filled with the screams of the dying a century before he'd been born. When she'd been leaving a world where her existence was contingent on some rich asshole's entertainment, and he'd been counting the promotions until he'd be invited to join the ranks of those rich assholes.
In another way it's true, though—they'd always felt entwined, and that had always somehow been enough. “She—” He falters. He remembers her under the tree, the glimmer of otherworldly light in her hair. Under the night sky in Westworld, telling him a story about stray cattle. Yearning without knowing the word for it.
“We were both lost—that's a way of looking at it. But we, she.” Maybe he just doesn't want to part with the words. “We knew there was a beyond.” William looks up—he's gone without, this whole time—and her eyes are bright. Her expression scrabbles at his heart.
He closes his eyes. He knows it's just him. “I'm sorry I'm...I should talk about her more.”
no subject
Not coincidence, exactly, going to the island where they'd kept him comatose for years and knowing nothing about him. More like echoes of a sound that hadn't yet rung out. Strange--really, that's all it was. Something strange before a thousand more strange things happened to them both.
Ruth lets William pull gently at the threads of his story, hesitating over every sentence. She'd be tempted, if it didn't hurt, to peek at the reflections around them and figure out which one Dolores is. Or to reach for the edge of his mind, try to remember what he remembers. But she doesn't really have to--the lonesome affection he has for this woman pours out of him from every angle.
"And sorry, yes, she's gone?" Dead, she thinks. He talks about her like she'll be dust someday. I'm sorry is the sound in her words, or it means to be, as she tips her head like she's looking at him.
no subject
“She's in a different universe. She had her pick,” he says, and for all the wistfulness there's a trace of pride in his voice. It's only fitting, only fair. He likes picturing her, wherever she is—different hair, different clothes, maybe a new name, one she's chosen for herself—wondering at a piece of fruit or a car or the ocean.
The sheer variety, the never-fading novelty of choice.
“I didn't ask where, I—” Had faith. They'd been to those places where universes touched, glimpsed the light woven through it all. Sometimes he still believes it, that they'll cross paths again. Meet at some crook in the universe. But that's not faith, is it? Sometimes isn't sustaining. “It actually, um”—his choppy laugh echoes through the cave—“happened really fast.”
He lets his laughter die out, draws his legs to his chest. He looks at her—forgetting to feel stupid for wanting to meet eyes wrapped in a blindfold. Softly, weighing the question before he asks: “What happened to David? Will you tell me?”
whip triffids bc of course.
Yep, that's Ruth. And she's blind. In this bullshit. Honestly, shouldn't she have a minder or something? But Ellie will help where she can, though she knows she can't stay by Ruth's side 24/7, even if she wanted to. Ruth wouldn't let her.
Ellie takes an arrow out of her pack, putting the bow away so she can use the arrow to point at the... tentacle flower... things. Jesus. Ellie pokes one of the flowers with an arrowhead, and the tongue-thing extends to try and wrap itself around the arrow.
"You're next to some totally fucked up flowers," Ellie says, in lieu of an introduction. Subconsciously, she just figured Ruth would see her approach. She hasn't considered it. "I'm gonna cut you loose, gimme a sec-" She takes out her knife, and begins the process... on her arrow.
no subject
With a hard yank, both hands pulling, her cane comes free--but she keeps going after that point and ends up falling down ass-first, the plant's thorns digging hard into her skin. (Not into more plants, thankfully. Just sitting down hard, her bag bumping against the dirt.) A sharp little breath in, like she's trying not to yell, and she sets the cane down in favor of digging through her bag. There's a kitchen knife in there, one she wrapped in a towel so she wouldn't end up stabbing herself.
Ellie's not going to like what's about to happen, and Ruth couldn't give less of a damn if she tried. Knife in hand, she reaches down to start sawing her way free, focused in on everything she can sense about the vine. Sure, it means a bloody nose, but at least she'll be out of this mess.
no subject
Ellie helps Ruth saw, until she spots the blood on her face. "Fuck!" Ellie smacks Ruth's hand impatiently. "You're fucking bleeding again! Stop doing that shit!"
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"Y'wanna tell something what to do, get a dog," she snaps, hacking apart the last fibrous centimeters of the thorny whip. Grabbing the dish towel she's been keeping the knife in, she uses it to pull the vine off of her, then presses it against her torn jeans. The thorns had pricked through the fabric (and her skin), and twisting around left larger holes; her skin feels slick, the jeans stiff, and her lower leg's starting to burn. (How does it hurt more when there's nothing biting into her anymore?) Ruth sucks in another breath through gritted teeth.
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"Ah, fuck-" More importantly, Ellie's faster with a knife, even a stiletto. She saws quickly and efficiently, ignoring the pain in her hands and the way her fingers burn. At least they don't go numb. That'd make cutting hard.
No, she's fine here. She gets the vine off Ruth's leg, and begins pulling her haphazard from the tree.
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Go kill the other ones, she wants to say. Leave me alone if this is how you're gonna be. But she can't afford to get on Ellie's bad side.