ruth aldine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sorrypardonyesthankyou) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
wasteyard2019-07-05 08:38 am
sorrypardonyesthankyou) wrote in wasteyard2019-07-05 08:38 am
he's come to take his children home.
WHO: Everybody!
WHAT: Digging into the brains of the setting, then dealing with the aftermath of...doing that............
WHERE: The ruins, vaguely in the vicinity of the wall with the weird writing
WHEN: July 5th
NOTA BENE: Stupid ideas and blood. Please note content where appropriate.
NOTES: Need more information? Want to leave comments or questions? Check the OOC post or PM me!
well, the first days are the hardest days
It feels like morning to Ruth when she hits the TALK button on her walkie-talkie, though it's hard to say it actually is: day and night don't differ nearly as much in these ruins as they did at home. She's walking, somewhat confidently, toward the wall she keeps running across, the one whose texture she's come to recognize; it seems as good a place as any to do this.
"It's Ruth. Sorry. I'm going to pardon go now. Meet yes, meet me at the wall."
For her, it's been two days since she made the first broadcast. This one is short, easy enough to miss or just plain ignore...
let me know your mind
...But if you catch it, please meet her at the wall. Pardon.
Astral projection isn't a particularly flashy ability. The sight is positively dull: a nineteen-year-old curls up with her head on a backpack and falls asleep under a line of text she's never seen. From the moment her breathing evens out, she might as well be comatose: she can't be roused by talking, shaking, or anything else.
It doesn't take long for blood to start dripping from her nose, running down the side of her face and onto the ground. Bloodstains start to form on her blindfold and eventually run down her cheek as well. If the blindfold is removed, it won't be evident where those streaks of blood are coming from--the skin beneath is smooth, unbroken by the suggestion of eyelids or tear ducts. After that, the trembling starts, her skin feverish as her body begins to jerk itself into convulsions.
If you're out there with her body...well, have fun with that.
(goddamn--well, i declare)
She's gone, reaching out with every scrap of mental energy she's tried to save up for this moment. Freed from the confines of her own flesh, Ruth jets up into the sky and resists the desire to linger and look out over the green place, straining for something: a sense of where to aim, how to get beyond the damp world they've all wandered into.
When she finds her way inside it, she wonders if it took pity on her and let her in. Because it knows she's there--that much, she's certain of. It surrounds her, a dark womb swallowing up the shape her spirit usually takes. She's a mind untethered, errant thoughts existing within another mind, knowing without being.
Nothing about it is recognizable, but all feels familiar. They know each other for a moment, or maybe longer--time means even less in here--and all there is to find is the wordless presence that has her. She's a firefly in something's cupped palms, unable to fathom what's happened to her (aware of that lack of understanding, at least), and at the mercy of a being that could bring its hands together at any moment.
But it doesn't crush her. It seems to like her, all of them, too much for that. A pity it doesn't seem to know its own strength.
what i want to know: where does the time go?
Ruth's pushed back into her body with a force she's never experienced before, something beyond mere psychic barriers. It echoes outward from her in all directions, a silent, vibrant wave of energy that moves through everything in its path without effort.
Anyone nearby could end up in the ripples of her return from the world's mind, even if they weren't planning on having anything to do with this endeavour. The shockwave rolls out in a riot of light and colour, overwhelming every sense and disappearing within the same breath. After it fades, you might be left with strange side effects; having been hit by Ruth's psychic energy, one or two of her powers (...or issues) might linger. Voices might murmur in your ears. Every thought, every feeling, might become public knowledge. Golden strands of possible futures, impossible for you to read in this place, might haunt your sight.
...Or you might just start stuttering. Pardon. Sorry. Yes.
(Meanwhile, Ruth stops shaking, disappearing for a few more hours into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her body needs rest, even if her mind doesn't.)
WHAT: Digging into the brains of the setting, then dealing with the aftermath of...doing that............
WHERE: The ruins, vaguely in the vicinity of the wall with the weird writing
WHEN: July 5th
NOTA BENE: Stupid ideas and blood. Please note content where appropriate.
NOTES: Need more information? Want to leave comments or questions? Check the OOC post or PM me!
well, the first days are the hardest days
It feels like morning to Ruth when she hits the TALK button on her walkie-talkie, though it's hard to say it actually is: day and night don't differ nearly as much in these ruins as they did at home. She's walking, somewhat confidently, toward the wall she keeps running across, the one whose texture she's come to recognize; it seems as good a place as any to do this.
For her, it's been two days since she made the first broadcast. This one is short, easy enough to miss or just plain ignore...
let me know your mind
...But if you catch it, please meet her at the wall. Pardon.
Astral projection isn't a particularly flashy ability. The sight is positively dull: a nineteen-year-old curls up with her head on a backpack and falls asleep under a line of text she's never seen. From the moment her breathing evens out, she might as well be comatose: she can't be roused by talking, shaking, or anything else.
It doesn't take long for blood to start dripping from her nose, running down the side of her face and onto the ground. Bloodstains start to form on her blindfold and eventually run down her cheek as well. If the blindfold is removed, it won't be evident where those streaks of blood are coming from--the skin beneath is smooth, unbroken by the suggestion of eyelids or tear ducts. After that, the trembling starts, her skin feverish as her body begins to jerk itself into convulsions.
If you're out there with her body...well, have fun with that.
She's gone, reaching out with every scrap of mental energy she's tried to save up for this moment. Freed from the confines of her own flesh, Ruth jets up into the sky and resists the desire to linger and look out over the green place, straining for something: a sense of where to aim, how to get beyond the damp world they've all wandered into.
When she finds her way inside it, she wonders if it took pity on her and let her in. Because it knows she's there--that much, she's certain of. It surrounds her, a dark womb swallowing up the shape her spirit usually takes. She's a mind untethered, errant thoughts existing within another mind, knowing without being.
Nothing about it is recognizable, but all feels familiar. They know each other for a moment, or maybe longer--time means even less in here--and all there is to find is the wordless presence that has her. She's a firefly in something's cupped palms, unable to fathom what's happened to her (aware of that lack of understanding, at least), and at the mercy of a being that could bring its hands together at any moment.
But it doesn't crush her. It seems to like her, all of them, too much for that. A pity it doesn't seem to know its own strength.
what i want to know: where does the time go?
Ruth's pushed back into her body with a force she's never experienced before, something beyond mere psychic barriers. It echoes outward from her in all directions, a silent, vibrant wave of energy that moves through everything in its path without effort.
Anyone nearby could end up in the ripples of her return from the world's mind, even if they weren't planning on having anything to do with this endeavour. The shockwave rolls out in a riot of light and colour, overwhelming every sense and disappearing within the same breath. After it fades, you might be left with strange side effects; having been hit by Ruth's psychic energy, one or two of her powers (...or issues) might linger. Voices might murmur in your ears. Every thought, every feeling, might become public knowledge. Golden strands of possible futures, impossible for you to read in this place, might haunt your sight.
...Or you might just start stuttering. Pardon. Sorry. Yes.
(Meanwhile, Ruth stops shaking, disappearing for a few more hours into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her body needs rest, even if her mind doesn't.)
no subject
Logan grits his teeth and tries to hold on, searching for things to hold on to. The pain in his knuckles as the claws grind against his bones, the smell of William nearby and the rich earth under his hands. The berserker in his soul throws himself against the bars of his cage, making him want to rip things apart, but he can't, not with innocent people in the way.
Don't lose it, don't lost it, don't lose it don't lose it --
William's hand is a weight on his back, an anchor of warmth.
Come back. Come back.
It feels like the brush of wings and tastes like ashes.
Logan. Let go.
And it's that simple. Let go. Accept. Like standing in the rain and knowing you're going to get wet, not fighting it, not wanting to be anything else. Logan forces himself to relax and the tumult of psychic energy doesn't fade, but becomes part of his mental landscape, parting around him instead of crashing against his walls, and he finds he can stand against the flood.
He pulls in a ragged breath, his claws sliding back into his forearms with a grating of metal. He still can't see, but he can feel the ground beneath him, can smell William and the others nearby. Ellie. Ruth.
Focus. Breathe.
Logan scratches up the ability to speak through the psychic din.
"I'm OK.. it's OK. Ruth. We need to.. make sure."
He sits back on his heels, turning his head towards where he can smell Ruth, then hauls himself to his feet. He's not used to being blinded, at least not without the burning ache of healing as his eyeballs grow back, but he remembers long days of training with Ogun, silk blindfold around his head as he knocked stones and shuriken out of the air with a staff. Two senses down, he relies on the others to make his way towards where Ruth lies beside the wall.
no subject
The claws retract into the man's body. William cringes against the sound, reminded of a knife or a braking train. He makes a noise, not a sob but close, a series of choked gasps.
He opens his eyes and looks, but the man doesn't even seem to have registered what's happened. That it's under his skin. “Okay,” William echoes. “Just—” He reaches for the man's hand, heavy and callused, and swabs with the sleeve of his jacket at the blood pooled in his knuckles. Thorough to the point of meticulousness. “Here. Other one.” He does it again, feeling stupid and automatic and desperate, as though blotting up the blood will blot out everything else.
“You can't see, can you?” he asks when they reach her body. She's tipped over on the rocky ground, blood dried to her face and clothes. “I'll look for a pulse,” he says, inflection out of tune with the words. I'll start digging, he might as well be saying.