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.)
let me know your mind - logan - open for anyone already there
He catches the last few words of her broadcast and it’s all he needs, not even stopping to wipe the motor oil off his hands as he takes off at a sprint through the snow to the nearest stairwell. Of course, the place has a sense of humor, or maybe is just determined to make it as difficult as possible, because the nearest stairwell is a good way away. The tunnel stretches long and shadowy and humid, the thudding of his boots echoing off the wall along with the curses and threats that flow under his breath as he runs through the dark.
She’d better not --
Better not be --
He knows the wall she’s talking about and follows its scent and hers through the foliage like a hound. The closer he gets, the more blood he smells. It doesn’t reassure him.
Logan comes skidding out of the foliage, fists already up. He takes in the scene in a single furious glance.
“What the hell did you do?”
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what i want to know: where does the time go? - logan - open to anyone there - cw: torture/gore
As the wave rolls away, Logan hangs his head like a dog and retches up his breakfast, enhanced senses knocked askew by the psychic energy. His whole body is ringing like a struck bell, dizzy, blinded. Ruth -- where is Ruth?
Then the voices start rising from the wall of sound. Voices he knows, snatches of conversation, words shouted next to his ears from invisible throats in a dozen languages. He knows they’re saying words but somehow they don’t make sense, overlapping each other, too loud. They echo through the meat of his soul, triggering memories of floating in tanks, of lying on cold tables, his eyes sewn shut and metal rods embedded in his sinuses to penetrate his brain, skewering his throat, bristling from his back, in every joint, every orifice, aching, burning.
Not again, not again --
“No!” Logan roars, staggering up, clawing at his face, expecting to feel wire threads in his eyelids and finding nothing but normal skin. Redness threatens the black of his vision; the beast, rising. Claws snap out from between his knuckles. He swings at nothingness. “NO!”
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ellie | ota.
a2
ruth (yes, pardon)
Is this what a hangover feels like? A hangover, with a little shot of panicked concern. (And a lot of dried blood.)
"P-pardon--" but her mouth feels like it's made of socks. Swallowing, she tries again. "Yes. Thank you. Where's my blindfold?"
Ivar | OTA
When the pretty rainbows die down, he starts feeling things. Emotions that he soon realizes aren't his. He doesn't like this. He really doesn't like this. Ivar's a born psychopath by both nature and nurture, so suddenly being exposed to the different ways that people are feeling is freaking him out badly. He mostly runs on sheer rage and spite himself, so feeling all this? Not great.
He just sort of glares at anyone who comes near, using his free hand to massage his aching temples. "Stop that," he orders, even if the other person isn't really doing anything at all.