(no subject)

21 Jun 2017 08:03 pm
thecatinahat: (fiddle)
[personal profile] thecatinahat posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Cougar Alvarez
WHERE: Alvarez-Jensen-Sawyer Residence
WHEN: June 21st
OPEN TO: Jake Jensen
WARNINGS: Haircuts and Complaining
STATUS: Open


The last time Cougar had been on a mission this far north during the summer, he hadn't slept for a full week straight between the sunlight and the mission. It had left him a little splintered of reality then. Here, he isn't sleeping as much as he'd like, between the heat and the light, and it's taken him back to old habits. He sits in shady spots in high trees to keep an eye on people, his observation skills as critical as ever. Maybe more, because he's not sleeping, and when he is, the nightmares are worse than ever. So instead, he stays awake and he makes notes about people and he watches, always watches.

It's how he notices that Jake is starting to get irritated with the heat and his hair. It's little signs at first, but then, Cougar's unwavering eye notices enough little additions that he knows just what he needs to do. He fetches his scissors and a bowl of the coolest water he can find, putting everything together and then sitting in the corner of their bedroom with his hat pulled low over his head, sweating through his tank top and self-made shorts (his scrubs, cut, which means he will not have them for the winter).

Unmoving, he sits there and waits, his own hair tied in a bun behind his head. After what happened the last time to make him cut his own hair, he's not trying that again. No, this is about making Jake stop with his fidgeting and complaining and sweating, at least, for a few seconds. It will be a few seconds worth it.
canaria: made by me | please don't take (working or some such)
[personal profile] canaria posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Sara Lance and open
WHERE: Fountain, then various, winding up at the inn.
WHEN: June 20th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Mention of death
STATUS: Open



Fountain:
The cold water is a surprise. But, thankfully, she's a good swimmer, so Sara moves her way to the water's surface and takes a deep breath of air once her head breaks the surface, and she coughs a small bit of water out of her mouth -- her blonde hair is clinging to her face, shoulders, neck, back. while she doesn't have a fear of water, finding herself in a body of water in this kind of circumstance vaguely reminds her of years ago when she was on a ship that sunk.

This also, she's pretty certain, isn't the time travelling she'd just decided to sign up for. Before she found herself in this fountain, she'd been talking with her sister, Laurel, standing right beside her. Why isn't Laurel here too?

But, she hoists herself out of the fountain completely, shakes some of the water off of her arms, and rings out her hair. If anyone happens to be around as she stands there, they'll get a:

"Just tell me that thing doesn't revive the dead." It's a stupid joke about her Lazarus Pit experience.

Elsewhere / inn:
Sara spends the rest of her day exploring what she can of the village she's found herself in. She won't go too far so as not to potentially wear herself out on her first day here, and so she can become more familiar with certain parts before others. Just because she could do it, probably, doesn't mean she should. So she paces herself.

She does, however, eventually decide to go into the inn. There are probably several more people in there, and people equal potential information (about this place, and maybe if someone has seen her sister if she's here too). Also, she should consider food soon. That's ... probably a smart thing to do.

But first, she'll open conversation with the nearest person by asking: "Uh, hi. Do ... you know of someone named Laurel Lance here?"

(no subject)

20 Jun 2017 10:16 pm
seekingcrocodile: (A man unwilling to fight for what he wan)
[personal profile] seekingcrocodile posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Killian Jones and ota
WHERE: The inn
WHEN: June 20
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Will update if needed
STATUS: Open

The fact that when he wakes up he's alone in the bed is unusual, but by itself isn't enough cause for worry. Maybe Emma just got up early for some reason, or had trouble sleeping and didn't want to disturb him, so is somewhere else in the house. A quick check of the house convinces him that she's not there somewhere, so he sets out to look elsewhere for her.

He starts at the inn, ducking into the kitchen, because she often would help with cleaning or whatever cooking tasks that she could. No sign of her there.

No sign of her anywhere else either. She's not at the river, or the garden plot, or in any of the other buildings in the village. He even forgoes his usual tasks (and even food) in favor of searching for her anywhere he can think to look, and finds no trace of her except for her belongings in the house. Which can really only mean one thing.

He's sure that his fears have come true, that Emma has disappeared like so many others before her, and the only way he'll see her again is if he's returned to Storybrooke as well. All he can do now is hope. But there is one tiny sliver of that hope left here. It's possible, perhaps, that she's here, they just managed to miss each other all day. He's got no way of getting in touch with her, after all. They could have just been in different places as each other. He circles back to the inn, at a time when many of the residents of the village are eating dinner. He pushes the door open and steps inside. "Has anyone seen Emma?"

So glide away on soapy heels...

20 Jun 2017 05:31 pm
justphases: (pic#10812709)
[personal profile] justphases posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Kitty Pryde and you!
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, the Forest/Lakefront
WHEN: June 20th-June 22nd
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: Possible discussion of death/injury considering her canon point
STATUS: Open


...And promise not to promise anymore )

So Comes New Life

18 Jun 2017 05:53 pm
thekittenqueen: ([Margaery] Considers)
[personal profile] thekittenqueen posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: Outside The Police Station
WHEN: 6/18
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None, save animal birth. (Nothing graphic)
STATUS: Open



Margaery had read the book she was given by Kate to prepare for the birth of her cow. Over and over again she had read the words until she had them nearly memorized. She knew what to do in her mind, but when the time came, she found herself at a loss. All she could do was sit back and let nature lead the way. It was a gruesome process, different than she had imagined, but still strangely beautiful. It was only when the calf was finally free and wobbling over the grass that Margaery let out a breath.

She stroked her cow's nose, whispering words of encouragement and praise to her. The hard work was over and she had been as strong as any woman Margaery had known. While her cow rested and regained her strength, Margaery carefully cleaned the calf, another girl and one needing a name (however unwise that might be). They would at least have milk in the village.

She spied someone nearby, watching the three of them in the fields. She beckoned the person over with a warm expression. "Come see."
theintercessor: (Default)
[personal profile] theintercessor posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: The Church
WHEN: Early, July 18th
OPEN TO: Sonny Carisi
WARNINGS: Usual Jude warnings may apply: portrayals of epilepsy, mentions of horror tropes and religious iconography
STATUS: N/A


The house next to his isn't as dirty as some of the others, for all he hasn't been around to see anyone go in or out of it.  If it has a purpose, no one's yet pointed it out, and after dragging more than a few items across the way from the storehouse, it doesn't seem like there's anyone dedicated to slapping wrists or enforcing any kind of ownership over the supplies.  He's more surprised at how much he's found to scavenge out of damaged houses, linens and kitchen supplies, decent pieces of wood, a screen he'll need to make good on his promise of paper.  He might go back for more, once the heat passes and he feels up for boiling that many plants and old books at a time.

It's a strange way to feel useful, but it seems like a need to be filled.  He can't do shit about the electricity problem.

But maybe he can do something about his clothing problem, or the unbearable sun still drying up patches of the crop field.  Peering in the windows first, the house is far from decrepit or damaged, and isn't even as dusty or undisturbed as the one across the way.  It almost looks like someone wrapped it up for safekeeping, but hasn't yet returned.  A disappearance?  A lover's spat that got someone kicked out?  He doesn't know, just that there are sheets being wasted on old furniture when they could be shielding food. 

Looking both ways, the coast is clear when he slips inside.  The heat has been good for clearing the paths when the sun rises above the trees, the only thing it manages to simmer behind for a few hours as it moves backwards across the sky.  

Inside, the house is cleaner than his own, uncluttered by materials or pots full of soaking leaves and books.  There's a cross hanging on one wall, the furniture fanning out from it like something out of a southern gothic horror movie, that pagan edge of twining sticks and twigs, the ghostly fit of sheets hanging in the too-still air.  

It's a long moment before he can set his hands to the back of a sofa, tugging the sheet away from the polished wooden frame.  It isn't quite reverence that stills or starts him: he needs to make this fast, the place kind of creeps him out.

Start of something new;

18 Jun 2017 02:23 pm
playmakings: (Let me call a few)
[personal profile] playmakings posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Kelsi Nielson
WHERE: The inn, outside the village, forest
WHEN: 16th-18th
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: N/A, possible mentions of dying
STATUS: Open, come at me bros


it feels so right to be here with you. )

'cause i'm a cowboy

17 Jun 2017 01:12 pm
163: (40)
[personal profile] 163 posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Steve Rogers and YOU
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Town Hall
WHEN: 16 June
OPEN TO: Open to all
WARNINGS: No warnings as yet.
STATUS: Open to new threads



on a steel horse i ride. )

exploring

16 Jun 2017 09:05 am
turned_to_steel: (★ looking down)
[personal profile] turned_to_steel posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Sansa Stark
WHERE: River
WHEN: June 16th
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: none right now
STATUS: OPEN



Read more... )

first stage

14 Jun 2017 11:49 pm
truecaptain: (pic#7062781)
[personal profile] truecaptain posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Kanata Shinonome
WHERE: fountain, around of the village
WHEN: June 14- onward
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: N/A, will update as needed!
STATUS: Open

Read more... )
repressings: <user name="goldsteins">, DNT (58)
[personal profile] repressings posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Credence Barebone, Percival Graves, anyone else
WHERE: Barebone-Graves residence, fountain
WHEN: June 15th-16th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Standard Credence warnings, specifically parental death
STATUS: Open


i ➼ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴜɪsᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; closed to Graves
It's something Tina mentioned to him when he asked why Mary Lou knew about wizards. Why everyone else was sure magic was just a fairytale, but Mary Lou was staunch in her belief. It bothers him less that Graves didn't tell him--he knows that's how the other operates, how Graves answers Credence's questions honestly but doesn't give any unnecessary information. Instead, what's really gnawing at Credence is that he didn't ask the right question. He'd thought he was getting better at that.

It was almost a game, asides from their question-for-an-answer. He's never quite told Graves said game of course, but Credence tries to phrase his questions to get the most out of him. He considers a simple 'yes' or 'no' a failure in these circumstances, even though a yes or no is usually enough to satisfy his curiosity. Credence wants more, ravenously hungry for knowledge. Newt and Tina will happily provide answers to anything he asks, and Credence plans on using this to his full advantage so long as they don't mind, but he still wants Graves to teach him, too.

It's finally too hot for him to handle a long-sleeved shirt and jeans when he gets back from the mill, and since he's just in their house and not planning on leaving, Credence opts to wear his white scrubs again. They're lighter, just cotton, even if his arms show the criss-cross markings of unhappier times. Unhappier times he now knows and recognizes as much more complicated than he could imagine. Which brings him to the question he wants to ask.

He finds Graves in the living room, and he wants to say it's evening despite the never-ending blazing sun. His footsteps are quiet, barefeet, and he stops at the doorway, watching the older man for few moments before speaking.

"Ma knew what I was, didn't she? She knew what my real mom was, too."

ii ➼ Iᴛ's ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙʟᴜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; OTA
The more Credence thinks about how hot it is, the hotter he feels, and the more he thinks about how he shouldn't think about how hot it is the more he does. The circular puzzle he's trapped in is ridiculous. The problem with dressing in long-sleeved shirts and long pants is that, even if they're airier thanks to the fact that they're Kira's clothing and not his own, it's even more hot, which jumpstarts the entire thing.

He does his chores for the day and decides the best course of action is to copy what he'd spied Queenie doing a little while ago: he makes his way to the fountain, book close to his chest, dips his feet in, and reads. It's Frankenstein, which he's sure he's read at least 30 times since Christmas, but it's not like he has anything new.

It's when he finishes a chapter that he looks up--he squints against the sun, frowning--and muses, not necessarily to the person passing by.

"Do you ever wonder why they don't give us books very often? The ones that watch us."

---

iii ➼ Iᴛ's ᴀ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴇʏᴇs;

Feel free to spy Credence at the fountain or by the river, or sometimes at the inn doing whatever needs to be done (most likely sweeping).

[old gods, hear my prayer]

14 Jun 2017 08:18 pm
learned_to_die: <lj user="buckybear"> ([look] weirwood)
[personal profile] learned_to_die posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Eddard Stark
WHERE: In the woods near the Stark cabin.
WHEN: June 13
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: None; will update as needed.
STATUS: Yes


It had arrived in a box.

Ned had carried it to his room, careful and gentle, and left it at the foot of his bed until he'd returned to the house later that afternoon. He's received the mysterious gifts before - a cloak, some gloves, other assorted items - but this was a strange sort of weight. Neither heavy nor light, not muted in sound the way the clothes had been. And tall. The box had been taller than the others he'd received, and for a time upon his return, Ned eyed the thing with careful precision and consideration before even laying another finger on it.

He finds his movements, his very breath to be more laborious than normal in light of the sudden disappearance of his youngest daughter. He'd woken one morning to find simply that she'd vanished, seemingly evaporated into nothingness. He'd been warned many times over that such an event could take place and did take place with some regularity, but - he'd foolishly thought his family to be immune. Certainly, given the what they'd gone through, given the pain and suffering they'd already endured, the Old Gods would not see fit to separate them once more.

What a fool he'd been.

After some deliberation and quiet self-muttering, when he feels the time of curiosity and thought has passed, he removes the lid, peering down into the chamber. His brows lift with surprise, eyes alight for the first time in days with intrigue and something vaguely resembling happiness. He reaches out and pulls out a neatly bundled sapling. To those not of Westeros, it might appear to be any other tree - something similar to birch, as he's learned, but to those from his homeland, they'd know the sight of a Weirwood immediately.

He perches himself on the end of his bed as he inspects it, slowly turning it in his hands. It feels real, true. There aren't any illusions he can find. He worries for a moment that having kept it in the box for so many hours might've damaged or dried out the roots, so - now, with a focal point outside of the grief and mourning he carries with him in his broken, shattered heart - he hesitates not a second longer before making his way outside of the cabin and a bit further down the path, where there are no more cabins to be found. He knows that, over time, the thing will grow great and strong - he needn't encroach on his neighbor's territory, even in the name of the Old Gods.

Ned places the sapling on the ground carefully before leaving and returning with a variety of tools: namely, spades of different lengths and sizes. At once, he pours his sorrow into the repeated piercing of the earth and displacing of soil, cursing the Old Gods under his breath for leaving him a weirwood instead of his daughter.
pretendtoneedme: (crossing the fields)
[personal profile] pretendtoneedme posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Everyone! It's a mingle!
WHERE: The mill, and the river next to the mill
WHEN: June 13-14
OPEN TO: Anyone! Tag around, tag in, tag things!
WARNINGS: Nothing for now, please warn for content in comment titles
STATUS: All of the Opens



Word had spread in the usual way, one person mentioned it to another, that person mentioned it to a third, and fourth, and so forth and so on. The mill's almost repaired - or, more specifically, it's reached the point where it needs more than one person working on it in order to get it done. Clint wasn't too proud to say this job was above one person's skills, and so he'd designated two days as "group work" days to finish everything that still had to be done beyond some superficial things. As weird as it was to think about, the river going down actually helped with this, since it exposed some outdoor components that needed maintenance and allowed people to work on them without drowning themselves.

The wheel itself needed some repairs, mainly in some of the blades that had rotted after sitting in the water for so long, as well as getting as much algae scraped off the wood as possible. The frame of the gate that isolated the wheel from the flow of the river had been well-built of the same stone as the mill itself and was sturdy, but the rope of the gate itself had broken at some point and the gate had fallen into the river, so it needed replacing. Inside the mill, the grindstones had come out of alignment and the upper one needed to be reseated; the hopper and feeding chute for the grain had been smashed when the demon hail had punched through the roof, and new ones needed to be hoisted up and secured in place. Salvaged scraps from the destroyed houses would do well enough for all of those and the parts had been built; now they just needed to be installed. The connecting belts between the gears had already been replaced with "new" ones made of strips of extra blankets; presumably the original leather ones had disintegrated. Every tool kit in storage at the inn and most of the scraps and salvaged nails Clint had scrounged from the destroyed houses had been hauled down to provide a supply source, along with a few of the ropes or rope-like things and a couple of the first aid kits - just in case. There were a few other issues that wouldn't interfere with the actual mill workings (a couple of hail holes in the roof and one or two other things), so they could be addressed or not as people chose.

Anyone who wanted to show up and help was welcome, as long as they knew which end of a hammer to hit things with. Water to drink wouldn't be an issue since they were right next to the river, but if anyone wanted to bring snacks or any sort of food it would be appreciated by those working. It was still pretty hot, though, so everyone needed to be on alert for people overexerting themselves and potential heatstroke. Anyone who saw someone about to faint or getting dizzy would have been told to make sure the afflicted person stopped working and sat down in the shade with a drink of water. And of course there was always the option of a nice swim as well.
caelus: made by chatona for me dnt (Default)
[personal profile] caelus posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Jim Kirk
WHERE: (Where the post takes place)
WHEN: Backdated to June 10 and onward.
OPEN TO: All, unless otherwise marked.
WARNINGS: No warnings as of yet.
STATUS: Open.



jump to warp. )

003 ☀︎ Everything's On Fire

13 Jun 2017 06:36 pm
powerunleashed: (under a tree)
[personal profile] powerunleashed posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Jean Grey
WHERE: Woods, House 58
WHEN: 13 June
OPEN TO: Logan Howlett
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Closed



takin' up a fraction of my mind )

001. and thus begins a journey

11 Jun 2017 04:48 pm
mindmeld: (Default)
[personal profile] mindmeld posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Spock
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Around
WHEN: Backdated to June 7 & onward
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: n/a
STATUS: Open


i. fountain

The water is tranquil, rippling over him in gentle eddies lull him into a sense of calm that almost takes him away from the fact that he is currently floating face down in a body of water.

Getting into the enemy ship with McCoy, prepared to crash into a planet, Spock had expected to be shaken and injured; there was always a possibility of such an occurance. He did not expect to wake in something vastly different from the ship, uninjured but decidedly odd.

It does not take long for Spock to react, despite the disorientation he feels; he swims, breaching the surface with a few powerful strokes. Swimming is not an activity which he finds beneficial, but his survival training courses had included lessons, necessary for space missions. Useful now.

What he sees when he breaks the surface is not what he expected from the planet. Between that, and the fact that his clothes are different, and he is decidedly altered from his usual appearance, Spock quickly concludes that he is not on Altamid at all.

"What is the nature of this place?"

It is the only question he asks aloud, though a dozen others run through his head. Now is not the time to speculate; there are more important matters at hand. Such as drying off.

ii. the inn

There are others in the same position as he, an entire village of them. Spock intends to find a place to stay away from the crowd, but for the first few nights, Spock stays in the inn, spending ample time in the common room. Quiet and reserved by nature, he still finds value in socialization - and in understanding where the others are from, how they came to be in this village. Better to find answers that way.

Given a chance, he will approach any individuals who appear to be somewhat idle, or even those busily engaged in a task, to ask, "What was the nature of your arrival?"

iii. the canyon walls

It is logical that the canyon has already been inspected and escape routes discovered - or, in this case, not discovered. But it is far from people and allows Spock an opportunity to assess his situation in relative privacy.

Whatever this place is, it has turned him human. He has made no mention of this to others because the lack of distinctive Vulcan features has made it easy to blend in among the other individuals in the village but it is troubling. Mental control does not come as easily; the awareness of his biology functions is limited; even his heart beats in a different spot.

It is, quite simply, disconcerting. And he wants to be back aboard the Enterprise in order to correct these complications.

The canyon also provides a distraction, as focusing on learning the lay of the land and measuring distances requires more of his attention than customary - one of the downfalls of a human body. Especially since the range never seems to compute; each time he thinks he has an answer for how long the canyon wall is, the number escapes him.

"I have walked fourmiles," he says, at one point, only to take a few more steps and announce, "Perhaps it has only been three."
frankensteinian: thisblankpage @ IJ (hat)
[personal profile] frankensteinian posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Erik Lehnsherr and Claire Bennett
WHERE: Claire and Margaery's house
WHEN: June 11
OPEN TO: Claire
WARNINGS: Will update if needed
STATUS: Closed

They're there when he wakes up in the morning. Two boxes, sitting at the end of his bed, that weren't there yesterday. He's heard about people being gifted items, supposedly left there by whoever's behind this, but he hasn't experienced that himself yet.

Until right now.

He sits on the end of the bed and opens the first box. Flour, sugar, eggs, what looks like cocoa powder. He can guess what these things are for, he just doesn't know what to do with them. He knows who will, though, so he sets that box aside and reaches for the other one.

A pair of jeans on top. It's a bit warm for them right now, but they're still better than the scrubs, and if he's going to be out working in the woods, he'll want long pants. Next a white t-shirt. Nothing unusual about that. Underneath that...a black-and-red plaid shirt. Now he's sure that someone's messing with him, because that's a bit too specific to be random.

That goes back into the box. It's too warm for that right now anyway. The boots and underwear and socks that he finds in there too though, those he'll use.

Later in the day, after he's eaten and seen to the tasks he has for the day, he makes his way to Claire's house, with the box of baking ingredients, wearing his new clothes minus the flannel, and knocks on the door.
bewaretheniceboy: (the ruse is through)
[personal profile] bewaretheniceboy posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Peeta Mellark
WHERE: Village in general, bakery, riverbank
WHEN: June 8, 9, and 10
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: It's Peeta, so there's always possibilities of the Games coming up, especially now
STATUS: Open




( June 8, Village )

When he'd woken up that morning, it had been with his heart hammering in his chest and a barely contained panic. The symptoms weren't at all unfamiliar to him after a year: a nightmare, a bad one, the kind that made it impossible to ever think things could be good again, and he turned to look at Katniss like he always did to reassure himself that they were okay, that they were safe (relatively, at least), and-

She wasn't there.

He hadn't panicked at first; sometimes she woke up before him and went out to do different things. Sometimes the hunting or tracking was better in the early day for reasons he didn't understand. But she'd always show up for lunch, at least long enough to grab something she could eat as she moved if she didn't stay for an actual meal, and this time she didn't... He'd left Jacob in the bakery to go check the house and see if she was there, and that was when he'd found that almost all traces of her had vanished. There was only one set of the clothing and supplies that people carried with them up from the fountain, only one scrubs top. The bow and arrows she'd been shaping were still there but nothing that had been supplied to them. As much as Katniss liked the woods, she wouldn't have packed up everything and run away to them, not without giving something away.

All of that means that Peeta goes into a mild frenzy and immediately into search and rescue mode, crutches be damned. Katniss is far from the most social person in the village, but she's been there long enough to still be familiar to most people, and anyone he runs into is likely going to be a target for that question of Where is she? whether he knows them or not. His first target is, of course, the inn and anyone there, but he spirals out around the village as well as he can while still being limited in mobility, getting more panicked as the day drags on.


( June 9, Bakery )

He can't search the woods in his condition and he's angry about that on a level no one in the village has seen from him, but he's not stealthy to begin with and a broken leg, even one that's mostly healed, makes him even worse. There's still two weeks, give or take, before the rigid brace can come off his leg and he can drop the crutches, and while he's gotten pretty good at dealing with them in the village, that's still somewhere with places for him to stop and sit and rest and convenient water and loads of other things. There is literally just nothing he can do right now that other people can't do better than him, so Peeta is pouring that anger and energy he has into doing something that's at least productive, mixing up, rolling out, and cutting down batches of pasta which he hangs to dry on a series of branches he'd carefully washed before using. It's very basic, just flour, water, and a little salt, but it's more food for people to eat and something to say "thank you" to everyone who wanted to help him or even commiserate with him. Even worried and angry he wasn't about to make things worse for the rest of the village residents, not when they all needed each other to get through this.


( June 10, River )

Two solid nights of terror have taken a toll on Peeta and he knows it's not really going to get any easier, though he also knows he'll reluctantly get used to it the longer it goes, and he just needs a day away from the normal haunts he'd established within the village. In case something happens, though, he's not gone all that far: just down to the river, not near the waterfall since that's the most popular area, but downstream from it a little to enjoy the cooler air around the moving water. The way it's drained reminds Peeta a little too much of when the Gamemakers had drained the stream in the 74th Games to herd them towards Cato and the finale, but it has uncovered a small cluster of rocks that make good seating for someone who can't swim. He's brought his pencils and one of the books he's working on to continue his project, the one that's a record of all the residents. The pages are opened to a certain entry and as the water swirls by he carefully begins embellishing it, adding more words and details to the sketch there, slowly and lovingly. Katniss' entry, of course; she almost looks as if she's staring at him from the page. He's entirely wrapped up in his work and oblivious to anyone coming up on him.

004 ❝ God's in his Heaven ❞

10 Jun 2017 06:32 pm
notsocommon: (Neck; workout)
[personal profile] notsocommon posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Helen Magnus
WHERE: woods, river, butcher's shop
WHEN: 10 June - 12 June
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: TBA
STATUS: Open



i. ❝ the year's at the spring ❞

Helen found that paper was a precious and limited commodity around the village and the bits and scraps she had leftover from her gifts over the winter were rapidly dwindling. She had written on every inch of paper as best she could, cramped writing fitting every square of space, and she was reminded for not the first time of Carentan and how things had to be made to last and last again well beyond their original expiration date. In this, she felt her age for one of the first times in her long life. She felt as her friend Tolkien had once described thin, like butter scraped over too much bread and facing her mortality head on wasn't a position she thought she'd ever find herself in.

She didn't particularly face it head on now if she could help it. This morning she'd found herself in the woods hunting for herbs but, honestly, they were few and far between. The sun was up nearly all the time now and while it flirted with the horizon, it never sank beneath it at night. The best they got was a few hours of near-twilight but no true night fell over the land and hadn't for the past several days. To add insult to injury, it was stifling hot and miserably dry. The grasses had either been eaten down to the earth by the grazing animals or withered and dried up.

Her basket woefully empty aside from some indigo for dyeing, she made her way back to the village, brow furrowed a bit with worry. She made a note in her already-cramped notebook: Sun - constant. Arid. Vegetation scorched.

ii. ❝ the hillside's dew-pearled ❞

Later in the day (for a given definition of day, anyway), Helen made her way down to the river to make observations there. It was dangerously low, the banks exposed to a worrisome degree. Much of their food came from the river by way of fish and if they didn't have that resource and the plants were scorching under the bright sun, what were they going to eat? Rations would need to be put into place regardless but this was escalating to a degree that had Helen wondering if they ought not call a meeting to discuss it. It was something she would certainly be discussing with Mark and Ravi when she got home to see if they ought to bring it to the village at large; her roommates were always a good sounding board for such things.

The bright sun glinted against something bronze and shiny against the dried mud of the riverbed and she picked it up, uncertain of what it could possibly be. It appeared to be some sort of arrowhead but she knew the people here who fletched and made arrows typically used flint for them, not bronze. This was something that didn't seem to fit with the activities that the residents normally engaged in and she slid the arrowhead in her pocket, intending to ask about it once she'd gotten back to the village. Perhaps the others might have a better idea as to what it could possibly be.

iii. ❝ all's right with the world ❞

In spite of the strange happenings of late, some things never changed and one of those things was the need for soap. A village like theirs with about five dozen people, give or take, went through a good bit of soap both for personal bathing and for laundry. It took a lot of Helen's time each week to make soap, cut it, leave it to dry and to distribute that which was ready to be used. Each batch of soap had to be cured for at least three weeks to a month before it could be used but given the bright, beating sun of the past month or so she'd had luck with curing soap for much less time.

"The only good thing to come out of this bloody heat is that I can turn over the soap much faster," Helen muttered, stepping outside the butcher's to get away from the hot lye and fat mixture bubbling over the fire and get some sort of relief. It wasn't coming to her here, given it was nearly as hot outdoors as it was inside, but at least she could fan herself and get a chance to get a few deep breaths without inhaling the scent of soap-in-process.

She slid off her t-shirt, standing in just her bra for the moment, and used the soft cotton to mop off her brow.
womanofvalue: (disheveled)
[personal profile] womanofvalue posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Riverbed / Peggy & Stella's House
WHEN: June 10th / June 11th
OPEN TO: 1st section is open to all; 2nd is open to anyone Peggy considers a friend or anyone who would be stubborn enough to barge into hers and Stella's house
WARNINGS: Descriptions of an injury
STATUS: Open!


The River

The sun hasn't gone down properly in too long and Peggy is weary past recollection. She'd never considered herself someone so greatly affected by lighting, yet the steady presence of the sun in the sky has robbed her of her sleep, paired with the fact that it's so unceasingly hot. It's that exhaustion that sets her into a dazed mood, sleepwalking through her tasks. She's barely paying attention when she gets to the river, but even with her attention half there, no one would miss how low the levels are.

It's clear that she won't be fishing today. She's not quite worried, but Peggy is too tired to be worried, slipping her boots into the river in order to measure the true level and how much they've lost in the past few days. Perhaps it's time for her to stop fishing and go back to the canyons, picking up whatever berries and other greens on her way. Her mind drifting back to a cloudy state, she continues to walk up the shallow river, but when she climbs out on a few of the smoother rocks (shaped by the river's flow), her foot slips and her body gives way, crashing down hard on the outcropping of rocks in front of her.

She's ready to criticize herself when a sharp pain accosts Peggy in her side, a familiar place of pain after the incident with the rebar, but it's not quite like that. She hadn't hit her head, so that's a plus, but a glance downwards as she steadies her hand on the rock shows that there's something in the shallow water below her that looks suspiciously like blood. Moving her body up a touch, it doesn't take long for her to see that it is blood and that it's her own.

There, in between the rocks and wedged out like a pointed weapon is an arrowhead, covered in several inches of warm blood that gives Peggy a good indication of how deeply it had punctured her (or perhaps it had scraped her? She can't see, given the angle). Turning herself cautiously, she settles herself on the dry land beside the river, pressing both palms against the wound to apply pressure, most certainly awake now and chastising herself for being so stupidly distracted.

Closing her eyes and swallowing her pride, Peggy knows that she's not getting out of this without at least some intervention. "Is anyone nearby?" she calls, keeping her tone from wobbling. "By the river, it's Peggy Carter!" she calls, a little louder. I need some help, she thinks, but stubbornly doesn't say, because it will be clear soon enough once she's found.

The Day After

It's all terribly familiar, this stinging sensation in her side that's just painful enough that it nearly knocks her out. She's been lying in bed for nearly a full day, though, and the last time she'd injured herself had been far worse. She had gone right back to work. Clearly, that means that Peggy was well-suited to get up and have some breakfast, knowing that Mr. Jarvis wasn't going to come and fetch it for her. She had the presence of mind to check on the bandage at her side, pressing it tightly against her stitched wound. She also took the time to glare at the arrowhead on her bedside table, since that bloody thing caused this whole mess.

Carefully, she pressed a hand down into her bed to lever herself into a sitting position, pressing the back of her hand to her sweaty forehead. The terrible head and the constant sun had been keeping her in a state of exhaustion before, this new injury hasn't done anything to help. When she moves to stand, the weakness in her legs could be for any number of reasons, but whatever the cause, they force her back down to the bed as her frustration mounts.

She'd saved the whole world and she'd been worse off.

Perhaps if she could get to the spring, she could heal herself and this could all be in the past. "Up we go," she says stubbornly, swaying a little as she makes it to her feet, inching her way towards the door at a rate that suggests she'll reach the springs approximately next month if she keeps it up.