theintercessor: (dreaming)
[personal profile] theintercessor posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Jude Sullivan
WHERE: 6I Woods and paths
WHEN: September 23rd, after dark
OPEN TO: Bodhi Rook
WARNINGS: Usual warnings for mentions of epilepsy symptoms, specifically hallucinations.


Sometimes you have to steer into the slide. Sometimes you let circumstances take you by the hand and lead. Jude’s used to being led: by Parker, by his dad, by a tug in his center of gravity that just told him to go. He’d drop everything to drive out to whatever field Parker woke up in on a given Wednesday; he’d quit a job that hurt his hand under Charlie’s orders, or he’d go find another one when the stuffy summer days in the trailer started to suffocate.

The illness is a little different.

Given a choice, he wouldn’t bow to it at all, but maybe that’s why he rolls over so easy in the day to day. If the strings can cut at any moment, if something can spark a nightmare, if something can take over his head and launch him at a given target--what’s control anyway? What’s its weight, what’s its worth?

The things he sees, the ones that aren’t really there--a lot of them are easy to ignore. It’s just a bad smell no one else notices. It’s just bugs that dart between one crack and another. Tonight a creature of pure shadow sat a physical, choking weight on his chest, looking at him with baleful eyes, breathing sulfur across his face. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t anything: he could close his eyes and breath through his mouth against the stink. But it sat so heavy, pressed down on his chest until it felt like the burn of water in his lungs, and he’d shoved up, tangled in a curtain, torn the hooks off the rod rolling onto the dining room floor.

That had knocked the weight off his chest.

The air outside is clean and fresh, cold enough to warrant his new jacket. There will be dew in the morning, and he might stay up to feel it on his ankles. He puts his feet on the path and starts walking, no destination in mind. Nothing better to do when he blinks white butterflies against the dark than follow their lead.

When next he looks up, he’s in a moonlit field, probably south of the village proper. Shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, he tilts his head back, wondering if all the stars in the dark sky are really there, or--projected, imagined. The best part of being alone, he thinks, is having no one to tell you the difference.

3ofswords: (Default)
[personal profile] 3ofswords posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 42
WHEN: September 23rd
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A


The longer he stays in the main village, the more it feels like a mistake. He should be running again, he should be fending for himself against the foxes--and if he loses everyone he knows in the meantime, so be it. From the sound of Margaery’s panicked prediction, he has worse things to worry about.

Margaery’s prediction is its own problem.

Kira walks up the porch, leafy plants brushing at his knees. For a moment he tries to focus on that: the itch and slide, the wood with its slight give beneath his feet, the grain against his heels. The world has a texture and a scent, is firm beneath him, is sharp and real around him. Mark and Helen live about as far removed from the village as he does, and this long after the sun goes down, it’s quiet. He isn’t standing saturated in the panic of a gathering, or trying to cook through the hunger of a dozen early risers.

He’s alone enough on the porch that it’s just his own fear, his own exhaustion. In one hand is the folded pages of notes, Mark’s name across the outer edge, and he stoops down to shove it under the door. It’s been more than a month since the ability came back, but for ever brief reprieve, it’s gotten worse, not better. He’s done his best to track the timing in the notes, explain the severity, own up to the fact that Margaery’s new burden might be from a vial with his name on it.

He doesn’t expect Mark to fix it, but someone needs to know. If only to excuse Kira’s desire to hibernate under the dog until it’s all over.

When he gets up, he stumbles enough to catch himself on the door with a dull thud. It doesn’t seem loud enough to warrant a hasty retreat, he takes another moment at the bottom of the steps. There will be quiet and calm at home, but it won’t smell this green, and there’s another walk through occupied houses between him and his bed.
3ofswords: (baleful)
[personal profile] 3ofswords posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 19
WHEN: September 17
OPEN TO: Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: Usual warnings for Credence and his history; abuse, etc


Credence is still here.

He knows as much from Bodhi. If he just stays on the porch, Credence will either come out the door, or come home. The day he spent waiting for Tim to come home had just gotten him an armful of distressed goat, some new shirts for her to chew on as he carried her to the pens. It’s a thing that hovers overhead, the surprising weight of that loss. He’s going to lie to himself a little longer, however long it takes to keep it crashing down.

When he went to the church, someone else had taken it over. Sonny had--done something stupid, while he was gone, and no one’s really seen him since.

Everyone’s going to leave you.

He hadn’t needed it said aloud: he knew. Maybe that’s why he'd left first, dragged himself across the gap in the wall and taken care of himself, by himself. It’s going to be like that sometimes. It’s going to be like that a lot of the time, probably. If he’d stayed, the only difference would be the note he’d left people on.

Kira isn’t going to let that be the case with Credence.

The sun climbs higher in the sky, and he winds up dozing, back to the post, body strewn across the top step for someone to trip over. He’ll go three verbal rounds with Graves if he has to: he’s not going anywhere until he sees Credence with his own eyes. Until he gets to explain.

Maybe it’s a shift in the air, maybe it’s a shadow across his waist--it isn’t anything else when Hoshi ruffles up against his jaw, and Kira blinks all the way awake for someone’s approach. “Credence,” he asks, voice soft and drowned in sleep. Lifting a hand against the slant of the sun, he squints at the sloping silhouette. “Credence,” he affirms, pulling himself to sit forward with his feet on the steps below. “You’re home.”

The sigh pushing through the words is entirely relieved.

closed.

23 Sep 2017 01:05 pm
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (Default)
[personal profile] mund posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Percival Graves, Credence Barebone
WHERE: Their home
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: closed
WARNINGS: Nothing, really. At least not yet.



locking your heart away is never easy. )
thenewways: Kira will trust you if she has to (a matter of trust)
[personal profile] thenewways posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: The garden
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: OTA, with locked log for Watney
STATUS: open (OTA)


It's clear to nearly everybody (and that's despite everything that's come up to divert the attention of the group, particularly of late) that the change of seasons is upon them. Even though Nerys doesn't have any solid sense of Earth astronomy at all, and has no clue that autumn is nigh, she's not completely oblivious to the shift herself, even if the weather's been veering frantically over the course of the last month. Apparently staying firmly put in the 'cooling down' column isn't really how this works.

Either that or the observers roll the damn dice every day to see what the weather's going to be. Today it is absolutely frigid, to the point where Nerys had to pull out a couple of layers of sweater this morning just to steel herself up to the notion of working outside. She's wrapped her hands firmly as well, as much for the warmth as to protect them from her tools.

If there's anything that Nerys is good at, it's getting on with the business of surviving--while the village and the other finds intrigue her somewhat, they unsettle her even more. These days, the chill in the night air (and now the day too) means it's nearly harvest time, and if they don't start canning up what they've got right now, it's going to be a lean winter again. Not to mention that there are more people around to feed, and she has no intention of anyone starving on their watch.

It's not like the garden hasn't been through enough this year, the plants hanging on to their lives with a sheer tenacity that rivals the sentient beings of the village. Hell, rivals the damned foxes. The latter have, over the last few weeks, been making a mess out of what's still left to be harvested. Sure, using blood- and bone-meal for fertilizer probably attracts them, but that doesn't really account for the sheer maliciousness of what's been done--vegetables left in neat piles with a single large bite taken out of them, mounds of chewed up berries, holes dug in very precise locations. It's enough to piss a hungry Bajoran the hell off.

[kind sir, be civil, my company forsake - OTA
So that's why Nerys is out hoeing up potatoes on a freezing cold afternoon. If they can get these down into the cellar space at the inn, they'll last a few months, though not as long as if they could leave them in the ground a while yet. She's already cut an armload of late zucchini and squash without much incident, but word gets around both among the humanoid and vulpine populations, it would seem.

A pack of three foxes have spent the last ten minutes slinking up to and around the potato patch, circling Nerys in slowly narrowing concentric arcs. She could swear that they keep looking at her, with the kind of expression that indicates they want her to know they're looking. Despite herself (come on, the Cardassians have played this game with much higher stakes), the frustration's built up to the point of snapping in two. One fox tries to move a little too close, pushes the envelope, and Nerys finds herself snarling, brandishing the hoe like a pike at him.

"Get!" she shouts, voice cracking. "Damn it...all of you, get!"

The fox doesn't, though all of them freeze; instead, they seem to give her a look that asks her who exactly the animal is meant to be in this situation. It's not lost on Nerys, who bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck, come on," she says, almost pleading. "We just want to eat."

The foxes are, unsurprisingly, unmoved.


[sly, bold Reynardine - for Mark]
The potatoes are in, or at least as many as Nerys dares to harvest right now today. Midday's long gone and it's not gotten much warmer, and all she can think of is frost on the vines. So, despite herself, she's kept on working, switching over to the remaining beans. The goal with these is to can them in the containers from one of the earlier feasts, cap them with beeswax, and call it a day, hoping it won't kill them all.

It seems like a worthwhile thing to try, at least.

Nerys' got a half a bag full already when she realizes there's a fox watching her from over by the wastewater tub. Five minutes later, it hasn't ventured much closer, so she's pretty sure it's just a scout. She makes a silent snarling face at it, before shifting up to her feet to ease the strain on her hamstrings for a second--and in the process, ends up snarling at Mark across the plot of beans. The color of her face after she figures that out probably rivals the turning leaves across the field.


[refs are to the British/Irish were-fox folk song 'Reynardine'; Rhiannon Giddens does it well.]

Test Drive

22 Sep 2017 11:15 am
sixthiteration: (Default)
[personal profile] sixthiteration posting in [community profile] sixthiterationooc

Welcome to Sixth Iteration's test drive meme.



→ Holds and applications are always open. Holds are required for all applications.

→ Choose one of the scenarios below or make up your own. Feel free to try multiple scenarios.

THERE ARE ONLY THREE RULES FOR THE TDM:
1. It has to take place in the 6I universe.
2. It cannot be the character's arrival into the game.
3. Please only test new characters who do not have a version in the game. Our cast list is here.

→ TDM threads cannot be used to meet AC, but if the character is accepted into the game and both players agree, you may keep the CR.


CURRENTLY: Autumn is arriving with a vengeance. Throughout the month of October, the temperature will shift from warm to chilly quickly, with trees changing colors and dropping their leaves. The foxes who caused so much mischief last month seem to be gone, which is a relief, but there are new tricks and treats on the horizon, as well as some disturbing, if brief, changes that may give our intrepid characters their biggest clue about their reality yet.

Scenario 1) Crop Up - It's that time again: The weather is changing, and it's time for the year's biggest harvest. All hands need to be on deck to get the food gathered and carried to the storehouse for the oncoming winter, although to some characters, it might be a worrisome situation -- Compared with last year, and given the amount of new people in the village, there's definitely some question about whether this will truly be enough.

Scenario 2) Turning Tricks - You were probably minding your own business when you spotted it: The most perfect, beautiful apple dangling from a nearby tree. It's so shiny, it might as well have been polished up, and it's natural that you'd want to pick it. Trouble is, the fruit disappears the moment it's in your hand, and you're left instead with a trick -- Happy Halloween from the Observers, you're now in possession of bunny ears and a cotton tail for an hour! (Or maybe you developed your own personal storm cloud that goes wherever you go, or can only speak like a pirate.)

Scenario 3) Fading Fast - Days are growing rapidly shorter, and alarmingly, you're discovering that you're fading, too. You cast no shadow, and your body is only at full opacity while in full sunlight. In shadow or when the sun goes down, other characters may not be able to see you unless you go all poltergeist and make noises or knock things over -- That is, if they don't just assume you're a ghost and run away. The good news is that you can see and directly communicate with others in the same predicament, so at least you're not completely lonely.


IF YOU HAVE RECENTLY PUT A TOP-LEVEL IN OUR PREVIOUS TDM, YOU MAY LINK TO THAT HERE IN LIEU OF WRITING AN ALL-NEW STARTER. For clarity, we recommend all top-levels list the character's name, canon (if applicable) and your scenario number in the comment's subject line.

foxing around

22 Sep 2017 08:50 am
bit_fairytale: (conquer)
[personal profile] bit_fairytale posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Amy Pond
WHERE: Border of 7I
WHEN: September 24th / 25th
OPEN TO: OTA / Locked Log to Jax
WARNINGS: n/a


OTA

The little mirror village has been Amy's solace and quiet place ever since Rory vanished. She's not saying the earth opened up and gave her the Scottish female equivalent of a mancave, but she's also not-not-saying that. It's quiet, there's thankfully barely any people, and there's been peaches to keep her from starving, not to mention that snagging a peach is a thousand times easier than trying to hunt rabbit and then deal with all the blood and the bones and the gross parts of rabbits that Amy doesn't want to think about.

It's perfect, right up until the stupid foxes come along.

At first, it's just that Amy notices a lot of them are around. It's not too strange and since she's not exactly kicking off a fox hunt, she doesn't care. Then, they start to get involved around her. The peaches she picks and sets on the ground go missing. Flattened, gone, or ruined, but they're missing. Seeing as no one else seems to be around, she figures that it has to be the stupid animals, but she can live with it.

What she can't live with is that they seem determined to kick up their levels of mischief when Amy keeps going back. She's taken off her shoes to get comfortable and read one of the books she'd brought over with her (squinting more than she likes, which just makes her wish she had her reading glasses with her), when sh hears a faint rustling sound nearby.

Then, when Amy clocks it for what it is, her eyes widen with alarm. "Don't," she warns the furry little thing, who currently has one of Amy's boots in its mouth. "No, you...! Idiot fox!" she snaps when the thing takes that as a sign to run away. It's got a heavy boot in its mouth, she ought to be able to keep up, but the stupid thing is fast and Amy doesn't have any shoes on. Glancing back to the other, she lets out a sharp, "Oi!" of anger when she sees another fox is making good on getting both that boot and the book.

That's it, Amy decides. Fox hunts are back in style. "If you don't drop that boot," she shouts at the fox, one of them, who cares which one, "I'm gonna wear you for a hat and gloves!"

For Jax

"Hey!" she shouts at the furry thing that's currently making off with the bottom leg of her trousers. It's not cold yet, but she's fairly sure that one long leg and one shorts leg isn't the height of fashion anywhere in the world, not to mention that Amy has stubbornly decided that instead of being mature and calm about it, she's going to go chase after a stupid fox like a maniac, marching right into a fight with one of mother nature's creatures.

This can't go wrong, right?

She's closer than ever to getting her pant-leg back because she's managed to corner the fox into one of the little nooks and crannies, crouching over to try and approach quietly like this is some easily spooked alien creature and not the devil's own little dog-cat pets. She's going to time her moment right, she's going to make it happen, except when she does lunge forward for the fox, it darts out, her scrubs-pant-leg flapping in its mouth, leaving Amy flat on the ground, dusty and dirty and hating her life.

Instead of getting up right away, she flops into her hands, chin pressed stubbornly there.

"Guess I'm spending winter in half-shorts," she mutters sarcastically, unless she can actually catch up to one of the stupid things and skin it for leggings, that is.
thekittenqueen: ([Margaery] Looks To (Gentle))
[personal profile] thekittenqueen posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Margaery Tyrell
WHERE: The Village
WHEN: 9/19
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Visions of things that could be triggering



The specimen room hadn't left her mind, neither had the collection of thoughts and worries it had created in her. As much as she wanted to brush it aside, there were too many questions about what was happening to them. Whether or not it had been an illusion or some game. Then there was the deeper fear, rooted and coiled about her mind. What if none of this was real? The vials, the samples, it was of them, of all of them. Her analytical mind didn't want to take everything at face value, but fear far too often took control.

Her only means of escaping those thoughts was to focus on something else, specifically the ability that seemed to emerge out of nowhere. Perhaps once she could have brushed it aside as nothing, but these visions were coming true. Despite the headache it could cause her, she found herself trying to summon one, staring off into the distance as she mentally struggled to unleash the ability, if only to control it.

It was why she was standing in the open field, just beyond the ruined houses. Her eyes locked ahead at the forest. This was where she had seen the barn in her vision, the first of the images to appear. Perhaps if she concentrated enough, she could find the will to bring those images back. Her head was starting to ache, something that for a moment gave hope, until she realized she was concentrating too hard.

Frustrated, she placed a hand against her face and turned, ramming into someone behind her. "Forgive me." She let her hand fall, a weary smile on her face. "I didn't hear you come up."
underpinnings: (looking down in reds)
[personal profile] underpinnings posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Owen Prichard
WHERE: 7I; the beach; near house 120
WHEN: September 16-17th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Fox mischief, language, possible mention of burn scars



i. beach, 9/16 (open to 2)

The foxes--are new.

Everything about the side of the canyon he calls home is relatively new, he’s found, but he’d had some time to get settled before they started coming out of the woodwork. Not so settled that he can’t adjust more than a few behaviors to preserve his meager belonging: he’d seen someone out in the water one morning--that welcome-wagon guy who’d left a note and fucked off--tying his bag and clothes to man-made stakes. A decent brain to pick, he still believes, but getting close has proven difficult. Maybe it’s the dog or the bird, but he always sees the man at a distance, and he’s always gone by the time Owen catches up.

At least he figured out how to hide his stuff. Not everything fits in the bag, and he’s wary of leaving his belongings out overnight. He’s got food locked in the cellar, clothes and notes stuffed into corners of the attic. At night he puts the clothes he isn’t wearing under the mattress, guarding them with his own weight.

It’s a nuisance, and in the early days when his food stores were being dug into, the long-term consequences were troubling. Cautious new habits in place, however, he’s returned his attention to the boats. If he’s out on a canoe, he’s as safe as his bag tied to a stick out in the tide.

Today he’s flipped the boat over on its makeshift cradle, giving himself shade to work in. It’s early enough that the wet rocks and sand are cool against his back, but the sun is high enough to drive him underneath the log. The center has been hacked into a generally hollowed shape, but he’s taking his time to smooth and shape the edges, guiding the ax with a hand flat to its side as he pushes it along the grain of the wood.

Just when he thinks it time for a break, curling shaves of wood littering the ground and his chest, the sounds outside the canoe change. Pebbles scatter, wood creaks, a sound like grass on grass hisses between something like--laughter.

Owen stills himself to listen, puts his ax flat on the ground at his hip and steadies his hands on the canoe’s smoothing edges, trying to pinpoint the sounds as they dance too-close and too-far. The next time they come in close, he almost ducks out to look, but a sharp crack pulls him in and puts his arms instinctively over his head. The rough canoe drops off its cradle of branches, one end and then the other, trapping him in the dark.

When the weight of the log proves too much to shove off on his own, he lays there, staring at the dark until pinpricks of light form at the edges--spaces between stones. There’s slight ventilation, and he can dig at the edges, maybe even carve himself out if it came to it.

He’d rather not, considering the work he’s put into getting it this far. Scrabbling his hand at the nearest meeting of beach and wood, he gets his fingers through, and keeps going. “HELLO,” he calls, coughing against the dust shaken free of the log. “IS ANYONE THERE? I NEED SOME HELP.”


ii. house 120, 9/17 (open to 2)

After the canoe, he’s been a little more on edge. That could have been a bad day, made worse if he’d had any of his body turned out of the log’s shadow. He’ll get back to it tomorrow: turn it right-side-up and do without the cradle now that he’s got the basic shapes. He might enlist some company just in case.

That’s harder to find this side of the wall, and he’d spent the last night back in the other village, tending to his notes in what felt like relative safety. He marked a third day with no sign of the guy with the bird and dog, and he wonders if they crossed back over as well, if they ran into some surprisingly malicious mischief. Maybe he’ll finally catch up the guy’s corpse.

Not today, he won’t: today he’s staying at home. Every other path he tried to take seemed to have a fox at its end, some in mirrored poses, blocking the gap. They’d seemed a little childish, compared to other obstacles the villagers have faced, but--it’s a creeping kind of unease, rather than the terror of an earthquake.

The house isn’t safe. His belongings can be taken at any time. The forest is a little more dangerous than before.

“Feels like home,” he mutters wryly, turning away from another fox-laden shortcut to the house. When he catches sight of it from the main path, he breaks into a jog: the door is ajar, and there’s a long tail lifting up from the porch, where he’d buried a bag of fish behind the latticework. “Hey,” he yells, then louder upon approach. It isn’t until he’s cornered the thing that he realizes--not a bushy fox tail, just a tail.

What turns and shimmies out of the gap is the right size, but it’s--one of those exotic pets, minus the rhinestone collar, rough around the edges and hackles up against the wall of his house.

He had wanted some company, and he isn’t getting home to Emrys any time soon.

“Shhh,” he says, putting his pack down to one side, lowering himself into a crouch. “Thought you were a fox, calm down.” He doesn’t expect the cat to respond to anything but the quieting of his voice: he keeps low, eventually shifting to sit on the ground after his long hike home. Slowly, he reaches for his pack and opens it, leaving it for inspection as he finds some of the crumbling bread from the other inn to break apart and toss between them. “Can’t imagine how you’re dealing with these things,” he tells it.

Alone at the end of a long and unpredictable day, talking to a cat? This isn’t so different from home either.


iii. wildcard, any day (open to all)

If you have your own fox related hijinks or starters to play out, feel free to toss one at him, I’m happy to play out anything with anyone!

(no subject)

16 Sep 2017 09:47 pm
frankensteinian: thisblankpage @ IJ (unamused)
[personal profile] frankensteinian posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Erik Lehnsherr
WHERE: The village, and then the specimen room
WHEN: Mid September
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Grumpy mutant is grumpy

This place has never sat well with him since his arrival. Yes, it is true that in recent months he had seemed to accept it and become a lot more complacent, but every so often he'd remember all the evidence of being watched and would get the uncomfortable feeling of being a lab rat again.

He's done with feeling like that. He got too settled here, too comfortable. While it's true that he has found some good things here, it's not home. Home may have its flaws, but at least there he knows he's not being watched all the time.

So one day, when the knowledge of being watched, being toyed with, being experimented on has become intolerable, he sets out to do something about it. They have his blood. He has to get it away from there, away from them. Away from anyone who wants to use it for nefarious purposes.

To most people, it seems like any other day for him around here. When he sets off into the woods with an ax slung over his shoulder, it just could be that he's heading off to chop some firewood. But the knife stuffed in his back pocket and the fact that he's carrying some food in the backpack that he was provided on his arrival indicate that not only is he planning something other than just chopping firewood, and is planning on being gone for longer than the usual time.

He's not going to come back without answers.
fishermansweater: (Default)
[personal profile] fishermansweater posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE:
The Inn
WHEN: Early September
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: Mentions of depression


It's strange, having a future to plan for. Except it's not really a future, because how can it be, in this place? Or maybe it's more than it's not really a plan. Whichever it is, he's not used to thinking about what he wants. He plans for the revolution. He plans for seduction and the secrets he'll steal with it. He plans for how to make it through the weeks each year he spends in the Capitol. Anything more than that disappears into the distance, overridden by the President's demands. Maybe that's why he hasn't known how to plan for the wedding. Or maybe it's just that the past months have been so hard. Or maybe he just never believed it actually would happen.

Annie, though, does believe. Now that she's helped him steer safe to shore through the storm that raged in him for weeks, she wants to know when it can happen. How it can happen. And that's one question he's not sure he can answer, because there's still one thing he hasn't worked out: who actually will marry them. Johanna had suggested Peeta could perform the ceremony, but he's gone now. There's just him and Annie and Johanna from Panem now, and that means he needs to find someone else, who can marry them in whatever way the people here are used to.

He doesn't know who that would be, either, but there are one or two people he thinks might, and of them, Kate Kelly is the one he knows best and, more importantly, trusts most. So this morning, when Finnick brings by the excess fish from his catch, he sits near the basket of fish, by the steps of the Inn, until he hears the door open.

"Kate Kelly," he says, in greeting.

(no subject)

9 Sep 2017 10:21 pm
enterprisingheart: (Default)
[personal profile] enterprisingheart posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Jean-Luc Picard
WHERE: 7i (forest shrine)
WHEN: Sept. 27th
OPEN TO: Samantha Moon
WARNINGS: None atm; will update as necessary



For all that there's no denying that the foxes that seem to be all over the secondary settlement - which he's almost certain is going to need a better name at some point - have gone from minor inconvenience to genuine nuisance, there's still quite a bit of the area to be explored. Not that he's really expecting to find anything, but he figures that it can't hurt to try. And not just because there's at least one person he's promised to share any relevant findings with.

Admittedly, he wouldn't normally be interested in the forest itself - he'd much rather be exploring caves if he had the option - but since forests are what there are, forests it is. And if nothing else, he supposes he might happen across some interesting plant life to mention to Beverly later. Coming across not just a building tucked away but something that would appear to be something like a shrine, on the other hand, is more than a a little intriguing. Especially given that if he's not wrong, it happens to be drawing from some of Earth's cultures. Which doesn't mean that they are still on Earth, but is certainly intriguing all the same.

Not that he can say that he's terribly familiar with the cultures this particular shrine seems to be drawing from, but he recognizes it all the same.

Still, once his curiosity has been piqued, he can't simply leave it, when it's likely going to be more interesting than trying to take stock of the variety of trees in the forest and he makes for what would appear to be the front door without so much as a second thought. And if he's being carefully to not disturb anything too much, he figures that's a reasonable precaution, given that he's had his fair share of unexpected accidents happening as a result of something similar. And given that there's already foxes very nearly everyone in the secondary village itself, the last thing he wants to do is accidentally make things worse.

Defying Orders

9 Sep 2017 06:51 pm
girlwednesday: (Sidelook)
[personal profile] girlwednesday posting in [community profile] sixthiterationlogs
WHO: Felicity Smoak
WHERE: The Village
WHEN: Sept 8-9
OPEN TO: Everyone in the village
WARNINGS: There should be none



It had been a couple of weeks since she and Oliver had pulled themselves out of the fountain in the middle of, well. Nowhere. A week had gone by before Oliver had let her leave the woods and moved them into a house on the outskirts of, well, nowhere. The packs they'd been given didn't give much in the ways of clues and Oliver didn't want Felicity showing herself to too many people unless it was necessary and he hadn't yet deemed it necessary.

By the beginning of the third week, Felicity herself deemed it necessary.

A lack of technology was one thing, but short of nagging Oliver into submission (not likely), all she could do was wait until he'd left to scout yet another something in another place and then walk out the front door. She knew he didn't expect her to do it, figured she'd still be taking him at his word that hiding away from everyone who might have answers would be best for them, but she was done with that.

Done hiding. She wanted more answers, more interaction, and figured that at least if someone killed her, at least there'd be an end to the wondering.

So, it was about ten o'clock in the morning on a Saturday when a woman in (mostly) white scrubs makes her way into town and starts looking around. She's not new, but she certainly looks it.


[OOC: Feel free to run into Felicity anywhere your character might be!]