So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
8
likes
3 yrs ago
Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
7
likes
3 yrs ago
Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
4
likes
Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Penny had tried so hard not to yawn during introductions. She'd been up most of the night doing... things. At least being remembered as the 'sleepy girl' was better than being remembered as 'the cripple', so she'd take what she could get, she supposed.
The script had woken her up. Their Zeno seemed like the type to be aggressively indifferent to decorum and etiquette. It was... jarring, but not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, so maybe Penny wasn't too surprised at having the script more or less thrown at her. It was only when she'd stopped to read it that her eyes widened and she felt herself yanked into a stae of unwilling but undeniable wakefulness. She blinked a couple of times. It was... hilarious. Truly, abominably hilarious.
She was part of a troupe with four others: Linah (thankfully), a Segonese girl in a revealing dress who's name she'd already forgotten, and an annoying Eskandishwoman named Marlijn who was busy swooning over their final member: Leon Solaire. He was handsome. By Ipte, he is beautiful, Penny thought, trying not to steal any more glances. Have some self-respect, she scolded herself. What are you going to do? Throw yourself at him in the hopes that he might bed you? Her cheeks flushed with shame, but there he still was, with an easy, natural grace about his manner and... a body and... that million couronne smile. Immediately, she found herself handing the script to him. "I-it's really something," she stammered, annoyed at her voice. "A true masterpiece."
Marlijn leaned in close to Leon, inviting herself into his space, and she was pretty. By Ipte, she was a beauty that Penny couldn't hope to compete with. She giggled. "Well, I guess we know who'll be the Prince."
Well that much is obvious, Penny thought, trying not to roll her eyes. She glanced surreptitiously at Linah to see what her sometimes roommate might be thinking, but then Marlijn continued."Me," Marlijn chirped. "You've already got your shirt off. Mermen don't wear shirts." There was a twinkle in her eyes and she looked up at him expectantly.
Leon noticed the lack of guys in the classroom. It was a shame more didn't see the value in drama and performance. Not that he minded either way. He was in pleasant enough company and he enjoyed the attention.
He thanked Penny when she handed him the script to look over it himself. Leon was overcome with the urge to cross off parts and add in others, if only he had a pen. The story wasn't irrecoverable but it was awful as is. For a moment he doubted whether he would be able to make it very entertaining. Of course he was going to be the prince, but he does little but swoon over the mermaid the whole time.
Marlijn's suggestion caught him off guard. It was not something he had considered, but it was certainly an idea he liked. Leon made direct eye contact with a smile. "I think you read my mind. You would make a fantastic Prince-ess Charming. Certainly that would be the shake up we need to make this script redeemable." he joked.
Penny hid a sour face. She was literally kind of shaped like a mermaid and had assumed the role would be hers, but that wasn't actually the issue. In truth, she had no desire to be front and centre. It was much safer in the chorus. She'd mainly taken this class for the comedy. She regularly used it to help set people at ease. No, the truth was that Penny was annoyed because Leon Solaire was right there, in front of her, and this little Eskandish - Keep it classy - had thought of an idea that he liked instead of her. Now Marlijn had nabbed the role opposite him and she was leaning in strategically, practically resting her chin on his shoulder.
"Oh Gawds," the redhead giggled, "It's soooo bad. I say we play it as a satire on gender roles. I should be like a muscle princess." She took a step back and flexed the wet noodles she had for arms. "You can like... I dunno. What would you do? What's like... a mermaid stereotype?"
Penny blinked. "Seashells as clothing!" she blurted, "and a lovely singing voice." She forced herself to take a step in. "Also, a singing dancing crab companion who regularly dispenses profound wisdom in an accessible and charmingly homespun way." She leaned over Leon's other shoulder and spoke with a mock earnestness. "I can be that crab for you."
This was certainly a change of pace from the mornings events. With the abberations on his mind and his dicussion with Carmila, Leon almost forgot this was a school after all. He didn't have a good concept of what a school was, but he always imagined it would involve study like this. Well, almost like this.
Leon gave a out a chuckle in reaction to his company, even for him they were coming off a bit strong. He did want to study after all and if he let them carry on like this, he would find himself too easily distracted.
"Well, as much as a muscle princess would be surpising. I don't think you have the muscle part quite there yet." He chuckled a bit. "Unless you have some sort of illusion magic, I would play to the finer features you have. But don't let me stop you from showing off your titanic strength if you wish to do so." He joked in a pleasant manner.
Leon drew his attention to Penny keeping a welcoming demeanor. "Well I would say you carry yourself with too much grace to be a crab. But if such a role compells you, go for it. It will be a challenge to show off your acting skills to the Zeno."
"As for me, I don't see this role taking me out of my comfort zone at all. I'm not sure whether I should take that as an insult." He joked to the group and left a pause. "I assume everyone is decided on roles? Perhaps we take a few rehearsal rounds."
For her part, Linah seemed quite eager to play the villain, even though it was a truly awful role in this script. Seriana fairly threw herself onto a chair and sighed about how this humid weather was just dreadful for her complexion and how she would never make the Hundrian order's highest tiers with bad skin. Marlijn, for her part, threw herself into the role of Princess Charming. It was, of course, brilliantly ironic. The group had a redhead with a lovely singing voice and another girl who... rather looked like an actual mermaid. Yet, it was to be Leon who played the role. Perhaps that was the only way to prevent the two girls from coming into conflict. It was also a brilliant excuse to watch a half-clothed Leon Solaire strut about the stage - not an image that the Eskandishwoman minded in the least.
For her part, Penny yawned and sat on a chair. She was dangerously low on sleep after last night's skullduggery, but she hoped that things would do go plan, whatever that plan was. Father was much smarter than people gave him credit for, but Arcel was a wildcard and - simply put - Doge Prospero scared her. The fate of nations is about to be decided and here I am swooning over Leon Solaire and ready o be petty with some Eskandish girl, she scolded herself. The definitely-not-a-princess stifled a yawn, blinked, and sat up straighter. When it was her turn for the musical number, she stood.
"I know I'm just a seahorse," she began, "oh prince of the sea." "But I've lived a long time; might you listen to me?" Her singing voice wasn't great, she supposed, but she was a seahorse and seahorses were probably not known for their singing. "The land: it is pretty. I know it is green," "But the sea's still the best place that I've ever seen."
"I want to be home in the sea! That's the best place for me!" She singsonged. "And you," she added, sweeping away from him.
"Up top, when you walk, your shoes may get muddy. Down here? No way! You can always stay clean! On the surface you have to take time to fetch water. Down here? Look around you and see what I mean!"
"You know you want to be home in the sea. That's the best place to be!" Penny shimmied back and forth on the ball and heel of her foot, twirling her crutch like a baton and ignoring a dozen aches for the sake of performance.
"The land is all dusty; the sea, she is wet." Penny wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, feeling like the dumbest thing in all of Sipenta. "And think of the colours: The best you can get!" She pushed off and did a little spin, her dress and hair swirling around her. "I know the girl, she is pretty, my prince, yes I do. But there are many fine ladies that live here just for yoooouuu." Penny had thought of finishing with a slide onto her knee, facing the audience, arms spread, but that ran her about a fifty-fifty for tripping up and then just being a sad fallen cripple, more likely to draw gasps than applause. Besides, she already felt more than goofy enough. She let her arms fall to her sides. "So... that was something I never thought I'd do with a straight face," she managed, forcing a smile and feeling the colour rise in her cheeks. "Any changes anyone would make?"
In the event, there were none. All of them decided that the best approach was to make this into a clever, ironic, and absurdly goofy social commentary. Long story short, it went swimmingly.
Lysandra Tran's Comprehensive Catalogue of Lost Variants™
Low Level Enemies
Grimes
Greenlights: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these aren't very common. A sickly green colour, they tend to cluster in dark and damp areas, often hanging and oozing. They're fond of trying to drop down on you, but they're extremely slow, have low health, and hit like a wet noodle by swishing their tongues back and forth. The only real danger is that they're poisonous. Contact with skin can cause a painful, burning rash while ingestion or contact with blood can lead to a furious stinging, itching sensation that can last for up to a day. Danger Rating: ★ Researcher's Note: These things are really weak. I've literally backed over one and splattered it with my wheels. I'm thinking of keeping one as a pet, to be honest. Not sure if it can be trained, though. That itch is really nasty.
Mello Yellos: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these aren't especially common. A sickly yellow colour, they tend to cluster in damp areas with partial sunlight, often hanging and oozing. They're fond of trying to drop down on you, but they're extremely slow, have low health, and hit like a wet noodle by swishing their tongues back and forth. The main danger is their particular type of poison. It attacks the nervous system with chemical inhibitors that slow the transmission of signals, leading to lessened reaction time and a sort of false lethargy. When under attack, they can also bubble up once and 'splat' forward about a foot with surprising quickness. Danger Rating: ★★ Researcher's Note: interestingly, the effect of their poison seems to bypass the bloodstream and travel through the nerves directly. I've tested this on myself. When I allowed a captive specimen to strike my legs, there was no effect on the rest of my body. Its progress was stopped at the site of my injury. Had it traveled through my bloodstream, this would've been irrelevant. When I let it contact my arms, however, the spread of its lethargy was universal and almost immediate.
Carrot Cakes: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these aren't very common. A muted orange colour, they tend to cluster in dark and moldy areas, often hanging and oozing. They're fond of trying to drop down on you, but they're extremely slow, have low health, and usually hit like a wet noodle by swishing their tongues back and forth. Like other Grimes, they have a particular type of poison. Skin contact causes swelling and a dull ache, but their real goal is ingestion. Carrot Cakes bubble and send sprays of spittle into the air. Contact with the bloodstream or ingestion can lead to near-immediate and violent nausea. These are best dealt with from a distance. Danger Rating: ★ Researcher's Note: These things stink! It's a sickly sweet kind of smell and it lingers. Wear your mask around Carrot Cakes, humans, and honestly, just let the revenants handle them. Revenants, don't eat before a mission!
BRB (Big Red Bastards): Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these are only moderately common. A deep, sanguine red, they tend to cluster in dark and musty areas, often hanging and oozing. They're a good deal larger than their green, yellow, and orange cousins and aren't as fond of trying to drop down on you. Instead, they like to congregate around and occupy chokepoints. They're still extremely slow, but noticeably tougher than lesser grimes, and a smack from their tongues is heavy-hitting can be quite an unpleasant experience. Contact with one produces an immediate, blistering burn and is best avoided. They'll also try to lob little splatters of goo at you, but this is pretty telegraphed. Dodge it. Danger Rating: ★★ Researcher's Note: I've been knocked clean out of my wheelchair by one and sent sprawling. Any physically competent individual should be able to dodge these, however, unless swarmed (which can happen - be careful - they travel in packs!)
Purple Nurples: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these are moderately common at best. A dusky purple colour, they tend to cluster in dark areas, often in tunnels or long straightaways, often hanging and oozing. Sometimes, they'll try to drop down on you, but they're quite slow, have only moderate health, and prefer other methods of attack over the "swish tongue back and forth" approach. These guys tend to hunt in packs and lob gobs of goo at you from a distance that splatter upon landing. These are mildly corrosive and contact with skin not only leaves a temporary burn, it also stimulates pain receptors, causing excruciating localized pain that can be crippling in the short term. Ingestion is... not recommended. It can lead to unconsciousness and seizures. Danger Rating: ★★★ Researcher's Note: their range is nothing to write home about. I've out-sniped them before, but they're rough on melee types. They're also skittish and won't attack unless they think they can succeed. A note of caution, keep their numbers down if you can, because they will swarm!
Blue Meanies: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these are quite rare. Great dark blue hulks that seem to absorb the light, they tend to lurk in cool and dark areas, often in alcoves or under a thin layer of debris. They're fond of trying to ambush you, oozing up unexpectedly, and they're a bit faster than other grimes, have more health, and can hit a good deal harder by smacking you with their full weight. Their poison is nothing to write home about (a very mild adhesive and corrosive), but the buggers are strong and resilient. They can absorb and ingest you if you're not careful. It's best to use decoys in areas where they're common, to lure them out and take them down from range. Danger Rating: ★★★ Researcher's Note: "faster, tougher, and harder hitting" here are still relative. An experienced revenant with good armour and weaponry should still be able to deal with these one-on-one without too much trouble.
Kaboom Boxes: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these are somewhat uncommon. A matte, faintly metallic black and noticeably angular, they tend to cluster in dark and dry areas, often seeming completely inert until they sense potential prey approach. They're excruciatingly slow, have low health, and hit like a wet noodle by bumping into you, but that's not their main hunting method. They'll begin to glow faintly before exploding, and these explosions can be very dangerous and even fatal, especially if a cluster goes off all at once. They detonate, reform, and then feed on the scraps of their prey's body that remain. Danger Rating: ★★ Researcher's Note: These are very dangerous if you're dumb and only if you're dumb. Take them out from a distance, throw them, dash through quickly (and carefully), or use decoys. Just don't go stomping on them. They'll still blow and, even if it's not as bad, it'll still cause considerable injury. Seriously, though, I've never suffered so much as a scrape from a Kaboom Box.
Tsar Bombas: Either non-human derived or so devolved as to be completely unrecognizable, these are extremely rare. Towering, glossy silver-white hulks, they tend to appear solo in cold, bright areas, often seeming completely inert until they sense potential prey approach. Tsar Bombas are slow, but they're huge, and this size proves an obstacle to defeating them, as they can absorb most traditional projectiles without being ruptured and bladed weapons struggle to cut far enough into their bulk to deal significant damage. Attacks: Offensively, Tsar Bombas are powerhouses. Though slow, even one swat from them can be bone-crushing and they're also capable of forming temporary appendages in sharp shapes and lashing out with these. Be careful! A Tsar Bomba can impale you. They're not limited to melee range either, as they also release clouds of a scratchy sort of powder that doubles as a smokescreen and weapon. Breathing it in can dehydrate you quickly, make your eyes water and itch uncontrollably, and cause your throat to constrict. Finally, if sensing that it is outmatched, a Tsar Bomba will go still and begin to glow. There is only one response to this: run for your lives. The explosive force that these things can generate is truly awesome. The larger ones are capable of leveling a city block. Danger Rating: ★★★★★★🕱 (boss) Researcher's Note: There's no exact science to it, but you've usually got about thirty seconds to clear the area from the time that a Tsar Bomba starts to glow until it detonates. I've never run so fast in my life as the time when I encountered one.
Thralls
Loser Thralls: Clearly human-based, Thralls are the weakest of this morph of enemy, possessing - as one might expect - little free will or complex thought. They are completely slaves to their hunger and instinct. In many cases, this are the result of weaker or recent revenants losing the battle against their endless thirst. Generally speaking, these guys aren't much more dangerous or durable than a strong human. In the case of Loser Thralls in particular, their weakness is exacerbated by their lack of weaponry. They have only their four limbs and bite to do damage with, often also possessing subpar hand-eye coordination and balance, compounded by their nonexistent intelligence. Given the right opportunity, one of these can still kill a human or even a revenant with their bare hands and teeth, but you have to be unusually weak, stupid, unarmed, or unlucky to let that happen. Danger Rating: ★ Researcher's Note: These are pretty much your classic 'runner' zombies, only, they aren't zombies per se. A solid headshot or centre-of-mass shot with most projectile weapons should deal with them, or a stab/slash to the vital organs. Sometimes, they look very humanlike, though, and it can be disturbing to deal with that.
Lumberjack Thralls: Clearly human-based, Thralls are the weakest of this morph of enemy, possessing - as one might expect - little free will or complex thought. They are completely slaves to their hunger and instinct. In many cases, this are the result of weaker or recent revenants losing the battle against their endless thirst. Generally speaking, these guys aren't much more dangerous or durable than a strong human. In the case of Lumberjack Thralls, they seem to have last wielded axes before losing their reason, so these are their weapons of choice. It is a poor choice, as their lack of fine control, tendency to overbalance, poor reflexes, and unreliable aim cause them to be easy to counter. The axe can still kill you, of course, but you can usually see their swings coming from a mile away, and they leave themselves very open to being countered. Danger Rating: ★★ Researcher's Note: They swing hard, but it's incredibly telegraphed, and they tend to overbalance badly. I've dodged one in my wheelchair. That's the standard that we're looking at here. Just don't get caught by a mob of them and you'll be okay. Of course, sometimes, when they mob, they accidentally hit each other...
Edgelord Thralls: Clearly human-based, Thralls are the weakest of this morph of enemy, possessing - as one might expect - little free will or complex thought. They are completely slaves to their hunger and instinct. In many cases, this are the result of weaker or recent revenants losing the battle against their endless thirst. Generally speaking, these guys aren't much more dangerous or durable than a strong human. In the case of Edgelord Thralls, they seem to have last wielded swords before losing their reason, so these are their weapons of choice. It is a mediocre choice, as their lack of fine control, poor reflexes, and unreliable aim cause them to often hit with the flat of their blades, struggle to stab, and be easy to counter. The sword can still kill you, of course, and has more cutting surface and less tendency to overbalance them that the axes of Lumberjacks do, but you can still usually see their swings coming quite easily, and they still leave themselves very open to being countered. Danger Rating: ★★ Researcher's Note: They often drag their swords while walking, kicking up sparks and dulling the blades. If you see recent looking scratches on pavement or furrows in softer ground, it's almost always a sign that Edgelords are about. Like many other thralls, they tend to mob and sometimes strike each other when in a frenzy. Avoid getting caught in the middle of a group and you should be able to pick them off pretty easily, however.
Marksman Thralls: Clearly human-based, Thralls are the weakest of this morph of enemy, possessing - as one might expect - little free will or complex thought. They are completely slaves to their hunger and instinct. In many cases, this are the result of weaker or recent revenants losing the battle against their endless thirst. Generally speaking, these guys aren't much more dangerous or durable than a strong human. In the case of Marksman Thralls, they seem to have last wielded rifles before losing their reason, so these are their weapons of choice. It is an incredibly poor choice, as the guns are almost always out of bullets and, in any case, their lack of fine muscular control, impulse control, and unreliable aim cause them to be totally ineffective. Some of the guns have bayonets, and these can be a pain, but the thralls' telegraphed stabs are easy to sidestep and leave them open to being countered. Of course, those that don't have bayonets just kind of smack or poke you with their guns while roaring. Danger Rating: ★★ Researcher's Note: I have seen one properly fire a gun perhaps twice ever, and I have seen hundreds of these things over the years. Still, it pays to vigilant. Get in close and maul them as they do not let go of their weapons. Also, they tend to cluster, like other thralls. A well-placed pitfall trap or incendiary can take out a half-dozen. I know. I've done it.
Kruger Thralls: Clearly human-based, Thralls are the weakest of this morph of enemy, possessing - as one might expect - little free will or complex thought. They are completely slaves to their hunger and instinct. In many cases, this are the result of weaker or recent revenants losing the battle against their endless thirst. Generally speaking, these guys aren't much more durable than a strong human. In the case of Kruger Thralls, however, they seem to have either grown or acquired long, sharp, horror movie-style claws since losing their reason. Though this leaves them with little range or offensive weaponry, they attack with extreme ferocity and recover faster from their wild swings than other Thralls. Do not count on them to leave many openings and do not rely on them telegraphing their attacks. Exploit their lack of range and predictable behaviour instead. Those claws aren't quite as deadly as a sword or an axe, but they're more likely to hit you unless you're focused and careful. Danger Rating: ★★★ Researcher's Note: They tend to move in pairs and they seem a little bit quicker and more durable than most other Thralls. Double tap them. They're weak and stupid, but unpredictable, so keep your range if you have it and you should be fine.
Winged Thralls: Clearly human-based, Thralls are the weakest of this morph of enemy, possessing - as one might expect - little free will or complex thought. They are completely slaves to their hunger and instinct. In many cases, this are the result of weaker or recent revenants losing the battle against their endless thirst. Winged Thralls, however, are the strongest of the lot by a considerable margin. Though their wings are fragile and the struggle to fly in complex patterns or for long distances, they're tough overall, can move in three dimensions, and can close in quickly. In many cases, they also carry shields. They use these more to bash than to block, but it also means that taking one down requires a bit more aim and thinking. Their secondary weapon of choice varies, but is usually a short sword or axe. The shield leaves them less vulnerable when they inevitably miss a swing, so don't rely on easy counters. Go for the weapon-wielding arm or feint them. Just, be careful. These guys aren't soft touches despite technically being Thralls. Danger Rating: ★★★★ Researcher's Note: They seem a bit more tactical than other Thralls too, though that's very relative. If they have one easy exploit, it's that they only ever seem to swing their weapons vertically, and will never block low. If you have range and can take out the legs, then do it. They're useless without legs... right?
(Gregory's note: like with her brother, we've started Lysandra on journaling. Once she turns seven, this will become a private diary. We believe that its significance is twofold: it's a literacy activity that she can take ownership of and a place for her to collect her thoughts and feelings and work through them. We hope that this is the start of something that will stay with her into adulthood and serve her well. If you ever go back and read this, we love you very much, cupcake - Daddy & Mommy.)
Setemder 28, 2031
Deer Jurnul,
I mab a dron today!!!! I nameb him Mister Scrufels. Mom anb Dab Dad helped. I druw a fase on him and flib him aronb eveywer. Im super happy. its my birthday in a week Ill be 7 anb I mab mad lots of new frends in Fresh Havin. Dad ses I can invit them. He ses were guna stay here a long tim. Good bye.
Lysanbra
Novermber 24th - 13:51
Dear Journal, I hate you. Why do I have to write in you!? Why do I have to talk to you like a person? Why? Becuse mom and dad say so and there even gunna check later. They litterly took Mr Scrufles away untill I did it. I always have to do what they say, even when I have my own ideas. Like last week, when we went forigforge forageing and I found a sellphone. It looked pretty good and I thouht we should restore it but they said no it was more usefull for wires and it's tuch screen. What if there was cool stuff on there they didn't even look! I watched every epasode of Star Trek. Like every one and then Teen Tittans Go. Daniel's boared too. But he didn't even stand up for me and I have to write in this poopy thing. Ya, I said poopy and theres nothing you can do abbout it mom & dad. You aready took Mr. Scrufles and grownded me and theres no new shows so whatever. Did I write enugh?
Lys
October 5, 2036 - 22:25
Dear Journal, I got a metal medal today! No, I didn't win it lol and that missed spelling is going to bug me now. The line through it is a mark of eternal shame. Anyway! Mom and Dad won't tell me how they got it, but it's a Supergirl one and it's pretty rad. Daniel only got a sweater for his birthday. That's kind of useful and neccessary actually, but a medal is still better. It's got a bright shiny ribbon too. Of course Supergirl would never actually wear a medal unless she was just rewarded it by the government or whatever, but I get to show it off a bit. Elise and Mel have already asked me to borrow it and I was like maybe. Dad said it was good luck. I don't really believe in luck, tbh. I believe in science, like him and Mom do, but I know he was just saying that because that's like what you say, right? I'm going to treat it like a lucky charm though, and take it everywhere I go. Mostly so Daniel or my "friends" don't try to steal it. I'll stab them in the kidney's if they do. :) Whenever I'm not using it, I'll hang it on Mr. Scruffles. That's where it is right now. Anyway, the lights are about to go out because Fresh Haven saves most of it's power for growing plants. Till next time,
Lys
April 30, 2039 - 21:00
So, I think I have a crush on Josh. He has just like... such a kind face and his hands are really nice. I'm blushing so much writing this. I feel so dumb. Only Josie and Mel know so far though, and Mel was like, "talk to Daniel, he knows Josh" but that'd just be super weird. I'm not going to tell my older brother that I like one of his friends. Sometimes Mel is kind of... special. Anyway, the big question is whether he has a crush on me. Josie insists he does. She says she caught him staring at me at least twice but I've never seen him. He always likes to hang out but then he gets really quiet around me so... I don't know. I literally justdon'tknow. It's not like I could ask Mom and Dad. They'll just give me some sort of speech about how I'm "becoming a woman now" and "it's normal and natural" and "you'll figure it out, sweetie" and "when I was your age". Mom's period speech was traumatic enough. Seriously, I can't survive another one. Not even the supergirl medal's mystical powers can protect me lol. I got one piece of advice, and that was to ditch Mr. Scruffles. Yeah, that's not happening. He's my oldest and truest friend, he can fly, and he doesn't talk back. Mel, you're cut off for now (j/k). I'm seriously going to have to figure it out. Wish me luck!
Lys
January 9, 2041 - 08:45
Dear Scruffles,
I'm writing this now because I was too tired to do it last night. Your pages are filled with my growing list of adventures scouting. I'm usually quick. It's a point of pride. I can outrun, climb, and dodge basically anyone else my age. Mom says I'm lucky I got her legs and not Dad's because his knees are awful. I'll never know why parents brag about that stuff unless I ever become a parent, which I don't ever see happening, to be honest, unless we can reverse the collapse somehow. Maybe it'll start right here in Fresh Haven, but I'm not holding my breath.
Anyway, I think I'm trying to distract myself from writing what I know I have to write, almost as if putting it down on paper will make it real. Mr. Scruffles is gone. He was my first creation. Sure, Mom helped me (and even Dad), but I was seven and he was mine and I drew that derpy lil' face on him in permanent marker and it's been there ever since, all scuffed and dirty from a dozen forced landings. Logically, I know he's was just a piece of machinery, but he felt like a pet or even a friend. God, I'm such a loser.
Daniel and I were out on a scrounging mission. We've been going further lately without telling anyone because everything - and I mean everything - close to home has been picked clean of anything useful. We were ambushed. It was a pack of thralls and one of those tentacle guys. I just left Mr. Scruffles behind. I had to run and I forgot to pick him up and he's still there. Honestly, Daniel and I were really lucky to escape. I just keep thinking about my little buddy, though, alone and lonely out there in an unsafe place. I couldn't find his signal once we got safe. Daniel gave me a hug, but I can tell he secretly thinks I'm overreacting. Maybe I am, but for now until I find him again, you're Scruffles. Do the name proud. Signing off,
Lys.
Young Adulthood
October 20, 2043 - 19:00
Dear Scruffles!
I scored my first kill yesterday (aside from grimes since they don't really count)! I was with Brian, deep in the city where we usually like to go. It's our playground, honestly. Nobody else ventures out as far as we do, but I'd go further if he wasn't such a lil' chicken. Sometimes, I tease him about it, but then I always feel bad. He's honestly such a great guy and I know it. I don't want to emasculate him. I'd rather do... more productive things and we actually get some privacy out there.
Aaaaannnnyways, we found this office building a week ago full of good tech stuff. Those things are a pain with all of their stairs, but Dad always tells me how I'm young and in good shape and I should savour it because it won't last forever though I've got another solid fifteen years and blah blah blah. I just bend down, kiss him on the cheek and go. Really, the stairs are nothing if you pace yourself and one of the bonuses is that not many Lost make it up that high. There just isn't enough prey and it's not worth the effort for them.
Well, not yesterday! A pack of three thralls came straight out at us and I matadored (yes, that's a verb now) one and it went tumbling over the edge. I swear, for a second, I felt its claws grab at my shirt, but it didn't get a grip or that would've been a long long fall. Brian was able to impale another on a piece of rebar and beat its head in while it struggled to get free. I took my pistol out and all the practice I've been doing with Josie and Elise paid off. Three headshots and it dropped. Brian helped me toss him over the edge so it wouldn't just reform and gank us later. God, we had the best sex that night. TMI, I know, but I had to say it.
We returned like conquering heroes this afternoon with backpacks full of power coils, batteries, screen components, speaker components, and vacuum tubes. I'm ready to go out again as soon as I can, but it'll be a science run. I've been working with Mon & Dad, learning everything I can before they get too old. Honestly, they're already too old to take the risks that I do, so I'm doing 70% of their sample return and scavenging. Fingers crossed I can keep learning,
Lys.
July 5, 2045 - 20:30
Dear Scruffles,
He left. That asshole fucking left. Fuck. Fuck Fuck FuckFuck HIM. It was supposed to be cathartic getting that out but it hardly was. I know we had problems, but then he's just like, "I think we want different things out of life blah blah blah. I tuned out the rest. He was just looking for an excuse. I'm angry. I know that. I'm being irrational. I know that. You know what? I don't care. Emotions are a part of life and we need to get them out. Besides - Ugh - that's one of the most bullshit things men always do, and Brian did all the time too: "let's look at this rationally," or "can we just calm down a bit," or "I honestly don't think it's as bad as you're making it out to be." It's all of the subtle accusations and mansplaining. That shit is toxic and he became toxic. You know you're done with someone when the thought of seeing them doesn't make you happy anymore, when you're more nervous than excited. We'd reached that point and, if I did make a mistake, it was trying to fix it. I put myself out there and then he just tore me down. I'm twenty FFS. I get that he's a few years older and I don't want to be an old parent like Mom and Dad, but we had time and it's suddenly such a big sticking point for him, like, "make a baby for me Lysandra."
Fuck you, pig. My body. My choice.
It's irresponsible to bring a kid into this world. Like seriously, take a look around. It's just selfish. I'm going to be real here: he was never that blunt or rude about it literally, but it was this constant, building pressure to get serious. I'd be lying if I didn't say he had his good points, but I can look back on things with some clarity now and see how controlling he was. We had to go everywhere together and do everything together and god forbid I talked to any guy friends. Like Josh? Okay, I had a crush on him when I was twelve and here we are a decade later and you're going to be that insecure? Yeah, no thank you. I just wish I'd had the guts to be the one to end it. 'Rationally', I know it's not true, but I almost feel like he got one last shot in. He controlled me one last time and put himself above me. Whatever. Fuck him. Here's to a few weeks of depression, too much drinking, and reconnecting with my friends and family. Maybe I'll even find time for some of Dad's 'back in my day' stories. 'Til then,
Lys.
June 11, 2046
My Dad died today. He's gone. I'll never see him again. I can't even find the words and I don't know why I'm writing it. Maybe because I can't say it. He was the only one I could share my feelings with and I didn't do it enough. I always just kissed him goodbye even when he had something important to talk about. I can't believe this is real. I can't imagine anything worse. I keep hoping it's a nightmare but I know it's not. Honestly, I don't have the energy to write anymore.
March 30, 2047 - 21:45
Dear Scruffles,
Guess who's an auntie! It's yah girl, Lys! Daniel and Mel have been busy preparing for the past nine months, pretty much, and to be honest, I was getting a little sick of it. It's all good now, though! The lil' guy finally decided to enter the world. Shame it's such a sad sack place, but if anyone can keep him safe, it's my big brother (and Mel's pretty badass too).
I could see the pride on his face. It was a tangible thing, and I couldn't help but feel some too. I'm proud of my brother and his big heart. He's not a reckless idiot like I am. He's actually building something and sometimes it makes me wonder. The spectre of children was enough to drive a wedge between me and Brian, but that's neither here nor there. Today was all about little Tucker. He's still a shriveled red little conehead at the moment, but if he ends up looking anything like his parents, he'll be just fine. It was good to see Mom so happy too. She's been coping since Dad passed in the only way she knows: by working harder, but I hope that being a grandmother will bring back a bit more of her smile. I've missed it.
The three of us and Mel spent hours trying to coax him to open his little eyes, and he did - kind of - a handful of times. I know he isn't mine, but I find myself caring about him and in wonder at a new life. This world is so broken. It doesn't have enough of that. I'll protect that kid. I'll be that friendly non-parental adult I know that he'll need. I wanna be the cool aunt and not the wine aunt, but we'll see where life takes us, eh? I seriously can't imagine myself ten years from now. What'll thirty-two-year-old Lysandra Tran look like? Seriously, if you're reading this, future me, you'd better be awesome! Until next time...
Lys.
October 10, 2049 - 23:45
Dear Scruffles, I should totally be asleep right now. I have a scav mission in the morning. I got the radio to work, though, and pulled the songs off of that old smartphone. It's crazy to me how everyone used to have one and you could just keep all of your favourite stuff on it and talk with anyone anywhere anytime. To think that we had that and lost it all... it's sobering.
Speaking of which, you know you're drunk when you wanna write a happy entry but end up in that place. Geez. Anyway, pre-collapse music is really something. It's so dense and layered. There are so many sounds and so much of it is electronic. We danced like demons. God, it was so much fun. The parts were a birthday gift from Derek and this was the best use I could've imagined for them. Honestly, I wasn't sure about him before. He seemed like a playboy, but he does these sweet things - genuinely sweet and not contrived - and I think I need to own up to my misjudgement of him. Someday, Derek, if we're an old married couple and you read this, know that tonight was the moment I started believing in you. Right now, you're lying in bed, all snuggled up and I just want to make you happy. I want you to be mine and to feel loved. You deserve that. Really, everyone does.
Okay, I can officially admit that was corny AF. Time to fall asleep. 'Til next time,
Lys.
December 29, 2050 - 17:30
Dear Scruffles,
It was a rough Christmas. Mom had a flu and, after what happened with dad, we were all on edge. Even little Tucker seemed to sense that something was up. He kept saying "Hawmyomi" and trying to scamper over to her bed. Mel was pretty much ready to pop so we didn't want to put any more stress on her. The result was that the little rugrat got to spend plenty of quality time with "Aunt Wyss" and said aunt had precious little time to spend with a special somebody named "Umcuh Dewek."
I'm sitting here with that lucky medal around my neck. I guess I've become a little more superstitious than I'd like to admit, but it seems to have worked. Little Lyra entered the world yesterday and Mom seems to have turned a corner. We didn't want her standing yet, but we wheeled her into the room to take a look from a distance. She isn't contagious at this point and she knows it, but there's an excess of maternal caution at work.
Sometimes I feel weird about that. Am I just wired wrong? I like Tucker. God knows I'm pretty much an overgrown child myself. I just... don't really feel the urge to have children of my own, and it's not a fear of pregnancy or childbirth either. I just... I don't know. Anyways, I have to go. Tucker's crying and I want to let his parents get some long overdue sleep.
Lys.
August 18, 2052 - 13:30
Dear Scruffles,
I dumped his ass. Honestly, it's been coming for a while. I'm kind of not even mad, per se - just fired up. If I'm going to be totally honest, once it happened the first time, I should've cut him loose, but he's so smooth. I think, even in some messed up part of his mind, he believes his own bullshit. I pegged him for a player and I was right. Men say we're the irrational ones yet, as soon as they see a pretty woman who pays them any real attention, they just lose all logic. It's kind of pathetic.
Truth told, I kept him around for the sex. I kept him around because I was needy. I kept him around because I was almost... ready for the letdown, as weird as that sounds. It doesn't hurt as much when you're expecting it. It was almost a case of, "okay, well you're cut. Bye."
He's already tried to worm his way back in. He didn't try the "it'll never happen again" approach because he knows that I wouldn't buy it. He's not intellectually dumb. He's brilliant. He's not socially dumb either. He's smooth. He's emotionally dumb and... I'm rationalizing for him again. Fuck, I have Stockholm syndrome. He's not emotionally dumb. He's selfish and an asshole. There. I said it.
Deep down, I think I'm a bit scared. I'll be twenty-eight in just over a month. I'm not super young anymore. I remember that conversation I had with my Dad when I was nineteen. He said I'd have about fifteen more years of youth. That was almost a decade ago and just thinking about that makes me miss him so dearly. He'd give me the hug I can't admit I really need. I'm more than halfway through that fifteen, though. How many more chances will I have before I'm old? What'll it look like being thirty-five or whatever? What'll it look like if I'm on my own? The one thing that I know is that Derek isn't the one and that's that. The search resumes. :( Stay tuned for the next episode of:
Lys.
February 14, 2053 - 07:45
Dear Scruffles,
Just a quick one today, since I'm headed out on a long scav run. We had a traveler come by a month ago - a Sidhe - and she told us about a mistle she'd seen and gave some rough coordinates. Normally, Fresh Haven would never send someone into that part of the city - it's rough - but they know I'm their best person and, honestly, I volunteered. I've been trying to continue Dad's work but I've been bottlenecked for almost a year without samples, but I'd be lying if I said that was the only reason...
Mom's not doing so hot. She's not sick, exactly. She's just elderly and her blood pressure's high and... I'm not ready for what I know is coming. It could be in six months or six years, but it's coming and, to be honest, how can you ever be ready for that? Then there's Derek and his attempts to "win [me] back" and it's getting kind of pathetic. Add to that, Mel's been bugging me to watch Tucker all the time lately, like I don't have a life of my own. When a situation frustrates you, you need to remove yourself from it, so that's what I'm doing. Wish me luck!
Lys.
Injury & Recovery
February 24, 2053 - 09:40
Dear Scruffles,
I finally got them to bring you back to me! I wish we didn't have a lot of catching up to do. I really wish we didn't. I'm admittedly in a happy drug-induced haze right now and I think the full enormity of things hasn't really dawned on me. I'm actively pushing that back. When it hits me I'm sure it'll be awful but... I don't know. I'll cross that bridge when I reach it. I fucked up, finally. Me against three Lost - and one was pretty serious. I should've died, but I didn't. That's always a good thing. No matter what I think later, it's good and I need to remind myself that. I can hold my hand to my chest and feel my heart beating and I'm just so grateful that this adventure called life didn't end.
I tell myself that's not the morphine speaking. I'm in the med room, just dreaming away, feeling all warm and safe and cared for. I've seen so many people who I haven't in years. Even Brian - my ex from way back when - stopped by and we talked. It was good to see him and he's doing well. They brought my good luck medal and figures I didn't have it on me during that last run. Daniel came with my radio too and put it right up by my bedside. It sucks being stuck in bed. It'll be over soon but, whatever happens, I just want to be out again and moving around.
Dr. Sandhu says I broke my back but that it's early going and I'm young and healthy. I know how this works in vertebrates (of which I'm one!): the spinal cord goes into shock. It heals and scabs and tries to repair, and you don't know how serious the damage is until later. It's hard to tell how much function I'll lose - if any - or retain - if any. I shudder to think about it and the spectre of how things are going to change reaches in through my rose-coloured cocoon of chemcially enhanced euphoria like a cold, rough hand to shake me.
My scavenging days are over. I just pray that it's not too bad. My body's strong. I've treated it well and now is its time to repay me. Truthfully, though, we can't separate the body and the mind. That's poetic folly. I can't feel my legs. I keep waiting for something. I keep telling myself I've felt something. Dr. Sandhu said it'd be a week or two before we'd really know more and he could start getting me ready for rehab. Hah! That's a place I've been before. Brian was the cause last time around, or all the drinking I did after our breakup. I was half a girl then, and stupid.
I might be half a girl again now, just more literally. I have three more days; then, we reach the two week point. I'm counting the hours, praying to a God I don't believe in. And should the worst happen and I hear a regretful "Lysandra, I'm sorry, but you're never going to walk again"? God, that's an alien thought. It doesn't seem real. I feel so nice right now, even though I'm scared. So if it happens that way, then I'll get my crippled ass in a good wheelchair and I'll manage. One way or another, I will. Just thankful that there will be a next time,
Lys.
April 18, 2053 - 18:30
Dear Scruffles,
I didn't feel like writing the 'dear' and that's not your fault. Last night was a good night, sitting there with Daniel like when we were kids, making up ridiculous creatures like the "Plum-bottomed Flutz-Warbler, Purple-speckled Snobleorb, and the Pickled Vomitfish. I tell myself that it was fun to remind myself that there will be good times. I can still have good times.
But it's so hard to see that now. The pain today was unreal. Just sitting up without the back support. They have me in this kind of brace but I can feel the rods - foreign objects - implanted in my body. They're making me do things that they say are for my own good. Dr. Sandhu and the nurses are looking in all of these old pre-collapse books and they're asking me to help, trying to get me to take an interest in my own 'recovery'.
I can't. I just fucking can't. I tried to be optimistic. The first time they let me out of bed, they lifted me into a wheelchair and, honestly, I'd been robbed of going anywhere for more than two weeks, so it felt amazing just to be able to move around at all. I thought I'd be okay, but I'm not. This body is a prison. It's a broken thing and all the rehab in the world might make it a bit better but will never make it heal. My only option is to live like this - reduced - forever.
I thought it'd just be a matter of not walking. I thought I could live with that, but... God... this journal is only for me. Maybe you're the only thing keeping me in the game at this point, Scruffles. You and the shame of giving up and letting my family down. They're all stupidly happy-faced and encouraging because they don't have to be me. They don't have to 'live' like this. It's really dawning on me that they have no idea. I can't even go to the bathroom properly. I can't get myself out of bed. I won't feel sex. God, I'm crying as I write this and I feel pathetic and helpless. How could this happen to me? Why did this happen to me? It's so fucking cliche - "why me?" - but I get it now. I wish I didn't. I wish I could go on living blissfully unaware. I don't want this knowledge. I don't want this burden but I'm just trapped and can't give it back. I've lost basic things - bedrock things that you learn as a little little child - and I have to somehow come to terms with that or I don't think I can go on.
I can't live as a thing that other people move around and say nice things to. I can't be an object without agency, always needing from others just to function - an object of pity, a "what happened to her?" or an "it's not nice to stare." And I'm scared of being alone. I'm half of me and I'm helpless and, sure, everyone was there at my bedside a month ago, but that's not the case anymore. It's just Mom and Daniel mostly now and Mom is so old. She shouldn't be taking care of me. I should be taking care of her. She says there'll be time for that later, that I can pay her back when I'm better, and I want to take comfort in those words. I want to manifest them into reality, but they're just not true. My mother is a smart, strong woman - I've always wanted to be like her (even though I never will be, now) - but she doesn't know what she's talking about. I will never be able to care for her. It'll be a challenge just to care for myself and reach an uneasy kind of resource-neutral. The future is a terrifying place. All of the stairs and tight passages in Fresh Haven have dawned on me. This place is a trap and I can't navigate it. I just want out, so badly. I just want to fast-forward the next year. I want to finish rehab and achieve all of those things the books say that I can achieve. Then, I tell myself, it won't be so bad. But it will.
Lys.
June 11, 2053 - 22:30
Dear Scruffles,
Today was the seventh anniversary of Dad's death and it should've been a sad day, but it wasn't. It brought my family and friends together and we had fun. I turned on the radio and people danced. It felt like half of Fresh Haven was there and that was probably about right. We're only a big settlement by the standards of post-collapse. There are two-hundred-twenty of us. To put that into perspective, had I died, we'd have lost 0.45 of our population. Good thing I'm still kicking... well, not literally, but you get the idea. :P
I put on a brave face for Mom and did my best to help out. There's some biochemical truth to the idea that smiling enhances your mood. If I can bear to be that cringeworthy, I'm going to try to wake up every morning and make a point of smiling. (Lys note December 6, 2053: that didn't last)
I helped cook, I babysat Lyra with some of Tucker's help, and I carried things on my lap. I've learned that I'm basically a human shopping cart now. I should start renting my services out. Of course, the kids wanted rides and I indulged them. It turned into an impromptu workout, but then Tucker was so sweet. He said that he should pay me back for carrying him around all day by pushing me. I didn't refuse.
I also didn't skip rehab. I've been reading all the old books. I've learned everything that I can, and I'm trying to push myself and beat the expected progress chart for someone with my injury level. Ever since the body brace came off a few weeks ago and the settlement pulled together to trade blood for my new permanent wheelchair from the provisional government, life has started to feel worth living again. I can kind of pop a wheelie now. I couldn't transfer into the old hospital chair before because of the armrests but, as long as someone spots me, I can kind of get it now. The various helplessnesses that have been shackling me are falling away and I can't get very far yet - it's like some pre-collapse videogame and I'm still in the starting area - but I've been trying to be a help around the office. I've been giving some thought to that. Josh dropped in last week to prep for a scav run and we talked shop a bit, but it struck me that my days as a scav are definitely behind me. Maybe I can learn medicine. Juliana's not young and neither is Dr. Sandhu. I can become a nurse or a doctor. God knows Fresh Haven needs those.
I think that practicality is going to be key, going forward. I made a decision last week when Dr. Sandhu and Juliana offered to put me in a standing sling and help work my legs out. Sure, it was tempting. One of the things that's been weirdest is always looking up at people I used to see eye-to-eye with. It'd be nice to stand. It'd be nice to tell myself that, with enough practice and determination, I'll walk again, but that's the path to fruitless obsession. Rationality dictates that complete paralysis won't undo itself because I 'work hard,' so all of my current efforts are focused on absolutely optimizing the abilities I still have. Dr. Sandhu says that being so healthy and a natural athlete has helped. It's such a long climb and I really don't feel like an athlete most days - I feel more like a sack of potatoes with two dangly things - but I asked my body to return the favor and take care of me, and it's giving me all that it has left. I can't ask for better. Mom's been pushing herself too hard coming in and helping me as is. God, she even helps me in and out of the bath. Getting that independence back is my next goal, and not just for my own dignity. She's plucky, but she's old as dirt. I can't bear to see her hurting and she was today, on the anniversary. I won't let myself be the source of any more hurt. You raised me right, Mom and Dad. Paralysis sucks, more than you could ever understand, but I'm not a quitter. I'll find a purpose and I'll make you proud. Yours in hope,
Lys.
October 8, 2053 - 01:10
Dear Scruffles,
I celebrated a birthday a few days ago, I'm out of rehab (almost eight months clean from devastating injuries!), and people have fixed up a new little place for me on the first floor. I should be happy, right?
I swear this isn't another emo entry. God only knows most of your recent pages have been filled with the long, depressing, semi-coherent rants of a bitter cripple. I'm not here for that today. (subsequent note: okay, I kinda was)
Full disclosure: it's late and I'm not sober. See? Only a drunk person would think that's worth putting to paper. Hah! Anyways, the power is out now and I'm doing this by candlelight. I just need to wax philosophical and drop some honesty about Lysandra 2.0.
Truth bomb one: I'm twenty-nine, a paraplegic, and haven't had a man in my life for almost two years. I can't do the job that I used to do anymore, I can't get around the settlement I live in, and I can't afford to take the physical risks that have always brought excitement to my life. Those are just facts. I could cry about them and I have plenty of times before, but I'm weirdly at peace with it all now. I had incredible adventures and incredible loves. I did things that almost no human gets to do. I'm grateful for all of that, and I'll cherish that Lys and her adventures forever, but it's time to turn the page and let her go. My second chapter is going to circle the wagons around the other skills and talents that I have and that I've neglected. It's going to be a selfless chapter, dedicated to making the world a better place instead of pursuing my selfish whims and subjective wants.
Truth bomb two: I have skills and I'm smart. Is there any way to say that without sounding full of myself? It's true, though. In my seven months on the med floor, I picked up things to the point where I was treating people. I've been going in twice a week since release not as a patient, but as relief for Juliana. Then, during my convalescence, I read through all of Dad's old work. I helped Mom with hers as much as I could and all of those neglected skills came back so easily. I fixed half of the PA system myself, built an infrared-sensing drone, and came up with a new greywater recycling system that increased our efficiency by twenty-five percent. At the risk of sounding either arrogant or like some useless person trying to convince herself that she still has worth, the world needs me. I can do a lot of good.
Truth bomb three: But I'm not going to make the most of my potential here. This next bit might just be me telling myself lies to help my shitty state of mind, but I feel like I wasted the last ten years of my life running around the ruins digging up parts from dead civilizations. There are other people who can do that. I should've been researching and building, using my mind. It's less immediately rewarding and exciting, but it can actually change the world. and, had I taken that path, I wouldn't be stuck in this wheelchair. The thing is that there's only so much I can do in Fresh Haven. We're all humans and a couple of Sidhe and we don't have the numbers or resources that the provisional government does. I hate the idea of existing as some kind of cattle to be farmed and I tell myself that maybe I can earn their respect as a researcher, but I have my doubts. Are they only going to see some broken human: a thing to protect?
Truth bomb four: Except for Mom, Daniel, Tucker, and Mel, all that people see now is the wheelchair. It broke my heart the other day when I was watching Lyra as she was climbing around on the lower rungs of a scaffold and I told her about how I used to climb on them as a girl. "Buh Auntie," she said, confused, "how could you cwimb? Youw wegs don't wowk." She has already forgotten and will never know the me that was. It's indescribably hard to put myself out there these days. I can sense the awkwardness in people. I can feel them not wanting to invest in me. I can hear their judgements and pity in my mind's ear, even when they're well-intended. I try to use humor to cope: for myself and to set others at ease, but always being the one to take the first (figurative) step is exhausting. I need to reach out first and remind them that I'm just another person with a whole personality, sense of humor, set of skills, and hopes, fears, and dreams to match. Sometimes, I don't feel like laughing at myself. I want to skip straight to being seen as capable, but I know that it's worth it. It's one of the adaptations I've had to make: less obvious but every bit as important. Most importantly, it usually works.
Truth bomb five: I'm going to need that skill because I think I have to move. Fresh Haven itself is a problem. I can't believe I'm saying it because I've spent the last twenty-four years of my life here. I've become the person that I am here. It feels ungrateful and I really do appreciate the effort that everyone has put in for me, but I can't live in a place that's all vertical. Sure, I have a little apartment on the first floor, but that's the only place where I can move somewhat freely. I can't even make it to the big lunch room. I can't get to the med floor or workshop on my own. I have to be carried up multiple flights of stairs to my brother's or my Mom's place. I'm cloistered here on my own: the only inhabitant of a floor that most people pass through on their way to something else, or the sole reason for their brief visit. It's just not tenable in the long term physically or emotionally, for me or for them. I can tell that my family and friends aren't ready to accept that yet. They can't imagine me not being here, especially after they almost lost me, so I haven't brought it up. The thing is, I've accepted it. I just need to break it to them.
Truth bomb six: the hardest one is going to be Mom, but she's also the one who needs to hear it most. The way that she's been busting her ass for my sake since my accident is going to kill her. I'm more grateful than I'll ever be able to put into words, but there's just as much guilt. She's seventy and she carried me up two flights of stairs twice last week. She can't keep this up and she has to realize that deep down. I know her, though. She doesn't know how to not answer the call if there's work to be done. That's why I'm worried. I haven't seen her since my birthday three days ago and that's unusual. Daniel says she's just tired from overwork, but I can't help but feel like he's keeping something from me. Tucker always talks about Grandma when I babysit him and Lyra during the afternoons. He was tight-lipped today. Something is up and they've decided that telling me is more trouble than it's worth. I want to see my mother. I want to help. Tomorrow, when I go in to the med floor, I'm going to ask to be dropped off on my Mom's floor. I don't care if I have to sleep on her couch. If the world won't help me freely, I'll trick it into doing so.
Anyways, I've spent an hour on this. I don't know how I'm awake, but I think it's helped me sort out a few things. Thanks Scruffles,
Lys.
October 12, 2053
Dear Scruffles,
Mom is dead. She was dying and they didn't tell me. They pretended everything was okay. They kept me from my mother until she was almost gone because I was too much of a burden to bring upstairs. They didn't consider that maybe I could've stopped the flu. Maybe I could've saved her. All I got to do was say goodbye. She was barely even coherent.
I'm shellshocked and don't have words for everything I'm feeling, but I've lost more than a mother today. I've lost my whole family. This is the kind of betrayal that just... How can I forgive it? I shouldn't. Daniel, you're my brother. We grew up together. You protected me. You loved me and I loved you. I don't want to make everything about me. I want to mourn the woman who brought me into this world, who made me who I am (and who I am is a damned good half a person), who survived seventy years in a place where everything wanted to kill her. I just have so much anger right now. I hit him with all of it. We had a screaming match right then and there and I wanted to hurt him - physically hurt him - but there was nothing I could do, nothing I can do. Then Mel tag-teamed me and they let it all out together. Apparently I made things all about me and I needed to be grateful for everything they'd done on my behalf, for all they'd given up.
I am fucking sick of being 'grateful.'
Maybe had you pieces of shit let me help, our mother would still be alive, but all you saw was a burden - worthless deadweight - and not someone who had medical skills, who would've given her everything to care for Mom, and who had a right to be there.
The best part was when I had to 'apologize' and grovel and he had to carry me downstairs. We didn't speak a word. I honestly wouldn't have cared had he dropped me. I would've dragged him down with me. The hardest part is Tucker and Lyra. Their parents are going to raise them to be as cold and narrowminded as they are. I love those kids - I spend as much time with them as their parents do - but they're screwed. I wonder how the couple that slays together will manage without me to do all the work raising their kids now. Not my fucking problem. I tried. I loved them. Just like I loved my mother, but that's all gone now. She's gone. She's literally dead and I will never get to see her again. I can't.
Vein & Commune
February 13, 2054 - 09:45
Dear Scruffles,
For the first time since I was six years old, I'm going to lay my head down in some place other than Fresh Haven and call it home. If my writing is a bit messy please excuse it. I'm in a van as we speak, I've just stopped waving goodbye, and my old home is fading into the distance. We're headed for Vein, the provisional government's capital. They say they're impressed with my work and they have things all set up for me there.
I'm sorry that I haven't written as much as I should've lately. I've been a busy woman. That decades-old project to redo our entire filtration system? I've completed it. The sheer number of parts that I accumulated during my years as a scav was prodigious, and Mom had the schematics ready. She was just waiting for someone - me - to help her complete it. She put that on hold at the end of her life so that she could help me rebuild mine. The word 'grateful' has become, in many ways, a poisoned one for me over the past year, but I am grateful to her for more than I can ever express. She saved me. She gave me everything I needed to remake myself, so I finished her final, great project. In truth, it was already nearly half-done.
I'm leaving Fresh Haven behind today and I doubt that I'll ever be back except, hopefully, to visit. I leave with a clean conscience, though. I made up with Daniel and Mel. I spent my last two months training him to take over my job. He can be so much more than a soldier. I can see now how it ruined him: how it turned him harsh and anxious and overprotective. Soldiers are valuable, but he has a mind that he's wasted, like I did before.
You know, as we moved through the halls and basements, as we elbow-crawled through access tubes and hatches, it was almost like we were kids again, exploring this wondrous new place. I looked upon it with new eyes too, really appreciating the ramshackle wonder of it and what it means to so many people. We made peace.
I spent my last few days in Fresh Haven with Tucker and Lyra. I've mostly been sleeping over at Daniel's, but they came over to my little apartment and, since most of my few belongings were already in boxes, we made the entire place our playground. We painted the walls with our handprints, played tag, and slept in blanket forts.
Dammit. I'm crying. I will never see those kids grow up. I hope they remember me because I'll sure remember them. Tucker, Lyra, if this ever somehow makes its way into your hands, know that I love you and I'm sorry. I did what I had to so that I could live a good life and so that I could help other people. I hope it worked. I hope I made the world a better place. Your aunt and friend,
Lys.
March 28, 2054 - 11:45
Dear Scruffles,
My favourite place in the world right now is the long gallery. Let me describe it for you: it's this epic covered bridge and the whole thing has a curve and a slight slope. All along the sides are what used to be little restaurants and shops. Some of them still are, but most are storage. The best thing about it is the tiles, though. They're super smooth and kind of slippery. Okay, well, when I have to go back up the slope, it's pretty awful. My arms are usually done by the end of it unless I can get a revenant to give me a good shove forward. That runs about a fifty-fifty.
Anyways, put it together, my nonsentient journal friend: Long open downhill with a curve, smooth, slippery tiles... I Tokyo Durifted that shit! All of it! Skrrt skrrt! Not gonna lie: it took a lot of spinouts first and more than one nasty spill. People watched cripple meet ground with horror etched on their faces: Oh no! Squishy hooman down! To be honest, I've still got this sweet purple bruise on my right knee, but joke's on it: I didn't feel nuthin' (and I checked to make sure there was no serious damage - we're good).
A month and a half into this experiment, and I'd say that things are going pretty swimmingly. I think I can finally say that I've explored almost every wheelchair accessible inch of the city and it's been good for sating my wanderlust. Speaking of sating, my biggest misgiving was always (and remains) the mandatory blood donations. They leave me weak and drained for hours afterwards and, seriously, I feel like I'm being farmed.
For what it's worth, the people here appreciate it, though. I can see that they like me and I like 'em right back. I have ambitions to learn how to cook a bit better than before. I'm not a field operative anymore, so a life of shitty rations is not in the cards. There are enough humans here that cooking isn't seen as decadent and wasteful, either. Besides, when we have surplus, the revenants love sampling. They were human once too and I'd never deny them the joy of eating. There are times, to be honest, when I'm hunched over a workbench at two in the morning and my stomach starts grumbling, when I momentarily wish that I didn't get hungry. Overall, though, I couldn't imagine a life without food. Speaking of which, it's lunchtime!
Lys.
August 18, 2054
Dear Scruffles,
I'm frustrated. No, not that kind of frustrated (well, actually, that too). I've just been struck, quite clearly, with the realization of exactly what I am to the provisional government: a free source of blood.
Sure, there are people who like me here. I like them right back. The thing is that I came here to have some agency and to make a difference. Aside from the fact that it's a lot easier to physically get around, life here has fallen well short of both of those goals.
As a human, I have no value. As I suspected, I'm only here to be farmed. I've applied for field research support five times now. They made valid-sounding excuses the first few: I hadn't settled in yet and there'd be plenty of time for that later, I should coordinate with other researchers in the field (turned out that there were none), they had to look through personnel files to help me put together a team (waited two months on that one).
Then, they said that they couldn't spare the personnel and recommended that I go into the field myself. Oh how I wish! Trust me! It felt like some pencil-pushing jackass had sat there, with a wormy little smile on his face, writing that recommendation as a deliberate 'fuck you'.
It's been suggested to me, none-too-subtly - or maybe these people just suck at subtlety and that was their idea of it - that, if I want to get ahead here, I will have to become a revenant. Trust me: it's something I've considered. Eternal life, super strength, and special abilities definitely have their appeal. Of course, the elephant in the room is my injury. Revenants heal from anything as long as it doesn't destroy the BOR grafted onto their heart. That's the thing, though: they're brought back to life from fatal injuries and then heal fuller and faster from those they sustain while they're revenants. I'm a grey zone case and nobody's ever bothered to revive a paraplegic. It's an old injury and I've been alive and more or less functional with it for over a year. Could I spend an eternity in this body? Shit, I don't know. I really don't.
Of course, there's no guarantee that things will even work out. I could wake up in a matter of days or decades. So many of what we assumed to be the rules of biology are broken by that of revenants that it's hard to say. So, here's what I plan to do: I'm going to apply for an archives research permit. That won't cost them anything. They keep records of all approved parasite implantations. I want to build up some data on that. There has to be some method to the madness. I'll have to look at factors like age, gender, cause of death and nature of injuries, ethnicity, time of death, and so on to determine how they affect sleep time before a new revenant wakes.
If I can find a way to predict, with reasonable accuracy, when one will wake up, I'll have done at least some good here, despite their insistence that I do nothing but feed them. Then, maybe. It feels like giving up on life. I don't want to die, even if it'll fix my body. I don't want to lose my people, even though I've left them. Honestly, though, if I can be whole again, if I can have more agency and more time, it might really be worth it. I promised I'd make my decisions for others and not myself, after all. If I can't, however, then... I'd say it'd be time to go back to Fresh Haven, but I don't know if I can live in that much dependence after experiencing this. It would be really nice if a third path showed itself, but that's nothing more than blind conjecture and wishful thinking. I'm better than that, I think. Yours in frustration,
Lys.
August 29, 2055 - 21:00oo
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Dear Scruffles, I thank a nonexistent deity every day that you're not sentient because, if you were, you'd hate me for the endless streams of angst and snark I fill your pages with. Honestly, I feel like I have a right to. I'm fucking crippled and it fucking sucks - forgive the unladylike language. This is my place to vent my hundred little frustrations and spill out my self-doubts so that I don't do it to other people who neither want nor should have to hear it.
Anyway, that got kinda dark. This isn't actually a dark entry for once. Yay! For pretty much the first time since I got here, I felt like a badass today. We were out on a short mission. I was freaking out inside. It's been two years, six months, and fifteen days since I've come face to face with actual danger and, the last time it happened, I had legs (technically still do, but they're just there to taunt me now). Erik was kind of nervous about me coming even though he was super positive on the outside, but Ajax was all doing Ajax things like, "I'm the Edge Lord Sword of Cerberus, yeeeaaa," and leading the party into danger with the not-so-subtle hint that there was no way I should be there. Cherry Darling was almost suspiciously nice. Sometimes I love that girl and sometimes I swear there's something up with her. Who's that friendly all the time?
We parked the van, piled out, and then things got bad. As soon as I saw the enemy, I knew I was fucked. Cobblestones: my newfound nemesis. God, I used to think they were cool and quaint back when I didn't have to roll over them. So, long story short, I volunteered to stay behind with the van. I'd like to say that it was chill, but I'd be lying. Being half a squishy human all alone in the middle of a dangerous wasteland is not a good feeling. See my last entry for an example of what extreme anxiety looks like when coupled with crushing boredom. I made so many laps around that van that I swear I wore the pavement thinner. I'm pretty sure I gripped that machine gun so hard that I left permanent imprints of my hands on it.
I had Princess and Sage up scouting the area, switching them between auto and guided and trying to keep up a perimeter scan. I've been working on them. I installed that smokescreen in Sage last week and that sonic disruptor in Princess. Let's just say that it paid dividends. Princess kept the Lost at bay for hours. Things went as they went and I'll get to that soon, but I really think there's something to this approach: I kept almost a dozen Lost from coming anywhere near me just by hitting them with a constant, subtle unpleasant sound whenever they got too close. For five hours, none even entered visual range.
Long story short, two got through... when it was night, because that's scarier and sometimes I feel like my life is a bad slasher flick or someone's cruel joke. I used to have a rule about always always always finding a safe place to hide when it got dark if I was out in the ruins. I was kind of tied to the van, though, and I'm still working on hand controls so I can actually drive it. I'd rather be outside, armed, and mobile than passively waiting in a claustrophobic space.
The first thing I saw were their red eyes. The fuckers were big and one of them had these horror movie claws. No subtlety, no fucks given: he just came straight at me. In the walking days, I'd have run, but I think I'm just going to have to get used to being braver now. I can handle myself. I had Princess flash blind him and I lit his ass up. The recoil sent me rolling backwards, I reached down, half-turned, and hit the second one who'd dodged the flash and was coming at me from the side.
The feeling when you miss a kill shot and this thing that can tear you apart is only a few yards away... Terror doesn't describe it. Dear Scruffles, I sometimes wonder if I'm just wired wrong. I'm this squishy little sack of meat and bones and yet... I'm just gonna say it: I haven't felt so alive in years. The adrenaline rush was amazing. I had Sage drop a smokescreen. I bolted for the back of the van and I swear I missed a crack in the pavement that would've made me faceplant by maybe an inch. Switched to infrared, watched the Lost bumble around in the murk - lost - and took aim. Ugly bastards might not use their brains, but they still need 'em. Right through the eyeball, fuck you very much. Rolled up to both Lost and double-tapped 'em. Brought out Mountain Man and had him snip their heads off to keep them from reconstituting anytime soon. Had him snap a couple of pics of me gloating too. As an aside, definitely going to wear that top again. Comfy, warm, flattering, and now it has badass bloodstains.
The team was impressed when they came back about an hour later. At least, I think they were. Maybe they'll let me have another crack at this sometime, as long as I avoid the cobble. I think I showed them that I wasn't just a liability. Maybe I showed me too. I'm still giddy as I write this. I have so many ideas for Sage and Princess and what I can do with them. Anyway, we scrounged up some plywood and enough green paint for a ping-pong table and it should almost be done drying. I think I'll go check that out and burn off some energy! 'Til next time,
Lys.
April 3, 2056 - 01:30oo
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Dear Scruffles,
Happy Easter. I'm sick. I know it's not just me. I'm sure it isn't. It can't be, right? Frickin' revenants and their cast iron stomachs. Long story short, Poppy scares me a bit. I cover it up with all the snark and bravado I can muster, but seriously, you don't say 'no' to the lady! She cooked us a 'feast' and those quotation marks are doing some work, let me tell you. I did the polite thing because she seemed so enthusiastic and I ate the 'food' she prepared.
I must've looked like a bulimic for the rest of the night, I swear. Something wasn't cooked right. I had to excuse myself three times. I claimed 'cripple problems' but these were more like 'human problems'. I like these people but, sometimes, I wish there was another squishy here with me.
Anyways, to make up for my absence, I referred to Pops as a 'Master Chef' when I returned, told her that her cooking was 'totally killer', and took a picture and even extras of her 'carrot cake' so that she wouldn't feel offended. Crisis averted but a new one created: it's sitting on my nightstand as I write, a general hazard to any living thing within a fifty yard radius. I'd foist that biohazard off on some poor soul, but fortunately or unfortunately, I don't have anyone in the world I hate that much. I might've said Ajax at some point, but I kind of get him now, and he was the only one with the cajones to tell Poppy the truth. He was so deadpan about it too. God, I had to stop myself from giggling like a schoolgirl... mostly because it probably would've made me puke again.
You know what? I just had a brainwave! We have rats... and roaches. I think it's time to try a little experiment. It's late, the others are sleeping, and I don't make any loud footsteps. Wish me luck!
Lys.
February 20, 2057 - 19:30oo
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Dear Scruffles,
We got a new guy today. He's hot and he's an idiot. I don't know what to think. I'm trying harder to be friendly these days. People who know me say I'm unapproachable. So, I offered to help. Nonexistent God, why did I offer to help? Maybe I could tell myself it was because that was my junk room that he moved into, but I fricking put on makeup, so yeah.
Angst warning - I don't want to be just 'that girl in the wheelchair'. I could deny it, but the thought is always there when I meet new people: what'll they think of me? Are they judging me? FFS, are they pitying me again? Pity is the most counterproductive emotion ever. Not really having mentioned my minions yet, I asked him if he wanted to take a break and let me handle the heavy lifting and his answer was, "Nah, I don't need a break. I can do this kinda thing all day! If you're offering, though, I won't say no to some help."
First test passed. So far so good, right? I might've tucked some hair behind an ear. I let him use me as a shopping cart. Those forearms: *chef's kiss*. I went out of the room to dump another load of cans to be melted down in the storage room and a few might've fallen off my lap as I went. I was going to bring in Iron Horse to use as a second cart, but I goofed and called up Sage Junior... on autopilot.
Long story short, there was a yelp and a crash and, by the time I'd turned around, it was just like that scene in Megamind (yes, obscure pre-collapse movie chalked full of awesome) where all of the cute helpful little drones get crunched by the big evil galoot. And Vincent's excuse? "This was yours? Goddamn, I thought it was some kind of bee or Lost! ...Or a Lost bee..."
"Fucking...Megamind," I hissed, with little to no context, at which he gave me a perplexed look. "Megamind?"
Sage Junior. RIP (Rust in Pieces). You were so new and shiny and cute and... seriously? "A Lost bee..." Jokes lamer than my legs. I'd say it's nice not being the only disabled one in the commune anymore, but I can't even deal. I just can't. All beauty, but not even two goddamned brain cells to rub together. I shall call you 'Megamind' from now on and the irony will get me through my days. Goddammit! Gonna go outside and fling some arrows at some targets to cool down. Signing off for now,
Lysandra looked up from the telescope control console, twisting partway around to address the question. It was a perfunctory one, of course, but the kind that you always asked as a leader, and of course she had thoughts. She always had thoughts. "I mean, can we really afford not to?" she asked rhetorically. "I don't want you guys turning all bloodlusty on me." She continued. "Besides, with the way Mistle's drying up these days, I should probably get out to it if you can take my gimpy ass along. Hopefully do some salvage with Pops, but at least sample return if it's beyond saving."
As she spoke, her body language might've looked casual enough: twisted partway around, forearm draped over the back of her wheelchair. Yet, there was a definite nervousness about Lys. The fingers of her other hand flicked at one of Marsh Sage's props as the drone rested on her lap. She could feel a tightness building in her shoulders and settling atop her stomach. She furrowed her brow. "You got some coordinates, chief? I see that big scary red 'LOST' in your chicken-scratch." She craned her neck. "Makes me nervous."
“Is it really that bad?” Erik leaned in toward the word scribbled on the map with a pensive expression. It was a rare face he made that never appeared for too long. In fact, he was already beaming again. “Thanks for pointing that out. When I get the time we can redo the map so it's legible for the others!”
Murdered, Lys thought, by kindness. She blushed. "It isn't that bad," she quickly added. "I just like pulling your leg."
Erik was still smiling. "Oh, and your coordinates," he replied, face turning pensive again for a moment as he scanned the map. He was in mission mode now - always friendly and helpful, but professional: focused. Lys admired the way that he could switch gears. It reminded her of her father. Erik stuck a pin through the map, into the corkboard beneath it. "N 50.91721° E 5.91775°," he announced almost... cheerily. "Hope I got that right."
"So do I," she responded with a hint of a grin. "Or this is gonna be quite the adventure. Thanks chief." She let her smile fade. N 50.91721° E 5.91775°... N 50.91721° E 5.91775° Lysandra repeated mentally, pulling the lever that unlocked the telescope's mounting and cranking the handle that opened the dome. With a shudder, the great metal orifice, with its canvas of patches and rust, grated open. The mighty old Victorian-era instrument at its centre groaned on its bearings, swinging into place as she entered the coordinates.
Releasing the brakes on her wheelchair, she rolled up to the eyepiece and peered through. Nothing. She didn't like seeing nothing when there was clearly something. She adjusted the view a bit, manually, arm aching a little as she turned the control wheel. She'd been at archery practice all morning. Then, she spotted it. Lys' eyes widened. Sure as they were about to go on a mission, there was a great big pack of Lost passing through her field of view. They loped, stalked, and shambled by. She counted at least a dozen and suppressed a shudder. "Well, this is pretty," she announced, looking up and twisting a bit. "Lotta Lost there." She swept some hair from her eyes. "Low level, but lots. I counted thirteen, but I think we can count on more." She released her brakes again and backed away. "If anyone wants to take a look, you're welcome to." She gestured towards the eyepiece momentarily before rolling up to the table, apprehension nibbling at her insides.
It had been a few months since Lysandra had gone into the field, but this wasn't just a normal supply run that she could twist Akaia's rubber arm into doing. There was actual research and sample retrieval. Back in the walking days, she'd have been jonesing to go: filled with more anticipation than apprehension, but that was neither here nor there. You're part of a team, she scolded herself. You pull your weight or you're deadweight. You're deadweight, you're dead... or someone else is because of you. She rested her elbows on the table's smooth stone edges. The part without the corkboard and map was always nice and cool. "That said, I think we can handle it." She forced a confident smile that was only half-fake. She trusted these people, and they'd picked up quite a few useful new members over the past few weeks... who she trusted less, but there was safety in numbers, at least. "Let's... roll, Commune?"
Not gonnna lie: I'd love to continue this, but I'm already GMing The Hourglass Order and involved in Code Vein, so taking on GM duties is going to be beyond what I can currently handle in terms of workload.
Lysandra is 32 years old. Her birthday is on October 5
| APPEARANCE |
The first (and often only) thing that people remember about Lysandra is her wheelchair. It's a simple, sturdy, lightweight manual chair and, as a paraplegic of four years, she uses it from dawn to dusk in order get around. Otherwise, she's a more or less baseline human: a fairly pretty Asian woman in her early thirties with tanned skin, dark hair and eyes, and a businesslike bearing. She is not and never has been much for dressing up and would rather dress for functionality and comfort. Layering is a rule to live by. It's easier to take something off than to put it on. To that end, her usual attire consists of a light t-shirt over a sports bra, jeans or leggings - the latter sometimes paired with jean shorts - and knee or thigh-high socks. Sometimes, she'll toss on some flats, but shoes are pretty irrelevant. Sturdy gloves - usually fingerless to allow her to work with touch screens - are more important, as they protect her hands from blisters. On colder days, She'll complete the outfit with a jacket. She has two and both have a striped patch in mint, seafoam green, and white sewn onto them: the flag of the settlement that she used to live in and where her brother still resides. Finally, though she rarely actually wears it as intended (because that'd be both inconvenient and goofy), is the supergirl medallion that she received from her mother as a girl. It's usually tucked into her bag or a jacket pocket as a kind of good luck charm. She tells herself that she doesn't believe in 'luck'; everything is probability. Yet, on the day when she broke her back, she didn't have it on her.
As a human, Lysandra doesn't require a mask, and this gives her one less thing to worry about, especially when she goes into the field. Of course, that doesn't happen often anymore. Much to her chagrin, the post-apocalypse isn't very wheelchair accessible. When fieldwork is necessary for research or intel, though, she brings along some sturdy cycling gloves, trades her handbag for a large backpack with seemingly endless pockets, and usually swaps out her indoor wheels for some with thicker, grippier treads, as well as larger front casters. In the past, she'd often wear motorcycle armour, hiking boots, and either athletic leggings or a baggy pocket-filled jumpsuit with elbow and knee pads. It was all about getting as deep into trouble spots as possible and quickness and durability were paramount. Nowadays, Lysandra usually forgoes anything that could hamper her already-limited mobility unless it clearly and directly helps her get more fieldwork done. Her primary goal is maximizing her returns on those brief outdoor sojourns and minimizing the physical liability that she represents. If enemies ever succeed in actually reaching her, she knows that the jig is pretty much up. Still, she's held onto her body armour, just in case. It's sturdy, lightweight, and can go under her jacket. She still has the knee pads too. Maybe she can't actually feel a knock to the knee, but it's also not like they'll hamper her movement. Besides, she kind of slips things in behind them. Why oh why do women not get usable pockets in most of their clothing!?
At her worst, Lysandra can come across as a 'bossy know-it-all science lady'. She can seem cutting, acerbic, and pushy. A lot of this, however, is just frustration and barely-suppressed insecurity. The significant gulf between what she knows needs to be done and what she can accomplish on her own is an open wound, regularly picked at by circumstance. The other major factor is simply that she is used to being the smartest person in the room and it grates upon her to entertain other people's stupid ideas when they could be making progress towards their (read: her) goals instead.
That said, she's a genuinely decent human being beneath it all. Lysandra is an absolute encyclopedia of both general and esoteric knowledge. She is a human calculator, a problem solver, has an amazing eye for detail, and is a natural-born storyteller. She is genuinely one of the most interesting people who you will ever talk to and, on her better days, her cutting wit, self-deprecating humor, and straight-faced delivery can have you - instead of her - rolling with laughter.
| BACKGROUND |
Lysandra's mother was an engineer. Her father was a biologist. Both were born before the Great Collapse and were not young parents (forty one and forty, respectively). Her childhood was full of diligent work and research. It was full of movement and stories while on the move. She learned about the world that was: the great open green fields and forests, the safe, cozy homes, and the shining universities: beacons of learning and opportunity. Most of all, however, she accrued skills: she studied the nature of living and unliving things with her father. She learned the wonders of robotics, sensors, computers, and mechanics from her mother. Instead of playing with Lego, she hand built her first drone when she was seven. The family settled in the mid-sized and fiercely independent outpost of Fresh Haven. Lysandra and her slightly older brother, Daniel, grew up and their parents aged, so they took on increasingly important roles as scouts, field researchers, and even soldiers. In particular, she was quick and stealthy: an excellent scout and climber, with a natural aptitude for surveying and understanding her surroundings, using them to her advantage.
For all of the world's dangers, her father fell prey to a flu in his 61st year. Daniel, who'd become more of a soldier than his sister, was gone for long periods of time and their mother increasingly withdrew into tinkering with her dwindling supplies. Lysandra, telling herself that her mother's work was valuable in more ways than one, began roving ever further afield in search of parts. She conducted her own research while out there. It was frightening, but challenging. In some ways, it was invigorating, and better than just sitting in some hole waiting to die. She begun to feel as if she could get to the bottom of how and why mistle worked, the role of the Sidhe, and how the Earth might be healed. She begun to feel as if she had some agency in her life. Further she went, scouting ahead with her drones, infrared sensors, and binoculars. She saw and found things that most humans couldn't. She knew a little bit of martial arts and learned more. She taught herself how to shoot. There were close calls - hairbreadth escapes from death - and tense moments. She hid out, she climbed, leapt, and scampered from one safe place to another, and then plunged back into the lab after days or weeks out in the world. Her parents' stories of the years before she was born had instilled in her a wariness towards revenants. Their kind had feasted on humans, once. The only thing needed for them to return to it and become Lost was a short period of time without consuming human blood.
Her mother was in ill health when Lysandra went out that day, but she tried to put aside her worries. At a steady jog, she made quick progress through the well-mapped regions near Fresh Haven, fists clenched around the straps of her backpack and breath wispy and white in the cool air. Perhaps she was preoccupied with thoughts of her family. Perhaps she was just careless, but she ran smack into a pack of Lost. She took one out of the fight with a well-aimed shot to the head, but then there was no option but to do what she did best: run, climb, and hide. She dropped her backpack and took off, through the labyrinth of a ruined city. After what seemed like forever, two more fell off the pace. This was a bad situation - worse than the usual 'bad situations' - but she had escaped many times before and would again. Thirst clawed at her parched throat but one final Lost - a monster of a man - stayed doggedly on her tail. Further up a crumbling building she went, leaping nimbly from sagging staircase to rotting floor to support beam, and he started to falter. The jump is still burned into her memory: over a gap in a staircase. It was the type that you dismiss in your head as a 'ninety percent chance I'll land it'. She'd made ones like it plenty of times before and she doubted her pursuer would be able to follow. She'd be safe. The thing is, if you roll the dice enough times, the odds will catch up to you eventually. The floor had looked solid on the other side but it wasn't. It gave way instantly and Lysandra can still recall with absolute clarity those two seconds where her stomach just folded in on itself in terror. Then she hit.
She was told that a handful of revenants who'd been surveying the area had heard her gunshots. As a gesture of goodwill, they'd rescued her and brought her back to Fresh Haven but, in the weeks and months following that fateful fall, as people kept telling her that she was a 'warrior' and would surely walk again, as she had to relearn how to do basically everything, and as her elderly mother cared for her as if she were still a child, Lysandra began to wish that they hadn't. Mother passed away eight months after the accident and, officially, the strain of having to care for her grown daughter hadn't been a contributing cause. Daniel stepped away from his duties temporarily and she moved into his unit with his family, but it wasn't much more accessible than hers. The entire settlement was built in what had once been a vertical farm crisscrossed with staircases, scaffolds, and prefab walls that had formerly comprised her playground but that now meant that she couldn't go much of anywhere without assistance. Wracked with guilt and regret, Lysandra threw herself into her engineering pursuits, sitting in front of a work table for hours each day, hammering away at her mother's machines, digging through the endless piles of scrap that she had accumulated on her sojourns, and constructing drones to map, guard, and scout, water filters to help grow food and provide drink, and devices to supplement her broken body and make her remaining family's lives easier.
Soon, Daniel could not afford any more time away from his duties and so her nephew, niece, and sister-in-law became her protectors. This, Lysandra could not permit any longer. As she had hoped, she'd rediscovered a sense of purpose - an imperfect one, for it still hurt so much to not be whole - but enough to push her forward once more. This place, however, was holding her back. She was holding her family back. The revenants had saved her. She had judged them too harshly, she decided, on the basis of childhood fears and stories from people who were no longer alive. She was, though, and saw little point to living for herself alone. There were vanishingly few people with skillsets like hers and, even if she couldn't conduct much of her own fieldwork anymore, her skills were valuable - key, even. With the sort of bold decisiveness that had defined much of her life and a new unsentimentality that she had developed more recently, she bid farewell to Fresh Haven and joined civilization proper. She has been here for three years since, in an uneasy sort of alliance that allows her to shed some of her grating dependency while saddling her with more of a different nature. This arrangement may yet allow her to reach her goals, however: an end which justifies any means.
| SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |
💡Bigbrain: Lysandra is just honest-to-goodness smart. She seems to regularly be a couple of (figurative) steps ahead of everybody else in most situations. She has a wealth of scientific and practical knowledge that can benefit her allies. 💡Mechanically Inclined: If there's a macguffin needed and anything that could possibly count as a tool, you can count on Lysandra to provide said macguffin, one way or another. She also creates numerous helpful devices, drones, and non-autonomous robots. 💡Tools of the Trade: The 'bossy know-it-all science lady' caries a backpack of wonders. It contains a first-aid kit, two-way radios, a multipurpose mask, dehydrated food, flashlights, thermal packs, wiring, glue, screwdrivers, pliers, and a dozen other travel-adapted, lightweight, well-machined tools that used to be her mother's. If you need something, chances are that she has it. She can also patch you up pretty well, though she definitely doesn't give much thought to pain management. 💡Crack Shot: Lysandra knows how to shoot - by God does she know how to shoot. She can usually calculate things like bullet drop, wind effects, and ricochet angle too. If forced out into the field, she carries one pistol in her bag (or on her lap if she finds herself in a hot zone), and a spare duct-taped to the underside of her wheelchair close to one of her wheels. She can pull it out or fire it unexpectedly with a quick sleight-of-hand when it looks like she's just reaching down to wheel herself. 💡Fledgling Hawkeye:Lys often carries a composite compound bow, which is quite compact and strapped to the back of her wheelchair. She's been working tirelessly (the only way that she knows) with Erik on archery and has equipped her arrows with all sorts of interesting payloads. In addition to good old-fashioned arrowheads, there are adhesive yields, high explosive, taser, smoke, sonic trap, hollow point, trackers, and barbed expanding heads. She generally carries two of each in her quiver. While Lysandra's nowhere close to Erik's elite level, she's respectable, helped along by her natural situational awareness, sense of aim, and fantastic upper-body strength. She is consistently able to hit a moving target or a small/faraway target, but not always as reliable if the target is both of those things. 💡Human Shopping Cart: It seems like a small thing but, as long as someone's willing to help push her, Lysandra can easily carry a couple hundred pounds worth of equipment, specimens, a bound and gagged prisoner, or even a lazy or injured ally. Revenants don't recover immediately, after all. 💡The Immortals: Four robotic helpers serve as Lysandra's agents both when she stays behind and in the uncommon instances when she goes into the field. They can operate either autonomously with limited AI capabilities (results may... vary when used this way) or be controlled one at a time via joystick and VR headset. She's working on a neural interface, but 'working on' is very much the operative term here. Loosely themed after the Four Immortals from Vietnamese legend, her agents are:
Mountain Man: A multilegged tumbling and walking robot with a flexible body about the size of a small cat, Mountain Man is able to traverse almost any terrain, slip into small spaces, climb, dig, swim, and perform basic scouting, rescue, delivery, and sample return operations. He has a taser, tranquilizer, and scissors too.
Marsh Sage: Primarily defensive in nature, Marsh Sage is a blindingly quick, maneuverable, and quiet coaxial quadcopter drone that can lay smokescreens, strobe blinding lights, and dispense nerve, mustard, and other poisonous gases. It is also quite handy for spying and scouting.
Iron Horse: A series of wheels on articulated arms, this is Lysandra's supplementary mobility aid and latches onto her wheelchair. It can propel her, hands-free, at high speeds, stabilize and protect her from recoil or being pushed against her will, clamp itself magnetically to metallic surfaces, and boost her over curbs or flights of one to three steps. It can also act as a bridge, platform, or supply carrier on its own.
Sky Princess: Lysandra's main offensive tool, Sky Princess is a large purple hexacopter drone that can lay down smokescreens, fire paralytic poison darts, release high-frequency sonic blasts that are extremely painful and induce headaches, dizziness, and nausea, and launch micro-rockets similar to the 'Whistling Birds' from Lucasfilm's The Mandalorian.
Unless they don't have to go far, she cannot bring all of these with her at once. For extended missions, the maximum is two or three if she doesn't take her bow. Only Mountain Man and Marsh Sage are small enough to be carried together comfortably on her person. Sky Princess can be swapped in solo or strapped to her wheelchair in place of her bow.
| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |
👩🦽Headset: When directly piloting one of the Immortals or her other creations beyond her sightline, Lysandra wears a VR headset linked to the drone's on-board camera. This leaves her detached from her immediate surroundings and vulnerable to attack unless she is safely away from a hot zone (where she knows that she should stay) or has an ally to watch her back. 👩🦽No Signal: Much of her utility is linked to her Four Immortals or other remote-controlled minions. If they stray out of signal range (about 3 miles or 5 kilometers) or if their signal is jammed somehow and they're forced to operate autonomously, she is much less effective and - if she is brave/foolish enough to be in the thick of things - much more vulnerable. 👩🦽Limited Charge: While she carries extra battery packs and a solar panel charger, these can only do so much. Once her Immortals are out of power, they're deadweight until they can get more. The same goes for the offensive ones' ammunition. She has a few refills, but extended missions can be...challenging. 👩🦽Limited Ammo: Space in Lys' bags is at a premium, and she doesn't carry many bullets. The same goes for her arrows. They take up quite a bit of space and are valuable with their unique payloads. They are best used only situationally, from long range or at pivotal moments when they can have the largest impact. By no stretch of the imagination is she a front-liner. 👩🦽Obstinate: Lysandra is used to knowing better. She will often dig in and insist upon the rightness of her opinions and preferred courses of action. She tends to aggressively prioritize her projects and ideas unless yours align with them. 👩🦽Fragile: At the end of the day, for all of the tech that she carries, the 'bossy know-it-all science lady' is human. She is not as physically capable as revenants and sidhe, which is compounded even further by her disability. Lysandra is painfully reminded every time that she watches a revenant recover from either fatal or crippling wounds that she is unable to do so herself. She gets one body to play the game of life with. Whatever happens to it (including death) sticks. 👩🦽Paraplegic: As a paraplegic, Lysandra has no feeling or movement below her waistline. This has the following effects:
Limited Mobility: She needs to use a wheelchair for mobility and, even with its assistance, is severely limited in this regard compared to able-bodied people.
Terrain Dependent: While quite quick over flat ground and in open space, and with excellent stamina on flats or downhills, she is very terrain dependent.
Obstacle Course: Things that we would not even think to consider, such as sand, gravel, curbs, cobblestones, and warped or cracked pavement cause Lysandra significant difficulty.
Planning is Not Optional: Routes have to be carefully planned: shallow downhills maximized, extended or steep uphills and downhills minimized, and obstacles, rough terrain, and climbing avoided.
The Anti-Parkour: She is incapable of strafing to the side or jumping. The closest that she can manage to the latter is to pop a wheelie.
A Real Handful: While pushing herself, her hands are occupied, making her unable to move and shoot or move and pilot any of the Immortals.
Inflexible: She has a lower sightline than other people, takes up a larger footprint, and cannot squeeze through small spaces.
Temperature Control: As a paraplegic, regulating her body temperature can be a problem. When she gets hot, she gets very hot. When she gets cold, the problem can snowball.
Wheelchair Dependent: If somehow separated from her wheelchair, Lysandra isn't realistically going much of anywhere on her own.
| NOTES |
If humans get colour codes, hers is 7FFFD4.
Lysandra is, low key, a huge science fiction nerd, particularly with regards to Star Trek. She gets that from both of her parents. They had a flash drive with old recordings and she used to watch them as a kid. She has, with only slight self-consciousness, told people to 'Live long and prosper'. She also has a soft spot for comics, even though most of them are kind of low brow. She read them as a kid and those were happy times.
She appreciates some good Pho. Seriously, ethnic foods are a dying thing. She's trying to learn how to cook, but... revenants don't really need human food all that much.
She strongly dislikes having to give her blood up for revenants. For pragmatic reasons, she'll do it, but it's just a reminder of her (and other humans') helplessness compared to them and it rankles. She sees it for what it is: an increasingly unsustainable practice.
Lysandra's had romance in her life before. She had a couple of boyfriends, years ago in Fresh Haven, but they bored her before long. One, in particular, wanted to settle down, but she has always made it clear that she does not want to have children. Not only would it take time away from her responsibilities as a researcher, she worries that she'd be unable to properly care for them and that bringing a child into a world like this, just to live in constant fear and be food for others, would be grossly irresponsible. She tells herself that she doesn't like children anyways: they're loud, disruptive, and annoying. She'd be lying, though. Secretly, she's a big kid at heart. That was half the reason she used to go gallivanting around the ruined cities, running, jumping, and climbing.
She loves the animals that nobody else does... except for frogs. She cut far too many of those open as a girl in the name of science to not be unnerved by them now.
Because of her immense inner nerd, Lys would love to function on 'rule of cool' when it comes to making her various gadgets, but practicality trumps pipe dreams given the sort of world that she lives in and what she believes is the difference that she can make.
Four years on from her accident, Lysandra has more or less adjusted to her altered reality and reached an understanding of what her abilities and limitations are. However, twenty-eight years of life experience before then have hardwired into her an approach of bold, independent action, a boundless curiosity best satiated firsthand, and the self-image of someone who can handle herself and get out of tough scrapes. Rationally, she knows that much of that is no longer practical, but hanging back, being cautious, and letting others do the work still causes occasional moments of dissonance.
L Y S A N D R A
Role in the team: The Bossy Know-it-All Science Lady
Apparent: ♥️♥️♥️🤍 Actual: ♥️♥️♥️♥️ Erik was part of the group that saved Lys' life four years ago. Sometimes she struggles with feelings of obligation towards him, but he's just such a ray of sunshine that, despite those moments where she finds him cloying and exasperating (such as, occasionally, those morning 'walks' around the garden), she values him greatly: more than she's ever likely to admit, and worries that he takes on too much. Erik's her neighbour and also the other mechanically-inclined member of the group, so they often end up working together. Both are such conversationalists once they get going that they can easily pass hours in chit-chat. In some ways, despite appearing her age, he reminds her of her father. Were anything to happen to him, Lysandra would be so ruined inside that her tough facade would almost certainly crack.
Dallas
Apparent: ♥️🤍🤍🤍 Actual: ♥️♥️🤍🤍 Lys has only had about a month to get to know Dallas. At first, he represented a personal triumph for her, as she took it as proof that her leaflet-dropping drone recruitment drive had paid dividends. She's started to appreciate him for his genuine uncomplicated nature, handiness, and good heart, but his recklessness has already driven her to frustration and worry a couple of times and she feels like she has to play stricter with him than she would actually prefer for his own good and safety.
Ionna
Apparent: ♥️🤍🤍🤍 Actual: ♥️🤍🤍🤍 New people are always a double-edged sword and there have been quite a few lately. They're exciting and bring new skills, perspectives and potential for new friendships. They also bring fears and baggage and represent a risk of discord or potential loss. Ionna is very new and she looks very young. Lys is trying to reserve judgement. After all, Revenants are often much older than they look. She's been trying to set aside her hidden soft spot for kids, instead waiting and seeing how things go, but it's nice not having to look up someone's nose for once when talking.
Ajax
Apparent: ♥️♥️🤍🤍/💔 Actual: ♥️♥️♥️🤍/❤️🔥 For the past two years, Ajax and Lys' tit-for-tat has been one of the defining aspects of the team dynamic. It's usually lighthearted, but occasionally seems a bit loaded. They always seem to end up on opposite sides of things, but that might be more because they both care, are used to being in the right, and actually want to do their due diligence. Deep down, she values him... in potentially more than just a platonic way. There are deep and meaningful similarities between them that she senses and she wonders if he senses them too. Perhaps, if she acts harshly towards him, it's because she's frightened of exploring those feelings and the insecurities and vulnerabilities that come with them.
Akaia
Apparent: ♥️♥️♥️🤍 Actual: ♥️♥️🤍🤍 Akaia is a useful person to Lysandra, and Lysandra supposes that the reverse is true as well. The Sidhe often goes on the kinds of long scouting and scavenging missions that Lysandra used to undertake herself. She brings back useful parts and the two of them are easy, friendly, and regular collaborators. However, while there is nothing deeply amiss with their relationship, they may not be quite as close as they appear. Akaia is... awkward to talk with and, besides, they simply don't have much to talk about outside of the professional. There is also a tiny hint of jealousy on Lys' part. Sometimes she feels like Akaia is a better version of what she used to and can no longer be.
Lysandra
Apparent: ♥️♥️♥️♥️ Actual: 💔 Lys often appears to be in love with herself and, particularly, her own brilliance. Not only can she drop some profound knowledge on those who will listen, she can also tell the most incredible stories - which usually feature herself as the central figure. Those stories are getting old, though, and she feels like she hasn't really made many new ones in the four years since she lost the use of her legs. That frustration at what she views as a 'reduced role' in life, coupled with the feeling of being a liability means that she can't help but sometimes feel like a stranger in her own body. Lysandra works hard to keep fit and active, but it's out of duty instead of desire or joy and she is happiest in those moments when she can just lose herself in a task or interaction that doesn't remind her of what she's lost.
Vincent
Apparent: ♥️🤍🤍🤍 Actual: ♥️🤍🤍🤍/❤️🔥 New people are always a double-edged sword and there have been quite a few lately. They're exciting and bring new skills, perspectives and potential for new friendships. They also bring fears and baggage and represent a risk of discord or potential loss. When Lysandra looks at Vincent, she's still forming an opinion, but she doesn't sense much of the last two. He seems like a wandering vagabond and that kind of wanderlust is something that she has a double-sided relationship with. On the one hand, it seems badass and romantic and she can appreciate living without attachment. On the other, it smacks of nihilism, having no future and nothing to fight for. It sounds... lonely.
Desmond
Apparent: ♥️🤍🤍🤍 Actual: ♥️♥️🤍🤍 When the group pulled in Desmond a few weeks ago, it was a moment of outsized importance for Lysandra. For the first time since she had left Fresh Haven, she had another living, breathing, aging human to interact with. Desmond was a mystery and largely remains so but she can see the scars that he has, even if they've had less physical impact than hers. She tries to counsel herself to take a figurative step back and let him do what he wants with his life but she is terrified for him and the danger that he puts himself in. There is no ignoring his sister who was recently turned into a Revenant and has not yet awoken. Secretly, she wonders if he might be headed for the same fate, perhaps intentionally. Even more secretly, she wonders if she is too.
Cerise
Apparent: ♥️♥️🤍🤍 Actual: ♥️♥️♥️🤍 Lys often feels like she's too tough with Cerise, but she'll be damned if she lets anyone see that. The girl is just so innocent, kind, and... docile that it's hard not to ask things of her, even if those occasionally stray a bit too close to demands and orders. For what it's worth, she can recognize someone else who's hurting inside and who struggles with the sheer physicality of their world. Lys has come to recognize that they just sort through their feelings in different ways. Deep down, she sees Cerise as a good-faith actor and appreciates her deeply. She also appreciates someone else who can play piano, and much better than she can.
Poppy
Apparent: ♥️♥️🤍🤍 Actual: ♥️♥️♥️🤍 Lysandra appreciates the team's other (better) healer. While the two of them don't seem to be family-level close - not explicitly hanging out and chatting on the regular - it's more because of their natures and responsibilities. Lys considers Poppy a friend and is very grateful for someone else taking some pressure off of her to be the 'team mom'. They sleep in rooms right across from each other and often spend time in similar areas. Finally, while everyone is aware of Lysandra's aching arms and shoulders, the chronic pains in her lower back are something that she hasn't told anyone but Poppy about. Lys knows well the addictive qualities of laudanum and avoids it except in circumstances where she is essential and would be non-functional without it.
Lys' Totally Unofficial, Well-Informed, Unbiased, and In-No-Way-Binding Power Rankings of Commune Members
*All ratings are based solely on Lysandra's perception of people and subject to her biases, insecurities, and desire to meme. Some ratings are more informed than others. Ratings of newer members are based on very limited information and early impressions.
R E D W O O D
| AGE |
Appears about thirty
| APPEARANCE |
Redwood's name is a child of his appearance. The first thing that people notice about him is his exceptional height. Very tall and fairly slender, though solid enough, he towers over other people and... well, low ceilings and hanging light fixtures are the bane of his existence while indoors. His skin is dark and somewhat leathery, making him look older than he is, and his hair is dark and curly. If people had to ascribe a human race to him, they'd call him Black. Finally, come his tendrils. Six of them sprout from his upper back, shoulders, and flanks (just below his arms) and it almost feels like a misnomer to describe them as tendrils, since they are unusually thick and strong. Despite his intimidating size, there is a gentleness of appearance and manner to Redwood. His eyes are large, dark, and keen: always watching, sometimes almost unsettlingly but never threateningly. He has a long face with a strong jaw, but fairly soft features. He most often wears either a gentle smile or a slight, determined scowl, but most of his expressions seem somewhat muted.
In terms of clothing, he wears what used to be basketball shoes, since they're the only ones he's found that'll fit his abnormally large feet. They've been patched, strengthened, and modified so much that they're scarcely recognizable anymore. He wears loose deep green shorts over black leggings that only make it about 2/3 of the way down his shins. His upperwear has been modified with holes for his tendrils. It consists of a green Timberland t-shirt with the logo in the center of his chest. Unusually, the t-shirt actually fits him. The ensemble is completed by the pair of black fingerless cycling gloves that he wears, with tough plastic guards over the knuckles. On colder days, he swaps the shorts for jeans and supplements the t-shirt with a brown leather bomber jacket.
In general, Redwood doesn't see much need to dress all that differently whether he's in combat or out of it, though he sometimes wears a motorcycle vest, along with elbow and knee pads in the former. His mask is a simple, practical thing: mostly brown leather and a pair of hoses leading to a backpack with an air canister and a few other useful items (like a first aid kit, multi-tool, and a knife) inside.
Tendrils: He has six of them and, as mentioned earlier, they are unusually thick and strong, perhaps as a side effect off Redwood's size. At a slow rate, they produce a sticky sap that can inhibit the movement of enemies if well-placed, adhere things to walls, and temporarily seal wounds and prevent blood loss. He uses them for a variety of purposes, their long reach and adhesive sap allowing him to control, impede, and delay enemies when in combat, setting them up for teammates or his own weapons. Enough of his natural adhesive will allow equipment and allies to hang from walls or ceilings, but he does not produce it very quickly and he is too heavy to make use off this ability himself in any case. Redwood also has some medical training and pairs this with his gift to provide emergency care when necessary. When not being used, he often wraps his tendrils around his midsection and over his shoulders.
| BACKGROUND |
Redwood's history is largely a mystery and you get the sense that either he would like it to stay that way or perhaps he does not remember it clearly himself. He has mentioned having associated with a small, independent human colony in the past, though he hasn't spoken of why he is no longer there. In general, one gets a sense of goodness and kindness from this sidhe, but purposeful distance, almost as if he fears attachment. The intensity with which he approaches the Lost certainly seems to stand in contrast to his generally laid-back nature.
| SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |
🙖 Specialized Combat: Redwood is quite skilled in mid-range combat, often using his tendrils like an extra set of longer limbs to hold enemies off, strike at them, catch allies, help push off for mighty jumps, and anchor himself against recoil and pushback. 🙖 Skewers: When in combat, Redwood wears sharp steel skewers on the tips of four of his tendrils. These can cut reasonably well, but are specialized in stabbing and pinning. Generally, it takes at least two of them to really hinder and enemy, and all four to definitively hold one down. That sets him up to deliver the coup de grace with... 🙖 Fat Mac: his trusty .950 cal rifle. Cumbersome, deafening, and dangerous, this colossal weapon can deliver a blast capable of piercing walls, concrete or cinder blocks, and vehicles. What it'll do to flesh and blood is... grisly. Lost might be immortal, but they'll be... out of action for a while after eating a round from this monster. 🙖 First Aid: It's almost obligatory for sidhe to be healers, and Redwood is no exception. He carries a kit in his backpack and can deal with all sorts of minor to moderate illnesses and injuries. He can also seal and staunch wounds with his sap. 🙖 Kinder Surprise: These are fragile ceramic vessels that look like large eggs and are kept in a padded container within a side pocket of his backpack. In fact, they are filled with Redwood's sticky sap (collected over an extended period of time) and have a very low-yield contact explosive inside. When they land, they shatter and spray their contents over a roughly two-to-three meter radius. 🙖 Intimidation: It might not be much good against the Lost, but Redwood's towering height and powerful tendrils can definitely lend him an intimidating air when he wants to cow uncooperative types. Generally, he is loath to use this, but if it saves him or his allies a fight, then he will.
| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |
🙓 Saviour Complex: Redwood will often try to take on too much at once, put himself in danger, or step in to handle things that other people have under control out of misplaced concern. One gets the sense that he is used to being the protector of those much weaker than him as opposed to a member of a legitimate team, and he may need to be reined in. 🙓 Limited Stamina: When going all out, the big guy tires pretty quickly. He is best saved for an opening salvo, critical moments, and a big finishing move, and will almost always need a rest to recuperate if he overexerts himself. Of course, due to his saviour complex, he will rarely be open about this and it usually needs to be inferred. 🙓 Precious Ammo: It takes quite a while to replenish his Kinder Surprises when he uses them, so he can sometimes be a bit stingy with those. Similarly, ammunition for Fat Mac is heavy, so he doesn't carry too much at any given time. It's also hard to come by, so he tends to use it sparingly. 🙓 Boy Scout: While he can be ferocious in combat against the Lost, he tends to really hold back against other enemies. 🙓 Pollution: When exposed to it for extended periods or inn high dosage, this can prove lethal to him. There aren't many places where Redwood can safely remove his mask.
| NOTES |
I'd love to include some better reference and thematic pics, but it hasn't been easy finding any.
In terms of his combat role, I view him as fairly versatile. To use gaming terminology, he's mostly mid-range crowd control, with some healing and one big occasional nuke. It's tempting to view him as a tank, and he's reasonably tough, but doing so in all but the most desperate of situations would be a mistake.
H E M L O C K
| AGE |
Appears to be in her late teens or early twenties
| APPEARANCE |
If your name is Hemlock, you're obviously going to have an aesthetic that fits. This strangest of sidhe looks like nothing so much as an edgy college student in a hoodie and black nail polish. Despite appearances, she doesn't actually have any tattoos. They're drawn on with marker and regularly replaced or embellished. However, beneath the persona, Hemlock isn't really all that special: just a lanky, dark-haired, and vaguely pretty young woman with an aversion to letting anyone see her smile. She carries a faint musty odor everywhere she goes, as if death follows her. Indeed, those who have spent extended time around her without a mask have often fallen ill, almost as if some of her toxicity somehow leaks out.
Stylistically, she leans goth or punk. Occasionally, it's the latter, but generally trends more Edgar Allen Poe or just generally grim. At their nadir, her sartorial efforts bottom out in the form of a loose dark hoodie and cargo pants with a studded belt and (maybe) wristbands. However, she can usually be counted on to put some effort in. Her mask, when she's outside, is themed after a plague doctor's and her clothing is often self-modified. On the surface, it looks like typical goth gear or rocker girl shtick, but there's motorcyclist protective gear underneath, emergency supplies tucked into hidden pockets, and lots and lots of knives, because she's nothing without that cutting edge. When she's not actively doing things, Hemlock wears a simple gas mask (pictured above), designed to cover the lower half of her face. She mostly just doesn't want to mess with her grimdark image by letting you see her smile. That's not 'on message'. The truth is that Hemlock is deeply self-conscious and disaffected about her spores' very strong tendency toward the toxic and dangerous as opposed to useful and healing like most of her species.
A sidhe whose breath seems to almost exclusively produce spores of violently toxic and poisonous plants such as yew, nightshade, and water hemlock and whose gift is camouflage, Hemlock is not at all comfortable with herself and her role, so she puts on a mask every morning and plays a character instead. She feels as if she should heal the land, but instead, her gifts lend themselves to death. In combat, as one would expect, she is a stealthy killer in the mold of your stereotypical assassin.
In attempting to embrace what nature has given her, she has become rather sadistic towards enemies, though it still doesn't come one hundred percent naturally and she's, in turns, glad of it and annoyed. Hemlock is edgy in what usually appears to be a self-aware manner, though she can often cross over into cringe territory. Most of all, however, she's just unhappy with the hand she was dealt as an atypical member of her species, and makes a big show of irreverence and 'not giving a shit™'. She genuinely doesn't understand what the reason for her existence and 'misfit' gifts might be.
| CAMOUFLAGE |
Hemlock's ability hasn't manifested itself as a growth. Instead, she has the gift of camouflage and is quite good with it, easily able to creep up on opponents and especially effective in the dark, because darkness is the colour of her soul.
| BACKGROUND |
Hemlock likes to be all brooding and mysterious about this and hint at something dark and monstrous in her origin story. The truth is that there just ain't much to tell. The way in which sidhe age (or don't) is the real mystery, and she's actually both very young and rather old at the same time. She's just always dealt with dissonance, for as long as she can remember: a supposed healer who's only really good at killing. There was a human settlement that she used to associate with, and she remembers watching a lot of late 1990s and early 2000s movies from an old flash drive there. Much enamoured with the dark, brooding antiheroes and brash, punkish hacker types that she saw on the screen but equally aware of the laughter and eyerolls that they regularly received, she adopted her present persona - Edgequeen evolved: cleverly self-memeing - upon arriving a few months ago at her current location. Secretly, she wants to be a hero. She gets songs stuck in her head and imagines her own soundtracks and battle scenes. In them, she's unironically awesome, just like Lobo, and Venom, and Elektra, and Wolverine.
| SKILLS / EQUIPMENT |
Tortured Artistic Soul: Hemlock is quite the artist. Her preferred media are spray paint, markers, and carving tools, but she has a natural aesthetic sense and good technique. She can use this not only for purely creative production, but also to camouflage, confuse, and create decoys.
Cutting Edge: lots of knives, including sharp ones, jagged ones, long ones, short ones, throwing ones, and... you get the picture. She has knives that pop out from the tips and heels of her boots at the press of a toe. Sometimes, they pop out by accident and she nearly trips on them, but Hemlock turns it into a roll, because rolls are almost as cool as unnecessary spins during a firefight on Tatooine.
Student of the Blade: While you were partying, Hemlock studied the blade. To this end, she often carries twin katanas, because they give her a bit more range and can lop off a head in a single swipe. That's not only effective in combat, it's a damned cool visual.
ToxXxic: Every blade that she has is coated in deadly poison that will stop your respiration, kill your nerves, clot your bloodstream, or induce any number of painful potential deaths.
Leveled Agility: Hemlock is almost preternaturally agile. Lithe and graceful, she is very difficult to hit accurately, and that's when she isn't camouflaged. She can close or open distance with sudden speed, slip or contort through small spaces, and... *teleports behind you* "Nothing personal, kid."
| LIMITATIONS AND WEAKNESSES |
Style Over Substance: Hemlock kind of lives and (hopefully not) dies by the 'rule of cool'. She isn't as strictly effective or dialed in as she should be. Whether it's a dramatic pose after a kill, the need to call out the names of her 'attacks', an unnecessary flourish, flip, or spin, or a complete refusal to use guns because they're 'dishonourable', she is honestly, hinderingly flaky. You're never quite sure if she's laughing at herself, inviting you to laugh, or actually completely unironic. The only thing that's certain is that she'd be much more effective if she was just... normal.
Garbage Healer: She's a sidhe, but you'd be foolish to rely on Hemlock for any sort of healing or nourishment. Doing so will not only result in some snarky comment and zero actual benefit, it will also send her into the first stages of an existential crisis played out in the space beneath her persona.
Waif: Hemlock isn't winning any contests of strength or durability. It can be almighty frustrating to lay a finger on her, but once you do, she's out of the fight.
Crippling Insecurity: For all of her bluster, Hemlock is young, different, and unsure. She makes errors in judgement, she doubts herself, and she's sensitive beneath the facade that she wears. She wants you to like her and think that she's cool and useful but, confoundingly, she's kind of unable or unwilling to recognize, accept, and value genuine praise and regard. Sadly, that may be most of her reason for trying to save the world. She has to prove something to herself and to everyone else out there, but she doesn't really believe that she can.
The Fumes - They Burn!: When exposed to it for extended periods or in high dosage, this can prove lethal to her. There aren't many places where Hemlock can safely remove her mask.
| NOTES |
There really could only ever be one theme song for her.
Pandes, Vardes 29, Dami-Zept 54, 2:00 HS - 1:25 HE
Location: Campus & The Arboretum ~ Potential Interactions: all students
The clouds that seemed to cling to the towers of Ersand'Enise by night usually disappeared during the early hours of Shune but, this time, they did not. The day dawned cool and cloudy. A slick, smothering wetness hung dank and limp in the the sky, somewhere between rain and a heavy mist. From multiple points within the city, liveried carriages and solemn processions - rendered more so by Ahn-Oraff's mourning - wound their way towards Arc en Ciel Hall.
Of course, the students of this storied place did not live in a bubble. They knew very well what was to take place today and, despite their youth, had at least some idea of its importance. There was a nervous anticipation to the day's gossip as they attended their classes, and it was announced by their first period instructors that all and any were invited to attend the conclusion of the Conclave of the Five Thrones in the area of the gallery that had been reserved for students. Seats, however, were limited.
Perhaps it was unsurprising, then, that they had trouble focusing on their classes. Indeed, some of the more academically inclined among the faculty grumbled about the holding of the Conclave in the city every fifth cohort. There were other disturbances afoot, however. Rumours flew about that many students had woken up the previous morning to find aberrations on their nightstands. Even worse was the fact that some had almost certainly absorbed them. The rest had since been dealt with, by what means, the Academy was tight-lipped. They claimed that they were hard at work getting to the bottom of the matter and that the knowledge was kept privileged for the youths' safety.
When students entered the class, they found all desks cleared to the edges and five items on stands in the middle. Their instructor had an intricate watch and a platter full of candy apples. The five items were: a blast furnace, a giant, whirling boulder on an axle, a vat of bromine with strands of a silvery metal poised to drop into it, a cluster of tightly-coiled springs, and a lightning rod by the open window. It was clear that the maddest science was about to take place. Their instructor greeted them all. She shook all of their hands and asked them to rate their skills in conversion on a scale of one to ten. She advised any truecasters to come to her in private after class, as she'd be dismissing everybody ten minutes early. Then, they commenced drawing. She didn't ask them to convert yet. It was diagnostic, she explained. She wanted to find their most comfortable sources, so she asked them to draw as fast and hard as they could, just to the point where they started to feel the effects of drawing to capacity. They then received candy apples for their trouble.
They walked in, sat down, and were given a test. Their Zeno only said that is didn't matter at all how they came to their final answers, so long as those answers were correct. She then gave them what she described as an 'elementary' problem to take home: you have six feet of ribbon and you need to make bows. Each bow requires 5/6 of a foot of ribbon. How many bows can you make?
For those who had Cooking with Hamir Zemana, they were treated to a wonderful post-luncheon dessert. He asked them how they would describe cooking as a skill or discipline before providing his own philosophy: "It is easy to cook passably, but it is the most difficult skill in the world master cooking, for the work of the chef is neither art nor science. It is both and much more." He outlined if for them thusly: "You are combining parts to make a whole, but it is not so simple as a puzzle. Each part interacts with and changes the others. The ingredients work on a chemical level both with each other and application of heat: where, when, how, and how much." He wasn't finished, however. "Then there is the subjectivity of it to consider, the psychology of taste and texture, and the aspect of visual appeal. You can have two dishes that taste the same, but the one with superior presentation will almost-universally be considered to taste better." He was a friendly man with a big, booming laugh, but he made one thing clear towards the end: "If you you came here hoping for an easy class, you still have time to transfer. This will be a space for rigorous learning... and not a bit of sampling the delectable fruits of our efforts. We will create our own rewards."
Jomurr was an arrogant little prat and asked why an athletics class was not gender-divided. He expressed dismay at being unable to engage in more physical sports without having to worry about 'hurting the women'. The Zeno acknowledged these concerns by agreeing that he would rethink the class if the boys were able to beat the girls in a challenge. He divided the class by gender and put them through a grueling obstacle course that prioritized flexibility and balance early on and then worked them to exhaustion and beyond. The boys fell behind early, caught up quickly, and faltered in the end. No clarification was needed at the end of the class.
Given the inclement weather, one would think that Zeno Solstice would be forced to retreat indoors for a painting and drawing class. Instead, had them gather in one of the Arboretum's shelters and create watercolours of their surroundings, noting how people's postures, behaviours, and paths changed due to the changed environment. "A good artist not only captures a moment in time, but also implies what has come before and teases what still might be."
In her usual almost-flippant manner, Zeno Moonlight divided her class into five groups and tossed five copies of a script at them. She said it had been written by a student from the previous cohort and that it was the worst one she had ever seen. Indeed, it was tragicomically awful. She gave them fifteen minutes to memorize it and make any changes that they wanted. Then they would have to perform and attempt to make something more of it. Leon, Marlijn, Linah, and Penny fund themselves together, along with a girl named Seriana, who wore a very revealing dress. Some groups did...better than others.
As his students walked into the class, Randan Kedd drew from the reactions causing lactic acid to build up in their muscles. He used this energy to enhance everyone's mood and energy. Their first unit was to be on the human body. Mastering magic involved understanding the body profoundly and intimately. He had five plaster skeletons. He made five groups. He broke the skeletons into 206 bones and mixed them up using Kinetic Magic. He told the groups to put them together. He said that they would do this task each week until every group was able to finish, without mistakes, in ten minutes. "Fundamentals," he exhorted, "fundamentals! If you don't know, find out! If you're not good, practice! If you need my guidance, ask!"
Zeno Serra promised to break them in easily and, after having everyone share their reasons for joining he class, conducted a case study. He broke them into groups of five and assigned them the roles of figures within the Joruban Revolution. They were to assess the performance of their assigned figure and discuss their findings with peers. Then they were to prepare to present, during next week's class on what their figure had done right or done wrong and come up with one significant change and the effects it may have had.
Karim was fortunate enough to walk to the astrology room with his Zeno, since he'd been in her third period art class. She was, indeed, a sunny personality: bright, funny, and relentlessly, infectiously positive. Class itself consisted of learning about different sets of astrological beliefs and how each interpretation made different use of a common set of natural symbols. She spoke of how the light of the moons affected the moods of people, the patterns of the ocean, the places where fish congregated and ships moored, and the way that animals behaved, slept, and hunted. She had a certain knack for asking questions that allowed them to do more of the speaking and yet still learn.
Pandes, Vardes 29, Dami-Zept 54, 2:00 HE - 1:00 HD
Location: Campus & The Arboretum ~ Potential Interactions: all students
Those students who chose not to take the school up on its offer to attend the evening session of the conclave would've found the campus and, indeed, the city eerily quiet and empty. It was theirs to wander and do as they pleased, though what there was to do comprised a fairly short list.
For those who attended, however, they hurried to pack their dinners into half an hour. Some simply lived with the hunger, wary of not getting a seat. In any case, they thronged into the enormous theatre, clamouring for space just as the dinner entertainment came to an end. The chamber quartet bowed and the audience clapped as the students shuffled in. If some of the smaller girls shared seats and a couple perched awkwardly on armrests and steps, nobody scolded them for it today, a breach in the school's normally-rigid discipline temporarily permitted. The balconies positively bulged with human life.
The heads of state of the current holders of the Five Thrones sat on five large chairs onstage, each painted so as to denote what they were. Behind them sat the six Arch-Zenos of Ersand'Enise, the Paradigm, and the Zenith herself in a large semicircle. Other dignitaries and world leaders were gathered in front in what was usually the orchestra pit. The clouds had cleared somewhat and the sun's light filtered in through the massive stained glass windows, its beams reaching across the seats and one, in particular, striking the pipe organ at just the right angle to make its steel pipes gleam faintly.
Zenith Upta rose and gave a brief recommencement address. Her bearing was as dignified and professional as ever, but one couldn't help but sense a hint of tiredness at this point in the daylong proceedings. The leaders' speeches had already been given, including those who did not hold one of the thrones. Those few students who'd had a fourth period spare had been able to catch some of what had been said as well as getting up to speed on what had taken place earlier. They now endeavoured to catch their fellow students up. While it was inconceivable that either Revidia or Perrence could lose its throne (indeed, the latter had never lost it), and highly unlikely that Torragon or Belzagg would be in any danger, Eskand appeared much as it had for the last couple hundred years: weak.
It looked as if Rouis of Perrence had recognized this too. Indeed, he and Horik had been at it for most of the day: a powdered little man in gold-embroidered clothes and cape and a great grumpy bear who made, in turns, exasperated and threatening noises. Then, however, it was time to vote, and as the leaders and the Arch-Zenos walked up one by one to slip their ballots into the simple wooden box, a hum of conversation raced through the audience. Truly, there wasn't much to talk about. It was Perrence first. Eskand would come second to last and there were rumours that Queen Silke of Kerremand was in line to take Horik's place. That she could for once depend on the support of her longtime enemy, Rouis, was almost comically evident.
Then, it was Roderick's moment. The crier's voice had recovered admirably from three days prior and was crisp and clean. "Our opening matter is that of the Crystal Throne," he announced, his voice kinetically enhanced and carrying an air of dignified disinterest. "The first vote confirms Perrence." He placed a paper in a small tray on the table marked with the Fleur de Lis of that country.
"The second vote proposes Kerremand." A titter worked its way through the audience. That would be Horik's spite vote. The mammoth of a man grinned, self-satisfied. The paper was duly dropped into a tray marked with the dragon that was a symbol of that country. "The third vote confirms Perrence." So did the fourth. People began speculating on whether Revidia, next, would receive any spite votes against it. "The fifth vote confirms Perrennce." Rouis certainly wouldn't be above spite voting.
Then, however, something happened. "The sixth vote proposes Kerremand." Surprised murmurs rippled through those gathered. Horik's smile grew large and toothy. He leaned over in his chair, the overburdened piece groaning, and looked right at Rouis, who appeared annoyed. Prospero Malatesta steepled his fingers, stonefaced. "The seventh vote proposes Kerremand." The murmurs became exclamations. There was a concerted effort to gain Kerremand the throne, at the expense of mighty Perrence!
"Votes for the Crystal Throne stand four in favour of Perrence, three in favour of Kerremand. There are six votes remaining." Perrench observers and students, in particular, began to speak in more than just whispers. Roderick unfolded the next ballot. "The eighth vote proposes Kerremand." Rouis leaned forward. His eyes darted about. There was a genuine play being made here. The danger was real!
"The ninth vote confirms Perrence." The king sat back in his chair, stroking his goatee nervously. "The tenth vote confirms Perrence." The ship seemed to have been righted: one more vote. Yet, it came for Kerremand. Eyes turned to Queen Silke. She was calm, poised. "The twelfth vote proposes Kerremand." An electric silence prevailed. "Votes for the Crystal Throne stand six in favour of Perrence, six in favour of Kerremand. There is one vote remaining."
Roderick's face gave it away before he read it, but his voice remained measured and professional. "The thirteenth vote proposes Kerremand." He paused. "The motion for Kerremand to replace Perrence as holder of the Crystal Throne is carried."
What followed was chaos. There was no amount of kinetic amplification that Roderick could've done to prevent it. He must've known as much, because he didn't even try. Silke began her walk up the few steps. Stiffly, stunned, Rouis rose from his seat. He looked out across the audience, an unreadable look crossing his face. Was it fury? Apology? Determination? Regret? That this was a bald-faced ploy of politics and bribery was clear to all. The Five Thrones were supposed to belong to the five greatest nations of the twin continents and Perrence was arguably the greatest of them all. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous for them not to be there. The king paused for a moment, and then something happened. One Perrench girl stood up. Perhaps she had used Sound Enhancement, for her voice rang loud and clear: "I have heard of a place - have you? - it is written, it is said." People craned their necks to look her way. She continued, and a handful of voices joined her. "Where every woman has her wine and every man his daily bread." The Perrench began standing.
"The streets are paved in stone," they sung, "The fields green, the lords are good. I would live in such place. Yes I would. Yes I would." There were hundreds of them. They rose. They added their voices.
"Green Perrence, motherland, you have raised me up from new. Under Oraff's watchful gaze, you have shaped me strong and true.
Your forests filled with game, Your shoppes are stocked with finest goods. I would live in such a place. Yes I would. Yes I would." Rouis' hand was over his heart. He sung the song of his people.
"I see your fields stained with blood, shed to keep me safe and free, Where the poppies grow up thick, but I would give my life for thee.
My children: they will live here. They will prosper by your hand. Green Perrence: my home forever. Green Perrence: motherland."
Over a thousand strong, their voices reverberated for a moment after they finished, filling the cavernous interior of Arc en Ciel. Solemnly, King Rouis removed the hat from his head and bowed before his subjects. They bowed in return and when he straightened, he seemed taller than he had moments before, more certain. With an almost sinuous grace, he bowed deeply and deferentially before Queen Silke and motioned her towards her new chair, yet she seemed marginally less inclined to gloat than she had mere moments before. That Rouis had glanced in the direction of the Doge of Revidia and nodded respectfully was noticed by many as well and they took it as a sign that l'Anguilla, true to his name, had been up to his slippery tricks once again. Rouis had saved some face here, but it was still a master stroke.
The next two series of votes almost didn't matter. Revidia was confirmed, as was Torragon. Sancho gazed out over the crowd, face unreadable, but he was uneasy. It wasn't a stretch to imagine. A few more Zenos had surreptitiously filtered into the hall, just in case they were needed, but Rouis XI seemed disinclined to make any sort of trouble. Briskly, he made his way out a side entrance, escorted by the dauphin, also Rouis, and his royal guard. Those of his people who wanted to follow him were judiciously held up at the doors and filtered through slowly enough that they would not be a problem. The second prince, however, who'd been in attendance, was not among them. He remained seated in the front row. Arcel, some may have remembered.
Now that Perrence had been felled and Kerremand had its seat, the anticipation for Eskand's reckoning had faded to a low ebb. There were no more monarchs present and Horik, traditionally the neutral vote among the five, had seemingly aligned himself solidly now with the Doge and Revidia. The first two votes went as expected, but then the attendees found themselves in for their second big shock of the day. A vote came in for... Joru, and then a second. Horik's fat face grew pink and his cheeks puffed out as he turned to glare at Silke, Sancho, and Prospero. The first did not give him the satisfaction of her attention and neither did the last, but the Torragonese ruler looked at him and nodded solemnly, almost as if in apology. It was nine to four - for Joru, and President Atundo Yibozo stood. So did Horik. A hulking mountain of man, he glowered at the rulers and the Zenos who had betrayed him. "Eskand will have blood," he warned, turning to face the incoming president. "Enjoy your poisoned throne, king of the Joru." He leaned in and Yibozo was forced to take a step backward, but he did not flinch. He regarded Horik steadily. "I have no desire to rule as a king. My power comes from my people, and the throne we make shall be there for all to sit on should they choose."
"Hah!" laughed Horik, "we'll see how long that lasts." He stalked away. That the rulers were speaking amongst themselves, inaudible to the crowd, which had once again erupted in conversation, was clear to any who would care to look their way. Great Jobanzaggah, now alone without his allies, had clearly made a play to keep Belzagg's position on the council, and he managed it in a close vote, but what he'd had to suffer was unknown to all but the other people on that stage.
When the dust had settled and students filtered home into the warm, ripe night, the political order of their world was vastly different than it had been that morning. If they imagined, for even a single, naive moment, that they would remain untouched, then they were sorely mistaken.
1. It was drizzling and overcast for most of the day. 2. The second day of classes happened. Everyone here shared the same first and second periods. Look under the hiders for what happened in your third and fourth periods and feel free to add whatever your character does. 3. The conclave finally happened. Despite some late-night scheming and clandestine stuff, it appears that Perrence was outsmarted and toppled from the council. 4. This didn't sit well with everyone and the Perrench people, along with their king, experienced a moment of solidarity. If your character is Perrench, this would probably effect them in some way. It is a direct attack on their home country and fundamentally unfair. 5. Eskand, as well, was booted from the council and betrayed by its erstwhile allies, Revidia, Kerremand, and Torragon. It was further humiliation for the proud nation, and Horik has promised blood. 6. Joru is now on the council and President Yibozo, despite his insistence that he has no desire to become a monarch, appears to have been part of politicking. 7. There is a strong chance of war and the strife between major nations leaves the door open for The Traveler to act... 8. For those who did not decide to attend the Conclave, the city is as empty, quiet, and unguarded as it'll ever get. If you really just want some peace and quiet or are looking to do something sneaky, now's the time!
When Manfred had awoken in the morning, he'd been greeted by a hole - pitch black - in the fabric of reality. He'd heard of aberrations, of course. They were a growing problem. He'd never actually seen one before. He'd considered absorbing it, to be honest. He'd been told all sorts of bad things by the people in charge of magic, which usually meant, from his experience, that this thing threatened their dominance. It would not do to draw suspicion, though, and perhaps there was some truth to their consistently dire warnings. When he arrived downstairs for breakfast, Zeno Zemana was just getting back in from his morning run to Balthazar Hall. Karim was already downstairs, chattering excitedly about a shipment of cloudmelons coming in from his parents. They exchanged greetings and he cast about for the others. Mayu, he could only hear: muttering and scolding Cumin from somewhere upstairs. Eun-Ji, too was there, and she was often somewhat quiet and pensive, but even more so today. She was not her usual self.
The Tan Keoulean was already downstairs, sitting down on a chair absently. Her mind seemed like it wasn't really focused, with her staring at nothing in particular while being completely silent. She did notice Manfred after a while, and gave a simple nod in greeting. It didn't look like she was in the mood for conversations at all, as if she was too bothered with something or simply too tired for it. After that simple nod, she returned to gazing absently at practically nothing.
Definitely out of sorts, Manfred thought, and he wasn't one to pry. He nodded in her direction as well and that was the entire scope of their interaction. He'd made up his mind to tell the Zeno about the aberration and wondered if she'd already done the same. Busy pondering, he marshaled the awareness to at least rise and help set the table.
As he was doing so, however, he noticed Karim slide towards their master and speak in a low voice in Virangish. The Kerreman furrowed his brow. Zeno Zemana looked surprised and then concerned. His eyes moved quickly past Eun-Ji, however. "Manfred, my boy," he exclaimed, in his trademark manner, "can you watch these strudel for a moment?"
"Of course, Master Zeno." Manfred rose and stepped dutifully towards the cooking area, too proud to admit that he had no idea how to cook strudel. Just don't burn, little buddies - delicious little buddies - and we'll be good here, he thought at them. Eun-Ji out of sorts, Karim wanting a private audience with the Zeno, Mayu unusually cross about something. Had they, too, seen aberrations on their nightstands?
In the event, Manfred didn't burn the strudel, mostly because the Zeno swooped back in with perfect timing and took over. When he had a moment, he mentioned that he, too, had seen an aberration this morning. It was still there and he did not know what to do with it. He received a pat on the shoulder, some assurances, and a lovely breakfast. He fed a bit of it to Kurbis. Now that he thought about it, the cat had seemed skittish this morning. Something was undoubtedly wrong. The question was "what?"
When he lined up outside of Balthazar Hall, Manfred was loath to gossip, but also more motivated than ever to start making someheadway against the mysteries that this place had thrown at him. Aware of the effect that he could have on certain women, he found a group of Perrench girls and eventually got them to admit to having seen aberrations on their nightstands as well. They'd made a sort of game out of making each other reveal whether or not they'd absorbed those. Two had even admitted to receiving the Blood Magic Course invitations and one, he recognized from the previous day: the one-legged girl, Penny, who'd spoken with Eun-Ji, who was perhaps not to be trusted. Standing next to her for an extended period, there was something that stuck him as familiar. He wasn't sure what. Her face... reminded him of Nina, somewhat, were she a few years older.
His courses were...courses, for the most part. Mozaru was a disciplinarian, but one of those offbeat types. Manfred managed not to stand out. Alcaster Serra's word game bored him. He managed not to stand out. Luria Colloy worked them hard and gave them these little rods. Karim was there and there was a short boy in a heavy bascinet helm who seemed amused, but Manfred had no use for lightning and decided that he would learn next to nothing in the class. It was Jurgen Mendenhoffer's class that he'd been looking forward to. He knew the Zeno, of course, though he found that he received no special treatment. This man, at least, was a magusjaeger, and Manfred did his utmost to perform to the best of his abilities. He noticed a similar commitment from Eun-ji, who seemed to be doing a little bit better than she had in the morning.
Manfred's evening, however, was fairly mundane. He settled Kurbis into his dormitory and the cat was less than happy at being moved again, but it couldn't be helped. The Kerreman found himself next door to a studious Torragonese named Selio who he exchanged polite greetings with but little else and across from a boastful and obnoxious Belzaggicman - Jomurr Ikon - who he took an instant disliking to. Being at the very end of the boys' wing, he was close to the girls, and a pair of Eskandishwomen - Marlijn and Anesin, in particular. The both were... rather distracting and he was almost glad of the usually-locked door between he and them. This is not time for the wolf to be loose in the hen house, he scolded himself. He had hoped to reconvene with Eun-Ji in the evening, but she was over in the commons dormitories and had seemed very much in her own head today. So be it. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd found himself caring so much about what she would or would not do. In fact, he found himself mildly annoyed at his preoccupation... but still a bit disappointed that they had not met up. He thought about making the trip over, but decided that she would do what she would do and they would reconvene when either of them had anything worth sharing.
It was during the first hour of Ipte that a letter slipped itself beneath Penny's door. She moaned and rolled over in bed, thinking it some more foolery from her neighbours. They were good fun and she'd spent a couple of hours with them earlier, but Madeleine also fancied herself a wit and did not know when to quit. Still, there was the possibility that it had to do with Arcel. He was in town, though they hadn't had the opportunity to speak like she had with father.
She started swinging an arm out to grab one of her crutches, but stopped short and looked over first. After the morning's incident, it was hard not to be paranoid. Satisfied, she slipped it under her arm, rose, and made her way to the door.
"1201A Brandenmeier Place," she murmured, reading what was on the envelope as she picked it up. "Mr. Gaston Normand."
The teenager scowled, body language almost pouty. She knew those codes. The first one meant that this was to go to the Eskandish contact. She did not know his name. The second one meant that it needed to be done immediately. Was it truly so urgent? She sighed. She knew that it was. It was politically sensitive. She took a couple of steps back, fixing her hair into a semblance of order and already starting to change clothing. The walk was not particularly long, but it was late, she was tired, there were stairs, and... by the Pentad, yes, the girl with one leg had been someone's first choice to bear this message. Penny did not know what was in it and told herself that she did not want to, yet she burned with curiosity. Presently, she finished shrugging into a simple dress and riding cloak. She did up a few buttons and fastened a tie around her waist. Best not to know, she told herself, taking a moment to slip into her shoe and out of the door as quietly as she could.
The nighttime air was cool and clammy on Penny's skin and an almost-unnatural mist hovered amidst the great shadowy spires and towers of Ersand'Enise, shimmering and ethereal in the light of three pale moons and one in blood red. She stopped to rub away some goosebumps and pull her cloak tight around herself, continuing onward. The eyes of animals watched her in the darkness, gold, lime, and orange. Once every minute, the beam of St. Elmo's Light swept across distant rooftops, brightening them before continuing out across the sea. Yet, it was not that light which concerned the young Perrenchwoman most, for looming there over the city of the Mages like a great watchful eye was that lone light blazing in the highest window of the Forked Tower.
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?<br><br>Stay awesome, people.</div>
Kuro
Fallenreaper
Ti
Jumbus
Silly
Echotech71
Astro
Chronic
Lildear18
pantothenic
