[ A message saved in drafts makes its way into the feed thanks to the recent network infection. ]
We'd thought many times that we were explorers and that by forging ahead to little known territories, we were doing a service to ourselves and others. As it turns out, the only service being done was between us and were erstwhile and heretofore selfish in most regards. What we searched and sought was near minuscule, although not paltry, compared to what would find us one Winter Solstice. We had all the time in the world
A month and a half later, with a lengthy session a week or so, Wrench and Blake should find themselves excitedly pushing through to more and more advanced concepts. Unfortunately, with November comes cold winds and cold shoulders, too. Blake, normally warm and open and mindful, turns inward.
He's never mean, but it's clear he's short-tempered and irritated. By the second or third time around, it's probably insufferable. Since the beginning of November he's not only been facing the disappearance of his best friend, but also this awful influx of folks that don't seem to rightly belong in Deerington. His own father, who he hadn't seen since the guy's head was blown off (twenty-plus years prior, Blake reminds himself, the last time it wasn't just a memory) has even seen fit to make an appearance. Add in the fact that he'd caught wind of Jean-Paul's ever-increasing group if suitors including Wrench and his own worry over Jean-Paul going from no lovers to many lovers so quickly and of course he's going to be guarded. It's how he justifies himself. It's not optimal, comfortable, or kind in any way, and neither is Deerington. This is just how he chooses to deal with it.
Blake, still in his own head, doesn't hear Wrench coming and turns just in time to run head-first into the mountain of a man. The bowl of chilled heavy cream he carries tips back over Blake's clothes, instantly soaking through the layers.
He hisses, scuttling backwards a foot, but the liquid's already starting to puddle and spread around them. "Damn, how 'bout a little fuckin' warnin'?" he snipes, but he's looking down, not making it obvious he's talking to Wrench, not being mindful of all the things he's learned and been taught when dealing with the man.
Arms out, he holds the bowl in own hand and the other tries to fruitlessly wipe away some of the icy liquid. It's even in his shoes.
On Christmas morning, Wrench will receive a copy of Winesburg, Ohio. Inside he'll find a single dried leaf, picked up and carefully preserved in the fall, from the trees in the park. Written on the inside cover is a quote:
I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you, None has understood you, but I understand you, None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you, None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you, I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.
He'll also be given, in a more private moment, a silver ring on a thin black cord (so it can be worn as a necklace if wanted) that's sized to fit him. The ring is made out of dark burnished metal and has a tiny compass rose inscribed inside it. If he wears it, either on his hand or around his neck, he'll find that he can, if he concentrates, sense the location of the other three rings (when worn by Kurt, Logan and Jean-Paul). This sense will become more accurate the closer the rings are to each other, but is enough to roughly guide him to the location of the other wearers as long as they're not too far (more than 5 miles) away.
[will saved up a lot of diner tips to get wrench's gift -- a fairly simple leather belt that he'd then painted himself. the fringe and all makes him associate wrench with cowboys, okay?
[In an attempt to enthusiastically celebrate his first ever Christmas, Fern is covertly dropping off a wrapped gift addressed to Wrench from him on his doorstep.
It's a boot knife!
Because of course Fern would assume a knife makes a good holiday gift.]
[ John had well and truly gone and done it. He hadn't so much as thought about doing hair or the like outside of his own in years. Yet at the first sign of someone being stressed about it all, he'd offered up his services. Rusty though they were.
Which meant he needed supplies. So, he comes to the first place that comes up in town dealing with it. Manes on Main. Course it's his bloody luck that as soon as the door opens with a happy little ding: it's Wrench that's standing in there waiting on customers.
Because why can't life anywhere ever not be bloody difficult?
He has the decency, at least, to offer a salute before he starts looking around at what's on the shelves. ]
[It's taken some time for Wrench to build up the little shopfront here to anything resembling professional, but it still doesn't compete with its neighbors up and down the block. A person could almost call it understated, if not for the rather enormous deer statue just underneath the awning by the front door. Anyone who's been around for any amount of time at all knows what it signifies, but the man has been given little choice but to embrace it as part of the decor. Between being sunk on the Titanic, tortured with addiction in some underwater apocalyptic wasteland, and transformed into a child, he's managed to do a little work around the place. When John pushes open the door, the lights overhead flicker in acknowledgment. The shelves are stocked with hand-labeled bottles in a thoughtful display. The selection is limited, but well-tested.
Wrench can't hide his surprise. He raises his eyebrows at the man, but lets him go on browsing as he pockets some cash from his latest appointment then grabs a broom from the corner. As he sweeps, his eyes stay on John, tracking the man's movement as he looks over bottles of shampoo and lotions. After a while, he grabs his phone and types a quick message, stamping his foot on the floorboards for the other man's attention.]
After the storm, the lake is back to most of it's former glory. Logan fills a bag with shattered glass from along the shores. When the straps of his waxed-canvas bag strain under the weight of it, he empties the bag into the bed of truck and goes again. It's a practically sisiphean task when the lake washes more ashore every time the water gets choppy, but as Logan so often does, he manages to turn the endless into the meditative.
It's the fourth of fifth of these walks he's made today when the nagging itch of something like a sliver in his back stops him. He examines a gash in the fabric of his pack and knowing the likley cause of the metaphorical thorn in his paw knows he'll have to dig it out. But something else someone told him comes to mind. Something about a stone.
Hey. Got a minute? If there's something suspicious about the way he looks around, there is. Should the transferrable properties of his healing factor be unaffected by that stone, he can imagine about everyone else in this cabin might take issue with him testing that out on one of only two human beings amongst them. Still, he likes Wes for this. He's seems... the least likely to complain about it if it doesn't work.
If Wes has allowed the pace of his life to slow in the days following the dome's shattering, it feels like a deserved break. He's been running for a long time now, past injury and heartache. Past the point, perhaps, of even knowing why. The evidence of poorly-patched and mostly-ignored injuries is written all over the body of the tall man as proof that he should have stopped long ago. But only now does he give himself that space.
The first few days he rises only enough to walk from one room to another, followed from the very start by a strange black shadow. The little one-eyed cat stays to the corners of the room, tucking itself under furniture and ignoring all efforts to be coaxed either closer or further away. It watches, silent and unblinking, as the man makes himself a plate of eggs and promptly ignores them, and as he flips the pages of a book without doing much reading.
He's come to recognize each of the men by the weight of their footsteps, so Wes knows it's Logan before he even looks up. When the man urges his attention, though, he sets his book down without hesitation and unfurls himself from the couch. Sure. Wes's green eyes narrow as he looks the man over for any sign of obvious trouble. Takes stock against evidence of all the things he's come to expect from this place. What's up?
[ A small wooden box left at the table with two little sachets with herbs and a handwritten note and two pennies.
The note reads: When you both get a quiet moment alone and preferably outside, take the herbs out of the sachets and hold them in your palms. Think about what you want for the future, what you want for each other. Really try and visualize it. Together. Once that's done, toss the herbs into the air. The coins are for the fountain outside my shop.
Just go with it. Make a wish, toss the coins.
Note: Once they toss the herbs in the air, a soft wind will kick up and there might be a sound like distant church bells. Then it's gone but a warm feeling will linger a while. As for the coins: if they are tossed into the water wheel fountain each of them will have a small wish granted. What it is, is up to you. ]
[ Attached is a photo of Kurt in the back room at Pixie's with his shirt pulled up, showing his back to the camera -- and the tattoo now outlined in purple light glowing through his fur. ]
Even after a year in this place, things still manage to startle Wes. He's been working alone on the Buick, and the sight of the image begs a response even before he checks himself.
Does it hurt? How do you feel?
He means to turn the camera on his own ears, but something catches his eye even before he can. What follows is a picture of the man's scowling face, with two nearly-transparent purple antlers protruding from the ether surrounding his forehead.
[ Inside Wrench's mailbox, there is a nondescript white envelope with his name on it. Inside, there is a colorful pog, with a message written on the back in silver fine-tipped sharpie. There's no stamp on the envelope, implying that it was hand delivered rather than mailed. ]
it's been real. it's been weird. it's been real weird.
see you on the flip side! – GP
[ The pog is enchanted with dream magic, so that it can be given as a gift, but cannot be lost, stolen, or destroyed. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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text | un: fuzzyelf
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text
1/?
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3/DONE
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text | un: fuzzyelf
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text; un: rjb [ misfire plot - forward-dated to 04/08 ]
We'd thought many times that we were explorers and that by forging ahead to little known territories, we were doing a service to ourselves and others. As it turns out, the only service being done was between us and were erstwhile and heretofore selfish in most regards. What we searched and sought was near minuscule, although not paltry, compared to what would find us one Winter Solstice. We had all the time in the world
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text | un: LUCKY 1/3
text | un: LUCKY 2/3
text | un: LUCKY 3/3
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text; un: rjb
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text | un: bearmitzvah
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text | un: fuzzyelf
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text; un: rjb [misfire]
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text; un: rjb
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text; un: mols
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text; un: james.bonds
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text; un: canary
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He's never mean, but it's clear he's short-tempered and irritated. By the second or third time around, it's probably insufferable. Since the beginning of November he's not only been facing the disappearance of his best friend, but also this awful influx of folks that don't seem to rightly belong in Deerington. His own father, who he hadn't seen since the guy's head was blown off (twenty-plus years prior, Blake reminds himself, the last time it wasn't just a memory) has even seen fit to make an appearance. Add in the fact that he'd caught wind of Jean-Paul's ever-increasing group if suitors including Wrench and his own worry over Jean-Paul going from no lovers to many lovers so quickly and of course he's going to be guarded. It's how he justifies himself. It's not optimal, comfortable, or kind in any way, and neither is Deerington. This is just how he chooses to deal with it.
Blake, still in his own head, doesn't hear Wrench coming and turns just in time to run head-first into the mountain of a man. The bowl of chilled heavy cream he carries tips back over Blake's clothes, instantly soaking through the layers.
He hisses, scuttling backwards a foot, but the liquid's already starting to puddle and spread around them. "Damn, how 'bout a little fuckin' warnin'?" he snipes, but he's looking down, not making it obvious he's talking to Wrench, not being mindful of all the things he's learned and been taught when dealing with the man.
Arms out, he holds the bowl in own hand and the other tries to fruitlessly wipe away some of the icy liquid. It's even in his shoes.
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from network thread | https://deerfeed.dreamwidth.org/159371.html?thread=22121099#cmt22121099
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christmas gift;
I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself
None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you,
None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you,
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.
He'll also be given, in a more private moment, a silver ring on a thin black cord (so it can be worn as a necklace if wanted) that's sized to fit him. The ring is made out of dark burnished metal and has a tiny compass rose inscribed inside it. If he wears it, either on his hand or around his neck, he'll find that he can, if he concentrates, sense the location of the other three rings (when worn by Kurt, Logan and Jean-Paul). This sense will become more accurate the closer the rings are to each other, but is enough to roughly guide him to the location of the other wearers as long as they're not too far (more than 5 miles) away.
christmas gift
besides. a belt is a dad gift. isn't it?]
Christmas eve
It's a boot knife!
Because of course Fern would assume a knife makes a good holiday gift.]
text | un: bearmitzvah
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Wait. Who are you referring to now?
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1/3
2/3
3/3
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text; un: gwenniefromtheblock (misfire event)
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text | misfire (cannibalism cw???)
i guess they tasted like people
i was a BIRD it wasn't really a big deal to me
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action. backdated to 5/9
Which meant he needed supplies. So, he comes to the first place that comes up in town dealing with it. Manes on Main. Course it's his bloody luck that as soon as the door opens with a happy little ding: it's Wrench that's standing in there waiting on customers.
Because why can't life anywhere ever not be bloody difficult?
He has the decency, at least, to offer a salute before he starts looking around at what's on the shelves. ]
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Wrench can't hide his surprise. He raises his eyebrows at the man, but lets him go on browsing as he pockets some cash from his latest appointment then grabs a broom from the corner. As he sweeps, his eyes stay on John, tracking the man's movement as he looks over bottles of shampoo and lotions. After a while, he grabs his phone and types a quick message, stamping his foot on the floorboards for the other man's attention.]
Help you find something?
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action;
It's the fourth of fifth of these walks he's made today when the nagging itch of something like a sliver in his back stops him. He examines a gash in the fabric of his pack and knowing the likley cause of the metaphorical thorn in his paw knows he'll have to dig it out. But something else someone told him comes to mind. Something about a stone.
Hey. Got a minute? If there's something suspicious about the way he looks around, there is. Should the transferrable properties of his healing factor be unaffected by that stone, he can imagine about everyone else in this cabin might take issue with him testing that out on one of only two human beings amongst them. Still, he likes Wes for this. He's seems... the least likely to complain about it if it doesn't work.
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The first few days he rises only enough to walk from one room to another, followed from the very start by a strange black shadow. The little one-eyed cat stays to the corners of the room, tucking itself under furniture and ignoring all efforts to be coaxed either closer or further away. It watches, silent and unblinking, as the man makes himself a plate of eggs and promptly ignores them, and as he flips the pages of a book without doing much reading.
He's come to recognize each of the men by the weight of their footsteps, so Wes knows it's Logan before he even looks up. When the man urges his attention, though, he sets his book down without hesitation and unfurls himself from the couch. Sure. Wes's green eyes narrow as he looks the man over for any sign of obvious trouble. Takes stock against evidence of all the things he's come to expect from this place. What's up?
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text | un: bearmitzvah
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text. un: hardsell. 8/28
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Privacy.
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text | dated early sept before logan drags him home
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What's going on, Jean-Paul?
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left at the reception.
The note reads: When you both get a quiet moment alone and preferably outside, take the herbs out of the sachets and hold them in your palms. Think about what you want for the future, what you want for each other. Really try and visualize it. Together. Once that's done, toss the herbs into the air. The coins are for the fountain outside my shop.
Just go with it. Make a wish, toss the coins.
Note: Once they toss the herbs in the air, a soft wind will kick up and there might be a sound like distant church bells. Then it's gone but a warm feeling will linger a while. As for the coins: if they are tossed into the water wheel fountain each of them will have a small wish granted. What it is, is up to you. ]
text | evening of the 25th
[ Attached is a photo of Kurt in the back room at Pixie's with his shirt pulled up, showing his back to the camera -- and the tattoo now outlined in purple light glowing through his fur. ]
no subject
Does it hurt? How do you feel?
He means to turn the camera on his own ears, but something catches his eye even before he can. What follows is a picture of the man's scowling face, with two nearly-transparent purple antlers protruding from the ether surrounding his forehead.
What the fuck's going on?
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a delivery
it's been real.
it's been weird.
it's been real weird.
see you on the flip side!
– GP
[ The pog is enchanted with dream magic, so that it can be given as a gift, but cannot be lost, stolen, or destroyed. ]
[Delivery]
It's a box of chocolates! And it comes with a handwritten note:]
Hey,
I just learned about this rad human holiday where you give people stuff if they're important to you, so I hope you like chocolate!
And if this isn't how the holiday works, sorry. I'm trying my best here.
-Fern
text; un: canary
bar empty
no friends
drinking alone
backup requested
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Fortunately, I'm available.
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un: atomicray
im starting to get shaggy :(
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Just a trim?
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