hadriel_logs | [OPEN] Everyone Is Killing Me And Everything Conspires (It's Alive Event & General)

It's a chain of disassociated goods of all kinds: cans of food, a brush meant for scrubbing dishes, a single rolling rubber tire, a series of small painted rocks, one of the fast ovens from someone's kitchen, a single sausage, three plastic combs, a shirt printed with flowers, and on and on.

These objects are probably useful -- to someone, at some point -- but for now, there's a proud parade of them, and it's a nuisance. The way they march determinedly towards the outskirts of the city implies that they absolutely intend to explore the surrounding areas.

Maybe it would be easier to let them go, but after the privation everyone in the city has suffered lately, that seems like a poor idea. There's also some concern about what they may do when no one is looking.

How to stop them, though? Jon places himself in their path, and they have every chance to attack him, but instead, they break rank and march around him and form the line again. With an exasperated look, he stands back. There's a rock in their path a little further up, and they don't go around it: it takes the lead, shifting itself along the ground.

He is tired. This escapade is foolish and exhausting. He notices someone nearby and says, wearily, "Do you have any better ideas? They look like they're trying to form an army."

His expression suggests that he's aware that this is nearly the very stupidest of all possible problems. Still, it's not the first time he's dealt with a large number of things that walked in formation when they shouldn't have been able to move about on their own at all.

Pray it doesn't become more like what he's already known.

Edited 2019-01-27 09:13 (UTC)

[the person he turns to is Tinya, who has stopped by the shops looking for more vegetarian friendly food, only to find the parade of random items that Jon has encountered.

she tries to get in their way, too, only for them to simply go around her. she really doesn't know which of the aliens is responsible for this latest nonsense, but she wants it to stop. her own pillow tried to smother her and her kitchen table blocked the door on the way out. fortunately, she could phase right through that and get out. she figures that not everybody is so lucky]

I could try talking to them? It worked for Pratt's cutlery.

[He recognizes the girl in passing: another member of the Guard. He thinks her name is Tinya. She's younger than he is -- somewhere around his sisters' ages, if he gauges correctly.]

You can try. I don't know what happens if they get out of the city -- is there some point where they stop, or do they just keep marching? Can they get other things to join them? I imagine great boulders rolling in on us before all of this ends.

[Probably, if he was sleeping better, this wouldn't be as wearying.]

[and she recognizes him in passing, too. it would be hard to forget someone so good-looking. and that giant wolf stands out, too]

I would think that the magic would wear off past a certain point? At least I hope so, I don't like the idea of giant boulders coming at us, too.

[she gets in the way of the parade again and crouches down, speaking in an exceptionally sweet tone of voice]

If you'd mind stopping what you're doing, that would be wonderful. Please?

[Apparently, the objects mind. They all halt at once, as if they're considering the request, then a beat passes, and they continue marching along to the same rhythm.]

When the gods get bored. Fear, I think, or Confusion. Or both of them.

I don't think they can make the boulders come in, but there's no telling what these things might be able to do.

Have you ever seen a thing like this before?

-- I'm sorry, my lady, we haven't met. I'm Jon Snow.

[Isn't he? He still can't think of himself as Aegon Targaryen yet.]

[---oh, for sprock's sake! this is going to be trickier than Pratt's cutlery. she phases reflexively and the items continue their march through her as she straightens up to face him]

My credits are on Confusion. We know she hates us and this would probably seem funny to her.

March their way out of town until the magic wears off and they quit? Then we have to pick them up and bring them back. Then the magic will kick back in and they'll probably start their march again.

No, never. Have you?

[she smiles cheerfully] Hi, Jon. I'm Tinya Wazzo. How long have you been here?

It is very simple: those who share a home with Jon may walk in to find the ties of his shirt creeping up to tighten around his throat, as he drags at them with his fingers. The shirts Northerners wear have a cowl that can be drawn tight and high on the neck with strings, and now the shirt is trying to choke the life out of him. He could probably use some help.

Or they might walk in a few minutes later, to find him shirtless and scowling and grim. This is worse than a few days ago, when he went to buckle on his sword belt and yelped because Longclaw's pommel had bitten hard on his palm. His hand still aches; it's black and blue.

After the bite, he'd covered the little stone wolf's head in a bit of cloth and string. The creature got the cloth into its mouth in the night and tore it away by shaking its head, so whether or not it is covered is a matter of whether or not Jon has attended to it again since the last time it freed itself. It strains to gnaw at any convenient passing flesh, blinking and rolling its garnet eyes.

A corresponding face appears on the handle of his dirk, a face like the face on a heart tree in the North, only with open eyes. Disconcertingly, it doesn't bite -- it only silently watches. Sometimes it narrows its little eyes in displeasure.

Or, late in the night, Daenerys may find that the blankets on his bed slip silently to the floor no matter how much each of them tries to pull them up around their shoulders. Once on the floor, they go on a long trek about the house.

Maybe this is all a dream he has, though. The world has taken on the quality of a nightmare, not for the first time, and it invades his sleep, when he can sleep, so there's no peace awake or dreaming. And eventually, the dreams make him thrash about in his bed.

[OOC: Castmates, do feel free to take other prompts! Anything in this prompt that doesn't get picked up by someone is just a nightmare the event has given him.]

Edited 2019-01-27 09:31 (UTC)

[if Jon is paying attention, he'll hear a rather undignified yelp come from Margaery's room. her bloody bed has tilted itself to the side and tipped her out of bed to land in a heap of blankets on the floor.

she marches in while wearing a very impractical nightgown with a deeply cross expression on her face, only to find Jon being choked by his own shirt. her own irritation momentarily forgotten, she rushes over to Jon reaching out to try and help]

Here, let me--[the shirt is being stubborn and is resisting her initial efforts]--wretched thing, will you behave!

[His eyes are wide, and he looks grateful at the offer of help --

but when Margaery puts her hands to the strings, they begin to twine around her fingertips in a way that makes it hard to grasp the loose ends to untie them. Trying to pull her hands away now will only tighten the strings.

Jon makes a strangled, frustrated sound.]

[when the strings tighten around her fingertips, she makes a highly annoyed sound, but she doesn't try pulling the strings tighter as it looks as though that might make matters worse]

Jon, do you trust me? Back up with me towards the kitchen, I'll see if I can find a knife which is behaving and will cut these strings.

[He nods, a little frantic, certainly ready to agree to her suggestion, and begins to back up with her into the kitchen.

Pray that the knife behaves, so close to his throat.]

[slowly they make their way to the kitchen. she feels the strings tight on one hand and with the other, she reaches carefully into the cutlery drawer. fortunately, they at least seem to be behaving.

she pulls a short, but sharp knife out of the drawer and carefully reaches up, wedges the knife between her finger and the string and cuts the string. she then moves on to the next one and the next and the next until finally, she's managed to cut all of the strings. she pulls her hand back and reaches over to put the knife back in the drawer, breathing a sigh of relief]

There. That should be better?

It wasn't a state that she expected to see her son in. While she had birthed him, neither of them had passed a certain level of intimacy. She was still treated in some regard like a sister, shielded from the sight of his body or anything else truly personal. She had assumed it was because he was still only comfortable with keeping her at an arm's length. It wasn't so important that she would press the issue.

But seeing the ugly scars on his chest, deep and jagged, she could only wonder if it was because of whatever caused this. It would be strange enough to find him standing without a shirt on in the house, but that was overshadowed by the revelation that had been lurking beneath the surface.

"Aegon?" She asked, riveted in place by the sight of him. Cold washed over her, leaving her dizzy and sick, knowing she was about to hear something she didn't want to.

It takes him a moment to look at her, and when he does, it's quick, frowning, distracted, and he shakes his head.

"I shouldn't be like this, but my shirt -- "

The linen is piled up on the sofa, tossed there.

"It was choking me. I don't think I should put it back on." And he doesn't think he wants anything up around his throat, if he can help it.

There is a blanket on the back of the sofa, but he hasn't bothered to pull it around himself; mostly, he's been catching his breath and trying to calm down.

What if she had found me dead? He doesn't know which possibility is worse: Lyanna, or Daenerys.

None of it is making sense, despite her awareness that the furniture and clothes were moving and attacking others. Her mind is focused and frozen on his chest, everything else falling away, as though it were nothing more than a fever dream. How could a shirt trying to strangle him compare to what were mortal wounds?

"What happened?" She asked, moving closer to place her hands against his cheeks, hoping to ground him and chase away the panic. They would deal with the rest of it later. Right now, her son had clearly kept something so serious from her. Anger would come later as well. Now, there was nothing but fear and concern.

"What happened to you?"

He opens his mouth to say that he told her, but he realizes, from how upset she is, that it isn't his shirt trying to choke the life out of him that has caused her so much distress.

And then he remembers what can be seen on his bare chest. The wounds are deep, and cruel, and it's been long enough that he knows that they'll never really heal. He can take salves from every maester he meets; it might be that he could ask for healing here. There is no real way to diminish them or make them vanish. Daenerys touches them sometimes, and he knows she wonders, but he hasn't told her the full story.

The idea of talking about it has always made his jaw tense, has made him like to tremble and shudder in a way that makes him feel like a fool. But surely death is any man's weakness, any man's fear.

He looks at the floor.

"A mutiny at Castle Black."

This is not really an answer. Her hands against his cheeks are warm.

What would it have been like to have his mother's hands against his face as he died, or as he awoke, chilled through, on a table in his quarters?

So he knew what it was to die, how it felt as the life drained from him. It was something that she had carried, but didn't linger on during her time here, shoving it to the back of her mind. Reflecting on it, she knew that she didn't want that image or thoughts in Jon's head, to know what his mother went through in her last moments. Unfortunately, the gods weren't kind and it seemed he followed his parents in a tragic end.

But the when and where it fell in the story he told her of his life. He was king, but how could he be king if he was still in the Night's Watch. He said nothing about being exiled or abdicating, so...

None of it made sense to her and the confusion clearly showed.

She shook her head, looking down at his chest, still holding him gently. "You died." That seemed clear, but the rest...

Now he looks into her face.

"I didn't say that."

But he's not a liar, and he didn't say otherwise, either.

SOMEWHERE IN THE CITY (after 1/20) (OTA)

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HOME: OPEN TO CASTMATES

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RAGE'S TEMPLE (LATE IN THE EVENT) (OTA)

WILDCARD (DURING AND AFTER EVENT) (OTA)

Speakeasy

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(cw: mental illness)

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