"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."
-
This section is for roleplays only.
ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.
Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.
Multiple Settings THE CALL OF CTHULHU - MAIN
- Thread starter Hell0NHighWater
- Start date
- Created at
- Index progress
- Incomplete
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
MAIN THREAD
THE CALL OF CTHULHU
- The Storyline
-
The following is a transmitted distress message:
“MAYDAY—
PIPER FOXTROT X-RAY QUEBEC QUEBEC—
STRUCK BY LIGHTNING—
IMPACT IMMINENT—
POSITION: 200 MILES EAST OF—
ALTITUDE: 1500 FEET, AIRSPEED: 125 KNOTS—
HEADING: 270 DEGREES—
250 PEOPLE ON BOARD—
PIPER FOXTROT X-RAY QUEBEC QUEBEC—”
Somewhere in the remote wilderness of British Columbia, a plane crashed.
Most of those who were on board perished—save for a small handful of survivors who managed to climb from the wreckage, injured, wary, and scared.
Through the smoke and fog, a mountain appears in the distance, sheer rock striking down from a flat snowy peak blanketed by the virescence of pine trees. There is the sound of moving water and the scent of air uncompromised by the pollutants of modern living; but there is no rumble of cars, trains, bikes, or people—there is no life.
Not a bird to be seen in the sky, a fish in the water, or a black bear roaming the woods.
It is completely silent.
A pause.
Waiting.
From the eerie silence, a call was heard that made the universe itself tremble.
- The Setting
-
＝SO WHAT DID I JUST READ?＝
The Call of Cthulhu is set on April 2, 2025 in the remote wilderness of British Columbia, Canada. A plane flying over was mysteriously stuck by a bolt of lightning and the damage caused the engines to fail, subsequently causing the plane to crash.
The characters, having been on this plane for whatever reason, survived.
As soon as they find their way out of the wreckage, they find a road that leads to a small village where the locals take them in. They are fed and housed in an old hotel. It used to be a place for tourists seeking the scenery and wildlife of the region, but it had been left abandoned after the last owner disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Knowing that they can not survive in the decrepit conditions of the hotel, and with the hope of rescue diminishing, they work together to repair what they can. But the long abandoned building has many secrets, a terrible madness, and a dead painter who will lead them to an awful discovery—all while the world outside is coming undone.
＝CONCEPTS OF HELL＝
The notion of Hell, a place of damnation and suffering, is common across many cultures around the world. While each culture calls Hell by a different name, the similarities are often thought provoking. Abrahamic tradition sees Hell as a punishment. The Kabbalah describes Hell as a waiting room or entryway for all souls. While in Islam, Jahannam is a place of blazing fire, boiling water, and torments. Some other traditions, where the concept of an afterlife as a place of punishment or reward is unknown, describe Hell as the abode of the dead.
In regard to the Cthulhu Mythos, Hell might be regarded as a dire dimension, a manifestation of utter desolation so alien to humanity as to be beyond our ability to conceive. Visions, encounters, and lore arising from centuries of human history are viewed through common perceptions as a malign place where no good exists, and a place where the wicked are sent for eternity. Such conceptions are humanity’s way of dealing with the truth of the cosmic reality of existence and the universe in which we believe we exist. - The Seven Stars Hotel
-
＝ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴀƦꜱ ʜᴏᴛᴇʟ＝
The building has seen better days; long abandoned, the elements have caused severe damage to the structure and façade. Clearly there is much work to be done before it's even remotely livable. Detailed descriptions of the grounds and internal rooms to follow:
The hotel is close to the southern bank of a massive lake. A rotted but useable wooden deck provides mooring for boats. While vegetation is sparse, what exists is overgrown and unkempt; straggly and thorny bushes surround the hotel, while ancient and tall trees pierce the sky. In the distance, what the natives call 'Hoodoo Mountain' dominates the skyline. At the western end of the hotel is an outhouse where the characters have stored any salvaged tools and supplies, as well as the generator and fuel. On the eastern side, a decaying set of doors set into the ground lead to a chute connected to the hotel’s basement, allowing wood and other supplies to be dropped down. A rusted iron chain and padlock prevent access.
A two-story structure, with a basement below, the hotel’s insides are in relatively good condition as opposed to its external features. The décor is old and fading; wallpaper is ripped and lighting fixtures are either missing or broken. In places where boarding across windows is missing, the glass is long smashed, allowing the elements to take their toll in some of the rooms. Floorboards are, on the whole, sound, however there is always run the risk of putting your feet through rotten and decayed boards. Dust, dirt, and cobwebs festoon the place.
- General Info
-
The Call of Cthulhu is a mix of mystery, supernatural, and cosmic horror. The game itself is sandbox in nature, allowing players to explore the extremely isolated and remote wilderness of the northwest corner of British Columbia, Canada. The hotel is situated on a large lake and falls under the shadow of Hoodoo Mountain. About half a mile from the hotel is a settlement of Tlingit people, who are indigenous to the area. Though none of the residents seem willing to supply much information about why the hotel is located some distance from the village. Because of how remote it is, there are very little roads leading through the area—in fact there is only one road in the whole area and calling it a road is a bit generous.
＝NPCs＝
MARAMara is the daughter of the village's 'mayor', she is a quiet and rather reserved woman and is often overshadowed by her elder brother. But don't let her meek demeaner fool you, Mara is a very influential member of the community. She was an eyewitness to the plane crash and is responsible for arranging the supplies and shelter for the survivors.
MALAKMalak is the eldest son of the village 'mayor' and the next in charge once his Father retires. He is distrustful of outsiders and did not want to harbor the survivors in the seven star hotel--at first. Eventually everyone yields to Mara and Malak is no different. He will be apart of the search party sent to check out the wreckage.
REVEREND REBNESHThe reverend is a Pentecostal evangelist heralding from Texas. He has been living with the villagers for around six months, ministering to the community and organizing the construction of a new church building. Rebnesh is something of a hell and brimstone preacher, often loud and energetic despite his advancing years. Thus, he may come across as slightly crazy. While the characters may meet him if they roam around the village, though it is more likely that he will visit them at the hotel early on to introduce himself and say hello.
ABRAHAMThe 'Mayor' of the town, Abraham's family had been in charge of the settlement since the 1920s and actually helped in the construction of the Seven Stars Hotel. He is getting up there in years and his children have figured out how to take advantage of his ailing grip on reality. According to the town gossip, Abraham has been afflicted by night terrors so severe that he hasn't slept in weeks. Some say that the insomnia is what sparked his midnight wanderings around the grounds of the Seven Stars Hotel, babbling in some nonsensical language.
BARNABAS LEVEEThe original builder and owner of the Seven Stars Hotel. He built the building in the mid 1860s during the Stikine gold rush and at first the hotel was a complete success. However during the 1920s one of the guests was murdered and the hotel soon gained a "reputation". Business halted and the Seven Stars Hotel was forced to close. Levee would, some time later, commit suicide in the hotel by slitting his own throat with a cutthroat razor; the hotel was passed on to his son. Rumor has it that Levee's ghost is often seen in the master bedroom and in the study where he took his own life.
JOHAN SCHIEGLAn obscure and ill-regarded painter from Europe, Schiegl came to the Seven Stars Hotel in British Columbia to escape the hustle and bustle of the Roaring Twenties. Schiegl wanted to capture the remote and rugged wilderness of the Canadian landscape in his paintings. But on the evening of April 2nd 1925 a mob seized Schiegl and dragged him outside the hotel to a large red-cedar tree, where his hands where nailed to the tree’s trunk and quicklime thrown over him. A local man said prayers while Schiegl died a painful, bloody, and nasty death.
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
↽LOCATION⇁ ↽MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD⇁
=British Columbia= Pink Floyd - Comfortably Numb
Wilderness
↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ↽OOC⇁
zippy
|
Sir Galahad II
Who a G? Help a bro out
BasiliskVeranda
|
idalie
| 
Heterological
|
Shotgunpenguin
|
dendygar
| @brightkings |
PinkChiffon
|
BELIAL.
≔ Beck Wilder ≕
Grief, it seemed, was the perpetual cycle in which his life was constructed; it had become apart of him as much as any parasite could become apart of a host. It surged with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by his long intakes of recycled air. His gaze fell from cloud to cloud. The giant metal wing sliced through the grey pillowy fluff and Beck's gaze absently followed the remaining fragments.
"—eck. Beck."
He turned his head away from the widow, finally tuning back into the conversation that he had been successfully ignoring. Forcing his lips into a smile, warm chocolate irises lingered on the face of a woman beside him. "Hm?"
"Did you hear what I said?"
He wiggled in his seat, "...Yes."
"You hesitated—"
"Yes?"
"Jesus, Beck, could you please be serious for once?"
"You know I'm always serious for you, Vieja," the corner of his mouth picked up at the sight of her frown, "You were saying something that I wasn't listening to."
A scowl swept across her beautiful face, "Vete a la chingada!"
He didn't know why he found himself laughing so hard, but he couldn't stop. His breath came in quick gasps between unstoppable giggles. He winced as she struck him on his shoulder, the pain from her punch forcing him to calm down.
A long lazy smile spread across his lips. His brows lifted, taking note of the pink flush across her tanned skin and the rapid pace of her breathing. "You look angry, Vieja, do you want a brownie? It might calm you down some."
"I'm going to strangle you—"
"That's Hot—"
"Ugh! I can't deal with you right now. I'm going to the bathroom."
"But you have so much to live for." He mused, watching as she fumbled with her seat belt.
She shot him a weird look, "What does that even mean? You know what, no, don't answer that."
Beck caught her hand as she stood up, holding her in place much to the chagrin of the passenger in the aisle seat. His mouth opened but Beck did not say anything—did not know what to say. Despite there being a million and one things that he could have said, his brain went entirely blank.
"Beck, let go."
"Camila, I—"
There was a flash of light followed by a loud explosion like a car backfiring. The plane jolted and the smell of burning machinery flooded the cabin. There was a collective gasp, followed by a few screams. A voice was speaking on the intercom. The calm monotonous baritone of the Captain informed them that one of the engines had been stuck by lightning; They were dropping fast; All Passengers should brace themselves for impact.
A wave of numbness fell over him, gaze vacant as Camila moved back into her chair. His co-worker, friend, and on-again-off-again girlfriend swung her gaze toward him, paralyzed. There was an eerie hush of silence before Camila turned to place her hand in his. She wove their fingers together and smiled, he could see the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, "I'm so sorry, Beck. I should have—I should have said yes."
There was another blinding flash, like sheet-lightning, and a huge ball of varicolored fire belched upward from the seal of the door next to Beck's left knee. He felt her hand slip out of his. The pain blistering across his chest. He felt his body bounce upright with his arms over his head. All he could hear was the noise of metal twisting and crunching in on itself as it slid against a blanket of trees.
And then there was nothing.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
He awakes without warning, eyes flung so wide each iris is a perfect orb of rusty chocolate. After a second or two his head turns like a rigid animatronic, throat impossibly dry, and lungs straining for breath. A groan slid past his lips as he slowly began to gain his baring. Hanging upside down, still strapped into his seat, Beck wiggled in an attempt to test if anything was broken. If it was, he couldn't feel it.
The fact that he couldn't really feel anything was a bit problematic, but he told himself he would worry about that later. Right now, he had to get out of this seat. His fingers de-snapped the buckle and he slid himself onto the roof of the cabin as gently as possible.
"Cam—Camlia?" He croaked, carefully climbing to his feet. Taking a second to to make sure his legs would support his weight, he began to descend toward where the back of the plane used to be. Beck didn't see many people in their seats and the ones that were...well, he didn't think they made it. The stench of charred flesh still hung heavy in the air, so heavy in fact that he couldn't get the smell out of his nose.
"Camila!?" His voice tapered into a wet cough as he toed around the oxygen masks that snaked at his feet. Every step made him feel as if he were on a boat. Much to his growing frustration, the rocking was making it increasingly difficult to maintain his balance. Ahead of him, the rest of the cabin had been severed as if it had been cut in two by an extremely sharp knife.
Beck stopped short of the edge.
He steadied himself against the back of a headrest frowning as he stared out at the smoldering pieces of wreckage. Large chunks of the plane were clustered across an open area surrounded by a thick wall of trees. The front of the plane must have gotten wedged in the pines.
Peering over, he swallowed against the uneasy feeling in his stomach. It had to have been about a 10ft drop. He was looking for a possible way down when something caught his gaze.
They were like dolls laying over the grass, limbs at awkward angles and heads held in such a way that they couldn't be sleeping. The bodies, the repositories of people who were once as alive as he was, were now abandoned shells left to rot in the open. Beck couldn't tell who the unfortunate souls were, but from the looks of them they had most likely fallen to their deaths. Beck was determined not to be one of them.
He was slow to cup his hands around his mouth, drawing as deep of a breath as his body would allow, "HELLO!?"
[/color]
Sir Galahad II
Semi-colon Evangelist
Travis, surprisingly, didn't find his first time on a plane to be terribly remarkable. It was a little turbulent because of the storm, sure, but people flew on planes all the time-- it had to be safe enough, right? Still, there was the faint thought that unlike if he were out in the wilderness, there wouldn't be much he could do to save himself in a plane crash. That fear took a backseat to the thought of him seeing his family again, but he was distracting himself well enough with the novel in his hands; something he couldn't do if he were driving. He did miss being able to take in the scenery as he drove, however, and while the plane offered an entirely new perspective on that scenery, it was at that moment being swallowed by the clouds that blanketed the sky.
As he gazed down at the print that dotted the pages he held, he could feel his head slowly growing heavier. He put a hand to his mouth as he yawned, and marked the page he last read with a bookmark: a plain green rectangle with the Canadian flag printed at the top, which he bought at the airport giftshop along with his novel. He closed the book, set it in his lap, laid his head against the seat, and shut his eyes.
His rest was abruptly interrupted by a boom that sounded through the entire cabin. As he rapidly glanced throughout the interior of the plane, he could feel his heart race. Sounds overloaded his senses; namely the plane rattling in the air, the captain explaining what had just happened, and the cries and screams of his fellow passengers. He looked to the seat in front of him and fumbled for the safety booklet tucked into it, which he glanced over rapidly for something relevant. Travis took one last look at his surroundings before following the instructions; he put his hands over his head as he bent as far forward as the seat would allow.
This is it, he thought to himself. He'd die as he lived: alone.
...
"Hello!?"
Travis came to his senses rather slowly. He heard a man call out somewhere up ahead of him, he thought. Fallen luggage laid on top of him. He could smell smoke and hear the crackling of fire. There was another scent there, and a more comforting one at that-- pine. His hand was lying on something... someone's wrist?
He opened his eyes, which were instantly met by a dead gaze.
Immediately, he recoiled in shock, though not far given his position. The debris posed little challenge, however; though bruised and scraped from the landing, Travis stood and shrugged off the duffel bags and rolling luggage. He glanced around at his surroundings; the cabin was a mess, as he could already assume; there were bodies everywhere, either in seats or on the ground like he had been; and there was a massive hole where the front of the plane used to be. He observed the bodies for a moment; some of them were too far away for him to tell if they were breathing or not, but there were many others he could obviously tell were dead. He made sure to step over the debris that littered the ground as he walked to the front of the wreck.
The ground immediately outside the wreck was littered with corpses in a macabre display. Above him, a large portion of the cabin was wedged up into the trees; he could see a black-haired man standing at the ledge, presumably the one that he heard earlier. Wordlessly, he turned to look at the surrounding area, unsure of anything he could possibly say in a situation like that; on the ground was more of the smoldering remains of the plane, and above, pine trees pierced the sky.
As he gazed down at the print that dotted the pages he held, he could feel his head slowly growing heavier. He put a hand to his mouth as he yawned, and marked the page he last read with a bookmark: a plain green rectangle with the Canadian flag printed at the top, which he bought at the airport giftshop along with his novel. He closed the book, set it in his lap, laid his head against the seat, and shut his eyes.
His rest was abruptly interrupted by a boom that sounded through the entire cabin. As he rapidly glanced throughout the interior of the plane, he could feel his heart race. Sounds overloaded his senses; namely the plane rattling in the air, the captain explaining what had just happened, and the cries and screams of his fellow passengers. He looked to the seat in front of him and fumbled for the safety booklet tucked into it, which he glanced over rapidly for something relevant. Travis took one last look at his surroundings before following the instructions; he put his hands over his head as he bent as far forward as the seat would allow.
This is it, he thought to himself. He'd die as he lived: alone.
...
"Hello!?"
Travis came to his senses rather slowly. He heard a man call out somewhere up ahead of him, he thought. Fallen luggage laid on top of him. He could smell smoke and hear the crackling of fire. There was another scent there, and a more comforting one at that-- pine. His hand was lying on something... someone's wrist?
He opened his eyes, which were instantly met by a dead gaze.
Immediately, he recoiled in shock, though not far given his position. The debris posed little challenge, however; though bruised and scraped from the landing, Travis stood and shrugged off the duffel bags and rolling luggage. He glanced around at his surroundings; the cabin was a mess, as he could already assume; there were bodies everywhere, either in seats or on the ground like he had been; and there was a massive hole where the front of the plane used to be. He observed the bodies for a moment; some of them were too far away for him to tell if they were breathing or not, but there were many others he could obviously tell were dead. He made sure to step over the debris that littered the ground as he walked to the front of the wreck.
The ground immediately outside the wreck was littered with corpses in a macabre display. Above him, a large portion of the cabin was wedged up into the trees; he could see a black-haired man standing at the ledge, presumably the one that he heard earlier. Wordlessly, he turned to look at the surrounding area, unsure of anything he could possibly say in a situation like that; on the ground was more of the smoldering remains of the plane, and above, pine trees pierced the sky.
Last edited:
PinkChiffon
Certified Iconic
Location: Woods, site of the crash. Interactions: General
The past couple of days were unequivocal chaos and Maura was starting to feel the long days take their toll. This had been the first conference that she spoke at and she had spent the majority of the past few days either prepping for her own talk, or shepherding the two residents she had brought with her. They were so bright and they wanted to make sure they got the most out of the conference. While Maura was pleased with their enthusiasm, she had to admit she was finding it difficult to keep up with the young doctors. Maura was eager to take the opportunity to rest before their layover, and could feel herself drifting off to sleep within minutes of takeoff.
"Dr.Reed,"
Maura jolted awake, startled by the interruption. She blinked the sleep out her eyes, shuffled in her seat, and sat up straight. Marua glanced down at her watch, trying to figure out how long she'd been asleep, and how close they were to landing. Without looking up, she addressed the man beside her, the one who had woken her up, "Yes, Seth?" Just as her bleary eyes were finally able to focus on the dial, she felt the plane jolt a bit. Maura shifted her gaze over to Seth, who was now visibly paled as he looked up from his tablet. He had admitted that he was not that great of a flyer when they left Georgia. "It's just turbulence, Seth. It's normal," Maura made an effort to comfort the young man and quickly changed the subject. "How's Maggie holding up?" She was referring to the woman on the other side of Seth, who was absolutely knocked out, slumped against the window.
Seth was white-knuckling his tablet, trying to take some deep breaths. He side-eyed his sleeping colleague. "If she didn't snore, I'd think she was dead. Honestly, I don't know if she's slept since we got here. After you left last night, we ended going for drinks with some of the cardiothoracic surgical team from St.Paul. I left around 1:30 am, but Maggie was still going strong."
A light laugh escaped Maura's lips. She thought she was cool staying out until midnight with them. "I'm glad you two were able to network. It's good to have a network of colleagues you could call on if you ever need to. Up comers in their field today are doing groundbreaking work tomorrow-" Maura's pearl of wisdom was cut short by what felt like more turbulence- wait, no. This was different. There was a bright flash, followed by a loud crash, 'lightning? ' Maura postulated, 'I thought the weather was supposed to be clear.' Maura heard Maggie scream, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched the young woman jolt upright, clearly frightened. Her initial hypothesis of lightening was proved correct by the voice over the intercom, but it was far worse then she had imagined. Maura did as instructed and braced for impact.
Maura's heart was racing, but her mind was working faster. "Listen-" She could hear Seth saying his prayers quietly. Maura's heart broke a bit, this was literally his greatest fear staring right at him, but she really needed his attention, Maggie's too. "Hey, focus. Until EMS gets on sce-" She was cut short by another bright flash of light. The roar of the fire was deafening, and the smell was noxious. The force slammed Maura back, hard, and everything went black.
***************************
Maura woke up, coughing harder than she ever had. Each cough felt like she was being stabbed, and she was finding it near impossible to take a deep breath. She went from laying flat on her back to rolling onto her side just in time to throw up. This is when she realized that she was in fact, laying on the ceiling of the place, next to the overhead bins. She looked at the people above her, trying to assess the situation. Maura struggled to stand up, feeling an incredibly sharp pain in her side. She gave herself a very quick once over. Burns, a probable concussion, and some definite cracked ribs, but she was alive, and everything was still attached. She felt around for her phone to call EMS, feeling pure relief when she felt it still in her pocket. Her face quickly fell when she pulled out the mangled brick. Unusable.
Maura began to slowly stumble from her position in the back of the plane, towards the front. It was very clearly a mass casualty incident. She felt for radial pulses on the people she passed, trying to find signs of life. Some of what was left were hardly recognizable as human remains. The smell of burnt flesh was impossible to ignore. She remembered her rotation through the burn unit, she never imagined she could end up on this side of the equation. She was desperately trying to make it back to her row. "Maggie!" Her voice was hoarse and hardly audible, but she was overcome with a sense of hope as she spotted her colleague's body on the floor. She knelt down next to her, struggling to roll the young women onto her back. "Maggie! Maggie wake up." Maura pleaded as she checked for signs of life. She was long gone before Maura approached her. She looked around Maggie's body in an attempt to find Seth. He was nowhere in sight, but her search was interrupted when she heard a voice call out.
Maura looked towards the front of the plane and saw two figures standing upright. "Hey!" Her voice was weak, and it was immediately followed by another coughing fit as she staggered forward. "My name-" another round of coughing interrupted her, "My name is Dr. Maura Reed. I'm a trauma surgeon from Georgia. How are your injuries?"
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
Rose Grainger
INTERACTING: Beck
MENTIONS:
Hell0NHighWater
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Front half of plane, in trees⠀ ⠀OOC: didnt know what to say so ha ha
MENTIONS:
Hell0NHighWater
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Front half of plane, in trees⠀ ⠀OOC: didnt know what to say so ha ha Rose hated to admit it, but part of her felt relieved that her father was dead. He was a selfish, controlling man who had sought to make his daughter a puppet of the fantasy world he lived in. If he was wealthy, well-known defense lawyer, she had to be prodigy scientist daughter. That was the narrative in his mind. The wealth they had, the high-rise penthouse they lived in, it was all a setting to the man. It was a means to perpetuate the famous lies, and to hold that bravado so none could dash it down. Little did the man know, all it took was his own daughter leaving for nearly a decade and disowning the fortune he was drowning her in for him to lose it all. Rose didn't keep tabs when she was in France, and had little interest with fostering a new relationship with him. And yet, the tabloids were a way to have windows into her old life.
He was a fading star, and she had taken his light. Slowly, where he lost the prestige and the money with scandal and misfortune, she gained her footing in the journalist world.
Then, finally, he was snuffed out.
A heart attack, as tragic as it was, wiped the man's slate clean. He had always had a bad heart, and was quick to scare. When she was younger he warned his heart would give up if she cared him. Rosalind wondered what made his heart stop faster: a regular procession of the heart's irregularity, or something else entirely.
It was a fleeting thought.
Even if he was slightly hated, or more so, by everyone, they opted to find some forgiveness for the sleaze. All who were in attendance at his funeral wore mock tears and black shrouds. Rosalind found herself, even, brought to some emotion when she finally realize her newly appointed title of "orphan". She was alone, away from France. Even if she had wanted to reconcile, before his passing, she would have been too late. Part of her figured that the death was inevitable, as if he had expired his time on this world. Wasted all the chances, wasted all the moments.
Yet, Rosalind wished she could have said goodbye. Even if it was sad. Angry. Something above nothing.
She had booked herself a plane immediately after the funeral, determined to throw herself into her work to cope with the grief. The original flight was scheduled for the next day, but a sudden upgrade let her hop on a plane that same day. That, and first class. Maybe it had something to do with her father, and the weight of his prestige that would fall on her shoulders. His thousands of airline miles, his amicable relationships with YVR, or maybe something else entirely. Rose wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and was more than ready to be in her bed a whole day earlier.
Settling into the plush recliner, placing her headphones into her ears, and sipping on a pre-flight mickey, she was content to sleep the whole trip to Quebec.
Other plans were in store, as it happened.
---
Rose's eyes opened in a flash, strangulating due to a wire wrapped around her neck. Choking, almost. The side of her body was warm, and she could feel the uneasiness of her center of gravity being shifted. Her arm was twisted to the side, but it wasn't broken. She felt the gravity within her; upside-down, like a terrible rollercoaster. The air was still, nonetheless, aside from the hum of singing embers and the creaking of metal. She dug at the headphone wires, managing to detangle herself, but eliciting a sharp bite of pain in her left wrist. Rose moaned, unsure of the pain exactly, but quickly releasing the silicone noose around her neck. She grabbed at it with the other hand, only furthering the stabs of pain. With the un-injured hand she yanked at the cord, twisting it out of her hair and neck. She threw it down, gasping for breath, and looked around.
Fidgeting with the lap-belt, without any warning, Rose completely fell. As she hit the roof of the plane rather unceremoniously, she thought she could hear some voices. "Camila?"
She rolled in some agony, clutching the wrist that had been so kind as to catch her fall. It was already hurt, probably fractured, but she wouldn't be surprised if it had grown to a whole forearm fracture. Rose wasn't one to scream, so she bit her lip and felt warmth bite her eyes. The voice, a loud one called out again.
"HELLO!?" A male voice, just as frightened as she (or anyone else on this god forsaken plane. Where were they anyway?)
"Here! Back here!" Rose strained to call, finding her feet without fidgeting with her wrist too much. She figured back, despite being in first class, as once she was free of the seat, she could feel that the plane was tipped... backward. It was stupid to say that the plane wasn't flying anymore, but Rose gave herself the benefit of the doubt due to the now blistering headache that pommeled her skull. She licked her dry lips, tongue heavy like a used sponge, and stumbled along the 'ceiling' of the plane (which was now beneath her feet).
Staggering past the overturned seats, complete with a few limp bodies (enough to make the dry lump in her throat bigger than the softball it was), and countless empty ones, Rose could feel the weight in her chest grow heavier. She swallowed more, willing some amount of oxygen or reason seep into her injured body. It felt like she had been hit by a freight train, complete with the shaky legs. How long had they been upside down? How long had they been down?
Heading toward the middle of the plane, her jaw dropped to see the expansive wilderness visible from just beyond the middle seats. The plane had... snapped. Like the god damn Titanic, right in half, and sunk into the green ocean of vast wilderness. She steeled herself, keep it together Grainger, and moved toward the man.
"I don't mean to be rude, but if you look even further over that edge you may just tumble," she seethed through another wave of pain from her head to her toes. And her wrist. Definitely her wrist.
He was a fading star, and she had taken his light. Slowly, where he lost the prestige and the money with scandal and misfortune, she gained her footing in the journalist world.
Then, finally, he was snuffed out.
A heart attack, as tragic as it was, wiped the man's slate clean. He had always had a bad heart, and was quick to scare. When she was younger he warned his heart would give up if she cared him. Rosalind wondered what made his heart stop faster: a regular procession of the heart's irregularity, or something else entirely.
It was a fleeting thought.
Even if he was slightly hated, or more so, by everyone, they opted to find some forgiveness for the sleaze. All who were in attendance at his funeral wore mock tears and black shrouds. Rosalind found herself, even, brought to some emotion when she finally realize her newly appointed title of "orphan". She was alone, away from France. Even if she had wanted to reconcile, before his passing, she would have been too late. Part of her figured that the death was inevitable, as if he had expired his time on this world. Wasted all the chances, wasted all the moments.
Yet, Rosalind wished she could have said goodbye. Even if it was sad. Angry. Something above nothing.
She had booked herself a plane immediately after the funeral, determined to throw herself into her work to cope with the grief. The original flight was scheduled for the next day, but a sudden upgrade let her hop on a plane that same day. That, and first class. Maybe it had something to do with her father, and the weight of his prestige that would fall on her shoulders. His thousands of airline miles, his amicable relationships with YVR, or maybe something else entirely. Rose wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and was more than ready to be in her bed a whole day earlier.
Settling into the plush recliner, placing her headphones into her ears, and sipping on a pre-flight mickey, she was content to sleep the whole trip to Quebec.
Other plans were in store, as it happened.
---
Rose's eyes opened in a flash, strangulating due to a wire wrapped around her neck. Choking, almost. The side of her body was warm, and she could feel the uneasiness of her center of gravity being shifted. Her arm was twisted to the side, but it wasn't broken. She felt the gravity within her; upside-down, like a terrible rollercoaster. The air was still, nonetheless, aside from the hum of singing embers and the creaking of metal. She dug at the headphone wires, managing to detangle herself, but eliciting a sharp bite of pain in her left wrist. Rose moaned, unsure of the pain exactly, but quickly releasing the silicone noose around her neck. She grabbed at it with the other hand, only furthering the stabs of pain. With the un-injured hand she yanked at the cord, twisting it out of her hair and neck. She threw it down, gasping for breath, and looked around.
Fidgeting with the lap-belt, without any warning, Rose completely fell. As she hit the roof of the plane rather unceremoniously, she thought she could hear some voices. "Camila?"
She rolled in some agony, clutching the wrist that had been so kind as to catch her fall. It was already hurt, probably fractured, but she wouldn't be surprised if it had grown to a whole forearm fracture. Rose wasn't one to scream, so she bit her lip and felt warmth bite her eyes. The voice, a loud one called out again.
"HELLO!?" A male voice, just as frightened as she (or anyone else on this god forsaken plane. Where were they anyway?)
"Here! Back here!" Rose strained to call, finding her feet without fidgeting with her wrist too much. She figured back, despite being in first class, as once she was free of the seat, she could feel that the plane was tipped... backward. It was stupid to say that the plane wasn't flying anymore, but Rose gave herself the benefit of the doubt due to the now blistering headache that pommeled her skull. She licked her dry lips, tongue heavy like a used sponge, and stumbled along the 'ceiling' of the plane (which was now beneath her feet).
Staggering past the overturned seats, complete with a few limp bodies (enough to make the dry lump in her throat bigger than the softball it was), and countless empty ones, Rose could feel the weight in her chest grow heavier. She swallowed more, willing some amount of oxygen or reason seep into her injured body. It felt like she had been hit by a freight train, complete with the shaky legs. How long had they been upside down? How long had they been down?
Heading toward the middle of the plane, her jaw dropped to see the expansive wilderness visible from just beyond the middle seats. The plane had... snapped. Like the god damn Titanic, right in half, and sunk into the green ocean of vast wilderness. She steeled herself, keep it together Grainger, and moved toward the man.
"I don't mean to be rude, but if you look even further over that edge you may just tumble," she seethed through another wave of pain from her head to her toes. And her wrist. Definitely her wrist.
Shotgunpenguin
I have become haitus, destroyer of RP's
Samantha Kerbson
Location: Plane wreckage, back portion
Interactions: General
"The ships hung in the sky, much in the way a brick doesn't ." Samantha was as content as she could be, book in hand and noise canceling headphones on her ears she wondered why she had never thought of flying before. Sure at first she was averse to the idea, all to many books were quick to describe in detail the horrors of a plane crash, and she had to admit it was concerning to put herself in a similar situation. But after talking it over with her parents she realized how childish she was being, car crashes were even more present in literature yet she never worried about it when she was driving. Now on a multi-hour flight with nothing to do but sit back, read and nibble on the small bag of pretzels she had grabbed from the flight attendant, she couldn't believe she was ever afraid.
The view outside of her window was also phenomenal, being able to see everything from so high up was a sight to behold. She had never realized exactly how far she would be traveling until they had departed from the airport, within minutes the hustle and bustle had been replaced by buildings the size of ants. Their flight would take an hour or so more for them to arrive, or at least that's what she had been told by the man on her left, which gave her a good amount of time to finish her book.
And so she brought her attention back to her book, content to lose herself in a world of words as she flipped to the next page. A bright flash startled her as even through her headphones she heard what sounded like an explosion right outside of the plane. Looking around it seemed that she had not imagined it as the other passengers looked just as concerned. She felt her heart begin to race as she tore her headphones from her head, the captain explaining that one of the engines had been struck by lightning in a voice that was horrifyingly monotone as if this was normal. She found it hard to breath, whether that be from the thick smoke filling the cabin or her own panic she didn't know, her fingers digging into the armrest and book as she heard screaming. It may have been her own, or maybe it was the combination of the other passengers, all Samantha knew in her last moments before unconsciousness was that she may never see her library ever again.
----------------------------------
When Samantha awoke she wasn't sure if she had dreamed the entire crash, just a case of an overactive imagination on her part before the flight. She felt weightless, as if she was right back in her bed curled up deep beneath her covers. It was dark, darker than it should have been when she would usually woke up, and with much effort she pried her eyes open one at a time. She wished she hadn't for as soon as they were opened she was face to face with the shocked and lifeless body of her seat neighbor, his face twisted in panic as he lay on the ground unblinking. She tried to scream but no sound came out, the attempt scratching up the inside of her throat like a rake in dry dirt. She struggled to get away from the deceased man staring at her but could only find the strength to weakly swing her arms forward and back. Feeling was returning to her body now, and a wave of pain had her clutch her head and try and curl, only to feel a pressure on her left leg as she finally looked up. Her leg was caught between the armrest and the chair at an unnatural angle and for a brief moment Samantha feared that it was broken. A quick check confirmed that it was not broken, at least as far as she could tell, and the confirmation that it wasn't was enough to get her to calm down enough to for her to try and free herself.
With a considerable amount of effort she managed to reach up and force the arm-rest away from her leg, she soon found herself wishing that she hadn't however as her world suddenly turned upside down. She landed on something soft-ish and although she realized exactly what it was, or who it was for that matter, she had landed on she tried her best to block it out. Rolling off of the deceased man Samantha shakily got to her feet on the floor of the floor. "W-wait a second. N-not right." It wasn't the floor of the pane she was standing on, it was the roof of it. She wasn't the one who was upside down, the entire plane was on it's head.
Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to do next, reaching out for any information that she may have read that could be useful. Another wave of pain had her falling to her knees, gripping her head with her right hand as her left struggled to go higher than her shoulder. She felt nauseous, the reality of what happened setting in as a familiar feeling welled up in her stomach. With deep breaths she tried to stop the inevitable, but it was of no use as she emptied her stomach contents all over the roof of the cabin. She didn't know how long she stayed there, on her hands and knees staring down at a pile of her own vomit mixed with the telltale red tint of blood. Her breathing came in long drags, desperately trying to fill her lungs with as much air as possible all the while wincing at the pain in her chest. "H-help. Need help."
She slowly rose to her feet, grabbing onto the remains of one of the chair seats with her good arm to steady herself. She slowly made her way down the aisle, taking care to avoid the ruined luggage and deceased bodies that littered the floor. She licked her lips, blood slowly filling her mouth from an unknown source, before calling out. "Hello? Is anyone here?! Please, please someone say something!"
Location: Plane wreckage, back portion
Interactions: General
"The ships hung in the sky, much in the way a brick doesn't ." Samantha was as content as she could be, book in hand and noise canceling headphones on her ears she wondered why she had never thought of flying before. Sure at first she was averse to the idea, all to many books were quick to describe in detail the horrors of a plane crash, and she had to admit it was concerning to put herself in a similar situation. But after talking it over with her parents she realized how childish she was being, car crashes were even more present in literature yet she never worried about it when she was driving. Now on a multi-hour flight with nothing to do but sit back, read and nibble on the small bag of pretzels she had grabbed from the flight attendant, she couldn't believe she was ever afraid.
The view outside of her window was also phenomenal, being able to see everything from so high up was a sight to behold. She had never realized exactly how far she would be traveling until they had departed from the airport, within minutes the hustle and bustle had been replaced by buildings the size of ants. Their flight would take an hour or so more for them to arrive, or at least that's what she had been told by the man on her left, which gave her a good amount of time to finish her book.
And so she brought her attention back to her book, content to lose herself in a world of words as she flipped to the next page. A bright flash startled her as even through her headphones she heard what sounded like an explosion right outside of the plane. Looking around it seemed that she had not imagined it as the other passengers looked just as concerned. She felt her heart begin to race as she tore her headphones from her head, the captain explaining that one of the engines had been struck by lightning in a voice that was horrifyingly monotone as if this was normal. She found it hard to breath, whether that be from the thick smoke filling the cabin or her own panic she didn't know, her fingers digging into the armrest and book as she heard screaming. It may have been her own, or maybe it was the combination of the other passengers, all Samantha knew in her last moments before unconsciousness was that she may never see her library ever again.
----------------------------------
When Samantha awoke she wasn't sure if she had dreamed the entire crash, just a case of an overactive imagination on her part before the flight. She felt weightless, as if she was right back in her bed curled up deep beneath her covers. It was dark, darker than it should have been when she would usually woke up, and with much effort she pried her eyes open one at a time. She wished she hadn't for as soon as they were opened she was face to face with the shocked and lifeless body of her seat neighbor, his face twisted in panic as he lay on the ground unblinking. She tried to scream but no sound came out, the attempt scratching up the inside of her throat like a rake in dry dirt. She struggled to get away from the deceased man staring at her but could only find the strength to weakly swing her arms forward and back. Feeling was returning to her body now, and a wave of pain had her clutch her head and try and curl, only to feel a pressure on her left leg as she finally looked up. Her leg was caught between the armrest and the chair at an unnatural angle and for a brief moment Samantha feared that it was broken. A quick check confirmed that it was not broken, at least as far as she could tell, and the confirmation that it wasn't was enough to get her to calm down enough to for her to try and free herself.
With a considerable amount of effort she managed to reach up and force the arm-rest away from her leg, she soon found herself wishing that she hadn't however as her world suddenly turned upside down. She landed on something soft-ish and although she realized exactly what it was, or who it was for that matter, she had landed on she tried her best to block it out. Rolling off of the deceased man Samantha shakily got to her feet on the floor of the floor. "W-wait a second. N-not right." It wasn't the floor of the pane she was standing on, it was the roof of it. She wasn't the one who was upside down, the entire plane was on it's head.
Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to do next, reaching out for any information that she may have read that could be useful. Another wave of pain had her falling to her knees, gripping her head with her right hand as her left struggled to go higher than her shoulder. She felt nauseous, the reality of what happened setting in as a familiar feeling welled up in her stomach. With deep breaths she tried to stop the inevitable, but it was of no use as she emptied her stomach contents all over the roof of the cabin. She didn't know how long she stayed there, on her hands and knees staring down at a pile of her own vomit mixed with the telltale red tint of blood. Her breathing came in long drags, desperately trying to fill her lungs with as much air as possible all the while wincing at the pain in her chest. "H-help. Need help."
She slowly rose to her feet, grabbing onto the remains of one of the chair seats with her good arm to steady herself. She slowly made her way down the aisle, taking care to avoid the ruined luggage and deceased bodies that littered the floor. She licked her lips, blood slowly filling her mouth from an unknown source, before calling out. "Hello? Is anyone here?! Please, please someone say something!"
Heterological
Search it up
Thomas Williams
Location: Middle of the plane
Interactions: General
The screen glowed slightly on the plane. A few others were talking to each other, but Thomas wasn't. He was drawing using a digital stylus on his laptop; a project had been started, and he wasn't resting until it was finished.
He had finished his first contract a week earlier; it was relatively easy, but it paid well enough. Now Thomas was moving to Canada. Not for long, but still. It was really the first time he'd ever been alone out of the comfort and familiarity of Britain. There'd be about a week where he wouldn't be doing anything, and he planned to spend that time designing. So that was why he was drawing in a cramped airplane with a crappy stylus, listening to music with glitchy earbuds to stop himself from thinking about how far up they were.
Thankfully he was in the aisle seat. Unfortunately, the guy in the window seat was also listening to music through his earbuds. Hard rock. Thomas wouldn't have any problem with him, except the earbuds weren't very directed, which meant that Thomas could hear it. And it was very annoying.
It was getting so bad, Thomas was contemplating putting a blanket over his own head to disrupt the sound of the rock.
That was when something happened.
From his point of view, Thomas didn't see anything. But the smell of something burning gradually wafted into his nose. The captain said something over the intercom, something about lightning and engines and falling. He felt himself floating in the air; of course, that would happen in a free-fall. It was strangely uplifting, and Thomas would have stayed there had they not been falling from about thirty thousand feet high.
A thousand thoughts raced through his head.
He drew his knowledge from what he knew about planes. As a planner, Thomas had researched a bit about plane crashes; as a rationalist, Thomas had told himself he was stupid, as the odds were infinitesimal that he would be on a crashed plane. Yet here he was. This thought of irony was quickly replaced by the information that fire and smoke inhalation killed many of the passengers, so Thomas undid most of his seatbelt; it would only take half a second to unclip it.
Another part of him wondered about the chances; The clouds above weren't raining at all; it was dry lightning. They were in Canada right now, and dry lightning was extremely rare in humid or cold places. Additionally, planes like this were designed to take on lightning, safely taking out electric currents. It was a one in a million that this happened, and it was one in a billion that it happened to him.
Thomas also heard a few people screaming. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was screaming with them. Some smoke filled the cabin, and he tried to hold his breath but failed. He felt the blood rush to his head, as the force of about five G's acted on him and pulled him into unconsciousness.
.
.
.
Something hurt.
Nevermind, everything hurt.
He could smell burning flesh.
Thomas opened his eyes. There were bodies almost everywhere, and he shut down his imagination before he started to think about those twisted bodies. A fire was slowly but quite noticeably starting to spread from passenger to passenger. He tried to move his hand to unclip himself, and he couldn't. His hand would not move. After a brief moment of fearing something along the lines of a broken spinal cord, Thomas realized he could still feel. So that was good. Or maybe not, since everything hurt.
There was a pressure on his chest. Not a good sign at all. Thomas took a deep breath to calm himself. Rather, he tried to, because he couldn't breathe. It was like some sort of dark creature was sitting on his chest, squeezing him to death. The malevolent thing felt as if it was somehow killing him. Thomas was going to die.
The rationalist inside of him knew that mystical beings did not exist. The other part of him was saying mental goodbyes to his parents. His throat closed, and something started to pound inside his chest. He wasn't supposed to die this way. Not like this. Not this quickly. All while the fire crept along.
Suddenly it was over; his hand could move again, and Thomas unclipped his seatbelt with aching hands. He staggered out of his seat and walked towards the emergency exit, with what he suspected and hoped was a sprained left ankle.
After moving a safe distance away from the plane, he threw up and thought about what had happened inside the plane.
Why couldn't he move?
Location: Middle of the plane
Interactions: General
The screen glowed slightly on the plane. A few others were talking to each other, but Thomas wasn't. He was drawing using a digital stylus on his laptop; a project had been started, and he wasn't resting until it was finished.
He had finished his first contract a week earlier; it was relatively easy, but it paid well enough. Now Thomas was moving to Canada. Not for long, but still. It was really the first time he'd ever been alone out of the comfort and familiarity of Britain. There'd be about a week where he wouldn't be doing anything, and he planned to spend that time designing. So that was why he was drawing in a cramped airplane with a crappy stylus, listening to music with glitchy earbuds to stop himself from thinking about how far up they were.
Thankfully he was in the aisle seat. Unfortunately, the guy in the window seat was also listening to music through his earbuds. Hard rock. Thomas wouldn't have any problem with him, except the earbuds weren't very directed, which meant that Thomas could hear it. And it was very annoying.
It was getting so bad, Thomas was contemplating putting a blanket over his own head to disrupt the sound of the rock.
That was when something happened.
From his point of view, Thomas didn't see anything. But the smell of something burning gradually wafted into his nose. The captain said something over the intercom, something about lightning and engines and falling. He felt himself floating in the air; of course, that would happen in a free-fall. It was strangely uplifting, and Thomas would have stayed there had they not been falling from about thirty thousand feet high.
A thousand thoughts raced through his head.
He drew his knowledge from what he knew about planes. As a planner, Thomas had researched a bit about plane crashes; as a rationalist, Thomas had told himself he was stupid, as the odds were infinitesimal that he would be on a crashed plane. Yet here he was. This thought of irony was quickly replaced by the information that fire and smoke inhalation killed many of the passengers, so Thomas undid most of his seatbelt; it would only take half a second to unclip it.
Another part of him wondered about the chances; The clouds above weren't raining at all; it was dry lightning. They were in Canada right now, and dry lightning was extremely rare in humid or cold places. Additionally, planes like this were designed to take on lightning, safely taking out electric currents. It was a one in a million that this happened, and it was one in a billion that it happened to him.
Thomas also heard a few people screaming. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was screaming with them. Some smoke filled the cabin, and he tried to hold his breath but failed. He felt the blood rush to his head, as the force of about five G's acted on him and pulled him into unconsciousness.
.
.
.
Something hurt.
Nevermind, everything hurt.
He could smell burning flesh.
Thomas opened his eyes. There were bodies almost everywhere, and he shut down his imagination before he started to think about those twisted bodies. A fire was slowly but quite noticeably starting to spread from passenger to passenger. He tried to move his hand to unclip himself, and he couldn't. His hand would not move. After a brief moment of fearing something along the lines of a broken spinal cord, Thomas realized he could still feel. So that was good. Or maybe not, since everything hurt.
There was a pressure on his chest. Not a good sign at all. Thomas took a deep breath to calm himself. Rather, he tried to, because he couldn't breathe. It was like some sort of dark creature was sitting on his chest, squeezing him to death. The malevolent thing felt as if it was somehow killing him. Thomas was going to die.
The rationalist inside of him knew that mystical beings did not exist. The other part of him was saying mental goodbyes to his parents. His throat closed, and something started to pound inside his chest. He wasn't supposed to die this way. Not like this. Not this quickly. All while the fire crept along.
Suddenly it was over; his hand could move again, and Thomas unclipped his seatbelt with aching hands. He staggered out of his seat and walked towards the emergency exit, with what he suspected and hoped was a sprained left ankle.
After moving a safe distance away from the plane, he threw up and thought about what had happened inside the plane.
Why couldn't he move?
zippy
placeholder
Christian "Chip" Douglas
Location: Back end of plane | In the trees
Interactions:
BELIAL.
Hell0NHighWater
Chip dialed up the volume on his phone, promptly annoying the woman in the seat next to him as the music seeped out of his headphones and disturbed her reading. The choice made earlier in the day to be sober for this ride was coming back to bite him in the ass. A storm had seemingly come out of nowhere. While Chip wasn't necessarily afraid of plane rides, the excessive turbulence could make anyone lose their confidence. With each rattle of the cabin, he grew paler and paler. His fingers gripped both armrests with a mechanical grip (annoying the woman next to him further, as the armrest to his left was definitely hers). He hoped that the storm would disappear as quickly as it'd appeared, and he could go back to his relaxed state of mind.
Part of him wanted to retrieve his carryon luggage from the overhead bins. Despite warnings from his friends, he'd packed away a small pharmacy in one of the deep pockets of the suitcase. He'd made it through security safely enough, sending out a mental "told ya so" to everyone who said he'd be caught. The stress of his journey was too much to suffer through sober. All the answers he'd been searching for his whole life were a mere plane ride away. If he had to suffer through some turbulence to get to it, then so be it. Of course, he would much rather be blissfully unaware of his surroundings than worried that the intense rattling of the vehicle meant they were all going down.
He glanced up at the lights above his seat, hesitating only for a moment when he saw that the seatbelt light was glowing. Ignoring the warning, Chip unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped into the aisle. This proved to be a grave mistake. Not long after he'd steadied his feet, a blinding white and aggressive jerk of the cabin sent the young man to the ground. His headphones dislodged in time for him to catch the back half of the Pilot's words.
"-ace for impact."
"Brace for impact? Are you fucking kid-"
A second flash of lightning sent a mess of suitcases to the floor, effectively burying Chip as the plane entered a deadly nosedive. With no oxygen mask accessible to him, Chip quickly lost consciousness as they rapidly lost altitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An indeterminate amount of time passed before Chip awoke. The sharp jostle of someone nudging past him sent great pain radiating down his left leg. Putrid fumes singed his nose hairs, and Chip swore quietly to himself as he reached up to push the mountain of bags off of himself. There was a disconcerting ringing in his ears, making it quite difficult to hear anything else. There was a voice--a man's voice--calling out, though Chip had a hard time deciphering what was being said. Great. I'm deaf now, he thought, more annoyed than concerned. Though he was happy to find that the longer he lay there, the more the sounds of the world came back to him. There was a violent roaring of flame, far enough away that Chip didn't feel immediate danger. Though closer, there was a restrained lapping that danced closer and closer to his still limp body.
He should be dead.
His body had taken quite the beating in the crash, having not been strapped in meant that he was a ragdoll in the hands of whatever fate wanted from him. Perhaps his body had been insulated by the bags. Or more morbidly, by the bodies of others. Finally, he'd unburied himself but his attempt to climb to his feet was quickly beat down by a shocking pain. Lowering his eyes to his leg, he paled at the sight before him. Bent unnaturally at the knee joint, the limb was looking rather... useless. Not to mention disgusting. His pant leg was damp with blood, but he was relieved to find that it didn't seem to be continuing. At least he wouldn't bleed out. He sat up slowly, grunting all the while as he oriented himself to look towards the front of the plane.
Rather than the rest of the plane, Chip instead laid his gaze on a man and woman who were curiously gazing out into the open. The front of the plane was gone, at least from what Chip could see. It was a miracle that his body hadn't been sucked out, flung to the earth while they were still miles up in the air. He made a mental note to buy a lottery ticket when he returned home.
"Which one of you kicked me? I have some words for you," he shouted over to them. Aside from the pale in his face, Chip actually seemed rather calm. "Anyone ever tell you, you kind of look like Jesus from behind? I'd say that's a bit dangerous. Someone might think they're dead."
Location: Back end of plane | In the trees
Interactions:
BELIAL.
Hell0NHighWater
Chip dialed up the volume on his phone, promptly annoying the woman in the seat next to him as the music seeped out of his headphones and disturbed her reading. The choice made earlier in the day to be sober for this ride was coming back to bite him in the ass. A storm had seemingly come out of nowhere. While Chip wasn't necessarily afraid of plane rides, the excessive turbulence could make anyone lose their confidence. With each rattle of the cabin, he grew paler and paler. His fingers gripped both armrests with a mechanical grip (annoying the woman next to him further, as the armrest to his left was definitely hers). He hoped that the storm would disappear as quickly as it'd appeared, and he could go back to his relaxed state of mind.
Part of him wanted to retrieve his carryon luggage from the overhead bins. Despite warnings from his friends, he'd packed away a small pharmacy in one of the deep pockets of the suitcase. He'd made it through security safely enough, sending out a mental "told ya so" to everyone who said he'd be caught. The stress of his journey was too much to suffer through sober. All the answers he'd been searching for his whole life were a mere plane ride away. If he had to suffer through some turbulence to get to it, then so be it. Of course, he would much rather be blissfully unaware of his surroundings than worried that the intense rattling of the vehicle meant they were all going down.
He glanced up at the lights above his seat, hesitating only for a moment when he saw that the seatbelt light was glowing. Ignoring the warning, Chip unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped into the aisle. This proved to be a grave mistake. Not long after he'd steadied his feet, a blinding white and aggressive jerk of the cabin sent the young man to the ground. His headphones dislodged in time for him to catch the back half of the Pilot's words.
"-ace for impact."
"Brace for impact? Are you fucking kid-"
A second flash of lightning sent a mess of suitcases to the floor, effectively burying Chip as the plane entered a deadly nosedive. With no oxygen mask accessible to him, Chip quickly lost consciousness as they rapidly lost altitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
An indeterminate amount of time passed before Chip awoke. The sharp jostle of someone nudging past him sent great pain radiating down his left leg. Putrid fumes singed his nose hairs, and Chip swore quietly to himself as he reached up to push the mountain of bags off of himself. There was a disconcerting ringing in his ears, making it quite difficult to hear anything else. There was a voice--a man's voice--calling out, though Chip had a hard time deciphering what was being said. Great. I'm deaf now, he thought, more annoyed than concerned. Though he was happy to find that the longer he lay there, the more the sounds of the world came back to him. There was a violent roaring of flame, far enough away that Chip didn't feel immediate danger. Though closer, there was a restrained lapping that danced closer and closer to his still limp body.
He should be dead.
His body had taken quite the beating in the crash, having not been strapped in meant that he was a ragdoll in the hands of whatever fate wanted from him. Perhaps his body had been insulated by the bags. Or more morbidly, by the bodies of others. Finally, he'd unburied himself but his attempt to climb to his feet was quickly beat down by a shocking pain. Lowering his eyes to his leg, he paled at the sight before him. Bent unnaturally at the knee joint, the limb was looking rather... useless. Not to mention disgusting. His pant leg was damp with blood, but he was relieved to find that it didn't seem to be continuing. At least he wouldn't bleed out. He sat up slowly, grunting all the while as he oriented himself to look towards the front of the plane.
Rather than the rest of the plane, Chip instead laid his gaze on a man and woman who were curiously gazing out into the open. The front of the plane was gone, at least from what Chip could see. It was a miracle that his body hadn't been sucked out, flung to the earth while they were still miles up in the air. He made a mental note to buy a lottery ticket when he returned home.
"Which one of you kicked me? I have some words for you," he shouted over to them. Aside from the pale in his face, Chip actually seemed rather calm. "Anyone ever tell you, you kind of look like Jesus from behind? I'd say that's a bit dangerous. Someone might think they're dead."
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
↽LOCATION⇁ ↽MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD⇁
=Plane Crash= The Waterboys - The Whole of the Moon
Front
↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ↽OOC⇁
zippy
|
Sir Galahad II
Apologies for the lack of quality
PinkChiffon
|
BELIAL.
≔ Beck Wilder ≕
The emptiness in his heart; the numbness pounding his brain; the salty tears that flowed unchecked from his eyes; the shear nothingness that now took hold of his soul—it all threatened to engulf him entirely. A part of him wondered if this was how his parents had felt. Had they been as afraid? Did they suffer as survivors or die on impact? When he was a teenager he liked to imagine that they had managed to survive. In that fantasy they had swum to an island and built a new life there. But the longer he stared out at the field of smoldering metal, luggage, and bodies, the more that childish bit of hope erased itself entirely. The fact that anyone, let alone himself or his parents, could survive this was a miracle.
That is, if he survived.
His head felt like it was in a fog, and for a while the world remained out of focus. Wiping at the moisture streaming down his cheeks, his head snapped toward the sound of a feminine voice, "I don't mean to be rude, but if you look even further over that edge you may just tumble."
For a fleeting second he thought it was Camila who had spoken to him. It was simultaneously the worst and best second of his entire life and it ended in an instant. "You're right, it would have been far more polite to stay silent and watch me fall off."
Beck watched as the woman inched her way towards him, carefully making her way over burnt luggage and broken seat pieces. After another second of watching her, Beck extended his hand toward her in offering, the corner of his mouth twisting as if he had just heard a joke and was trying not to laugh, "I'm Beck by the way, are you—"
"Hey!"
He turned around so fast that he almost gave himself whiplash, his eyes wide as he noticed a couple people climb from the main body of the plane. Cupping his hands around his mouth Beck drew a breath and yelled back, "We're stuck up here! Is there anything you can see that might help us down?"
Beck squinted at the woman's outline as if that would allow him to hear her better, "—Dr. Maura Reed—a trauma surgeon—your injuries?"
"What?? I can't hear—Uh," he looked down at his torso, swallowing past the bile that rose in the back of his throat. His shirt was almost completely burned away at the front, "Aw, I really liked this shirt." His lip jutted out into a slight pout before his attention finally drifted to the severity of his own wounds. His entire abdomen was burned so badly that the edges of skin around the exposed flesh were charred; the skin around the flesh-char had taken a pigment that almost made it look as if he had an aggressive sunburn.
Without really thinking about it, he jabbed his finger into the oozing puddle of raw pink muscle in the center and hissed, calling back "Like on a scale of one to ten?"
"Which one of you kicked me? I have some words for you!"
Beck turned at the new voice that had emerged from the rows of seats behind him. The first thing he noticed was the the awkward way his leg was bent and the blood staining his pants. He snapped his gaze up to the boy's face, trying to ignore the curdling sickness churning in his gut and the hope deflating in his chest. They were ten feet off the ground and the deck was starting to feel as if it were stacked against them. Beck turned away from the edge to scramble back through the rubble in an attempt to help the guy through.
"Anyone ever tell you, you kind of look like Jesus from behind?"
He offered his hand with a dry chuckle, "Only on Christian Mingle—"
"I'd say that's a bit dangerous. Someone might think they're dead."
"Hm," Beck's lips skewed a bit more to one side, escorting the stranger closer to the edge of the wreckage, "And you're speaking from personal experience then? Was my ass that holy that it made you think you've gone to the rapture?"
His amused gaze slid towards Rose, "Feel free to weigh in, I won't shame anyone for having a Jesus fetish." He was silent for a heartbeat before a string of laughter came bursting forth. As the laughter began to fade into a series of sniffles, he realized that he had begun to cry.
"Fuck," he muttered while swiping at the tears running down his face.
Beck sniffed, turning away to wipe his face with the bit of shirt he still had. After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder at the other two and smiled weakly, "Let's just figure out a way to get down, then we can talk about why Jesus fetishes make me cry."
[/color]
Last edited:
idalie
ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀʙʏʟᴏɴ
Location: Wrecked cabin
Interactions:
Shotgunpenguin
(Samantha)Mentions:
Hell0NHighWater
BELIAL.
zippy
Sir Galahad II
PinkChiffon
(the boys)Music: x
Jack Marshall
He walked through a white mist where the trees rose tall and bare, their silhouettes stretching out against a barren sky; roots bleeding into the red earth. It was cold here, Jack shivered, grasping for low branches to pull himself forward. Yet the bark was cool and smooth like frozen metal, peeling layers from his palms as if ragged handkerchiefs upon crooked lampposts. The last farewell. No pain ebbed, no fear turned his head walking into those land-bound clouds, shedding scraps of skin until he stood naked of flesh. Stained bones steamed with life in the open air, trudging on sharp heels until the winding path opened out into the shores of a lake. Ice and stone spanned its beach, but the water was open and clear. Wading into the lone waves, no ripples followed. Undisturbed it would rock him, hands pulling him below the surface until his skull wept the river Jordan and his tongue bled wine.
“Jack?” Lips soft upon his teeth, where his gums had shrunken and withered, clutched by some invisible force. Its voice a familiar poison with a touch like sin, “He’s out there all alone, rotting. Food for flies, maggots writhing in his pretty eyes. Bones so clean, so clean.” His jaw hung open to speak spilling a sad moan, quickly hushed.
“For what is sunk will hardly swim, my sweet boy, Jack.”
***
Instinctively he gasped for air, sweet breath filling his lungs to swell his chest with life. It was as if time forgot the ragdoll of a man, lying where he could see glimpses of the sky through scraped metal plating. Jack lifted his tender hand to gently prod the back of his head where blood puddled, the laceration coagulating and oozing to the touch. How long had he been there? Where had he been going? Slowly it returned to him in a cacophony of memory, the screeching alarms and wailing victims, buzzing intercoms as the pilots only confirmed the nightmare. Crashing, nosediving, being thrown from their seats in seconds. He’d tried to help his cabinmates with oxygen masks and after that, Jack had nothing but a bitter prophetic dream.
Natalie, the divorce, Quebec. Marshall cursed himself - he couldn’t even die right. She’d probably blame him for this too if she could. Rolling onto his side, Jack became painfully aware of a jagged sliver of metal jutting into his abdomen. Lucky the movement didn’t push it deeper, he returned to his back and soothed the spike in his thundering pulse. Jack tried again, reaching up to grab the bottom of a porthole whilst his other palm supported the impaled debris from shifting. Sweat and filth polished his brow with a waxen sheen, carried down into his greying pallor as the logger rose unsteadily. Catching his breath and balance, his head spun till he thought he’d vomit. The whole place stank of hot metal and faeces, charred flesh like pig fat, spitting and cooking with a squeamish notion that it was human; bodies slumped and scattered with pieces missing or peacefully intact. Men, women, and children. Jack prayed it was quick.
The whole aircraft was on its head, he realised whence getting his bearings. Looking up into the hanging carcasses with their reddened faces all seeming to turn dark from pooling fluid.
Further down he heard a call, fellow survivors beginning to gather. He hadn’t realised how thankful he was to hear another human voice until it resounded through what was left of the cabin, letting his body sink back to vague normalcy. He wasn’t the only one, a blessing he didn’t deserve but cherished all the same. Stumbling over luggage and carcasses whilst keeping the distant conversation in earshot. Over yonder, they had collectively staggered to the precipice, where the craft had snapped in half and it’s remnants became lodged.
On the gradual but not steep decline forward, he encountered one of those still kicking. The dark-haired woman hadn’t had the softest landing and the acidic tang of sickness hung in the air. She looked about as good as he suspected any of them did, thrown about a metal box which had fallen from 30,000 feet.
“You alright, sweetheart?” He called, keeping a loose seal around his own wound but momentarily reaching out to touch her on the shoulder.
“Heard those fellas too, huh?” Jack remarked with a smile that looked more like a wince, “I don’t think they’re too far off,”
His gaze gravitated to the open gash in the cabin exposing the tall pines, pausing only to recall home or rather, what had once been home. Perhaps this was all part of a grand, ineffable plan by the powers that be - those cruel masters that they were.
“Need a hand?”
Last edited:
Heterological
Search it up
Thomas Williams
Location: The trees
Mentioned:
zippy
PinkChiffon
Hell0NHighWater
Thomas made it out of the plane and to the nearest tree. After passing it, he collapsed against the trunk, the rough wood scratching his back and the plane behind him. He held his left leg off the ground with his hands, holding it by the shin. Maybe it'd help prevent infection; maybe it wouldn't. He didn't know, but it was something else to keep his mind off the overwhelming pain, emotional and physical.
He sat there for a few moments, trying not to think about his current situation but not succeeding. People were dying or had already died, they were in the middle of nowhere, Michael couldn't even fucking walk properly. No way of getting into contact with others, and it would be raining or snowing, both of which could kill you very easily if you had the evolutionary misfortune to not have some natural insulation. He was dead, dead, dead.
Calm down. Think. Observe the situation.
The plane had crashed in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, with little food, no communications, and it would probably rain or snow soon.
Not looking too good.
His ankle, now that he had taken a closer look at it, was swelling up a lot, and there was some blood there. Also not a good sign.
They would probably die very quickly. They would. They.
He lowered his left leg to the ground gently (wincing, as he had not lowered it gently enough) and got up, leaning on the tree for support. Michael carefully put his left foot down, gritting his teeth and screaming through his lips to be as quiet as possible, and turned around slowly. He braced his arms against the tree as he observed the site.
His first priority should have been looking for survivors, but he'd been too inattentive because of the dying and the malevolent force that was probably just a figment of his imagination. That wouldn't happen again.
He stopped thinking about the distraction, because he was being distracted, and instead took in the picture. The plane was in two parts; the front part had landed in the trees while the bottom had just hit the ground. There were bodies strewn out everywhere. There weren't just bodies; he saw some body parts too. There was a torso plus a leg laying a few feet away from its owner, the head of a man in his thirties. Michael tried to throw up yet again, but he could only gag. Probably for the better.
He was taking it remarkably well, all the death and destruction. No screaming or crying like he'd thought he would do. It was almost certainly shock, and his face was probably white as a sheet.
Now he looked for survivors. There was a person in the front half of the plane that he could see from his vantage point that was talking to someone below them, where he couldn't see. Michael couldn't hear them, and he realized that he couldn't hear anything, really. Temporary hearing loss was to be expected in a plane crash. Probably. He hoped.
Thomas rested for a few seconds before starting to hobble, ever so slowly, towards the front half of the plane, and as he did so, the sound of a plane crash and of Canadian wilderness gradually came back into his ears, just in time for him to hear something. "...figure out a way to...then we...talk...why Jesus fetish...make me cry."
Location: The trees
Mentioned:
zippy
PinkChiffon
Hell0NHighWater
Thomas made it out of the plane and to the nearest tree. After passing it, he collapsed against the trunk, the rough wood scratching his back and the plane behind him. He held his left leg off the ground with his hands, holding it by the shin. Maybe it'd help prevent infection; maybe it wouldn't. He didn't know, but it was something else to keep his mind off the overwhelming pain, emotional and physical.
He sat there for a few moments, trying not to think about his current situation but not succeeding. People were dying or had already died, they were in the middle of nowhere, Michael couldn't even fucking walk properly. No way of getting into contact with others, and it would be raining or snowing, both of which could kill you very easily if you had the evolutionary misfortune to not have some natural insulation. He was dead, dead, dead.
Calm down. Think. Observe the situation.
The plane had crashed in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, with little food, no communications, and it would probably rain or snow soon.
Not looking too good.
His ankle, now that he had taken a closer look at it, was swelling up a lot, and there was some blood there. Also not a good sign.
They would probably die very quickly. They would. They.
He lowered his left leg to the ground gently (wincing, as he had not lowered it gently enough) and got up, leaning on the tree for support. Michael carefully put his left foot down, gritting his teeth and screaming through his lips to be as quiet as possible, and turned around slowly. He braced his arms against the tree as he observed the site.
His first priority should have been looking for survivors, but he'd been too inattentive because of the dying and the malevolent force that was probably just a figment of his imagination. That wouldn't happen again.
He stopped thinking about the distraction, because he was being distracted, and instead took in the picture. The plane was in two parts; the front part had landed in the trees while the bottom had just hit the ground. There were bodies strewn out everywhere. There weren't just bodies; he saw some body parts too. There was a torso plus a leg laying a few feet away from its owner, the head of a man in his thirties. Michael tried to throw up yet again, but he could only gag. Probably for the better.
He was taking it remarkably well, all the death and destruction. No screaming or crying like he'd thought he would do. It was almost certainly shock, and his face was probably white as a sheet.
Now he looked for survivors. There was a person in the front half of the plane that he could see from his vantage point that was talking to someone below them, where he couldn't see. Michael couldn't hear them, and he realized that he couldn't hear anything, really. Temporary hearing loss was to be expected in a plane crash. Probably. He hoped.
Thomas rested for a few seconds before starting to hobble, ever so slowly, towards the front half of the plane, and as he did so, the sound of a plane crash and of Canadian wilderness gradually came back into his ears, just in time for him to hear something. "...figure out a way to...then we...talk...why Jesus fetish...make me cry."
BELIAL.
wanna bewitch you in the moonlight
code by RI.a
PinkChiffon
Certified Iconic
Location: Woods, site of the crash. Interactions:
Maura staggered out of the wreckage that was on the ground. She caught bits and pieces of what was being said up above. "....might help us down," was the important bit of what she caught. Maura's eyes darted around looking for something that would be of use to help get them down. Between the tinnitus and bouts of double vision, she was having an incredibly difficult time trying to keep her gaze focused on one thing for too long. She held back the urge to start throwing up again.
"I don't- I'm not seeing anything."
She tried to shout, but every word stung in her chest, her voice was hoarse. There was a mess of luggage, and chunks of metal about, but there was nothing she saw that would have been able to help get them down. What she did see pretty much diverted all of her attention away from her search. So many bodies. A lot of them were in pieces and the ones that weren't were horribly burned. She was still missing a resident. There was always a chance she had seen him already, but he was just beyond recognition. Maura irrationally refused the possibility and stumbled around them, looking for Seth. She had already lost Maggie, she couldn't handle the loss of Seth as well. She was supposed to make sure they went and came back from the conference successfully. Who could have foreseen this though? Their loss was not Maura's fault, but her sense of her rationality went down with the place.
As Maura searches on for her missing friend, she noticed some more movement in her on the ground with her. She wasn't keeping a mental count or anything, but to her, it seemed like the number of survivors was a bit shocking considering the severity of the accident. She wasn't sure about the statistics of surviving a crash like this, but they would not last long out here. Without a doubt, most of them were injured, but aside from that, the cold night alone would have them dead from exposure by morning. As she carefully stepped over some bodies, Maura positioned herself into an open area where she could possibly see more survivors, or where they would be able to see her. She stared up at the front half of the plane,
"How many people do you have up there?"
Hell0NHighWater
Queen of Hell
↽LOCATION⇁ ↽MUSIC TO SET THE MOOD⇁
Plane Crash -> Can't Stand The Rain · The Rescues
Mysterious Village
↽INTERACTIONS⇁ ↽OOC⇁
zippy
|
Sir Galahad II
Sorry this is a long one
PinkChiffon
|
BasiliskVeranda
|
idalie
|
Heterological
|
Shotgunpenguin
|
dendygar
| @brightkings |
BELIAL.
≔ Beck Wilder ≕
His eyes dripped with tears. The walls that had held him up, that made him feel strong just...collapsed. Salty drops fell from his chin, drenching his shirt. Perhaps, he thought with tearful cynicism, that they would help wash the blood out. He pressed his hand against what was left of the wall to keep himself from trembling. It's raw, everything, raw tears, raw emotions. He couldn't stop...He couldn't stop. Why couldn't he stop crying? The world turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger.
Beck struggled to get his brain to function, to think past the grief currently ripping his body apart from the inside. As gentle and as radiant as a sunset, Christine's voice pulled him from the temporary vacancy of his own mind, "We can get down, don't worry, okay? We'll get out of here."
He turned fully with gravity-drawn shoulders. Their gazes met and he wondered how someone could seem so strong, so bright, in the face of uncertainty. As it was, Beck was barely holding himself together with mental duct tape. She was speaking again before he could comment, taking a moment to roll her eyes, "Although I think a majority of people will pass on the story of your Jesus fetish."
Beck guffawed, shaking his head with a weak curve to his lips, "Sounds like a majority of people won't know what they're missing then."
Moving over to a suit case, he bent down to unzip it, half listening to Christine as he began to pull out clothes. Different pairs of jeans, long sleeve shirts, anything long enough and potentially strong enough to hold together. Sitting down with his legs crossed over each other like a kindergartner during story time, Beck tied the leg of one jean to another.
"You think they've got the parachutes on this half? Or any, I hope!"
Spirals of earthy brown glanced up from where they had been focused on the double knot he was fastening. A pessimistic sigh left his lips, "I think the universe has too much hate against us to be that lucky." Beck paused long enough to stare at what he was doing before rapidly undoing the knots he had just made. He scrambled to his feet, leaving the piles of clothes behind as he carefully made his way toward the cockpit. The sour stench of feces and decomposing flesh radiated from the very front of the plane, beckoning flies to cautiously hover in mid air nearby, not too close but close enough to indulge in the nasal nightmare.
Every so often he would swat one away from his face, using what was left of his shirt in a failed attempt to ignore the smell. Beck's gaze lingered across the body of a flight attendant bent against the wall by the bathroom at a weird angle. He gagged, quick to shift his attention away. "Fortunately for us the universe is just another bippity boppity bitch; I make my own damn luck," He mumbled partly to himself, rummaging through an upturned cart.
When he returned, he was holding a small first aid box and a pair of child scissors. "Alright, class, today I'm going to teach you how to make rope. Step one: cut t-shirts, jeans, anything with thick fabric, into strips," Beck set the kit down beside Chip before reaching over to grab a shirt. Cutting eight long strips from the material, he looked up at the other two survivors, "Just like this. Then I'll braid it into a rope."
He handed Christine the scissors, "Hopefully it'll be strong enough to get us down."
The doctor's voice interrupted whatever she was about to say, "How many people do you have up there?"
"Three?" He questioned aloud, shifting his attention between Chip and Christine. He couldn't tell if it was dehydration or fatigue that was causing him to rethink his ability to count. "Three!" Beck yelled back more confidently. He rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, watching a couple more figures move from the wreckage, "We're making a rope!" His voice cracked, throat far too dry to continue screaming.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Between the repetitive task of braiding cloth and idle chatter, a handful of hours passed without any of them realizing it.
A pitch-black curtain draped over the sky, the twisted, warped shapes of stars shimmering against the void were no longer visible. A boom rolled across the forest, announcing the start of what the brooding cloud layer had promised since the crash. He could hear the boughs of the trees swaying in the strengthening gust, surrendering to the gale without a fight.
It was hard to shove aside the worries corrupting his mind, but eventually, he just...stopped thinking.
Standing at the edge of the plane with a bundle of hand made, improvised, rope, Beck cast an uneasy glance towards Christine's outline. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it, tossing the rope over the edge. Beck's entire body was shaking and the searing sensation across his abdomen only seemed to be getting worse, but he wasn't the only one who required immediate medical attention. Lifting the shitty flashlight they found in someone's luggage, he squinted in an attempt to see how far the rope went down. More than half way, but too short to completely touch the ground.
"I'll go first. I'd rather be the only victim of my own ineptitude," He tried to joke but his tone fell a bit flat. Moving away from the edge, he took another moment to make sure that the end of the rope was tied securely. Drawing a breath, Beck moved back to the edge suddenly terrified that he couldn't see the ground. It was so dark that he couldn't even make out Christine's expression while she was standing next to him. He flashed a grin anyways, "If I make it down, I'll stand by the end of the rope and try my very best to be a good safety net."
Beck paused as he lowered himself off the ledge, "Just be sure to scream if you happen to fall." With a half-hearted laugh, he descended into darkness.
There was something completely and utterly terrifying of not being able to feel or see anything above or below him. The only thing that existed was the rope he clung to. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins, urging him to speed up, but he ignored it. Go too fast and he could fall, lose his grip, or unintentionally cause the rope to snap; go too slow and his weight could add enough strain to the rope that it snapped. Every outcome was undesirable, except the one where he managed to live.
Beck struggled to keep his thoughts from consuming him, putting one hand in front of the other. He didn't know how long it was until he made it to the end of the rope. Stretching his limbs out, he was pleasantly surprised when he felt his feet touch solid ground. A breath he didn't even know he had been holding slipped from his lips.
Letting go of the rope, he took a step back and pulled the flashlight from between his teeth. Turning it on, he shined it up at the wreckage, "I made it!"
If there was a response, he didn't hear it. The sky shook with another cry of thunder as lightning illuminated their surroundings for a second. Beck's gaze didn't leave the rope as he saw someone begin their descent. The air grew heavy and the humidity pressed down around them, suffocating. The figure—Christine or Chip—was half way down when he felt something cold and wet splatter against his cheek.
"You're almost there—!" The words of encouragement were cut off as a scream penetrated the air.
The flashlight fell from his hand, rolling uselessly across the grass. Beck moved without thinking, arms extended as he did his best to catch the body falling from a couple feet above him. A large blast of air flew from his lips and he wobbled for a second, pain blistering across his chest. It took him a second to regain his breath, "Are you alright?" He wheezed, watching as lightning illuminated the features of the woman in his arms. A grin stretched across his face, "That wasn't so bad, right?"
He was careful to set her back on her feet, waving the doctor over. Beck waited for them to move away from the rope before he turned his attention back to where Chip was, "She's alright! You can come down now!"
Beck turned to grab the torch and froze. Artificial light fanned over strands of auburn hair was scattered in multiple places across the grass, stained with dried blood. His hands were shaking as he picked the light up, throat constricting as he moved the beam over the woman's face. Her emerald green eyes were wide open, but her jade irises held a sudden sadness. Her clothes, a lime green tunic and some black jeans, were bloody.
"Camila," her name tore from his throat like a ragged whimper. His legs buckled, knees sinking into the sodden earth as he collapsed next to her body. The awful hollowness, the waves of wretchedness threatened to engulf his mind, body and soul. Still shaking, his shoulders heaved as he pulled her misshapen body into his lap. Beck crumpled over her like tin foil. His head swam with half-formed regrets. His heart felt as if his blood had become tar as it struggled to keep a steady beat.
It is the cruelty of life that allows a heart to keep on beating even after it has been broken in two.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
He was unsure how long he knelt beside her body, but it had been long enough for the rain to completely drench him. So completely lost within his own grief, his own mind, Beck was unaware that the rest of the world continued to function. He heard yelling at one point, multiple voices, and a hand pressing lightly against his shoulder yet he didn't react—so divorced from reality that another plane could have crashed and he wouldn't have batted an eye.
The more time that passed, the more insistent the hand on his shoulder became. Then, in a series of blurred movements and reluctant noises, Beck was pulled away from the corpse he had been clinging to. Shivering, his lower lip trembled as the cold seeped deeper into his bones. A voice said something about a town.
Beck was slow to turn his head, staring blankly at the face of a man who he did not know. He didn't look like a survivor, if he was he didn't have a single scratch on him. His arm was thrown over his neck as the equally tall stranger ushered him toward a larger group of people outfitted with flashlights and rain gear.
Letting out a soft cynical sigh, Beck reverted his gaze back to his jello filled legs. The stranger half carried him half a mile through the trees before he spotted a line of three pickup trucks sitting idly on a dirt road.
"Go back for her," he managed to say, throat thick with emotion and head spinning. He was guided into the back seat of a vehicle. The heat was on full blast. It felt nice.
"She's dead."
The car door slammed shut in his face. Beck leaned his head against the glass of the window, drawing in a ragged breath that almost sounded like a sob.
"I know," he whispered, closing his eyes as the warmth began to lull him to sleep.
[/color]
dendygar
chicken dender
Manny Berkowitz
We fear what we think we know about the unknown.
coded by incandescent
BasiliskVeranda
80s Trash
ALEX HEARST
ᵀʰᵉ ᶜʳᵃᵈˡᵉ ʳᵒᶜᵏˢ ᵃᵇᵒᵛᵉ ᵃⁿ ᵃᵇʸˢˢ, ᵃⁿᵈ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵒⁿ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ ᵗᵉˡˡˢ ᵘˢ...
ᵀʰᵉ ᶜʳᵃᵈˡᵉ ʳᵒᶜᵏˢ ᵃᵇᵒᵛᵉ ᵃⁿ ᵃᵇʸˢˢ, ᵃⁿᵈ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵒⁿ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ ᵗᵉˡˡˢ ᵘˢ...
WITH: Whoever rears their head; I don't know if now's the time to post this, but let's do it.⠀
dendygar
Hell0NHighWater
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Reception/Seven Stars Hotel⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: Amanda Pamer - What's the use of Won'drin'⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: this was written during a headache from hell pls excuse i'm coming in hot and random⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀
dendygar
Hell0NHighWater
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ WHERE: Reception/Seven Stars Hotel⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ MOOD MUSIC: Amanda Pamer - What's the use of Won'drin'⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ OOC: this was written during a headache from hell pls excuse i'm coming in hot and random⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ Alexei had been dumped unceremoniously in the reception area, as was sensible for the general disposition of such a man. Everyone, and yet nobody. Storied, and yet blank. The man was a displaced item, strewn with a broken arm wrapped and tended to carefully, and yet wasn't given the dignity of a bed. Perhaps idling in a chair between wakefulness and sleep, weighted beneath impossibly encumbering blankets, was what he deserved. A lost item. A wayward soul who left marks upon the world, but the marks were nothing but dark, trashy fairy stories.
It was indeed a flavor of karma, to be plain. Karma for an action no doubt, but possibly all of this was karma for who and what he was; a grifter of the finest caliber.
The first move he made upon waking—not yet realizing a few locals were trying to graciously free him from the tree he had found himself dangling upside down from by whatever machination he'd once been sitting in—was to kick. And kick, he did. A powerful one, to clock a senseless shape too sharply in the face.
For what reason he couldn't quite place, but the sticky, dry mouth he now possessed lead him to believe he had been dreaming. Dreaming, he remembered. Then came the kicking, and the villagers had thought him a handful enough to deposit him in the nearest seat in the nearest area they'd driven to for that abruptly violent act.
Alex had been treading water in a dream with his mouth hanging open in sweet repose while the plane had fractured to splinters. Miraculous dreams, those. Fantastic frights that didn't exist, submerged in the water of it all, he'd awed at the impossible. He'd somehow survived the downfall of their joint voyage beyond the tundra while dreaming, another miraculous feat.
A man like him was apt to stumble into karma and miraculous luck wherever he went. When both aspects coincide it makes for great stories, all of them darkly elaborated and darkly written. This was Alexei's life. This was Alex. Everything deigned to fruition by the skin of his teeth, and then ruined when he penned it up or blurted it out. A shame to have such wealth, and a wealth of experiences, to churn it into sullied gold.
He willed an eye to open, but it did under much duress. Sleep was a good friend, and the pain of his broken arm was not. It agonized, but he preferred pain over not feeling anything at all.
"Mm," he mumbled, smacking his lips and wincing at the mellow, dirty lights above, "What time is it?".
That was apparently not the right question to ask, the blond thought as the local stranger offering him water looked at him like an eldritch monstrosity.
"What?" he asked harmlessly, but the razored half-grin that hitched the corner of his mouth begged a dare. It always did, even when he didn't mean to paint the affect.
"Boy, you were in a plane crash. Do you...remember your name?" The stranger asked; a woman with long dark hair and a reserved expression. He took the glass from her hands and narrowed his eyes at it. The water was a slight bit yellowed, like everything else here. Cobwebs strewn about, a place devoured by spiders it seemed. The blond raised his brows and made the universal facial expression for 'bottom's up' and proceeded to test his luck yet again.
"...where the fuck am I?" The stranger smiled gently at his question."And who the fuck are you?—Sorry. Wait, back up. A plane crash? You're shitting me, right?"
With this, the blond tried to sit up, but found the blankets far too restrictive. Plus, the agony of his arm decided to rear itself into being once more, and he was left to curse.
"Alex. I'm...Alex."
"Alex it is, then. I'm Mara. Take one of these. It'll help. It's a miracle you only have a broken arm, you know."
"There's no such thing as miracles, sweetheart," the blond said with his token grin, palming the pair of simple white pills she offered. He threw them into the back of his throat and downed the rest of the dingy water. Mara seemed fairly gentle, if not a bit meek, but with his comment came a glimmer of defiance. He'd struck a tender nerve it seemed, yet the expression dissolved expertly.
"Is this Tylenol?" he asked, realizing he shouldn't be accepting drugs from strange people, no matter how unassuming and inert. However, on second thought, he'd taken plenty of drugs from much shadier people in much more backwater locations than even this. The most it could do was kill him, but then again, if he'd been rescued...what would be the point in offing him now?
The sound of an adjacent door opening lead the blond to pry the blankets off of his body. With just one arm mobile, that was a feat, but he managed it ungracefully as if a cat stuck in a comforter.
"Fuck. Alright. So...again...where am I?" Footsteps resounded, the blond's deep blue gaze lurched to find the source, and a wayward spider canvassed the ceiling above. If nobody answered him, maybe he'd just ask the insects.
That'd be quite the story to tell, wouldn't it? Talking bugs.
When the gaggle of people entered, a man with dark hair and an animated face entered the scene. Just who was this guy? Had he been here the entire time? Alex had be knocked out; he couldn't say. Mara stared at Al expectantly and the blond stared back with an incredulously raised brow.
"Oh, uh. Hey man, what happened?" With this, blond lulled his head back with a sigh and proceeded to heft himself out of his seat with very little grace, but much labor.
"...by the looks of it, I'd say they've had the shit day that I've probably had," an arrogant snort followed soon after, "Anyone have a fucking cigarette?"
It was indeed a flavor of karma, to be plain. Karma for an action no doubt, but possibly all of this was karma for who and what he was; a grifter of the finest caliber.
The first move he made upon waking—not yet realizing a few locals were trying to graciously free him from the tree he had found himself dangling upside down from by whatever machination he'd once been sitting in—was to kick. And kick, he did. A powerful one, to clock a senseless shape too sharply in the face.
For what reason he couldn't quite place, but the sticky, dry mouth he now possessed lead him to believe he had been dreaming. Dreaming, he remembered. Then came the kicking, and the villagers had thought him a handful enough to deposit him in the nearest seat in the nearest area they'd driven to for that abruptly violent act.
Alex had been treading water in a dream with his mouth hanging open in sweet repose while the plane had fractured to splinters. Miraculous dreams, those. Fantastic frights that didn't exist, submerged in the water of it all, he'd awed at the impossible. He'd somehow survived the downfall of their joint voyage beyond the tundra while dreaming, another miraculous feat.
A man like him was apt to stumble into karma and miraculous luck wherever he went. When both aspects coincide it makes for great stories, all of them darkly elaborated and darkly written. This was Alexei's life. This was Alex. Everything deigned to fruition by the skin of his teeth, and then ruined when he penned it up or blurted it out. A shame to have such wealth, and a wealth of experiences, to churn it into sullied gold.
He willed an eye to open, but it did under much duress. Sleep was a good friend, and the pain of his broken arm was not. It agonized, but he preferred pain over not feeling anything at all.
"Mm," he mumbled, smacking his lips and wincing at the mellow, dirty lights above, "What time is it?".
That was apparently not the right question to ask, the blond thought as the local stranger offering him water looked at him like an eldritch monstrosity.
"What?" he asked harmlessly, but the razored half-grin that hitched the corner of his mouth begged a dare. It always did, even when he didn't mean to paint the affect.
"Boy, you were in a plane crash. Do you...remember your name?" The stranger asked; a woman with long dark hair and a reserved expression. He took the glass from her hands and narrowed his eyes at it. The water was a slight bit yellowed, like everything else here. Cobwebs strewn about, a place devoured by spiders it seemed. The blond raised his brows and made the universal facial expression for 'bottom's up' and proceeded to test his luck yet again.
"...where the fuck am I?" The stranger smiled gently at his question."And who the fuck are you?—Sorry. Wait, back up. A plane crash? You're shitting me, right?"
With this, the blond tried to sit up, but found the blankets far too restrictive. Plus, the agony of his arm decided to rear itself into being once more, and he was left to curse.
"Alex. I'm...Alex."
"Alex it is, then. I'm Mara. Take one of these. It'll help. It's a miracle you only have a broken arm, you know."
"There's no such thing as miracles, sweetheart," the blond said with his token grin, palming the pair of simple white pills she offered. He threw them into the back of his throat and downed the rest of the dingy water. Mara seemed fairly gentle, if not a bit meek, but with his comment came a glimmer of defiance. He'd struck a tender nerve it seemed, yet the expression dissolved expertly.
"Is this Tylenol?" he asked, realizing he shouldn't be accepting drugs from strange people, no matter how unassuming and inert. However, on second thought, he'd taken plenty of drugs from much shadier people in much more backwater locations than even this. The most it could do was kill him, but then again, if he'd been rescued...what would be the point in offing him now?
The sound of an adjacent door opening lead the blond to pry the blankets off of his body. With just one arm mobile, that was a feat, but he managed it ungracefully as if a cat stuck in a comforter.
"Fuck. Alright. So...again...where am I?" Footsteps resounded, the blond's deep blue gaze lurched to find the source, and a wayward spider canvassed the ceiling above. If nobody answered him, maybe he'd just ask the insects.
That'd be quite the story to tell, wouldn't it? Talking bugs.
When the gaggle of people entered, a man with dark hair and an animated face entered the scene. Just who was this guy? Had he been here the entire time? Alex had be knocked out; he couldn't say. Mara stared at Al expectantly and the blond stared back with an incredulously raised brow.
"Oh, uh. Hey man, what happened?" With this, blond lulled his head back with a sigh and proceeded to heft himself out of his seat with very little grace, but much labor.
"...by the looks of it, I'd say they've had the shit day that I've probably had," an arrogant snort followed soon after, "Anyone have a fucking cigarette?"
ᵀʰᵃᵗ ᵒᵘʳ ᵉˣⁱˢᵗᵉⁿᶜᵉ ⁱˢ ᵇᵘᵗ ᵃ ᵇʳⁱᵉᶠ ᶜʳᵃᶜᵏ ᵒᶠ ˡⁱᵍʰᵗ ᵇᵉᵗʷᵉᵉⁿ ᵗʷᵒ ᵉᵗᵉʳⁿⁱᵗⁱᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᵈᵃʳᵏⁿᵉˢˢ
Heterological
Search it up
Thomas Williams
Location: Hotel Reception
Hurt. That was the only thing going through his mind as he waited there, the survivors making their way down from the wreckage. Thomas's ankle was throbbing now, and he was trying to keep as much weight off of it as possible. He tried to focus on his surroundings, studying the surrounding trees to pass the time.
The tall man made his way down to the ground. Once he touched down, he yelled, "I made it!"
The next survivor started to go down the rope. Thomas had turned away at that point. The rope had held. Silently, he pondered the appearance of that evil spirit-thing that had sat on his chest. It was weird, to say the least. It was probably a figment of his imagination or something... he would google some questions once they got to a place with inter-
An ear-piercing scream behind him caused Thomas to spin around and start towards the falling figure. His ankle caused him to stop in his tracks, and one of the other survivors caught her.
After she had been put safely down, he turned back again to his thoughts, only slightly distracted by the oncoming rain. Gradually the shock from the crash faded, and Thomas felt the blood rush into his face and causing him to be a bit dizzy. It seemed like an hour before they all got down, and by then, he heard a yell, coming from the forest. A man arrived on the scene, followed by a few others. Just like that, they had been found.
Thomas couldn't move much; he was carried by someone else. During that time, every sudden movement sent a bolt of pain through his leg, but it was numbed by shock and he hardly felt it. After about half a mile they made it to a dusty road; a line of trucks sat there in the rain. He was put into one of them and lay still, finally falling asleep.
Now they were standing in a hotel reception area. Six Stars Hotel, or something like that. They'd be staying there for a while, apparently.
Location: Hotel Reception
Hurt. That was the only thing going through his mind as he waited there, the survivors making their way down from the wreckage. Thomas's ankle was throbbing now, and he was trying to keep as much weight off of it as possible. He tried to focus on his surroundings, studying the surrounding trees to pass the time.
The tall man made his way down to the ground. Once he touched down, he yelled, "I made it!"
The next survivor started to go down the rope. Thomas had turned away at that point. The rope had held. Silently, he pondered the appearance of that evil spirit-thing that had sat on his chest. It was weird, to say the least. It was probably a figment of his imagination or something... he would google some questions once they got to a place with inter-
An ear-piercing scream behind him caused Thomas to spin around and start towards the falling figure. His ankle caused him to stop in his tracks, and one of the other survivors caught her.
After she had been put safely down, he turned back again to his thoughts, only slightly distracted by the oncoming rain. Gradually the shock from the crash faded, and Thomas felt the blood rush into his face and causing him to be a bit dizzy. It seemed like an hour before they all got down, and by then, he heard a yell, coming from the forest. A man arrived on the scene, followed by a few others. Just like that, they had been found.
Thomas couldn't move much; he was carried by someone else. During that time, every sudden movement sent a bolt of pain through his leg, but it was numbed by shock and he hardly felt it. After about half a mile they made it to a dusty road; a line of trucks sat there in the rain. He was put into one of them and lay still, finally falling asleep.
Now they were standing in a hotel reception area. Six Stars Hotel, or something like that. They'd be staying there for a while, apparently.
PinkChiffon
Certified Iconic
Location: Seven Stars Hotel
Maura sat in the backseat of a strangers car and tried to get hold of herself. Her adrenaline began to go back down for the first time since she regained consciousness on the plane. The come down from the adrenaline was unpleasant, to say the least. The first thing she noticed was just how hard she was shaking. She was absolutely drenched from the rain and was chilled to the bone. It was the sort of cold that convinces you that you've never felt warmth in your life. The second thing she immediately noticed was the tinnitus. She could hardly hear herself think over the persisting buzz.
The car she was in began to drive off. "Where are we going?" Not that it ultimately mattered, she had no clue where they were anyway. What was she gonna do? Say 'Oh, no thank you.'? She wasn't exactly in any shape to be declining help. "Seven Stars Hotel," the driver replied.
Maura leaned against an old front desk, the varnish had been worn off. Despite the persistence of the ringing in her ears, she had finally stopped shaking. Her gaze drifted lazily around the lobby, sweeping over the yellowing wallpaper and the outdated furniture. She was never so relieved to be standing in such a rundown hotel in her life. There was a chance that none of them would have made it out of the woods without the help of the locals who made the trek into the woods. She hadn't caught any of their names, or if she had she couldn't recall, but she was eternally grateful for their rescue.
It seemed as if all the survivors had been brought there by the team of locals. Upon realizing this, whatever hope Maura had was quickly dashed when she saw that there was not a familiar face among the survivors. It was made clear to her that Seth hadn't survived the wreck either. She didn't know how she was going to break the news to Maggie and Seth's family, or when she'd even get the chance to. Getting them back home to Georgia was going another kettle of fish. She couldn't even find Seth. Maura promised herself that once she was patched back up she'd go to wherever they were going to transport the remains to try and identify him and get them both home.
Maura's train of thought was derailed as a man popped into the lobby where they were gathered. "Hey man, what happened?" The young man asked. '... Where do you even begin?' Maura thought.
Users who are viewing this thread
Similar threads
