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Fantasy The Case of Lockheed Orphanage for the Supernaturally Gifted

Characters
Here
Lore
Here
Quinn
- Woods/Church
- A new found  fear racing through him, Quinn had began to quickly doubt his newest action.

As Quinn trailed carefully behind Georgie, distrust still gleaming within his shimmering orbs, hearing his words as he seemed to move between the woods, as if having a power similar to Quinn's own oddity, keeping up via the shadows, the ever consuming darkness giving the boy the much needed energy that he bad lacked long before, though the whispers ever so called out to him, continuing to warn and beg him to turn back, as if they knew that which he did not, only crying out about danger and fleeing, though his ever present, yet slowly swaying curiosity continuing to drive the young lad, not exactly aware of the others following them.

That was, until he felt a hand grab him, causing his eyes to light up with rage, pulling himself away from Georgie's grasp, the structure he had been brought to forcing his protest or anger to silence itself once more, staring up at the ominous and ever so ancient looking structure. As Georgie spoken he seemed to fade into a whisper, the voices that leaked out of the shadows of his mind now screaming to turn back, to run, to hide, to prepare. 'Prepare for what?', the young boy mentally questioned, to which whispers seemed to cry out, for once in complete unison, "For the consequences." As if on que, Quinn watched as Georgie called out to this being, the name sending an unknown shiver up his spine. Who that was, he known not, but his heart scrambled in fear, one way or another. His heart shrieked not too long after, hearing a voice call out to the child before him, before watching as a perfect mimic of Georgie appeared, both of them smiling at him, though now, Quinn had most definitely had more than enough. "No, no no no, I refuse. You told me you were going to show me truth to the accusations you pinned on the Owner, but this...this is just...wrong," he said, looking at both Georgie and the doppelganger, and now felt the full weight of the now silenced whisper's words hit him. To prepare for his unforseen consequences. He was far into the woods, trapped within the darkness, trapped with these...things, standing by this massive, terrifying structure. But, he knew he'd have no choice, trapped now, he slowly moved back, away from Georgie, trying to push himself back onto the path, "I don't believe you. The Caretakers, they're not the best people, but if the Owner of this place is truly behind all of this, than they're jus' as much of victims as us. And if you're tryin' to lure 'em 'ere, then I know I can't trust you," he softly growled, the searing pain in his left eye growing greater and greater, the whispers calling out to him once more, begging him to retreat. "So, you, and that bloody mimic can both go to fackin' 'ell for all I care," he growled, his fear, anger, stress, everything. It was overwhelming him, it was intoxicating him, and he didn't know what was to come, this he fell onto his ever so present plan: he vanished, a puff of the ever so present black vapor taking him away, but only a short distance, his mind, his feelings, everything going on, it was actively affecting him, deep into his soul, the onyx liquid no longer just appearing as tar like tears, softly pouring from his left eye, tears in his eyes as he hyperventilated, panicking as he quickly began running, using his powers where he could, though dangerously weakened, running in the direction he followed this demonic child, hoping to find someone, tripping over an exposed root, feeling his ankle twist and pop, bulging out, causing Quinn to shriek in sharp pain, the sound echoing throughout the woods, quickly and shakily pulling his foot out from the root, the pain from his now broken ankle pulsing through him, yet the adrenaline kept him going, still using his powers as much as possible, yet was slowly moving slower and slower, the pain from his ankle and the pain from his oozing eye driving the boy to a slow exhaustion, the drive to survive being the only thing driving him now.

Coyote Coyote AmberV AmberV Kovacs Kovacs ​
 
"Okay..." Ethel muttered, then of course opened her mouth.
"Can I at least drag her over to my table, so as to avoid your fight?" She addressed Oliver and Frida. "I mean, come on! Why do people insist on dragging irrelevant people into situations?"
She had no idea how ironic the situation was getting, with her deciding to butt into the situation at that very moment. She didn't drag Olivia, though, as she didn't know how bad the situation could escalate, and Ethel wasn't one to force people to do things.
"And," she added. "why do you guys get into so many fights all the time anyway? What's it even about?"
Ethel once again went quiet, theorizing once again, but not as much as she usually does because she needs to pay attention.


pings: SavannahSmiles SavannahSmiles SavannahSmiles SavannahSmiles , Ghostiiys Ghostiiys Ghostiiys Ghostiiys
 
Georgie watched Quinn run off in silence, his smile unwavering. The Church remained standing, shrinking behind the trees as the boy ran off. A wise choice but a disappointing one. He looked towards his copy for a moment and nodded.

“He will come back,” Georgie stood as his copy shriveled and rotted. For a moment, all was quiet before tears began falling from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m sorry.” And he remained sobbing quietly by himself.
 


Mateo Solinas
A figure in the courtyard of the church ahead flickered, turning and running before dipping into the darkness and vanishing from view for a moment. Mateo's heart seemed to pause, as if unable to beat for several moments before time caught up to him. It was Quinn after all. He pushed himself faster, stumbling through the snow towards the towering church.
Then someone else caught his eye, illuminated for a brief moment in light filtering through the clouds.
Mateo would recognize that boy anywhere.
He was running now, faster than he had in years, making a beeline towards where the boy stood over a pile of... something. He was here, he was here, unchanged and untouched. Lord above, it couldn't be real, and yet Mateo couldn't stop. He ran past Quinn. Mac could care for Quinn. But Mateo had spent so long searching for that face or the remains of that face. He'd overturned any pale stones that could even vaguely resemble bones in hope of putting Georgie to rest.
But Georgie hadn't been resting.
The boy was turning away from him, was walking towards the church, and Mateo was only vaguely aware of the lantern's flickering light as he began to cross the courtyard, reaching out as if the act of reaching alone could close the gap between them, "Georgie! Georgie, wait! Please wait!"
What tragedy it would be to lose him again.
Location: The Grounds
Tags: Kovacs Kovacs CeaserXIX CeaserXIX
Mention: Makoto, Quinn
 
Makoto Madiyarov
Caretaker
theme


He'd only managed a glimpse, before one seized the other and disappeared. The faint, piercing echo of a voice soared for a moment, its wings lamentably clipped by the ensuing harsh gale. Still, the possibilities lined themselves up like targets in Makoto's mind, all promptly and tensely shot through. But try as he might, not a single one made a recognizable mark. The voice and their darkened shapes had been vaguely boyish, at best. The only certainty was the direction and the burst of momentum-boosted speed that now carried him through heaps of white, which creeping age and the cold had denied Mateo, who steadily and faithfully trailed from behind.
Quickly the forested slope flattened, revealing a frozen glade. Bits of snow vaulted up as Makoto's army field boots dug to a stop for a breath, one hand on his knee and the other against the bark of a grand, gnarled old oak. In between puffs of mist and eerie moonlight, the chapel stood to him like some cursed, timeworn jewel in the middle of a Tanada rice paddy field, ripe with untold risk.

The gods had not led him here; this was all her will. But, were those her orphans?

Eyes kindling like embers under the moon's glare, Makoto wasted no time in approaching, this time keeping his oddity at bay. Slowly picking up the pace, he made sense of what he was seeing. The church entrance bore two young dark-haired boys he did not recognize, identical in all but the snapshot he had in his mind---the pair he remembered had a marked difference in height.
Just then, out of the corner of his vision, Makoto thought he saw a flicker. Instead, one of the twins became a shrunken corpse, festering away before his very eyes. Quiet sobs swiftly hovered in the air, the unintelligible whispers even harder to make out.

"...uinn. I'm...o..rry."

What did he just say?

Jaw clenched with unspoken alarm, Makoto raised a horror-stricken hand, fingers hooked to lips, ready to break the wind-blown silence and deliver a sharp, attention-grabbing whistle. Until the breath in his throat choked. A stone's throw away, somewhere in the wood echoed a distant, sudden and very recognizable wail of pain.
There was no time then, in his mind. A thousand questions and chances to confront the little entity were shoved aside, in favor of following the flame to wherever the shadow boy was burned. Forcing life back into his chilled legs, Makoto threw one last glance towards the church. In the distance, Mateo's voice faintly rang out, calling the boy by name.
Georgie.
❂​
"Quinn!"

Makoto was starting to grow sick of the silence. His stomach felt no better, running on empty while his temples pulsed subtly, brought on by the manipulation of his own momentum. Woodland shadows waxed and waned, but nothing of the shadow-walker himself. "Onegaishimasu," came his breathless little prayer. "Aizu o kudasai..."

A branch broke underfoot. Glancing down, Makoto spied what looked like blots of ink against paper; a brief thorny reminder of the first, and certainly not last time he and Adelaide had lost tempers with one another, only a few months into their mutual employment. This time though, the possibility of an accident could not be ruled out. More importantly, these blots sat next to a set of footprints marred by shuffled snow, all part of an eerie, desperate trail. Followed to its end, Makoto's heart jumped; one leg with relief at the sight of Quinn alive, and the other with biting infuriation at the sight of Quinn alive and out here.

There was no doubt that the boy heard him coming, and he made no attempts to be discreet as he made his way over to where the lad was dragging himself away at a snail's pace, oddity evidently drained.

"Kuso," swore the veteran under his breath, eyeing the distended, swelling lump over Quinn's ankle. It looked to be an accident alright, a product of boyish stupidity and of saving himself from whatever the eight hells Georgie was.

"I might have known it would be you," Makoto crouched, hand interlocking with the boy's snow-dusted collar. Black ooze dripped from his leaking eye onto the Caretaker's tensed fingers. Brought up close, both had something in their eyes to fear. Makoto gestured, voice low and laced with rancor. "That looks like it hurts. Which is good. Because when we get back, I'm breaking the other one."

❂​

Onegaishimasu. Aizu o kodosai... // Please. Please give me a sign...​



CODE BY SEROBLISS / VALOROUS ORDER
 
Doris MartinDoris_Martin.jpg
"It appears that is the flavor of the day," Doris replied regretfully, casting sullen eyes down at the plate in front of her. The meal she had so diligently prepared felt like it was starting back at her. It forced a grimace onto her features. She had intended the food to be warm and inviting, but it was taunting instead. Daring her, try and fill the growing pit in her stomach with it. She did not deserve all of it. The words Jasper had spoken brought Abigail to the front of her mind. Thoughts of the girl filled her head and forced her to use the now unappetizing meal as a distraction from the tears welling up in her eyes, "let us hope tomorrow will be a return to normalcy," Doris glanced back at the man and feigned a smile through her sorrow. Yet, how long would she be able to maintain her smile without it cracking?

She did not know, and that insecurity soon drew her gaze back to the plate of food. Her smile quickly fell apart as pale eyes followed her handling of the knife within her grasp. The phantom weight of lead was clinging to the silver as the utensil sliced through her serving of roast. She would have to try and push her troubles down further. Stomach them, like the meal she no longer had an appetite for eating. However, she could not let the children know this was the case. If she did not appear to enjoy her portion of the meal, what grounds did she have to convince the children to eat theirs? None. The realization loosened the knot in her stomach enough to accept a taste of the roast. Chewing it carefully, she brought her gaze up to wander the dining table.

Doris, you are making a scene. The accusation echoed through her mind. Stilled her wandering momentarily. It was her again, Evelyn. The bitter tone of the vile woman filled her head and strangled her with undeserved shame. That is not true... I am doing my job- Doris refused the notion internally, but her conviction failed to loosen the grip. Her gaze acted accordingly, refusing to meet the eyes of others as if actively repelled by them. Then her eyes landed on two faces who had quietly joined the dinner table and froze her still. Familiar, yet unseen by her since breakfast. Her eyes widened in disbelief. The utensils in hand were hastily put down in preparation for getting herself out of her chair. Yet, upon pushing the chair back, her heart changed at the first creek against the floor. She knew better than to make those two the center of attention.

Just talk to her, Dory-- I know! Her mental retort was sharper this time. Laced with residual anger towards Evelyn, yet found herself the wrong recipient. I... I apologize, but I know, dad-- Gwyn? Can you hear me? Where have you two been all day? Her eyes naturally remained unmoving. Locked onto the young lady as they would for any other conversation partner. She had meant to remain calm, but found herself caught up in her own torrent of concerns. Unable to pull herself back before- I have been worried sick about you both! Are you well? After what happened to Abigail I feared the worst--

In the heat of the moment, her own worry-filled thoughts had betrayed her. The realization forced her mind into a sudden stillness. Not only because of her careless error but also the interference of a third party. As her eyes drifted up the wall, Doris saw the painting across from her had shifted. The Owner's likeness was now on prominent display, keen eyes staring down at one of her subjects. Doris averted her gaze and dipped her head down. With everything that had happened today, she did not deserve to keep her head high. Still, her mind raced, attempting to reason which mistakes were severe enough to warrant the lady of the house to make an unannounced appearance during dinner.

Doris did not have to think for long before the answer unnaturally found her. It was a feeling that resonated throughout her being, shaking her very core. None of her mortal senses could hope to identify it, but she could tell the Owner was taking attendance. And, she knew there were absentees. For a moment, a sense of dread washed over Doris. It felt as if she was back in school again. Her head kept down and focused on finishing her tests without letting her gaze drift for answers. But, back then, she knew the answers, and now she was doubting herself. Was she allowed to cheat in the Owner's presence and take attendance alongside her? She did not know, and that uncertainty kept her snared in place.

- - - - - - - - - -
Location: Dining Hall
Interaction: Jasper ( housegoat13 housegoat13 ), Gwyn ( Sybela Sybela )
Mentions: Cole ( Feral Feral ), The Owner ( Coyote Coyote )
 
Mateo Solinas - The Church - AmberV AmberV

It wasn't the cold that made his hand tremble. It was difficult even to swallow and every cell in his body shivered at what he was about to do. Mateo stole a glance at his lantern's light. It was very weak now. The Owner's influence was not as strong here. He felt her gaze but it was faraway. Something was interfering... but Georgie came back to him in waves. First was his smile, then his laugh, and his kind eyes. Part of him didn't want to let that go. More than anything, Mateo wanted to hold onto his memories of Georgie as the gentle soul he was. Now, more than ever, he had a chance to make it up to him. If he could save him now, then the painful nights, the regrets, the what if's would all go away and something deep in his soul hungered for that relief. He longed for it more than he feared what awaited inside.

With a sharp inhale, Mateo grabbed the rusted handle and stepped through that eerie threshold.

The first thing that came to him was how the Church felt. Warm and damp... like an animal's breath. The pews laid themselves out in fairly good condition. In fact, the Church itself appeared nearly untouched, as if not a day has passed since liturgy was held here. Mateo stepped forward and heard a small splash. When he looked down, he found he had stepped in a puddle. That was when his ears caught up to him. A heavy rainfall was impacting the roof of the church and was accompanied by the gentle drip drop of water leaks. Just then a drop hit the top of Mateo's head and he looked up. There, in the dark, lightless, godless church were bodies. Nuns, alter boys, and a pastor hung high in the ceiling with sacks tied around their heads. Their ghastly silhouettes drifted limply as the rain continued to pour and Mateo's first instinct was to look at his lantern, hoping for the Owner's guidance, only to find it extinguished. The Owner's presence was no longer with him.

Mateo looked out at the Church and scanned his surroundings. There was no sign of Georgie anywhere and the rain... it shouldn't be raining in the dead of winter. This damp warmth felt to him like something much worse. He wasn't in a place experiencing winter at all. The Church was in a state far more well kept than its exterior let on and when he looked up once more, there was one among the hanging corpses that was not dressed in any religious attire, nor was its head covered by a sack. It was a woman in a muddied, ragged dress with patterns that appeared Spanish... no... further west. In the former colonies of Spain. Covering her head was a red wooden box and her body was severely rotted... practically mummified. The other corpses weren't. They were fresh. Very. Fresh.

Snap

The rope for the mummified woman snapped and she suddenly fell to the ground with a sickening thud and crack, brittle bones popping and cracking from their joints upon impact. Mateo stepped back and moved a hand towards the door, never taking his eyes off the box-headed woman. When his hand found the handle, he tugged, only to be met with a stiff resistance. He stole a glance at the door and paled at the sight of the locked door. No. It didn't even have a keyhole. Mateo was trapped. The horror of such a realization crawled over him with an arachnoid disposition and settled deep in his stomach.

It was then that Mateo got the distinct feeling he was being hunted...
 
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  • how she's feeling...



    Conflicted

















Gwyneira



The Telepath













There was a noticeable shudder that traversed the body of Gwyn; she hadn't expected anyone to sit next to her, not with the company that filtered around the table. She had caught the eye of Olivia, the one orphan that had quickly become her friend upon meeting and, with a scarce look given, she deduced that most people were there safe for a few. Not her problem, though. That was their fault if they wanted to miss Miss Doris's cooking.

Gwyn attempted to close herself off from her peers, hunching her shoulders forward in a positively uncomfortable position and, with her one free hand, she pressed it firmly to one of her ears, rubbing at the ache that splintered there with a fierceness. The tension that coated the air was appalling, and the waves of trepidation that crossed the different channels in her mind spoke to her of trouble brewing. Her hearing wasn't needed to know of things going awry, but she missed it nonetheless.

The shiver that coaxed her body to tremble with a promise of goosebumps edged away as a sweet voice like honey fed into her mind. The words beautiful, magical, French. Colette had such a pretty voice; it was honeyed, without being misleading, with delicate, mellifluous tones- Pleasant.

The language curled her lips upwards, the English translation allowing a grin to penetrate through the smile. Colette easily swayed her, even without the addition of her mood-changing oddity.

I have pain in my ears, Ma beauté.
Gwyn answered through their direct link. It was heartwarming how easily Colette opened her mind to her; it was easy to establish that direct connection between them and speak freely into her mind.

The question on food had her still. Had she eaten? The plate was before her, the cutlery in her unclothed hands with her exposed digits curling around the metal, or she thought them to be metal. The touch of the cold stung, not in a painful way but more psychologically. Gwyn had forever worn gloves on her hands, and the white ones Olivia had made her were special. They were lost, probably floating around the Other somewhere.

Guilty, she glanced towards her friend's direction, hoping she wouldn't be too upset over Gwyn losing them. She itched to find them, to wear them again. Anything would do at this point as long as she wasn't so...Exposed.

Food, ah yes.
It looks great, right?
She questioned Cole, happy the conversation was something nice and fluffy, not dark and menacing like the dimension they had both been in hours prior.
Miss Doris made it today, best cooking in the whole orphanage.

To emphasise meaning, Gwyn pushed her fork into a roast, cut a small piece off with the knife, and delivered it into her waiting mouth. An audible little
"Mm"
sounded the moment her taste buds surrendered to the joy.

Gwyneira shuffled her bottom in her seat; warmth spread from the tip of her toes and reached her head's crown. She knew the cause, and, with a mouth full of tantalising tastes, she smiled down at her plate.

The touch came unannounced; Gwyn was so focused on other matters that she had missed any telltale signs of thoughts from Cole. She stiffened at first but soon melted into the touch of the pinkette and turned to face her after swallowing.
Ma chérie,
She thought,
your mind is filled with the prettiest pinks and deepest reds.
It was lovely, exquisite even. She felt safe, warmed with the cloak of the colours and words and, undoubtedly, loved.

Loved. Love. When was the moment she felt such an emotion come from herself? Gwyn had fancied boys, and she had been attracted to the handsome men. Never had she thought of a girl in the same light- It is forbidden, she was taught that. But here she was, giddy at the attention from Colette. Feeling the warmth rush to her pale cheeks from the adoration that lingered with the words spoken between them both.

Was this friendship?

Or was there more?

Her blue eyes warmed with a smile, the edges crinkling just a tad as the grin reached her eyes.
You should eat too, Ma chérie.
The pet names came quickly the more she heard Colette speak.

The venom that dripped and acted as a corrosive to Doris's fragile mind soon entered her own. Or, it was better to say that Gwyn had involuntarily wandered into Doris's mind- Again. She had opened more than one link before; she'd been able to speak to several people at once. This was easy; Gwyn had to focus on who she was talking to. Easy peasy.

Gwyn listened while forking the fluffy yet crispy roast into her mouth and eating the delicious potato. Sunday roast dinners were a favourite; it reminded her of home before things got bad. How everyone, all her brothers included, would crowd around their little dining table and scoop their servings of vegetables, roast potatoes, her favourite, and meat onto plates.

She enjoyed those times, those simple moments that meant the world to her. They were gone now, but...She had a new family. They might've been dysfunctional, and there might be some secret otherwordly dimension waiting to gobble them up, but...Gwyn was somewhat happy here.

Noise fell on deaf ears. Gwyn hadn't heard the squeak of the chair, nor had she listened to the clink of utensils that set back against wood. She did notice Doris almost rise to her feet, though, and, with the image guiding her sight to Doris, she kept the contact between them both as her smile turned sour; saddened at the horrid tone Evelyn used with Doris.

Miss Doris...
Gwyn answered the caretaker's thoughts with a solemn little whine. Doris was someone Gwyn thought of as a mother; they'd bonded not long after Gwyn's arrival, and the older woman had treated her so kindly, so lovingly.

Gwyn wanted to tell her everything, to unload all the horrid things she and Colette had gone through. But...She couldn't. Not only had she not spoken to Colette about it, but Gwyn didn't want to overwhelm and cause worry to Doris. Truthfully, she was frightened that some of the more intrusive thoughts from Doris would penetrate and be a little upsetting to hear. Gwyn didn't want to be thought of as a liar or someone overreacting.

There was no proof of what happened; she couldn't just gush out words and hope for the best. Gwyn sighed in her seat, weighing her options.

I'm sorry I worried you, Miss. It was awful. It was just...Darkness. Everything was dark, and I couldn't see anything- I tried, but I couldn't! I really couldn't. I could hear things and my head...Oh god, it felt like it wanted to explode, and it kept building up, up and up until...Until something snapped.
Her words were rushed, swirling depressing blues and chaotic blacks accentuating her terror and fright. She was drowning in her misery, suffocating in the pitch that grew and surrounded the memories of that torturous place.

Miss,
she continued,
I-I can't hear. I've lost my hearing.
The sound of her voice tinged with sadness, a sorrow that held a chained-up cry. Gwyn didn't want to cry anymore; she was tired and exhausted.

Gwyn felt the worry that edged into the corners of her mind, saw the concern that plagued Doris if only for a brief moment, and she felt so bloody sorry. Sorry that she'd caused Doris to go through the stages of grief again since Abigail- Wait, Abigail.

W-What happened to Abigail?
Gwyn's curiosity beat all other thoughts. Her time spent with Colette had yet to dig up any clues to what actually happened to Abigail; both girls were still in the dark about certain things.
Miss Doris...Please, what happened to her?
She felt like she needed to know and find out if not for her sanity for Colette's health. She noticed how her pink-haired friend swooned over the girl, how she desperately tried to find out what had happened to her. Gwyn wanted to help her with this.

She'd managed to move onto the meat, and, she hoped, her actions would sway anyone into thinking she was going through the normal ministrations of eating dinner. Her conversations were locked regardless, a secret from everyone else. Gwyn noticed the break of eye contact and, following Doris' gaze, noted how the older woman hurriedly looked from a painting.

Doris looked frightened, overwhelmed. What was wrong with her?
Miss?
She asked, concerned.













































♡coded by uxie♡
 
CODE BY SEROBLISS
Frida Wagner
Location: Dining room
Frida chuckled, her hand rubbing her forehead as her light chuckling became a cackle. a chill ran down her spine which made her shiver. Her fight-or-flight response kicked into overdrive as Doris scolded her, and Ethel butted into things that didn't concern her. Something had broken in the petite blonde's head.

She slammed her hands on the table, before standing up. "What exactly are you going to do Doris? Spank me? Make me leave without dinner? Fuck you!" FUCK ALL OF YOU." Grabbing her plate with her bare hands she threw it at the caretaker before grabbing her chair and throwing it in the direction of Olivia and Oliver.

"Your nitwit of a sister blamed me for her injury did she? Frida's hair flew up before looking at the food in front of them and dropping it onto the twin's head.

"Does that make her feel better? DOES IT!?" As her arms flew up so did the utensils and food that surrounded her. "NO ONE IS GOING TO EAT TODAY, BECAUSE BIG BAD FRIDA HAS TO MESS EVERYTHING UP, ITS ALWAYS FRIDA'S FAULT."

With the levitating food she began to throw it at any breathing person who hadn't ducked, kids, caretakers, and innocent bystanders had been hit by utensils and food alike.

Standing on the dinner she screamed and kicked utensils, and smashed plates. Her nose began to bleed due to her oddity being used in excess as she tore curtains, and lifted up pottery before throwing it toward the twins.

"I HATE YOU ALL!!!" Frida said with such vitriol she began to levitate slightly off the table, her ears and eyes bleeding before noticing the portrait in the dining hall, She could have sworn it looked different at some point, but the owner's grim face was there instead. Pointing her finger towards it, it flew towards her before she threw it towards the ground in disgust. She hated to see the woman's face. Frida hated everything, her rage ever increasing as she continued to destroy the dining hall, her oddity causing the table, walls, and floor to shake violently as food fell to the ground.

This was rare from Frida but she had raged like this before once, long ago.

Clearly, the girl had snapped.

Paperface Paperface SavannahSmiles SavannahSmiles Ashy_OCdesigns Ashy_OCdesigns
 
Frida seemed to cause a slight chain reaction, as Ethel is scared as well. She drops to the floor as food is about to hit her, but it's clear that she misjudged how fast the food was going, as it still hits her head and causes her to bleed a bit. She never tried to activate everyone's breaking points, but Frida had broken. Ethel shuts up, again, crawls under the table that's very much shaking, and holds on tight. Ethel's grip is like iron, as she is scared. Fear is her primary negative emotion.

If you looked under the table, you could see Ethel's eyes space out. Not in the way that she wasn't paying attention, but almost like her eyes were going to roll back into her head. It was mentioned that Frida scared her to almost activate her oddity every time, and that was because of her uncertain temper. But Ethel felt bad for her, had her consciousness been there because she didn't know someone could be this broken.

Ethel's fingers were trying to loosen, but she was in more control than if she had been standing and not resting against or holding onto something.
 
Quinn
- Woods
- Dazed and in pain, Quinn lied in the snow.

The pain raged through his entire being, his heart racing as adrenaline poured into him, yet he had little to no strength to move, lying in the cold snow, the ichor dripping from his eye only growing in volume as his mind raced, his head struggling to keep the ever burning feeling within his socket, as if something was rushing to make it's out, to finally be known to the outside world. 'I'm going to die out here', he thought himself, the cold now finally settling in his core, his eye convulsing, though his ears caught the faint crunch of snow, failing to notice Mateo running past him, yet made horribly aware of the new fiends presence, now wishing he had taken his chances with the church, as his collar was pulled by Makoto, the dog tags around his neck dangling out, bouncing against his chest as he tried to look at the supposed guardian of the orphanage, hearing his threats of breaking his other ankle ringing in his ears, causing a soft growl to slip past his lips, weakly swinging punches at Makoto, though with little to no force behind his weakened body, muttering, "To 'ell with ya', ya' damned mongrel. It's no wonder no one likes you, you're nothin' but a fiend. Tis a...blessing that no child has come from ya', you'd make a shite father," he taunted, his attitude still intact as he continued swinging at Makoto in vain.

- Kovacs Kovacs ​
 


Mateo Solinas
The sound of the body hitting the ceramic tile, the cracking of bone, echoed through the church. It felt as if the sound had drowned out the rain gently pattering against the roof and windows and, even as it lay still on the floor, that sound was the only thing in his mind. Mateo’s free hand tested the door behind him again and again, pulling, pushing, sliding, putting as much effort into it as he could while keeping his eyes locked on that thing.

It hadn’t moved yet. It looked like a simple corpse, splayed across the floor, but Mateo knew better than that. Out of everyone, except perhaps the Professor, he knew that things were never as they first appeared and that, once something was visible, to look away was an invitation.

The door wasn’t giving, not even shuddering on its hinges. And the lantern was out.

Lord above, the lantern was out.

There were only brief flashes of bright light as lightning arced across the sky outside, but the lantern’s light, inviting despite the cold touch of it in his hand, was what he craved. Mateo fumbled for his lighter, striking it and steadying his shaking hands to hold it to the wick, “Light. Light, Damnation, light.” There was no response. The lighter flickered and wavered above the wick, but the thin cord remained dark and cold. He slowly tucked the lantern away and, reaching to his belt, pulled out the small hammer he’d been using to repair the fence. It wasn’t much, but it was better than his bare hands. He didn’t want to watch them shake.

“Georgie?” his voice resonated, booming and filling the space and, for a moment, the memory of a small parish in the mountains of Italy. The priest of that church had filled the small stone chapel with a voice that belied his age and size and, as a young boy, it had felt like every word shook the building to its foundation.

Unlike that chapel, full of light and music and life, there was nothing here. No movement, no breath, nothing. Only the pattering of rain to remind him that time moved on.

He didn’t want to look away from the woman, lying broken in the center aisle. He couldn’t. Every hair on his neck, every drop of sweat beading on his brow told him to not let her leave his sight.

But he needed to move. The front door may be barred and the stained-glass windows were too narrow to drag himself through, but there had to be another way. His gaze traveled along the wooden walls and the rows and rows of pews before it rested on the altar.

Behind it was an icon, a carving of the Holy Family. Joseph, smiling down at the serene child held in the arms of- no one. The carving of Mary had been taken, hacked from its place.

“Blasphemers,” he muttered, making his way slowly down the center aisle, eyes still fixed on the body sprawled ahead of him, that red box causing the neck to twist at an odd angle, “Here. Even here can be defiled. This is a house of the LORD.” The boom of his voice was his only comfort, the echo making it feel like he was once again praying next to his brother and father and mother, surrounded by the voices of the congregation as they all called out for deliverance.

Mateo dared not step too close to her. He passed by, stepping into the pews and clambering over the back of the oak seats to avoid getting within reach. As if he knew how far she could reach. She appeared human, but this was no place for humans. He doubted that anything here had a shred of humanity left.

He stepped into the center aisle once more, slowly backing down it with eyes locked on that red box.

Backing up was worse. He was drawing closer and closer to the missing statue, towards the imposing altar, and yet he couldn’t look to see where he was moving. He could only trust that he wouldn’t stumble or find himself backing into something he had yet to see.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and an arc of lightning, filling the room with light just in time to see two more bodies fall, one in the left aisle and one in the right. They had looked fresh when he first saw them and the sound when they hid the floor wasn’t the dull thud of the box woman. It was a sickening slap. He could catch glimpses of them between the pews and was thankful to God that he could see nothing more than that.

God. God. God above, he wanted nothing more than to get on his knees and pray for this to end. The silence, the stillness, it was too much. “Pater noster...” his voice shook, and he paused to clear his throat, continuing his slow backwards walk, “Pater noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum-”

His heel bumped the edge of the dais and he risked a short glance, keeping the box woman in the corner of his eye. A pair of doors, hidden from view by half-walls, flanked the altar and presumably led to the sacristy. If there was another entrance, it would be there. “Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas, sicut in caela, et in terra.”

Mateo fumbled for the latch and found it, never tearing his eyes from the woman. His grip tightened around the cold metal as he braced himself for the unknown.

The latch lifted as he pulled on the door and, with a soft groan, it swung wide. He touched a hand to his forehead, took a breath, then darted through the door and yanked it shut behind him.

The room was as dark as a crypt. There was no lightning to illuminate the room, not even the sound of thunder anymore.

Only scraping at the door behind him. Insistent, soft, a light brush of nails against wood, but ever present.

He had no intention of waiting to see if the creature scraping found a way in.

Mateo didn’t bother with the lantern. She wasn’t here, she couldn’t find him here. Instead, he pulled out the lighter and flicked the flint, so that a steady flame, albeit a small one, cast light into the room.

The statue of Mary was before him, a painted wooden statue slightly larger than his hand. Her hands were outstretched, reaching for a baby that was no longer in her arms, and her face was empty. Gone. There was a gap as if it had been smoothly scraped away and left nothing behind.

Whatever was around her, what she was resting on was wet, dark and slick. As his gaze traveled up, up, away from the white robes of the Holy Mother, he saw the ribs around her, white bones split open as if she was the heart within this opened chest. And further still he looked and saw the rest of it. It wasn’t one person, one chest, one torso, but a twisted mass of limbs and flesh. It was connected, as if it had grown that way, but the skin, in a variety of shades and states, made it clear that once this had been many.

But there was no place where one began and another ended. It was all it.

And it leaned against the back door.

It didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t shudder or groan. That was almost worse. The stillness, the silence, the scratching-. It was getting louder.

There was a thud on the other side of the door that he had come through, a familiar wet slap. Then another and another. He didn’t need to see the bodies fall to know that more had joined those on the floor. And that they’d soon be scratching at the door.

Lord, Lord, protect me.

The scratching was getting louder, filling the space, filling his mind, drowning out his thoughts as the doors shuddered as the nails ripped and tore at the wood. There was no more time to hesitate. He would have preferred the door, but he was relegated to the window.

Mateo swung the hammer into the glass, and it shattered, exploding outward. Not that he could hear it break. The moment the cracks appeared across the dark surface, a scream rose from beyond the window. Though to call it a scream was a disservice to it. It was worse, more horrible and breathtaking by far than any scream he’d ever known. It struck him, forcing him back and to the ground and, for what might have been seconds, minutes, hours, he had no clue, his whole world was this wailing scream.

He lay still when it ended, struggling to catch his breath. It had left a dull ache in his head, a ringing in his ears, and he slowly began to pull himself back up when he felt the hair on the back of his neck move.

Mateo looked before he could stop himself. His hair brushed it as he turned and he found himself staring at the box woman, the red wood so close he could see the lay of the grain and the mottled coloration that made him wonder whether it was paint or stain that had colored it this way.

There was absolute silence for a moment. He wasn’t even sure if his heart was beating. The room was still, the scratching gone silent, and the box woman loomed before him, her twisted and desiccated body leaned over his sprawled legs.

A gnarled hand slowly raised, dust rising from the ancient bone. The fingers splayed across the front of the box, resting against the side and, as his eyes followed the movement, he saw tiny brass hinges and a small latch that, as he looked on, lifted free of its catch. He had no time to consider, no time to look away, before the box woman pulled open the small door built into the box and Mateo fell into darkness.
Location: Somewhere Else
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Hank Mason

Hank took a small sip from the bottle, taking care not to inhale while doing so. He swallowed immediately; although he knew that Scotch was meant to be consumed a little more slowly, he didn’t much fancy the flavor. Perhaps it was an acquired taste. What he did like, though, was the next part. He felt it now—the bloom of warmth, like a candle flame coming to life in his chest. It was comforting on a cold winter’s night like this one. He leaned back in contentment, embracing the flame, feeling the warmth of its dance radiate through his veins, letting it slowly dwindle until it let out its last soft breath. It was a funny thing, really. Here he was, sitting in the dark among nothing but fuzzy white patches of dust and mold, with a sharp wooden stair digging uncomfortably into his spine—yet Hank couldn’t think of a time when he was more at rest. Was that something that he should feel guilty about? It was another question that he chose not to answer in favor of taking another sip.

After drinking in silence for some time, he began to feel his eyelids grow heavy. It was fairly dark, and he now had his share of food and drink in him; it couldn’t be helped. He figured it was about time to get up and walk around, just to shake off the drowsiness. “I’m so tired, though…” he thought to himself with a yawn. The sounds from the rest of the orphanage seemed to be blending together into a continuous, muffled murmur. “It couldn’t hurt to just close my eyes for just a minute.”

When he opened his eyes again, Hank found that he was no longer on the stairs. In fact, he didn’t seem to be any place that he could recognise. Taking a quick glance around, he realised he was standing in a small kitchen, the kind that might be found in someone’s home. The walls were showing signs of yellowing, and the counter was cluttered with dishes and utensils. There was a hallway behind him, which for some reason only had one door near the end. There was also a small window off to the side, which was letting a stream of soft sunlight into the room; it was daytime now. Despite the fact that the place was wholly unfamiliar to him, Hank felt strangely at ease.

“Can you make two for me?”

Hank froze as a voice called out from the room down the hall. Immediately, he felt a clenching in his chest. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long while, not even in his head. Why now must his mind toy with him?

“Two of what?” he replied evenly, trying play along the best he could.

“Eggs! Aren’t you cooking breakfast?”

“I’m no good at cooking.”

“I know that. But you know that I can’t do it right now. Just give it a shot!”

“I’ll try my best. Do you know where the eggs are?”

“No. Didn’t you just buy some?”

“Oh, yes… Don’t worry, I found them. I’ll be done in ten minutes.”

“Thanks Hank. Love you!”

“Love you too.”

Sure enough, there was a small basket of eggs by the sink. He must not have noticed it before; he brought it to the counter now. Then he began the search for a serviceable looking pan. It surprised him how quickly he had fallen into rhythm, like this was something he did every day. As he lit the stove, he even found that he’d begun humming to himself. Strange as all of this was, it felt pleasant, cathartic even. Just a nice, simple morning. Nothing to feel bad about. Though his eyes had taken on a dull sheen, there were hints of a smile on Hank’s face. He did not flinch when his gaze settled upon the basket, full just a second before, but now empty—nor when he turned to see the mess of broken shells and yolks littered at the end of the hall—nor when he raised his fist to find that the last egg was right there in his grasp.

The light streaming through the window, soft and comforting just a moment before, now felt unnatural and oppressive. The heat radiating from the pan seemed malevolent, viciously demanding him to give it what it wanted. But still, Hank played along. He broke the egg open with a sharp crack, letting it hover for a moment over the smoldering iron. His expression remained mild and relaxed, but only barely so. Underneath poker-faced lips, there were gritted teeth. At the end of taut, stiff arms, there were fingers clenched just a little too hard. It was annoyance. Annoyance with this ridiculous game that was of his own creation, but which he had absolutely no control over.

Many moments later, he finally spoke.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Can’t take it?” returned the voice. Its tone was mocking now; it too had broken character.

“I can. It all feels terribly idiotic, is all.”

“Why did you subject yourself to it then?”

“You seem to be under the impression that I decide these things. I don’t.”

“Yes you do. You played along. You wanted this.”

“I played along because I thought I might learn something. Turns out it was all just nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense.”

“Oh? Why don’t you tell me what it all means then.”

There was a long pause.

“Why don’t you fry the egg?”

“There’s no reason to.”

“It’s the only one that isn’t broken on the floor. Appreciate that. I’m sure it will taste delicious.”
Hank did not reply. His discomfort had since faded away; he just felt tired now. Slowly, he relaxed his grip and let the egg slip out. Shell, yolk, and white splattered pathetically at his feet. The voice did not speak again.

Then, he was back on the stairs. What time was it? He sat up, rubbing tenderly at his sore spine. Already, details of the dream were evading him. Its mark was already made, however; his mood had been considerably dampened. For a few minutes, he simply stared at his shoes, eyebrows furrowed. He was thinking—just he wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking about. Then, as if suddenly struck by a great epiphany, he stood up and took a gulp of Scotch. “I need to walk. That should help,” he proclaimed. With that, he began his tottering ascent up the stairs.

Location: Stairs
 
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Mateo Solinas
Perhaps it wasn’t falling after all. He simply was pulled into darkness. He was standing somewhere, but there was nothing else. The darkness was so thick that, even as he lifted his hand to his face, he couldn’t see it. But he could still feel the wooden shaft of the hammer, the warm metal of the lighter. So perhaps he wasn’t dead after all.

Small comforts.

A roll of the thumb and the flint caught, sending a shower of sparks skittering through the darkness before the little flame illuminated the darkness. He could see his hands, his hammer and, before him, the crouched form of the box woman, weeping. The box was gone and gnarled gray hair shook as she sobbed, but her face was still buried in her hands, hidden from view.

The voice, the sound of her weeping took ahold of him. It reminded him of a dreary spring day, when he’d slipped along the narrow dirt path through the cemetery. His brother had steadied him, still able to stand strong and tall. Their mother had gone ahead and was crouched by the fresh grave. On her knees, like the box woman. And as the box woman wailed, it was his mother’s voice, as if pulled straight from that very memory.

But the voice that spoke was different, crackling and hoarse. “So... mournful… how I mourn for you Mateo… The life you’ve lived. See how your mother cries?”

The woman looked up, turning her head to meet his gaze, and he stared deep into her face. Though to call it a face might not be correct. There was no flesh, no skin, only the dried, discolored bone of a skull that had long decayed. There were no eyes with which to see him, only deep cavernous pockets where they had once sat, but he could feel himself being watched all the same.

“See how your mother cries?”

All at once, it was as if every moment of grief he’d ever felt was stretched out before him. He was weeping, a small child, embracing his best friend. He was standing at the window of the train, watching the familiar mountains of his home disappear from view. He was leaving a girl behind to find work, pressing soft kisses to her cheeks and hands. He was standing at his father’s grave. He was standing at his brother’s bedside. He was searching the woods for a lost boy, following sparks from a cold lantern and praying to a god that had never answered.

It began to hurt, the sobbing. The grief had turned to anguish, to despair, to violent frustration. He had searched those woods for so many hours. Days and days on end, returning to the Orphanage only to eat, and still Mateo had never found Georgie. For weeks, he had wandered the woods and it was only the passage of time, the melting of the snow, that had forced him to give up the search.

He didn’t want to find the body that he had assumed had been buried by the winter storms.

“Poor, mournful Georgie. All alone. For so long… all… alone…” Was there judgement in her voice? Or pity? Mateo couldn’t tell over the sound of his own choked breaths.

“I looked-” the words caught in his throat and Mateo forced a deep, shuddering breath, reaching up to smear away the tears running along his cheeks, “I stopped only to eat, I looked for him for days.”

One of her hands reached out, tendons creaking, until it was pointed towards the right. The bone had this gray, soft look to it, as if it had been worn and weathered by water and wind for decades. The hand was far steadier than his own, which were shaking so much that the flame of the lighter was shivering and sending ripples through the shadows. “You searched for him in all the places he wasn’t. Where you did not look…”

Mateo followed the gesture, eyes traveling along the pointing hand before lighting on a small wooden cabinet, a few feet away. He was unsure if it had been there the whole time or if she had brought it to her, but it was there now. The weathered mahogany doors had neat crosses carved in the center and the whole thing couldn’t have been all that old, but the church itself had appeared far older on the outside than it had on the inside, so perhaps it was older than it looked as well.

He opened the cabinet door to reveal Georgie. But this wasn’t the hale and hearty boy he’d known. He was curled in the cabinet, knees drawn to his chest, and taking deep rattling breaths. Every bone was visible through his skin, clothes hanging loose around his emaciated frame. Mateo could only stare and, for a moment, he thought the boy was staring back. But he was staring past Mateo, off into the space over his shoulder.

Those skeletal hands of the woman passed by Mateo’s head, lifting Georgie out of the cupboard and cradling him in her arms. The gray fingers brushed his hair back from his face and the jaw opened in what might have once been a comforting smile, but now only served to show the deep blackness behind those teeth, as if light disappeared beyond her smile.

“I am a good mother aren’t I…? Taking in mournful Georgie whom no one could find. Whom you couldn’t find.” Her voice, for a moment, once again took on a tone that reminded him of his mother and he found himself nodding silently. He doubted she noticed. She was so thoroughly entranced by the cadaverous boy in her arms, he couldn’t help but wonder if she would even notice if he did speak. “I came here long ago when mothers mourned their children. I am called Evidna… but those who fear me call me la Llorona…

Her gentle touch slowed, then stopped. Georgie was still in her arms, only the rise and fall of his chest to indicate that he wasn’t just another corpse, one of many she seemed to have collected and left in the church’s rafters. But there was a smell to him, a rank and rotten stench that reminded him of a goat he’d found once that had caught her leg in a gap in the rocks. The leg had rotted through while she was still living. The goat hadn’t lived long after that. Georgie smelled like that goat.

Evidna’s neck let out a soft crunch as her head swiveled, and those black holes of her eye sockets stared straight into him, “You know what I did for mournful Georgie? I let him join me… in here… Will you join me mournful Mateo?”

For a brief moment, the devil whispered his temptation and Mateo wondered if he stayed here, in this absolute darkness and pure silence, he would be able to sleep.

The temptation passed. He was needed at home, after all. There was work to do and the children, despite their protestations, still needed him. He was too young to retire anyways.

But he couldn’t leave alone. He at least had to try.

Mateo swallowed, forcing the words out into the suffocating quiet, “I can't stay, I'm sorry. It's time for dinner. Could I bring Georgie to have dinner with me?”

An eternity passed. He couldn’t look away from the blackness of those eyes. She didn’t breathe, she didn’t move, she merely stared at him in absolute and utter silence. The pressure, the pounding of his heart, Mateo’s own ragged breath, all of it faded away as he stared into the void in front of him.

And then she was gone, and Mateo was standing in the snow, the church resting behind him with the moonlight casting its shadow across the snow around him.

A hand wormed into his, holding it tight and Mateo looked over to see Georgie. This was the boy as Mateo had known him, as if five years hadn’t passed and as if he’d never seen the inside of the cupboard or known the pull of starvation.

“What’s for dinner?”

Mateo fell to his knees, arms encircling Georgie, and wept.
Location: Somewhere Else
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For all in the Dining Hall

The temperature drops precipitously, sending chills down your spines. In moments, you can see your own breath. The lack of manners at dinner has proved… displeasing.
 
CARETAKER
Character Sheet
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Injury Transfer
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Dining Room
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Frida
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Ghostiiys Ghostiiys
Jasper Cummings

Doris’ response had fallen on deaf ears, but even she seemed to be consumed in her thoughts as Jasper registered the savory taste of beef.

He could feel a torrent of numbers drip down the furnished walls, counting, incomprehensible whispers repeating. Only the harsh pressure in his hand told him he was holding his fork too tightly, and he willed himself to slacken his grip significantly.

Jasper lifted his gaze, unmoving from his position but taking note of everyone he could see. He knew Makoto and Mateo were not at the table, and yet it seemed The Owner was not looking for them.

Quinn His mind supplied helpfully, and Jasper found that the red head was indeed missing, but before he could think about the worrying fact anymore, an enraged yell erupted from Frida.

“What exactly are you going to do Doris? Spank me? Make me leave without dinner? Fuck you! FUCK ALL OF YOU."

Jasper immediately stood up upon her harsh words, pushing down with his hands, and in a moment of forgetfulness he felt a sharp stab throughout his bandaged wrist. He winced, quickly lifting his hand.

His eyes widened as Frida grasped her plate with wrathful fingers. Jasper knew the intent of the action and he instinctively flung out his closest arm to shield Doris. The ceramic shattered harshly as it collided with his skin, and he stumbled backwards, feeling the beginnings of blood drip down his cuts.

“Fuck-” he muttered, as white waves of fire pulsed through his forearm. The warmth that had escaped his lips condensed into a fog, and a shiver ran up his spine, but he paid little mind to the cold.

He brought his bandaged arm closer to himself, and away from Doris’ face. He gingerly touched one of the gashes and grimaced as a flame erupted from the brush. Goosebumps prickled his body, and his ears stung.

Meat splattered on Jasper’s chest, and he looked up to see Frida, scarlet blood leaked down the girl’s features, and her form was levitating just barely above the surface of the table. The furniture thundered underneath her.

Jasper hastily moved towards the girl; his eyes fixed on her as he shoved chairs out of his way to get closer, any food or dishware that darted towards him remained unfelt.

When Frida was within reach, he immediately seized her wrist with his dominant hand and used all his weight to tug her down to the ground.

He rapidly repositioned himself to link his left arm around her shoulder, and heaved her up to his side, using his body weight against hers. He was unrelenting in his strength, uncaring if he would bruise her, as he dragged her forward and towards the doorway.

coded by natasha.
 
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Makoto Madiyarov
Caretaker


Like a leaf in the wind, the boy's collar shook. His throws showered down like twigs, brushed off and forgotten. Words as harsh as garden weeds tumbled out. With them, dangled a disdain as unmistakable as the army chain around his shivering neck. Makoto felt his temper twitch like a live wire, steadily eaten away by a spark of witless rubbish and wretched insolence.

Granted, not every word was a landmine. Some, like the worry of whether he was liked or not, had been decommissioned long ago. Others were held by a hair's width of tripping line. By the last one, the iron-laden grip around the boy's collar found itself compressed into the underbelly of his throat. Beneath Makoto's cap was a swath of darkness and slits for eyes.

"There is a saying," came the veteran's hiss, Japanese lull accentuating his anger. "I no naka no kawazu wa taikai o shirazu. A frog in the well knows nothing of the great sea."

Like an unending bullet, Makoto's finger dug into Quinn's collarbone. "That is what you are. I'll not stand for lessons, you hear me? Not from a forsaken gaki of Lockheed who knows nothing of the world and whose mouth makes it even plainer a bloody fool commands it."

The same hand lowered and gestured harshly to the state of his injured leg, as if it were evidence. His expression was one of sore foreboding and a glimmer of contempt. "Disobeying his masters. Out of the kennel when he is not supposed to be, just like Abigail. Down to three legs and running with tail in between them. Make no mistake, boy, the only mongrel here is you."

A pause. Somewhere in the back of his head, Makoto knew that his grip around Quinn's neckline was too tight, and beginning to hold for too long. So he let go, if only to give the boy a chance to breathe as a distraction from what was poised to come next. A prickle of guilt reared its head for a moment. How quickly fours years can go by, it whispered. Yes, came the cynical answer. Four years wasted under the corrupting influence of that kraut of a she-wolf.

Oh Koto, it murmured, this time from thinly pursed lips. You were no different, once.

Shaking his head, Makoto leaned back and stood on his knees, fist cradling fist. "Thanks to you, we both now have a role to play. I have the hard part. But you..." The bones in his knuckles cracked, leveling eye to black-oozed eye. "...you just need to play dead."

❂​
gaki // brat​

Like a snake's bite, fist squarely met chin. Relatively clean cut, Quinn's lights went out in an instant. It would earn the boy a sizable bruise, and him no doubt a hefty scolding from Doris. Wasting no time, Makoto propped the boy up by the underarms and drew him to full height, the ache in his stomach as sharp as knives. Arm raised and about to prop the boy's lanky form over his tired shoulders, a familiar flash of metal drew his attention to the ground.

With Quinn's body folding over his back, Makoto crouched and fingered the army dog tag. Cold to the touch, its curved lettering bumped against his chapped finger. Serg. Terrance V. Richardson, it read. Underneath, were identification number and abbreviated letters, denoting all there was to know about his service. The Royal Fusiliers Regiment. Kitchener's Army, 8th Battalion.

Makoto's heart skipped a few sharp beats. He heard coincidence cackle in its corner. When was the last time he'd seen those letters up close? The answer hung around his own neck, perpetually obscured by layers of clothing and his scarf. Like a wedding ring years into marriage, it was a part of him that was long past the banality of notice. One's act in the theaters of hell condensed into a pair of pressed aluminum. As he painstakingly stood back up and began to walk, his mind instinctively curled away from the memories, bidding instead for the soldier within to recount.

Back then, the Royal Fusiliers was known to him by a second name⎯the Central London Regiment. It had been part of the famous Lord Kitchener's Army, whose call to arms in the summer of 1914 had drawn a young, twenty-something Makoto and thousands of others to London. There, under the command of the 36th Brigade⎯itself part of the regiment⎯the 8th Battalion was formed in the bowels of Hounslow. Divided into four companies consisting of four 50-manned platoons, each headed by a lieutenant, they had been 800 strong when they first landed in France the following May.

But by the final year of war in October, after the battles at the Hindenburg line where he'd earned the majority of his scars, they numbered no more than a hundred. He was told his battalion had served with distinction. But in the mud and artillery fire, it was impossible to tell who was who. Every night he'd share a crater and trembling smoke with a new face, the last one already lost to memory moments into the first trench charge the day before.

Makoto gripped the tag. This had been no ordinary soldier; a sergeant was second-in-command to the lieutenant after all. But Makoto's sergeant he was not⎯that honor had been bestowed upon a foul-mouthed Scot by the name of Gibson, or 'Gibs', a nickname the man absolutely hated. He and three others had made up the second command of their company. Quinn's father may have not been his direct sergeant, but if his redheaded and redblooded son was any indication of him, Makoto was sure of it; he'd seen that streak of cardinal-coloured hair time after time before, for they had served together. In the same company, the same battles on the same fields, the same trails and trenches.

Up to a certain point. Son had one tag; the other was surely with father, buried six feet under. Though when he had fallen and how, to be sure meant further investigation. Gingerly Makoto placed the tag in his pocket, glancing at the young, bruise-blooming face swinging loosely from his right shoulder. As he toilfully stepped over peeping tree roots and waves of snow, it came out in a breathless whisper, nearly lost to the wind.
"Goshuushousama desu."
❂​
Goshuushousama desu. // I am sorry for your loss.​

CODE BY SEROBLISS / VALOROUS ORDER
 
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Doris MartinDoris_Martin.jpg
To preserve the remainder of her already faltering mental stability, Doris quietly let the world pass her by. Closing the gates to her mind palace as she relived a scene from her childhood. Distracting herself from the chaos held back by her mental barricade. The noise at the dinner table soon faded behind the phantom sounds of scribbling against a chalkboard. Her classmates shifted in their seats. The... dripping of a faucet? She did not remember if there ever had been a leaking faucet in her classroom, but the sound was oddly calming. A steady and rhythmical pulse that filled the background of her psyche and allowed her a moment of peace. Within her fortress, she recalled classmates from years ago. She realized she did not remember them well, if at all. The broken memories of boys and girls flashed through her mind like she was flipping rapidly through a yearbook. Only allowing herself split moments to take in the pictures whizzing by. I invited some of your friends, Doris.

I do not recognize them... Their clothes were mundane and greyscaled in her memory, and their features were distorted and washed out. Unrecognizable, like an old polaroid photo. Although she knew she was failing to recall most of it now, back then, the world made sense. The lines between right and wrong never seemed to cross when her father was still-- Actually, some would attempt to lie when caught, but ultimately the truth would come to light. Does it, Doris? She refused to grace Evelyn with a response. Proving herself would be an insult, not an accomplishment. She knew the correct answer and the world in which she grew up. The world she sometimes wished she could have stayed in forever.

A chill ran over Doris' spine like Death had run its boney finger over her back. It momentarily distracted her. She rapidly rubbed her hands before cupping them together. As she blew into them to warm her hands, she noticed her breath was turning visible. The chill in the air was abnormal, and Doris knew this cold better than anyone. No amount of heating or warm clothing would stave this off. It was that very same sensation that had kept her company during her evening prayers. Now, however, it was not nearly as comforting to feel the Owner's embrace. It felt like she had accidentally crossed the line between right and wrong. If I apologize now, will I be a liar?... She thought while simultaneously asking the ghosts in her head what they knew of honesty. After all, would the gesture be genuine if she did not understand why she was apologizing?

She is talking to you, Dory. Where are your manners? The voice of her father. Even when correcting her, it never failed to sound comforting. But... what was he saying? The response, kind as it may be, only created more confusion. As long as the mental walls of her fortress kept her from consciously hearing Gwyn calling to her, she could not understand her father. I apologize, I do not understand...

I need your help... Please! She pleaded for her father's guidance but found no other response. He had left her again. He always did when she needed him the most. Now, pulling her stomach into a knot. Back then, when-- W-What happened to Abigail? Miss Doris...Please, what happened to her? Miss?

The rapid string of questions echoed through her head. They bounced off her psyche's edges until they screamed at her for an answer. Gwyn had succeeded in breaking through her fortress' walls, and her prize was the image of the foyer stairs. Realizing what her mind was sharing, Doris frantically replied – overshadowing the passive thought with an active response. Gwyn!- I assure you everything is well with the young lady. She insisted, yet her eyes betrayed her by refusing to meet Gwyn's as they conversed in thought. We had to get Abigail admitted to the hospital... I feared the two of you had run off to visit her. The story was only half a lie. Despite the secrecy surrounding Abigail, she did fear the girls had found out and went looking for her. If they did, it would be her duty to retrieve them. Another shiver graced her spine. Not from the cold but from creeping dread. Her thoughts turned fearful as they pulled back to the image of the foyer stairs. No matter how she attempted to withhold the image from the girl, Doris could not hide her fear of ascending those steps.

Does it really, Doris?

Evelyn's words withheld their most venomous properties in the presence of Gwyn, but Doris' pupils widened upon realizing the meaning behind the calm facade. A feeling of shame washed over her and pulled her gaze further away from the Gwyn. Evelyn was right. Had she not just told herself the truth always came to light? The world was different now, vastly so, but if she wanted to return one day-- You are nothing other than dishonest-- I am not... I will prove you wrong!

What exactly are you going to do, Doris?

“What exactly are you going to do, Doris?”

Doris' pale gaze snapped toward the direction of Frida and she immediately froze in place. Her eyes widened at the sight as her inner turmoil bled into the real world, again. A distorted shadow loomed over Frida as she threw her plate. Evelyn... A repressed feeling of trauma hit her, and she quickly shut her eyes tight. She braced for impact but heard the ceramic shatter against something else. With hesitance, she opened her eyes and saw Jasper had shielded her with his already injured arm. He had taken the hit for her and was now throwing himself at Frida in her stead. Watching him subdue the girl, the distorted shadow long faded, Doris could only sink her face into her hands. She would have to thank Jasper later, but right now she wanted to disappear. You cannot run from it, Doris.

It was not my fault! She rejected the notion fiercely, knowing what the words meant. You hurt the people who care about you-- You never cared about me!

- - - - - - - - - -
Location: Dining Hall
Interaction: Jasper ( housegoat13 housegoat13 ), Gwyn ( Sybela Sybela )
Mentions: Frida ( Ghostiiys Ghostiiys ) The Owner ( Coyote Coyote )
 
Ethel would've been able to see her breath, had she been looking at her breath. She didn't move, refused to. She would've thought Frida started the fight, but now she was so sure.
Ethel's hair stood up everywhere, including the odd brown and blond hair on the top of her head. She was determined to use her oddity more than before, if she could figure out how. She had never tried before. Ethel suddenly came back, and she felt cold. She quickly tried to slow down the removal of her flight/fight instincts. It might take her some time.
Her concentration went up, as she attempted to remove her specific brain parts that could get her hypnotized, memory and emotion. It still wasn't working!!!
 
CODE BY SEROBLISS
Annai Mestra
LOCATION: Dining Hall ----> Bathroom Door ----> Sleeping Quarters

This day really could not get any worse, could it?

Annai could feel the tension in the air as the orphanage’s residents sat down for what everyone hoped would be a normal meal. Most of the orphanage’s residents, anyway. Several of their number were mysteriously absent.

They were just feeling under the weather, surely. With how frenzied the day had been, some of them had to have caved under the stress. Unlike them, for sure, but possible. It was the simplest explanation.

It was also quite the stretch, but the orphanage’s youngest resident was craving a bit of normalcy - some respite in this place that was, clearly, anything but normal.

Hell, she wasn’t even normal by any means. None of them were. How fitting that the orphanage that they lived in would be an oddity in itself.

She felt so angry. Why did she feel so angry? So afraid? So resentful?

She believed she’d held very little baggage when she’d been brought here. Losing her parents had been upsetting, sure, but it was hard to grieve for people that had treated her like an afterthought.

No, all of this resentment and anger had showed during her time here. She wasn’t quite sure where it had come from. Maybe it had been there all along - built up during the years of being ignored by her guardians, festering in her subsequent loneliness when they left, and released once she truly processed that the people she’d spent all that time trying to earn the acknowledgement of would never acknowledge her - or anyone else - ever again.

She hated it. If she’d just never been alone, never been found at the Mestra house by that officer, none of this would have ever happened. She would have provided for herself and lived in ignorance until she grew up and became an adult. Maybe then, none of these ugly feelings would have ever reared their monstrous heads. She’d preferred it when they’d stayed in their caves.

–

“Hello, officer,” the ever so slightly younger Annai chirped sweetly. “Is everything alright?”

The officer, who’s features had become blurry in her memories, stared down at her blankly. “...Is this the Mestra residence? Home to Cecillia Mestra and Cessair Mestra?”

She hadn’t heard those names in a while. “...Yes, it is, sir. Why?”

Ah, to be so oblivious.

“Is there someone else home that I can talk to? Your current guardian, perhaps?”

Annai shook her head. “Nope. Just me. Can you talk to me, sir?”
A look of confusion. “...Who is your guardian? Where can I speak to them?”

Annai shifted her weight between her feet. “I don’t have one. I’ve lived here alone since Mother and Father were called to the war.”

Realization was dawning on the man’s face. “You’re their daughter, then.”

“Yes, sir. I am Annai Mestra.”

There was a moment of silence. She couldn’t quite decipher what was on the officer’s face after she answered his question.

After several seconds, the officer finally spoke once more. “...Miss Mestra, I am here to speak to Cecillia Mestra and Cessair Mestra’s next of kin. They have been pronounced deceased.”

Silence.

“Oh.”

More silence.

“...If that’s all, I’d best get back to cleaning house. Thank you for informing me, sir.” With a noticeably more subdued demeanor, she moved to close the door.

“A moment, please,” the officer cut in. “Am I correct to assume that you are a child living alone, and your parents are now deceased?”

Well, that was blunt. Lucky for this officer, she was taking this far better than most would.

“That’s right,” she responded.

“How have you been left alone this long? Did your parents not make arrangements when they were drafted?”

Annai was, once again, silent.

Subconsciously, she began to tune out. She stood blankly and nodded along as the officer continued to speak, and made no objections when she was escorted out of her home.

Deep down, she knew this would happen eventually. She just wished it hadn’t been so soon.

–
It was only a few months ago, but it felt like an eternity.

She’d never really processed her feelings about… anything, actually. Her parents’ deaths were just the tip of the iceberg. Now, all of those feelings were coming up to the surface.

As Annai sat in this incomprehensible tempest of emotion, tensions were rising around her. She wasn’t really listening to what was being said, but she could tell that none of it was friendly.

The tension could be cut with a simple flick of one of their cutlery knives. How convenient that there were so many at the table. One for each person, in fact.

--

“I HATE YOU ALL!”
Frida’s words reverberated through the dining hall like an explosion, finally bringing Annai into a state of awareness. Cutlery and food were flying everywhere, all coming from the broken psychic, like a twisted tornado of rage.

Of course it wasn’t a normal meal.

Annai didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t have a mask for this. Trying to diffuse the situation would be akin to blindly cutting wires on a bomb.

She stood up from her seat, but remained stood in front of the table. In this fight or flight situation, her brain had decided on the far less useful third option: freeze.

For yet another time that day, she had no response to the countless stimuli around her. How was she supposed to respond to this? Was she supposed to reason with the raging ball of psychic power? Was she supposed to run, and draw the fury to her? Would sudden movements save her or get her killed?

She probably should have ran. Her hand was forced when something slammed into the side of her head, the sound of shattering ceramic piercing the chaos on impact.

It hadn’t been aimed for her. Like before, she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Her vision was blurred for a few moments as she fell with a startled cry. Pain swelled up in the location of impact, and she felt a warm liquid dripping down the side of her head when she brought her hand up to touch the wound. She brought her hand back down, and saw her fingertips coated in blood. Not much blood, but enough to be a concern.
Run.

For the second time that day, Annai fled the hall, flying out of the room like an angel out of hell.

–

She wasn’t sure where she was going. Away from the dining hall, of course, but she hadn’t planned beyond that.

She was hit by an unmistakable feeling of deja vu. This had happened twice today.

She didn’t think that was normal.

When she stopped, the bathroom was a few feet away from her, bringing back memories of the incident that had started it all. Needless to say, she decided not to go back there.

Turning around, she shuffled back down the hall and to her sleeping quarters, hitting the bed only moments after entering through the door. She unintentionally left it ever so slightly ajar - not to the point that she could be seen inside, but enough for passerby to know that someone had been there recently.

She laid on her bed alone for a while. A little bit of blood had gotten on her pillowcase, but not much. The bleeding wasn’t too severe - she’d gotten lucky, only getting a small cut when the plate shattered. However, a large bruise was forming, and her head was throbbing with pain.

She screwed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. It hurt so much.

Annai couldn’t let anyone see her like this. It was fine. Everything was fine.

With a flick of her wrist, the cut on her head was obscured by an illusion, making her appear entirely uninjured to onlookers. A closer look would reveal the injury, but she didn’t have the energy to make the illusion more believable.

There. Now she was fine. Now, she could think.

She sat up on the bed, before pushing herself to her feet. She moved to the window, pulling up a chair to sit beside it, then staring off into the night.

She hadn’t gotten much of a chance to think about the things that had happened that day, and it seemed like a perfect distraction from the pain of her injury.

Where had it all started?
Ah, yes. Abigail.

The girl was still missing. She hadn’t seen her since the night before. To make matters worse, nobody seemed to be looking for her.

Maybe the caretakers were doing things behind the scenes, but she felt like she would have noticed if they were searching by now. There was a child missing. For an entire day, now. Why weren’t they turning the place upside down for the search effort?

How had they sent them all to classes, pretending that everything was normal? Why was no one saying anything?

Okay. Focus. She could stew in her concern for Abigail for the entire night, but she needed to think about the rest of the day’s events.

She’d found Cole in the bathroom, and then Gwyn had showed up. Then, there was the raven.

She didn’t want to think about the raven. It hadn’t done anything to her, and yet it terrified her out of her mind. Abnormalities in animals existed, sure, but a five eyed raven seemed beyond the realm of possibilities. And even if it was just some sort of mutation, why was a raven in the school? And in the bathroom, no less?

After that, she’d ran. For a brief moment, she wished she’d stayed. She needed answers.

Then, when she’d tried to talk to Ozy and Oliver about what she’d seen, that accursed portrait had moved on its own. She still vividly remembered that horrible feeling that had clutched her in that moment - like a vice grip, choking her into silence.

Nothing had been touching it. It had never moved before. Why had it moved then, as soon as she tried to speak up? Why had it made her feel that crippling fear, and that feeling of being watched?

To make matters more confusing, it had gone back to normal in the blink of an eye. No one but her had seen or heard anything amiss. The orphans had looked at her like she’d told them the earth was flat.

She hated that look. She’d rather not be seen at all, if that was how they were going to look at her.

Cole and Gwyn had been missing for a while after that. They hadn’t been at class that day. She’d seen them at the dinner table, so she knew they weren’t still missing. Mentally, she kicked herself for not checking up on them. Why hadn’t she tried to talk to them? They could have confirmed what they’d seen in the bathroom. If one person saying it wasn’t enough, would three have convinced people to listen?
She still wasn’t fully sure what had caused Frida to snap. Had she seen or heard something, too? Did she know something that Annai didn’t? Why had she been so angry?

In her jumbled mess of questions, one word stuck out from the rest.

Why?

None of this made sense. Nothing that had happened today made sense.

She needed the world to make sense. And clearly, that wasn’t going to happen here.

She couldn’t leave, though. Where would she go? Living in the forest would get her killed. She couldn’t go home - the house had probably been sold to someone else by now. She didn’t have any relatives that she trusted - much less ones that she knew how to get to.

Still, she wanted to leave. It was stupid, she knew.

She just couldn’t get rid of that overwhelming sense of danger. Would someone else disappear tonight? Would it be her? Would it be someone she cared about?

And would the caretakers even bother to do anything? Or would they remain silent and uncaring, leaving the disappeared child to their fate?

It was that thought that allowed her to make her decision.

“I leave at dawn,” she said quietly.

She wasn’t sure why she said it aloud. There was no one here to listen, nor did she want anyone to know. She just had to say it. Saying it made it feel more real.

She needed something real. Something concrete. And she was willing to do anything to get it.
 
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The moment Frida slammed the portrait of the Owner to the ground, the portraits of the Owner shifted back to their original appearance. Except one...
 






Colette.




filler



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  • home (filler tab)



































Backroom Labyrinth










Cole shivered slightly, a feeling racing up her arms and into her cheeks, stained pink as her hair. Her eyes gazed into the lass next to her. Gwyn had called her pretty. Even if it was just one particular part of her, that being her mind, it was still...

She always hated being called pretty, a dame without substance, a doll without thought. Pretty as a picture. Only a picture. Colette strangely didn't mind when the precious person beside her expressed that notion. Instead, she was pleased.

A soft grin brushed her face, and she relaxed a moment, leaning into the girl, into the emotions floating off her, gentle as she possibly could be. It was Magnifique.

Sighing as she whispered her response, It looks good, Oui. I'm sure it'll be excellent to eat. And thank you- I think you're pretty too, the way your emotions waft, it's very pleasing. She smiled shyly, eyes drifting to the subtle clanking of silverware and the scuff against the floor as someone moved from their pace at the table.

Her eyes snapped to Doris, stiffening and stopping herself from leaning into the girl as she had been. She was being improper. Mon Dieu. She was so absorbed in the girl next to her. She hadn't been aware of the world around her. Merde.

She could feel the rising tensions, eyes flickering back and forth, looking person to person. Frida looked like she was about to snap and Cole dug her fingers into her palm edging to calm them all down, not looking for a repeat of the breakfast. That was before her eyes caught it. Gwyn- ma chérie- the paintings. She pushed her thoughts toward the pretty girl urgently.

Her portrait changed. A breath hissed from her throat, and her eyes bore into the woman in the picture. Her mind made the connection all the clearer. Mistress. That bird. Her eyes stung, but she didn't- she wouldn't break contact with that picture. Her breath hitched, and she leaned away from Gwyn, her fingernails stinging as they dug into her skin.

Frida's shouting hit her ears and grated against her skull, and she felt tempted to look away. One of her best friends. She swallowed the urge and felt shame build in her chest. Too worried about this painting to give a damn about her friend? She scowled. Truely. Fuck me, Frida is right. I'm a horrible friend.

She'd be right to rage about, to destroy, tear and hate. It would make sense if she never wanted to be around cole in the first place. She was loud and wild, though she was usually right. Tears stung the corner of her eyes as she refused to blink at the picture.

Cole's heart beat in her chest, erratic. Then it was gone. The moment Frida had torn a painting off the wall. Cole blinked. One. Then twice. It was gone as if it had never existed in the first place. She let out an audible hiss, head snapping to the commotion she had been trying so hard to ignore. The painting- The one thrown away-

There were things everywhere, smashed, and she felt cold wrap its arms around her. A subtle puff of breath seeped from her mouth. She stood, chair screeching beneath her as her feet hit the floor. Jasper had gripped Frida's wrist and was yanking her away. This moment was probably going to be her only chance.

Cole felt a sharp pain run through her at the thought of her friend getting manhandled, but she couldn't do much. She softly let out a calming aura, weak. Cole couldn't get much up at that moment. She was in too much turmoil for that. Her breath hitched as she nervously scuttled to where the painting had been dropped. Keeping her eyes on Frida.

She was quiet as usual, but that didn't mean no one would look at her and wonder what she was doing. She frowned. Keeping the painting turned to the floor, her eyes scanned each image left along the walls.

She brought the painting under the table quickly as possible, sliding herself underneath the wood before turning the picture over. Her breath hitched. The cold feeling in the dining room had to mean something. It couldn't be just a coincidence. Those didn't exist here anymore. Not after the Other had happened, eyes boring into the paint, looking for anything different. Anything Strange.

God, she hadn't even gotten to eat today.





♡coded by uxie♡
 
Ozymandias
Location: Sleeping quarters -> Dining hall
Interactions: Open
Mentions: Frida, Annai
​

1672193245376.png​
"Bloody hell...." The golden haired orphan yawned as he blearily headed towards the dinming hall, having once more overslept. Bloody hell indeed, Oz had absolutely no sense of time whatsoever.... He flinched at the sound of Frida's enraged cry, a nearly floorplank suddenly aging with a burst of time before restoring itself in his surprise. "Wha-what?"
Last time he checked, he was the mischief-maker around here...right?
Right?
He hadn't been there at the site of the incident but the sudden shattering sound first drew him pause, then spurred him into a run. Whether or not his services would be needed in reparations is irrelevant. It was just important he got there before anyone got hurt.

He nearly ran straight into her as he watched Annai blur through the hallways, golden eyes unconsciously noting the fact that he was bleeding.
"Annai....?"
Ozymandias burst through the doors without pause, looking around in confusion.
"...guys? What's...what's going on? Why are there paintings...?"
 
Quinn
- Woods
- In the demon's grasp

Even as Makoto began to speak, Quinn still attempted to put up some form of offense, swinging his fist against the man, yet slowly giving up the fight, the grasp on his neck growing tighter, causing pained gasp to softly leave his lips, moving his hands up to his throat as Makoto spoke, wondering if the man even noticed he was choking the poor, injured boy. The insults Makoto threw at him were, in most cases, nothing but words. But at this moment, where Quinn's mind seemed more vulnerable than ever, the words struck like venom, piercing into his deepest memories, drawing forth mental anguish Quinn hadn't faced in years, though he hid the pain quite effectively, yet as the pain of his injuries and his memories grew, his eye seemed to violently twitch, the liquid seeping from his socket halting for but a moment, before the blow to his jaw connected, the last straw the boy's body could handle, the ichor suddenly bursting from his eye, splattering out like a rogue pipe, spraying into Makoto's face, before he finally fell unconscious, the ordeal of the day finally took much for the boy to bear, as he limply hung into Makoto's arm, unable to notice anything else the man said, now a dead weight of a human, his memories finally taking their opportunity to torment the boy in his unconscious state, making his soon awakening to be a horrid one indeed, as the boy softly whimpered and sobbed as they made their way back to the orphanage.​

Kovacs Kovacs
 




































  • how she's feeling...



    Conflicted

















Gwyneira



The Telepath













Abigail was okay - Thank the Gods! Colette would be absolutely landed to hear about this, to find out that Abigail was in the hospital with much-needed bed rest. It made sense, in all honesty. Colette and Abigail were such good friends; anyone could see that, and, Gwyn assumed, Colette would have insisted on visiting their peer.
But, there was an inkling of deceit from Doris. From how her eyes avoided her own and the brief exposure of the staircase that flashed into her mind, Gwyn knew that Doris wasn't offering up the entirety of the truth.

The thought of being lied to by someone she thought of as a mother hurt. Surely Doris wouldn't have lied to her; it wouldn't make any sense. If she could only just...Reach into her mind and...

Gwyn narrowed her eyes at Doris, her eyebrows furrowing at the concentration as she willed herself into the caretaker's psyche. There, in the hustle of bustle of Doris' mind, twined with the black tentacles of fear and terror, the ugly bits of fragmented truth lay asunder.

She couldn't make this way or that of it, the little bits of thread too frayed for her to piece the tapestry together and, with the added pressure of the other presences inside of Doris, Gwyn was on borrowed time.

The prominent image of the staircase instilled terror into Gwyn's very bones. She could feel it from Doris, could sense the tingle that snaked its way up spines with the worm-like touch that festered a shiver-inducing ick.

Grasping at broken needles, the pain hammering away at her head was too much for her to try and puzzle the scattered pieces together. Gwyn couldn't force this, she couldn't do this without permission, and she shouldn't; she didn't want too-She was desperate, but this wasn't right.

She left Doris' mind, praying the caretaker hadn't felt the gentle probing she'd done.

How something could go tits up in a matter of seconds would forever be a mystery to Gwyn. At first, she sat deep in a mental connection with Doris and the next- She was assaulted by some vegetables that smacked her face.

The silence that spanned her mind, apart from the mild droning of white noise that filtered in, snapped with an audible 'Pop'. There was nothing but a white expanse before her, a bright little area where she was comfortable, but the grey and blacks that swirled and swished about like a paintbrush marring the canvas with horrid strokes soon contradicted that haven and cast her in an ugly shadow.

The plate tossed in the direction of Doris had Gwyn reeling forward in her seat, the fingers that dug into her scalp outstretched as if she had Frida's powers of telekinesis. She wanted to stop the onslaught and the pain everyone was about to experience. It was happening too fast, way too quick for Gwyn to process with the garbled screams and disarray that stabbed her mental capacity like little icepicks.

"S-Stop",
She whispered at first, her feet slowly settling on the floor as she rose from her seat. Her eyes darted over the place; Olivia, Oliver- The chair sent towards them and the attack of food sprayed at everyone. How cutlery stabbed into the table, knives and forks brandished as weapons with their reflection mirroring the horror on faces.

"I said, STOP! JUST STOP!"
Despite not being able to hear physically, she yelled. The words, she screeched. The volume, she hoped, was loud and clear.
Gwyn's hands slapped to the table, her shoulders hunched forward as her chest heaved with the ragged breaths she took.

Gwyneira inhaled as if suddenly tossed underwater without warning. Her eyes briefly closed, fingers returning to her scalp as the pain searing into her brain with pokes and prods reminded her of the cattle iron back at the farm.

-
"Quick, hold her down before someone comes!"
A plump child demands the three others surrounding Gwyn in the empty barn.
"No, no- Please, no! I'm sorry, please!"
She pleads to her tormentors, kicking up a fuss with her legs splayed out beneath the weight of an older girl.
"Mam! Mammy! Please, Dad!"

They hold her down, cackling, gleefully chortling jokes and insults.
"You use this to mark cows, right, Gwynnie?"
The plump boy holds up the cattle iron, wisps of smoke rising from the scalding equipment.
"That means we get to mark you too. We own you now."
Heat nears her skin, the warmth radiating from the iron already irritating her until it gets pressed into the flesh of her lower back.

She screams.

Gwyn thrashes about beneath the weight, her fingers clawing into the hay beneath her, and, in another failed attempt of squirming her way free, she kicks her legs fiercely. Her actions, much like a feral cat, soon become easier as, with each and every scream she lets out, the weight on top of her dissolves, and she soon realises that she's no longer the one making a sound.

A glance back sends a shiver down her spine. Her attackers, the children, sit with their hands holding their heads. Their mouths contorted into chasms of blackness, their tonsils easily viewed by how much they screamed. Blood poured from every orifice in their head; nose, mouth, ears and even the eye ducts. The cacophony of discordance that left their undeveloped lips soon quietened as, with each of them, their eyes glossed over, rolled back into their heads, and they all fell over- Stiff.
-

The sting on Gwyn's back brought her consciousness forward. The burn of the mark still branded into her flesh was a sore reminder of what had happened.

Gwyn came too, fingers already gripping her head and nails digging into her scalp. The memory was unwanted, something she had long locked away and never wished to resurface. Her breath finally exhaled, and Gwyn glanced towards Doris with a shaky look. Gwyneira could only hope that she'd severed the connection with the caretaker and hadn't involuntarily shown her something so ugly.

Doris looked shocked, bone white, even as if she was internally struggling. The emotions littered her face, her eyes screamed, and her frame looked impossibly small; It terrified her. To see someone of authority cave into herself, should she be frightened too?

Ma chérie- the paintings.
Colette's voice, an edge of panic lingering there, entered her mind, and she tore her eyes from Frida. The painting was untouched to her eyes, just the same old regular one that often hung in the dining area. But, if what they had both gone through today was anything to consider, Gwyn believed Colette.

Something was going awfully wrong in the orphanage—something sinister, something problematic. Gwyn dared not tell Colette she was unaware of the change; it would only add more to the hysteria of the situation.

Instead, Gwyn focused her attention on Frida.

Frida! Frida, can you hear me?
She pleaded into the girls' mind; the harsh purple hues that obscured the edges of the mind trickled like oil, swirling with the cruel black and sorrowful dark blues to make an ugly mess.

Gwyn pushed further, her eyelids squeezing shut as the force made her fingers physically curl into the table. If Frida wasn't going to stop, Gwyn would make her.

Set on this course, a confidence that she hadn't felt since back on her farm, her eyes pried themselves open, and she stared up at Frida from beneath her lashes.

Her mind mellowed out, the sharp pain that caressed her brain sizzled out as the focus continued, and, eventually, Gwyn managed to force her way into Fridas' mind.

Assaulted by the cold draft of bitterness and utter distraught that clouded the very thoughts of Frida, Gwyn barely had time to prepare herself for the barrage of attacks through their mental link.
Frida was sad, absolutely broken she was. The oil that tarred her mind had now thickened and dragged her down into the marshy bog that wreaked havoc in Frida. The struggle to stay afloat in the marsh only grew more challenging as the reeds and creatures, acting on Fridas' emotions, curled and coiled around Gwyn and tried to drag her down.
F-Frida! Frida stop!
She called out towards the telekinetic, the pleading ending up as little splutters. Gwyn wasn't strong enough and wasn't in control of her powers to penetrate someone lost to their grief to this extent.

She understood, though; she felt the sadness and where it came from, or at least some of it.
"ITS ALWAYS FRIDA'S FAULT."
The words echoed, the ferocity of the tone biting like a rattlesnake startled.
No, it's not.

"ITS ALWAYS FRIDA'S FAULT."
The words repeated, this was wrong.
"BIG BAD FRIDA HAS TO MESS EVERYTHING UP"
The words coaxed the maelstrom, emotions running rampant.
No, no, no, NO!

Frida is misunderstood, and, while she was a bully, her bullying came from somewhere deep inside, some memory she couldn't unlock and get into. All the girl needed was a confidante who could understand and not blame her for everything, someone who would rise and defend her, not blindly like a love-sick puppy, but also hold her accountable for what she did wrong. Frida needed a friend.

Frida!
Desperation left Gwyn once more and, through the choppiness of the muddy water, there the blonde levitated. Hair, like a lion's mane, was crazy and unkempt as it floated around her pretty little head as if lightning was about to strike her. She looked to be a conduit, a beacon for nature that lit up the sky and, on beat, bludgeoned the air with booming thunder.

Gwyn pulled herself towards the floating girl, fingers wet and sore. There was a brief moment, the one bit of skinship where Gwyn tossed all caution to the wind and, with a begrudging reach of her bare fingers, she touched Frida's ankle.

A tiny spark between them, a moment where Gwyn could have sworn she'd gotten through, that she'd managed to break in and feel something other than disarray and sadness.
It all broke; it crumbled around her.

She was ejected from Fridas' mind, forcefully pushed out without warning. Her eyes, which had closed briefly during their connection, flung open just as she was physically stumbling back- arms windmilling in an attempt to steady herself in her vertigo delirium.

Tears pricked at Gwyn's eyes, and with everything piling on top of her, the emotions were too much to handle, and, in her feeble attempts to help a situation, she felt helpless.

Sick, disgusting. Gwyn couldn't help; when did she ever help? She stuck to herself, stayed in her room and moped about in the quietness. She didn't want to be like that anymore; she didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to be useless. So fucking useless.

Another memory taunted her, goated the young telepath into frowning. This one wouldn't come to fruition; she'd be damned before letting it spill out and leave her a blubbering mess.

Gwyneira focused her sight on Jasper, how he was tugging the poor Frida along with him. Did he break their connection? No. Gwyneira knew the answer; She wasn't strong enough yet. Gwyn needed more training; she needed to use her power more to control it and advance her abilities further, so the headaches weren't so prolific and blinding.

Frida...
Gwyn cooed towards the girl, almost begging for her to turn back. Was she okay? She helplessly glanced towards Colette, worry marring her face as if they both needed to go and help. Try and defuse the situation at hand. It wasn't entirely Frida's fault, and surely Jasper knew this.

While Frida's response had been too drastic, the savagery in her actions something that would terrify most, Gwyn had felt her emotions, she'd seen the state of her tempest-like mind, and she ached for her.

Her mind buzzed to life with the anguish of others. Terror, panic, surprise. She didn't have to look around to tell that people were hurt, that she was lucky to come out of this unscathed. Frida was a powerful force, probably the strongest of the orphans in that category. Truthfully, Gwyn often found herself frightened of the blonde teenager. But she, too, judged the book by its cover. Had she ever really given Frida a chance?

But- Had Frida given anyone else a chance? She had her duo, Colette and Quinn. The three of them were unstoppable in the orphanage and often dissuaded others from approaching them together.

The room was spinning, everything just felt like a dizzy blur as Gwyn continued to try and keep her footing. She staggered forward.
"S-Sir!" S-Sir!
She called out to Jasper both in voice and mind. Someone needed to help Miss Doris, and someone needed to take control of the situation and help. Gwyn couldn't; she felt herself losing strength, the adrenaline coursing through her veins fading and leaving her body a shivering, trembling mess.

Her hands braced on the back of a chair, chesting heaving as the bile that filled her throat was swallowed promptly. Blood, she could see the splotches that marred the table and stained the broken shards of plates. Who in all had gotten hurt? She'd been so focused on Frida- on the whole situation, that she'd not taken as much notice.

She caught sight of pink beneath the table; Colette had retreated beneath the safety of the object. Another was there too- Ethel. Gwyn could sense the panic in her mind. It was too much; there were too many thoughts, too many emotions that battered her wavelengths and left her reeling.

Gwyn was trying to be too adult, too caring about the situation. It wasn't going to happen. She furiously tried to hold back the tears, to keep the immaturity in place. Her breathing turned ragged, the hyperventilation settling into her bones, cursing at her lungs and suffocating her with each painful squeeze of her chest. She couldn't help. She couldn't.

She caught sight of Ozy as he entered. His lips moved, and no words sounded. Gwyn winced, hanging her head low as the pain chipped away at her head. She needed to leave and get out of this room and back to her dark bedroom. She desired her bed, the comfort of the blankets and the cold embrace that drifted through the cracks of the bricks.













































♡coded by uxie♡
 
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