If you'd like to apply to Snowblind and would like to test the waters first or get a sample set up for your application, this meme is for you! We've even provided some prompts for you to use if you want (but feel free to make up your own). Here's how it works.
✭ Reply to this entry with a character you're considering apping into the game. You can include the name of your character and the fandom in your subject line. ✭ Comment around to others on the meme, whether you're in the game already or not. ✭ Now you have a sample ready for your application! ✭ So go reserve and apply when reservations and applications are open. ✭ Seriously, do it.
Network Prompts
ONE: IT WON'T BE LONG NOW... Well, you made a mistake. You spent too long searching around, or you ran outside near the end of the day for just one more thing, and now you've been locked out. You can search around all you want, but the best shelter you can hope for is pressing against the side of a sealed up building. You do still have your tablet, though. Maybe someone on the network can give you some advice, or at least some comfort while you wait for hypothermia to set in.
TWO: CABIN FEVER Maybe you didn't want that mistake of getting caught outside to happen again, but now you've ended up staying too long in one location, and cabin fever has set in. Maybe you're taking to the network to try and ignore the hallucinations. Maybe you want to tell everyone that you've figured out they're all in on your kidnapping. Maybe you ended up wandering off and now you'd really like to know if anyone can check back in the place you were at for your pants.
Action Prompts
THREE: AN UNEXPECTED MEETING You're going about your business searching what seems like it might be an especially promising house--it's fully intact and there's even a working fireplace with some wood! It looks like someone else has the same idea, though, and you've run into them in the middle of your search. Do you share the potential wealth or try to kick them out? On the other hand, maybe you know who this is, or maybe you're just glad to actually see another person for the first time in ages.
FOUR: GOOD MORGUE-NING You've just woken up in a morgue after dying in one unfortunate way or another. You have no idea where you are beyond that, but your tablet is insisting you can't stay here, so you should probably get out of here pretty quickly. Of course, bringing people back from the dead isn't a perfect science, so you're missing something important to you. Maybe you've lost your voice, maybe you can't remember where you're from, maybe you can't remember where you are right now. It looks like someone else is nearby, though. Maybe they can help you out?
[The whole... dying and coming back thing, not even sure how to comment on that. She ends up saying the first thing she can really think of to say.]
Why didn't you say something sooner?
[Honestly she'd be kind of impressed he survived this long without sight, if the situation weren't as dire as it clearly was. Five minutes. Five minutes. There had to be something.]
[ Titus, at least, is pretty damn pleased to see her. Not that Damian's stingy with his attention, but he's long since learned it's Rose that hands out the best of scratches.
Titus is fine enough dropping his haunches at her side, rather than at his master's.
The traitor. ]
One trip-wire at the door, connected to a rudimentary alarm system.
[ Easily disabled, but indicative that someone was here before them. A while back, however, given the dust.
At the mention of rations, a small, self-satisfied smirk curls his lips, and he tosses the piece of wood back on the pile with a light clatter. His version of preening, and a good sign. ]
Well-stocked, comparatively. Plenty of non-perishables. And-- [ He adds, deceptively casual, fixing his gloves. ] --canned fruit. Peaches.
[ Next to weapons and tools, it's a rare find. Fruit's the equivalent of gold when you're trapped in a snowed-in city. Fruit and bathroom tissue, and hot water that doesn't come from a kettle sitting over a fire. Little wonder he was ready to knock her out over it. ]
Let's talk instead about right now, where Shaun, by his estimation, has ended up smack dab in the middle of god-knows-where, instead of his previous location of middle-of-nothing. He worked with death all the time-- though uh, usually not his own-- no big deal. Moving on, more importantly anyway, there's quite a few things that didn't migrate with him.]
In lieu of the traditional avenues of greeting, I'm going to cut right to the chase and make it easy for everybody out there: there is a house, that, by all my approximate calculations, is somewhere to the general west of the morgue (that's the left for anyone who's claimed war on the vocabulary cardinal directions), that I believe I've left some papers at.
For those of you with the behavioural pattern of a five year old, I'll clarify for you that these are not tissue paper. They are in fact important record keeping documents I've been trying to organise since we've all been doomed to the ninth circle of Hell.
If you happen to find them, please don't use them to wipe up your mess.
[prompt three]
[Ugh, he hates moving. He always has to cart his materials around because this place was apparently advanced enough to have the internet but not enough to have a desktop computer. So everything goes into a bag, and he has to move through the snow to somewhere else because apparently everyone here was mental, including himself.
But he's found another building where the walls weren't collapsed or full of holes and decay that would actually keep the wind out, and he's got a map in the making; and he's trying to make some marks (damn pen, running out of ink), when he hears someone else-- stops his actions and slowly turns towards whoever's there.]
Excuse me, d'you mind? I'd rather not engage in some kind of savage warfare for territory right now....
[He's stayed up before through winters of Gotham, when the walls were thin and the walls were cold anyway and he rarely had much more than a light jacket. He's never had full-on hypothermia, but...
This is worse. This is worse because it's dark and there's wind and snow everywhere, and he can't even see where he's going or get any door to open. For awhile he tries; but moving was wasting energy the cold was sucking away, so Colin finds the side of a broken building to tuck himself next to, squeezes tight to his teddy bear like it might provide some kind of warmth, and turns his attention instead to the tablet.
He doesn't particularly feel like moving enough to use the text-- and the camera would be useless. Maybe the audio would be drowned out by the storm, but it sounds like the best option for now.]
W-Wh-Why c-c-couldn't these h-h-have any g-g-g-games on them?
[prompt four]
[In the end (literally)-- the morgue is less cold than the storm. Kind of. When Colin wakes up he almost wonders if it was a dream,but everything almost feels like it's stinging, or maybe everything feels numb, and even his worst nightmares aren't usually that elaborate.
A few minutes of consciousness and he's already sniffling, his face red and dirty, but he tries to wipe them away and clean himself up and not act like a big baby, but -- well he's distracted enough that he kinda forgets about being a big baby anyway.
For one-- he can't speak. That's a moment of panic-- a good five minutes of panic, actually. For two, his teddy bear Rory is nowhere to be found, and he almost has a meltdown right there already, not that anyone could really hear it.
OK.OK. It's fine! It super wasn't fine but it could be fine! (It really wasn't fine.)
But he takes his tablet in his shaky little hands and moves, scuffles through the morgue, or out the door and into the snow, making a beeline (for once in his life, swallowing down the fear of a world populated by strangers) for the closest person he can find, and giving them a tug on their jacket to get their attention.]
All it had been was snow, snow and more fucking snow. The slush of it was beginning to irritate Toreth, as was the intrinsic wetness of the entire affair, and that was without mentioning the way he could feel the chill of it creeping right into his bones. His coat did nothing to ward off the cold, and neither did his black leather gloves, both more suitable for a dreary, rainy New London. To say he was in a bad mood was an understatement.
He did his best to brace himself against the elements, willing himself to think of warmer, better thoughts. Control your mind and you control your body, or some fucking nonsense like that. The principles of psychology seemed to barely matter here when he was freezing his bloody arse off, and oh, he could see something in the distance.
Hallucination or real? Hallucinations were more for deserts, weren't they? He didn't know. He didn't spend enough time in either snow or sand to know the difference in psychological nuances.
His mind settled on real, and before long he was pushing open the door to the cabin, only barely managing surprise at the fact that the door was unlocked. Warmth hit him in the face, then, as he stepped in, the embracing heat almost hurting his cold fingers and joints. His nose hurt, too. Christ, he was surprised nothing had frozen and fallen off.
He was quick to close the door behind him, sighing in relief before he remembered to stay on his toes. Atop of the lovely warmth, Toreth could hear the crackling of fire. He wasn't the first one to make it here. He kept his stance casual as he took a few more steps in, raising his voice so he could be heard throughout the cabin.
"I'm just here for the fire."
FOUR.
It felt fucking awful. Dying, that was. Luckily it wasn't his first time, though he had been hoping that the next time his pulse flatlined it would be the last. Not that he had anything against living -- he enjoyed it. What he didn't enjoy was coming back to this horrid fucking place, the cold already hitting his system. There was nothing here but a bleak sort of weariness, and dying seemed better than being subjected to this bullshit.
Still. Now that he was alive again, on this cold slab, he may as well put an effort into living again. He did his best to control his ragged breathing, panicked lungs feeling like they were on fire thanks to the lack of oxygen up until this sudden start. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. Four, five, six. Breathe. He was doing remarkably well for a just-come-back-to-life individual, he thought. Gradually, he wiggled his fingers and toes, pleased to find them in working order. Eventually, he righted himself, breath still heaving in his chest.
He looked fairly pissed about being alive. Or maybe he was pissed about what had killed him.
WILDCARD/OTHER.
Happy to go with the other prompts or something else entirely! Just go ahead with a starter and I'll match you!
[ Good dog. Best friend. Rose leans against the wall nearest, placing herself squarely between Damian and the door. It's not to block his exit route, rather, to shield him from anything coming in. She eyes him with a mixture of a hunter's gaze and something warm, close to fondness as only they know. ]
Canned fruit? How much? If the people who were here before us left it —
[ Don't bet on it. Damian's trained Titus well -- good dog, best guard. The boy's giving her a narrow-eyed stare, and he doesn't budge from his stance. ]
No. I don't. Who the hell are you?
[ (Language.)
Robin doesn't recognize her, not like he should, but his attention's caught by the fact that she knows of him. Another mask. ]
[It's a little odd hearing that sentence in his tablet assistant Helel's computer-calm as he reads it out for him. That does not sound like a sentence anyone should speak in any manner of calm. But he can't see the text for himself right now, so it can't be helped. Relying on Helel (he thinks of the entire tablet as the avatar, predictably) to transcribe his speech - how ironic, now he's the one who needs a scribe - his own answer has all the patterns of speech with none of the intonation or emotional markers.]
Hands? That's alarming. You couldn't have found the house of a disturbed collector, could you?
[ The move doesn't go unrecognized. Never does, with their kind, and she gets a fussy click of the tongue in turn -- he can take care of himself, Wilson -- even as he lets his shoulders drop a few degrees, at ease.
Still a brat, but he doesn't take it for granted, having someone at his back. Especially here, where it's best to sleep with one eye open. ]
Enough to last us the next few weeks, I'd wager.
[ It'd last even longer, if they weren't both fighters, fit and at the top of their game. It's nothing compared to what speedsters can knock out, but even Damian, small and lean as he is, still burns through a chunk of calories twice that of a normal civilian on any given day. ]
There might be more upstairs. Clothing, maybe blankets. I think I'll call it the new Batcave.
[ That last part is drawled, deadpanned, and completely tongue in cheek; a fireplace and a few cans of food do not a Batcave make, but it's the closest equivalent for them at this point. ]
[The man who appears in the video looks exhausted, completely wrung out, with dark smudges under his eyes and a blank expression. After a moment, he forces a small smile and clears his throat. When he speaks, it's the voice of someone who hasn't spoken in too long, a little raspy with disuse, possibly dehydration.]
Is anyone else out there? It's getting to be a little much, cooped up inside.
[It's been too long, he's been in this place for too long. There are things he should be doing, there are people who might need him. He lifts a hand, wipes it across his forehead, glancing to the side as if he might see it again, that gently smiling face with cold, inhuman eyes, just outside the window. Waiting.
He isn't afraid of Johan, but he's afraid of what he might do.]
It would be nice to hear another human voice. How is everyone faring?
[Part of him is afraid that no one will answer, that everyone else here has been lost to the monster.]
[four-ish]
[He's been around this area long enough to know that this is where they come back, when they've died and revived, that they stumble out of this place, lost and afraid, having sacrificed something in penalty for the death they've managed to come back from. It isn't comfortable, it isn't easy, but something in him drives him to come here every morning, to make sure they don't stumble out into the snow alone and suffering.
Tenma shifts on his feet - he's freezing, his breath ghosting in the air in front of him, and he shifts his head down to huddle the lower half of his face behind a thick scarf that traps the damp of his breath and leaves it warm and smelling of musty wool against his nose. His toes are freezing despite the boots, his shoulders are hunched under the thick parka he wears, the backpack feels heavier than it should. But he has water, and a few rations to share if need be.
He waits there, leaning against the wall, for the door to open, arms crossed against his chest, steeling himself against the cold. Waiting for what? They aren't injured, not anymore, but he is still a doctor despite everything, and he can't turn his back on suffering.
So he waits, and when the door opens, he pushes away from the wall, extending gloved hands, palms upturned to show he isn't armed, despite the gun tucked in the back of his pants, under his parka.]
Hello. Can you see me?
[wildcard]
[Have a character who's injured and needs a doctor? Someone who has to be dragged back to a safe place? A villain who needs an unassuming person to attack? Anything goes, just pop up a starter!]
[ A hundred million? Please, peasant. His was five hundred million, and that was his mother just looking to distract him and his father.
He looks entirely unimpressed now, at least, rather than ready to break her nose; something, at least, clicking into place. ]
You're from my future.
[ It's not a question, but an easy conclusion. Simple as running numbers. She knows him -- or of him -- but he doesn't know her. ]
...--And I decapitated a Talon. Punching them's the easy part; it's making them stay down that takes skill.
[ Smallest braggart. After a beat, however, he moves back, no longer crowding her space. Titus' growls taper off, and the dog's ears perk up, curious, looking between Damian and Stephanie as if to check whether or not they still planned on running her out. ]
Bard has thought himself alone in the house since the front door went and locked itself, and while strictly speaking that's still true, his ears have become so attuned to the sound of crying that it doesn't take long to notice that he has company all the same. He's walking to the door before he even has a chance to think about it, doubtful that a way out will present itself now where it hadn't before but unable to ignore the years-old instinct to make sure nobody's broken anything.
He stands at the door a moment, not entirely sure what he can even do right now, before speaking in a voice he hopes is loud enough to be heard. "Are you hurt out there?"
We aren't heartless, the town is. We have no control over these locks.
[There's an edge to the voice that responds, the despairing, anxious fear of a man praying he doesn't have to listen to someone die.
There's no way he's disengaging. He's not heartless. He's not leaving this person alone even if he's not really with her.]
...I'm sorry. Try to find some other shelter, if you can. Keep your body moving; do exercises once you find some source of shelter. Try to find a covered place a fire might survive.
[ He's holed up with Titus in the house he'd staked out earlier. Early in the morning he decides where he's coming back to, and a few hours before nightfall he usually doubles back, prepares to hunker down. Rations tight as they are, he has to sleep more to make up for it; best someplace safe.
He's fiddling with the tablet, glancing through the unfiltered messages, when he hears Colin's stutter, nearly drowned out by the howl of the wind.
(Nothing to be immediately alarmed over. The storm's raging outside of his own building, loud enough to be heard, too.)
Audio back. Damian doesn't like to show his face if he can help it. ]
What, have you already gotten tired of writing '80085' into the calculator screen?
[ ('Boobs,' Colin had once shown him, with a laugh, and Damian didn't bother to hide the judgment in his stare.) ]
"Is that all you can say?" It isn't an insult; rather, there's genuine curiosity there as he steps forward again as Groot slumps into the obviously inadequate armchair.
Now that he doesn't seem to be a threat, Enoch's naturally inquisitive nature has taken over, and he tentatively keeps taking those little steps forward, cautious, so cautious, without his angelic blessings for protection and knowing the other had expected a fight.
[ Toreth had just recently died, as well. He was certain of it. Lying on the slab like that, surrounded by drawers and drawers of the other dead. It felt fucking awful, dying. Not that he hasn't done it before, and maybe that's why he's less alarmed after coming to, even if he has no recollection of how he's ended up here in the first place.
He's still sitting on his slab, trying to catch his breath -- he thinks everything's in working order, he can wiggle his toes and his fingers and that feels fine -- when one of the drawers near him abruptly opens, and a young woman is gasping for air, struggling for it right by him.
He watches her for a moment, utterly fascinated by the process. How does it work? It's not until she starts struggling to speak and everything comes out a desperate rasp that he finally gets up, feet unevenly hitting the ground, and walks over to her. ]
Calm down.
[ His voice is fairly firm despite its disuse for the past... however long he's spent dead. If he can just get her calm and speaking, maybe she can tell him just exactly where the hell he is and what the hell is going on. ]
"No more than it is anyone else's." Another peek to make sure the bow was lowered, and then the next show of faith was his, as he slid the crowbar between his backpack and his back under his cloak and emerged unarmed from around the corner.
"I'm only staying here for the day. It isn't wise for me to travel too long yet, or I'll be unable to move at all."
The sound of his feet on the floor is a light slap, indicative of a thin sole, and if Clint looks down he'll see he's wearing sandals. He can't be too far from where he woke up, given that...
[This is a nightmare. This is literally one of the worst things that could happen to her. She did not escape from the frozen prison that almost killed her and all of her people just to end up in some different snowy death trap.
She couldn't even put on the coat given to her because her fins were in the way of the sleeves! She has it fastened around her neck like a cape, which looks completely stupid and unfitting for royalty, but it's really cold and she knows what happens if she gets too cold. The tablet also gave her some trouble; she'd never seen anything like it in Hyrule and it took a lot of toying to get it to do what she wanted to do.
Of course, being stubborn and technologically illiterate, Ruto completely ignored the warning to find shelter. And now, as established, she is living a nightmare. She finally manages to access the video broadcast function on the network to air her grievances.]
Hey! Why do you all have your doors locked? Do you know how cold it is out here?! Someone could freeze to death!
[She does not understand that everything locked automatically.]
prompt three ❅
[A fireplace! Ruto can hardly believe it. She's never been so excited to see fire in her entire life. Living in the water means it's pretty rare that she even needs it. But it's pretty much the best thing she's ever seen, at the moment.
So what does she do once she's sure the fire won't go out on her?
She gathers everything remotely soft and pillow-like in the house and spreads it in front of the fireplace so she can take a luxurious nap.
This has been a wholly miserable trip thus far. She deserves some sleep.
Except the door is unlocked and she's probably not the only one who would be very interested in a house with a working fireplace. Oh well!]
wildcard ❅
[Open to other ideas, just hit me up with a starter!]
[ Ezio and his Mediterranean constitution is not suited to the harsh, perpetual winter, but he's certainly dressed well enough for it. That's only a small mercy -- all the layers of leather and cloth won't keep him from freezing to death when he's out here for hours upon hours, and that's why he's intended to make his forays into the frozen wastes last as little as possible. Surveying what little of the town is available proves the biggest challenge, the crumbling structures offering poor handholds and even shiftier foundations on which to perch for a proper view. He thought to cross over the heaped snowbanks closing them off from the world beyond, but decided against chancing it. Not while his supplies are so limited, while he still has so little information to go off of now.
The setting sun is what has brought him to this ginger Brit's temporary residence, shaking the snow from his boots, from his shoulders. He pauses at the address, leaning around the small entryway to see the man at his work. Ah. Whoops, but sorry, friend, he's not about to go out when his weird glass artifact is firmly telling him to get inside. ]
Mi scusi, I did not realize anyone was here. It is not my intent to put you out, I have no desire to freeze to death in the dark.
[Enoch might be more weirded out by it if, one, his whole life wasn't made of weird, and two, he wasn't about to die again and wasn't scared of that. There wouldn't be his trusted friend greeting him when he woke like the times back home when he had nearly died (or had he actually died, now that this place had put that option on the table?), but cold metal and more loneliness.]
I'm sorry, it never occurred to me to ask...
[Well, for help getting around. His companions were disembodied voices and words that were actually far away, for the most part. It was kind of like his mission, in that regard. It made it all too easy to fall back into the mentality that there were people he could talk to, but not ask to interfere.
That was one of the reasons he gave up so quickly after instinctively pleading for help.]
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snowblindmemes2015-05-12 07:10 am
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