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?
[He's quick to button up again. He finishes up and nods his understanding. Since the big fella, Jorah, has been busting up the wood, George moves past him into the kitchen to get the bowl.
There's no time to waste on that in the fading light. The moment darkness falls, they'll be locked in. He finds himself wondering if the two of them together could break their way out of the house, not that it seems like a smart idea with how cold it gets.
There's just something about being locked in and unable to break glass that puts him right on edge like almost nothing else he has seen here so far.
He emerges again, pausing to make sure he can still see the larger man and that he's not setting up to send him sprawling. He's quick to go to the door, pop out, scoop the snow, and retreat back inside again. No more of that until morning, for good or ill. He sets it down and kneels to arrange the kindling and pile best for the match.
One match. He has been good at that since he was a kid, not wasting anything. There's some finesse and work in growing a small flame, feeding it enough without blowing it out. He takes his gloves off for the task, revealing small, strong hands that are black under the nails.
Jorah's ripe odor is nothing new to him, living in crowded bunk houses with hard laborers up and down the California farmland valleys. He's pretty sure he doesn't smell pretty, himself. This place doesn't encourage stripping down and rubbing off with water. Good way to get cold and sick.
When the fire lets out a crackle and begins to flare, he finally sits back on his heels and takes his hat off to lay aside. His hair is dark and close cropped, a little wavy, definitely in need of a wash.
He eyes Jorah again, speculative.]
Ya get into it with somebody?
[A jut of a nod indicates the blood. He wants to know what kind of man he's trapped here with. A braggart will leap at the chance to talk about a fight. He has a feeling he's not. In some ways he reminds him a little of Slim.]
[ Jorah’s preoccupied with exhaustion and a permeating sense of confusion for where he is and why the doors lock and how this house is host to the fanciest toilet he’s ever seen. When George pauses to look at him, he looks back.
In addition to the bowl and the battered remains of the furniture he saw fit to rip apart, there’s a full set of plate armor in the kitchen, and a thick cloak. Jorah has retrieved the latter and thrown it heavy about his shoulders by the time George is back in with the snow, still busy with working the laces at his throat. Hard to tell if the smudges around his knuckles are bruises or dirt.
Probably both.
He’s waits for the fire to pick up to sinks down nearby, stiff in the knees on his way down into a sit. With a hand braced back for balance, he grunts, and winces, and settles on his bones. ]
Something like that.
[ Hard to say who was the victor. There’s not much of a tell in the way he avoids the question, beyond the fact that he avoids it at all. ]
[It probably says something about how weird the rest of this place is that George saw the suit of armor in the kitchen and just...accepted it. Not that much stranger than how Jorah is dressed overall and not the sort of conversation George would ever seek intentionally. What a man wears is between him and his skin.
Jorah moves almost as bad as old Crooks. Shame he doesn't have any liniment to offer. Might do his knees some good.]
I reckon so.
[He's more eased at the lack of rise to the topic. It goes further to settle in his mind he's not dealing with a guy with a chip on his shoulder or something to prove.
He pulls his bedroll closer to dig in it for a can of beans. Pulling it free, he sets it in close to the fire, almost close enough to touch the flame. Whatever label may have been there once has been peeled off. The can is plain tin.]
Kinda hard to keep track. Maybe a couple a' weeks or so. Mostly just kept on the move. Hard to find a place worth stayin' in longer than a day or two.
[ For all that friendly intentions have been established, Jorah isn’t shy about watching out the side of his eye while George ferrets around in his bedroll.
By the light of the fire, he looks as weathered as he sounds. There are deep creases worn in around his eyes and over his brow, still furrowed with mistrust after the product of the search turns out to be a can. The bristle of his beard is flecked with grey and his hair is coarse, faded silver at the fringes. ]
I was in Essos.
[ He looks to the can, self-deprecating, as if he expects it to be more tolerant of his suspicions. ]
[ There’s a clear lack of comprehension for the suggestion. ]
‘England,’ [ Jorah repeats, matching George’s inflection, real and plain as the wood piled nearby, and shakes his head just so. May well as asked him about Narnia. ]
I don’t know it.
[ His voice drops an octave and his squint takes on an apologetic cast, tight at the corners. ]
Nor Soledad.
[ The longer he sits in the heat, the easier the broad slope of his shoulders, and the knots of tendon twisted in the backs of his hands. Now that he’s warm, his next move is to haul himself back up onto his feet, boots scuffing heavy under a pop at his knee. ]
I thought you were another wildling. [ He opens one hand out, a quarter of a shrug. You’re not a wildling are you, George? ]
[OK, that? That's stranger than the way the guy is dressed and the suit of armor hulking in the kitchen. He has never heard of England? He doesn't look or act like a bumpkin. Really doesn't sound like one.
George watches him stand again and tips a look up at him, one part skeptical, two parts flat incomprehension.]
A wildling? Ain't never heard a' somethin' like that. You mean an Injun? You oughtta be able to look at me and see I ain't no Injun. I was born in Auburn.
[ He’s better-equipped than he was once upon a time to take the inexplicable in stride. Again, he matches George’s inflection -- not teasing, exactly. ‘Injuns.’ ]
You’re not a nobleman, [ he says, as he winds back into the shadowy gape of the kitchen. ] No offense, [ drifts after him, muffled before a creak and scrape. When he emerges, it’s with an empty can in hand. Hard to say, exactly, how he managed to pry the top off, but the metal is battered, and there are a number of holes punched in near the top.
It’s not so torn up that it can’t hold water, and that’s where he’s headed next: to stoop for the bowl that still contains as much snow as it does melt.
[George snorts. It's the closest he has come to a real laugh in...when? It's hard to recall. As short-lived as it is, there's still a small hint of it lingering in his expression by the time Jorah returns.]
I wouldn't know "noble" if it bit me in the ass. You don't see nothin' like that in California. Not where I hang my hat, 'least.
[He carefully pulls the bean can away from the fire and works his small blade into the lid in a practiced move that cuts the tin all around the edges.]
Jes' beans. Doubt I'll eat 'em all if you want some.
[The little knife has a lot of purposes, now doubling as a fork and a spoon as he scoops some into his mouth.]
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snowblindmemes2015-05-12 07:10 am
no subject
There's no time to waste on that in the fading light. The moment darkness falls, they'll be locked in. He finds himself wondering if the two of them together could break their way out of the house, not that it seems like a smart idea with how cold it gets.
There's just something about being locked in and unable to break glass that puts him right on edge like almost nothing else he has seen here so far.
He emerges again, pausing to make sure he can still see the larger man and that he's not setting up to send him sprawling. He's quick to go to the door, pop out, scoop the snow, and retreat back inside again. No more of that until morning, for good or ill. He sets it down and kneels to arrange the kindling and pile best for the match.
One match. He has been good at that since he was a kid, not wasting anything. There's some finesse and work in growing a small flame, feeding it enough without blowing it out. He takes his gloves off for the task, revealing small, strong hands that are black under the nails.
Jorah's ripe odor is nothing new to him, living in crowded bunk houses with hard laborers up and down the California farmland valleys. He's pretty sure he doesn't smell pretty, himself. This place doesn't encourage stripping down and rubbing off with water. Good way to get cold and sick.
When the fire lets out a crackle and begins to flare, he finally sits back on his heels and takes his hat off to lay aside. His hair is dark and close cropped, a little wavy, definitely in need of a wash.
He eyes Jorah again, speculative.]
Ya get into it with somebody?
[A jut of a nod indicates the blood. He wants to know what kind of man he's trapped here with. A braggart will leap at the chance to talk about a fight. He has a feeling he's not. In some ways he reminds him a little of Slim.]
no subject
In addition to the bowl and the battered remains of the furniture he saw fit to rip apart, there’s a full set of plate armor in the kitchen, and a thick cloak. Jorah has retrieved the latter and thrown it heavy about his shoulders by the time George is back in with the snow, still busy with working the laces at his throat. Hard to tell if the smudges around his knuckles are bruises or dirt.
Probably both.
He’s waits for the fire to pick up to sinks down nearby, stiff in the knees on his way down into a sit. With a hand braced back for balance, he grunts, and winces, and settles on his bones. ]
Something like that.
[ Hard to say who was the victor. There’s not much of a tell in the way he avoids the question, beyond the fact that he avoids it at all. ]
How long have you been here?
No worries!
Jorah moves almost as bad as old Crooks. Shame he doesn't have any liniment to offer. Might do his knees some good.]
I reckon so.
[He's more eased at the lack of rise to the topic. It goes further to settle in his mind he's not dealing with a guy with a chip on his shoulder or something to prove.
He pulls his bedroll closer to dig in it for a can of beans. Pulling it free, he sets it in close to the fire, almost close enough to touch the flame. Whatever label may have been there once has been peeled off. The can is plain tin.]
Kinda hard to keep track. Maybe a couple a' weeks or so. Mostly just kept on the move. Hard to find a place worth stayin' in longer than a day or two.
You?
no subject
[ For all that friendly intentions have been established, Jorah isn’t shy about watching out the side of his eye while George ferrets around in his bedroll.
By the light of the fire, he looks as weathered as he sounds. There are deep creases worn in around his eyes and over his brow, still furrowed with mistrust after the product of the search turns out to be a can. The bristle of his beard is flecked with grey and his hair is coarse, faded silver at the fringes. ]
I was in Essos.
[ He looks to the can, self-deprecating, as if he expects it to be more tolerant of his suspicions. ]
Now I think I might be dead.
no subject
[He screws his face up a little, thinking. He never finished much schooling. He didn't have the luxury.]
That somewhere in England?
[Jorah sounds like a Limey, as far as George can reckon.]
I was just outside Soledad.
[He snorts softly.]
Naw. I don't think we're dead. Too much goin' on for that.
[His voice drops softer.]
'Sides. It ain't near hot enough for it.
[He leans forward and turns the bean can to warm the other side.]
no subject
‘England,’ [ Jorah repeats, matching George’s inflection, real and plain as the wood piled nearby, and shakes his head just so. May well as asked him about Narnia. ]
I don’t know it.
[ His voice drops an octave and his squint takes on an apologetic cast, tight at the corners. ]
Nor Soledad.
[ The longer he sits in the heat, the easier the broad slope of his shoulders, and the knots of tendon twisted in the backs of his hands. Now that he’s warm, his next move is to haul himself back up onto his feet, boots scuffing heavy under a pop at his knee. ]
I thought you were another wildling. [ He opens one hand out, a quarter of a shrug. You’re not a wildling are you, George? ]
no subject
George watches him stand again and tips a look up at him, one part skeptical, two parts flat incomprehension.]
A wildling? Ain't never heard a' somethin' like that. You mean an Injun? You oughtta be able to look at me and see I ain't no Injun. I was born in Auburn.
no subject
[ He’s better-equipped than he was once upon a time to take the inexplicable in stride. Again, he matches George’s inflection -- not teasing, exactly. ‘Injuns.’ ]
You’re not a nobleman, [ he says, as he winds back into the shadowy gape of the kitchen. ] No offense, [ drifts after him, muffled before a creak and scrape. When he emerges, it’s with an empty can in hand. Hard to say, exactly, how he managed to pry the top off, but the metal is battered, and there are a number of holes punched in near the top.
It’s not so torn up that it can’t hold water, and that’s where he’s headed next: to stoop for the bowl that still contains as much snow as it does melt.
He doesn’t say where he’s from. ]
no subject
[George snorts. It's the closest he has come to a real laugh in...when? It's hard to recall. As short-lived as it is, there's still a small hint of it lingering in his expression by the time Jorah returns.]
I wouldn't know "noble" if it bit me in the ass. You don't see nothin' like that in California. Not where I hang my hat, 'least.
[He carefully pulls the bean can away from the fire and works his small blade into the lid in a practiced move that cuts the tin all around the edges.]
Jes' beans. Doubt I'll eat 'em all if you want some.
[The little knife has a lot of purposes, now doubling as a fork and a spoon as he scoops some into his mouth.]