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 was really starting to hate winter. No matter what the mission or what the circumstance, there always seemed to be snow and frankly, Clint was tired of it. Why couldn't he get trapped on a tropical island? Was that so much to ask?
Apparently it was because he was trudging through the snow rather than sipping a drink with a little umbrella in it, arms wrapped around himself as he tried to keep as much body heat in as possible. It had been over a week since he ended up in this place, a week of confusion and a bit of panic--now that he'd let it show. He hadn't been able to contact any of his teammates or anyone in SHIELD for that matter and he had no idea if Laura and the kids were alright.
That was the part that bothered him the most.
Glancing up, Clint spotted a cabin not too much further ahead and let out a heavy sigh. Finally. Something that wasn't the empty house he'd been using as a base of operations. It took him about twenty minutes fighting against the snow and wind to get to the cabin, the archer grumbling to himself the entire time before he was finally able to shoulder the door open, easing his way inside before slamming it shut again.
Clint rested his forehead against the door for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out, already feeling warmer now that he was out of the harsh elements. His shoulders started to slump some, the archer relaxing--
Only for the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
He immediately pushed away from the door and drew his bow off his back, an arrow notched as he glared around the room, keeping his back to the door.
Prompt One - voice network post [America feels dumb. Well, actually, he feels pretty numb, especially when it comes to his fingers and toes, but being out here at all is really stupid, even he knows that. It's already late enough that he can hardly see through the snow. Still, the only reason he's not still looking for a way to get into a house somewhere is he's out of energy to move another step. He spends some time feeling sorry for himself and then reaches for his tablet. He might as well talk to some people.]
Hey. S-so, uh, who's still awake right now? [He's trying to hide the tremors in his voice that come from the cold, but he really can't manage it.]
Prompt Three [Whenever America found an intact-looking house, he made a beeline to the kitchen. He hadn't actually found food in any of them yet, but every time he was sure that next time he would definitely find a fully stocked refrigerator. Never mind that he hadn't found even one piece of a fridge since he got here, this time for sure--!
Nope. Nothing. He puffs out his cheeks and kicks the wall as if it's to blame for there being no fridge or food--and knocks a shelf just above him down, sending all sorts of expensive-looking dishware down on his head.]
[Cold weather and Nathan Drake have become very close since his journey to Nepal, but that doesn't mean he's particularly fond of it. Its fortunate that he knows how to dress, and knows a few tricks to surviving in cold weather as a result but the house is a welcome beacon in what has otherwise been a miserable snowstorm. He's taken the time to start a fire, searching through various nooks and crannies for anything else that might be useful.
That said, Nate also knows to expect company once the fire really gets going. He's not gearing up to fight for his turf, but he knows better than to suspect that anything else wandering in will have the same idea.
The second he hears anyone (or anything) approaching, he'll stop what he's doing to move toward the fireplace and check intent. That way, if whomever (or whatever) ends up being hostile, he has fire as his weapon.]
Hey buddy, this stall is occupied.
[WILDCARD]
[Open to other prompts as well! Just reply with a starter. c:]
Every door she's tried is locked. It's possible it's automatic, because none had been locked before she went out looking for food. Now it's getting dark and the bitter cold will only get worse.
Well, it can't be worse than her time in Russia during the war. She'll be able to deal with this. Hopefully.
She finds a side of the nearest building to protect her from the worst of the wind and starts packing snow into a makeshift shelter. Snow is one of the best insulators, and if she can make an igloo effect, she can possibly survive until morning.
While she works, she turns on the device she was provided with (tablet, the digital assistant called it, but she's still getting used to there being digital assistants).]
Is anyone still outside at this hour?
[Maybe if there's someone nearby, they can huddle in the makeshift igloo and increase their chances of survival.
Or, you know, she could just have some conversation while she fights to save her life. That can't go amiss.]
So many things in Malcolm Merlyn's life were starting to boil down to 'that could have gone better'. This didn't look to be any different. Of course no one had listened to him when he said to stay together and head for the outpost a mile ahead. Who listens to the one person who had been in the area before and warned that the weather could be unpredictable, right? No, all he had gotten were witty quips about him being a murdering sociopath liar who probably meant for them all to freeze to death on this forsaken mountain.
Now with the snow swirling in all directions around him, he couldn't tell who was where. The landscape didn't even feel right under his boots, a gritty roughness that spoke of pebbles and a sandy soil beneath the snow instead of the rocky outcrops it should have been. A tap to his earpiece didn't help much. Had he gotten turned around in the blizzard and gone back down the mountain by accident? Couldn't be. The land still had a slight incline to it.
The glow ahead became more solid and less wishful thinking the closer Malcolm got. That had to be the cabin his contact told him about. He'd get there, warm up some and find out where Queen and the rest of his people were. Shoving open the door, Malcolm slammed it behind him and dragged off his mask. Leather covered Kevlar might be great for combat, but damn if it wasn't the worst at keeping out the cold. Unshouldering his bow, Malcolm brushed the snow and ice from his face.
S.O.S., can't feel nose or feet. Or teeth. Anything really. Need ten, maybe fifteen snuggies stat.
Grandma always said "Don't sail out farther than you can row back." Maybe next time I'll listen to her.
[ Alternatively, if you're brave enough to save his dumb ass, he'll be huddled against a wall, chin to chest with arms as tight as possible around his face in some halfhearted attempt to shield himself from cold. Otherwise, he'll respond nearly the same in video. Got to keep the blood flowing and keep moving. Talking might keep him lucid a little bit longer. ]
OPTION 4.
[ Everything is murky. Like a heavy fog wrapped around his face, blinding him and making his movements weak and sluggish; like wading through water. His mind turns slowly, blank but not. He knows his name and where he's from, he knows the face of his colleagues and remembers the taste of the cafeteria's jell-o. But it feels like he's been whacked hard on the back of a head, like he's in an episode of Looney Tunes and got stars swirling around him, bright and pulsing.
Eventually getting to his feet, his eyes start to adjust though his body is still slow to follow. He realizes with heavy footfall that it's a little -- no, a lot -- numb. Like his limbs have all fallen asleep, but without the telltale tingling. It's nauseating, but he can't feel the ground, or the wall he starts to clutch against, nails digging in for any sign of something palpable. Drugged, maybe? That has to be it. His tablet buzzes and he groans as he feels his pockets for it, nearly tearing it out and dropping it as he reads the message.
His memories are less fuzzy, though. Before anything else, he remembers being cold.
Followed by how much it sucked.
As he carries on through the nearest open door, he's sure he hears someone else. Still careful with how he holds himself as he gathers his bearings, an involuntary sigh comes before he speaks. ]
Hey, uh. Little help over here? Hand or two? Foot, maybe? I'll take whatever you got.
Prompt two - video network post [Paranoia is nothing new for Jay. He's had some degree of it constantly for the last five years. That part of the cabin fever is easy to deal with.
The hallucinations, on the other hand... well, he's not entirely new to those either, as much as he'd like to deny that fact. They're still fairly distressing, and he's still not entirely sure if they're there or not. Which is why he's now turning to his tablet for help.
Doing a live video feed feels weird - he's much more used to Youtube uploads - but there's still a certain comfort to know that there's a camera on him.]
Hi, everyone. It's, uh, Jay here. I was just wondering...
[He glances behind him nervously.]
Just. Wondering how everyone's doing, really. That's all.
Which is only natural, when you think about it. Plant-based lifeforms need a certai climate in order to thrive, and this is most certainly not any such environment. His Guardian uniform keeps him a little insulated, but wearing layers can really only do so much good when you're not warm-blooded.
There's a scowl nearly permanently etched into his wooden face as he stomps his way into the nearest building, eager to get out of the cold and point the snow out from in-between his toe-like roots. It takes him a moment - his haste to get to warmth had made him careless - but eventually the Floral Colossus notices the tell-tale signs inside the house:
This building is already inhabited.
Immediately, his guard goes up. Groot raises his two wooden fists, ready to strike back if anyone is foolish enough to try to ambush him. He's managed to go this long without getting into any fights, but if someone here wants to make him into firewood they're going to have to work for it.
"I AM GROOT!"
For those of you in need of a translator, that's Groot-speak for 'Show yourself, coward!'
[He already died once, he doesn't need to die again! He lost his sight the first time and that's the whole reason he's stuck out here...he has no idea where he's going and has yet to find a door that will open for him.]
Helel, what time is it?
[The cartoony, jet-black star's deep voice (it hadn't had the hoarse timbre of the friend it was sort of named after available) responds in that pleasantly emotionally neutral tone computers so seem to love:]
It is currently 7:55 PM. You have five minutes to find shelter.
This vile town...Helel, let me speak to the network. Video.
[And the rest is a video feed to the network. It's hard to see his face under the hood of his cloak, but the fact that he's not looking at his tablet says a lot. To say nothing of the way the words just come out of his mouth in a rush, even phrases that should give him pause like "I died three days ago".]
Everyone...listen, I need help. I don't know how to tell you where I am; I can't see, I died three days ago and woke without my sight. I need to find shelter, I-
[His voice breaks, and then he stumbles into a mailbox, the tablet clattering to his feet. His shadow obscures the camera as he searches for it, and then his groping hand when he finds it. There's the rustling of fabric, distressed breathing, and a sliding, scraping sound. When the feed clears it's looking up at the snowfall, set on Enoch's lap as he sits against the mailbox. How is he going to find shelter in five minutes when he's running into things?]
I don't want to die again...but I can't ask any of you to die with me, can I?
So...talk to me. Someone talk to me so I don't die alone. Please.
[Of course, a mailbox means there's a building nearby. But he's not modern in the slightest and doesn't know this. He doesn't even know what it is he bumped into.]
[She never did well in the cold, and this place had a lot of it. As her luck would have it, though, here she'd found herself a nice place to hole up out of the cold. The door was shut securely behind her, and she was taking a moment to rest, leaning against the door that was now between her and the elements outside.
With a sigh, Kuvira stepped away from the door and made her way deeper into the house, casting a cursory glance around to see what the place had to offer. Fully intact so far, and she planned to start a fire and settle down as soon as she finished looking around.
The kitchen was searched next, which lead to little more than frustrated disappointment. It was certainly starting to become a trend. Slowly she started to make her way back through the house, heading for the room with the fire place...when she swore she heard something--someone--else.
Kuvira halted, listening, attention completely focused on the sound she'd just heard. Was that the door? Or was someone else already in here? Whichever it was, she wasn't going to let them remain unknown, deciding to cautiously track down where the noise had come from.
So maybe she was a little jumpy, but she didn't have any intention to attack. Yet.]
[His fingers are so cold they seem to be sticking in place, and that was written way too quickly for someone shivering so much he can barely move. The next message comes many minutes later, and as such is a little better written.]
wheres the warmst place youve ever been
[He wants to remember warmth, because right now all he can feel, all he can remember, is an iciness that seems to have settled in his bones.
Yeah, someone is lost. And very cold. And locked outside while night slowly sets in.]
[England wasn't one to go gallivanting around in a blizzard, even with consideration given to his disposition for poor weather. It seemed to be a fair enough plan—wait until the snow let up and then start looking for a more sustainable food source—but entire days passed and the clouds showed no sign of emptying any time soon. Soon enough, it was going on a week, and things were starting to get a bit questionable. He's not easily frightened, and even this is more a minor disturbance than a cause for alarm, but he didn't sense anything magical about this place at all. So he's a bit worried.
Reluctantly, he returns to the network with a text post.]
There appear to be hands hanging from the ceiling in the house I'm occupying. Has anyone else had a similar encounter?
prompt three ❧
[Though England is quite used to managing without luxuries, he still feels immense relief when he's able to find a house with a working fireplace. If only he had tea. A blizzard he can deal with, but he was unprepared to be wrenched away from his daily consumption of tea.
But no sense in wasting the fireplace over it. He gets to work getting a flame going, and as soon as it takes to the larger hunks of wood, England parks himself on the floor in front of it so he can start sorting his supplies. He keeps one of the nearby metal tools at his side, resting the pointed tip of it against the frame of the fireplace. You can never be too careful.
Though he hears the door open, he's more distracted by the gust of cold wind that blows in through it and sends a shiver through his whole body. He reaches for the fireplace poker and shifts his sitting position, so it's easier to spring away if he must.
Even though he's on guard, he mostly just sounds annoyed when he calls out without looking towards the entrance.] For God's sake, close the door!
wildcard ❧
[If you've got another idea, hit me with a starter!]
[Bruce was used to difficult conditions but this was insane. The cold soaked into his bones and stayed there. Everything hurt and he knew he'd die in the space of an hour if he couldn't find someone to help him. He turned on his tablet and did his best to focus on the screen.]
Is anyone out there....I...got locked out and I'm afraid the other guy and I are going to die alone in a little bit...
[Prompt four]
Waking up shouldn't hurt this bad. Bruce struggled to draw in a breath but it's like his chest doesn't want to rise far enough to let him. He finally manages to open his eyes only to discover two things. One he was lying naked on something metal and two....he had no idea who he was or where he was.
He sat up slowly and looked around trying to gauge his location but the words for things escaped him and he just sat on the table trying to think and remember.
1 [ Talk about a bad night. No booze, no loud music. Where does a girl have to go to get a good shot of whiskey to wash away the cold? She could use a fireball shot or two.
Or five.
The cold wind is setting in quick but she has a strategy for blocking out the elements for as long as she can. Good thing her three hundred dollar jacket works as an insulator to the cold. She dug into the outer wall of fifty foot snow and snuggled herself inside. It's crass, dangerous but effective.
Sofia switches on the screen choosing the voice function. ]
Hey, all you assholes that locked the door? Open up. Wouldya let a fellow human being freeze? [ A scoff. ] There's gotta be someone out there.
3
Sit down and shut up.
[ She shreds some scrap pieces of paper and tosses it over on log of fire. The others were shuffled out to save for later. Why burn it all now? ]
If you know what's good for ya, you'll sit close. I'm not freezing my ass of 'cause you might be havin' a bad day.
[He's been in a grand total of one snowstorm during his lifetime and that was at his grandparents house in jersey wherein they had - running water and a more active police presence. It's less the heat and more the desire for something to do - to keep his hands busy and less focused on the mess that he'd left behind because at any moment his worry about Ricky and Miranda would start up -
And he'd go hunting for a drink. Five years on the wagon I'm qualified to indulge once right? I mean just once? Especially in special circumstances?
He'd found a cup of noodles and was sipping it, anxiously in the communal space he'd managed to share with other castaways.]
...So anybody wanna play 20 questions?
I'll go first. [He coughed into his hand] ...Someone ask a question.
B
[How odd it is, to take advantage of the little things in life. Your sense of self, your sense of who you are, your sense of connection to other beings. That's what got Victor into this, diving in front of that accident, making the sacrifice play. Trying to prove he was a good guy. Stupidly thinking that maybe if he died here...
He'd wake up in his bed and everything would be like it should have been.
No. Instead he wakes up on a cold flat sterile operating table and for the first time in his life he's aware of just how different he is. There's no point in pretending, there's no point. What did he die for if Miranda is still home and his son is nowhere to be seen?
There are other people. Other captives, other rescues, other runaways.]
[This place really isn't much different from home. Cold, isolated, and lonely, though this cabin doesn't even have the luxury of a small TV to keep Russia occupied. No vodka, either. Perhaps that's why he's beginning to see things out of the corners of his eyes: great ghastly faces pressing up against the small square windows, pits of black tar where before there'd been nothing but floorboards. Even through his coat, designed specifically for this kind of weather, he can feel the sting of the cold setting in. He wishes he had something to warm up his insides.
He's smiling when he logs onto his tablet.]
To those of you who are so interested in making faces at my window,
Please come in! It is not very warm, but we will be able to pass some time together. It is much easier to endure the cold when you are surrounded by friends!
Unless you are the reason I cannot find my way home easily. If that is the case, I will be happy to crush your head under my foot for causing me such trouble.
I look forward to meeting with all of you! )))
Love, Russia
[Prompt 4]
[Russia is not a stranger to freezing to death, but he'd not done it in a very long time. It was as unpleasant as he remembered. Waking up in a morgue isn't that odd, either, and he looks surprisingly content when he rises from his slab and opens and closes his hands to work some feeling back into his fingers. He's happy to see that he isn't alone, so he waves at the morgue's other occupant, and tries to give them a friendly greeting.
His lips move, but no sound comes out of his mouth. His face goes from cheery to confused in an instant, and he looks down as if trying to see his own throat, raising one hand to touch his Adam's apple. He mouths "What," but it's quiet as if he's a character in a silent movie.
[ ooc; Assumed CR is perfectly awesome! Just let me know in the response what kind of relationship you're running with for them. Also, will match formatting! ]
[ ONE. ]
[ Titus is a large, shivering weight at his back, asleep and pressed close in the hollow that Damian's carved into the snow pile. It's nothing more than an alcove, a tight space, but he's packed the entrance with fresh powder and left a slot for ventilation. Best that can be done -- the buildings are fortresses at night, sealed so flawlessly even Robin can't find a way to break back in.
No fooling himself, of course. The shelter is for last comforts only. They're both going to die. It's just a waiting game.
He runs a gloved hand down his dog's flank, smoothing the rucked, damp fur, while his other hand navigates the tablet's screen. ]
I'm sorry, Titus.
[ This is on him. ]
Pennyworth-- [ He speaks, clipped and brisk, to the painstakingly customized avatar of the butler. Not an exact replica, but similar enough. ] --activate the network app. And enable voice-to-text functionality.
As you wish, young master Damian.
[ It lacks the man's sass, his drawl. He hates it. ]
®:
In regards to the ongoing debate, I have another point in favor of my argument that this frozen hell is, in actuality, the Ninth Circle of the Inferno: only the Devil himself could keep me locked out.
[ THREE. ]
[ He's not so far removed from his upbringing, and not so holy as Drake, that when he discovers the virtual utopia in their midst he's willing to be generous with his find. He and Titus are both hungry and cold and exhausted, and the rules of the game have changed.
He's still a hero, but he's not stupid. At the first sounds of an intruder, he gestures Titus to lie low behind the kitchen counter. Dropping his backpack onto the floor of the living room, in front of the fireplace, he takes to the rafters of the cabin-style building; high up, out of immediate sight, and the perfect place for an ex-assassin to handle any would-be attackers.
The person that walks through that door is going to be met with a silent, viciously skilled ambush from a pint-sized, masked feral child, and the booming barks of his dog will follow close behind -- best to cry uncle, fast, before he gets a stunning blow in. ]
[ It doesn't take Rhodey long for him to realize he's made a mistake.
For him to realize that his tablet had been flashing FIND SHELTER IMMEDIATELY at him for the past hour. For him to realize that all the doors in the nearby vicinity are locked tight. For him to realize there is no lock to pick, no windows to break.
For him to realize that he is needlessly and absolutely trapped outside, with the sun having set and the world dark, with snow falling and temperatures dropping.
For him to realize he could actually freeze to death, that his death isn't going to come by some daredevil stunt to feed his need for an adrenaline rush, or by protecting innocents while wearing the War Machine suit, or by his choice in best friends.
No, he's going to die because it's fucking freezing and the doors are locked.
He ducks behind the wall of the house in a meager attempt at staving off the biting chill of the wind and takes out his tablet. ]
So, that message on your tablets, telling you to find shelter? It's not joking, [ he informs, because if he's going to die out here, the least he can do is try to prevent any future deaths. He fights a shiver as a gust of wind finds it's way around the corner. ]
There's not a chance those doors open from the inside, is there? [ He's not expecting it to, not at this point, but he guesses it doesn't hurt to ask. ]
Kara sits outside the door, for the most part ignoring the snow piled up all around her, and cries. After she had gotten so used to her powers, now she was just an ordinary human again. And because she had gotten her wish for normalcy, now she was going to die.
She was so certain of that fact that she had given up. If she was going to die she didn't want to waste her time searching for nonexistent shelter or warmth. And already she was so tired... So while she let the bitter cold sink into her bones, she thought of her family. She hadn't taken much time to do that since she last left Earth. Now she has dedicated time to mourn, and she does so in true teenaged form.
[ PROMPT TWO ]
Video
[ Kara is feverish. So far gone, in fact, that she is quite obviously delirious. She looks in the direction of the screen, but doesn't seem to really see it. ]
Kal? Kal, I'm sorry about H'El. And I'm sorry about your friends, too. The red one, who runs so fast? I tried to go easy on him. He isn't hurt, is he? Kal... I messed up, I understand that. You were right, and I should have listened to you. Please come pick me up, Kal. I need your help.
The last weeks spent running away from everything and trusting no one have taken their toll on Stephanie. She wears her hood for warmth and mask for protection while she searches the house. When she hears someone moving behind her every hair on her body stands on end and she pulls the three-section staff from her belt, ready to take a swing at whoever's come after her now.
['Winter is coming' are words that play over in her mind as she stands outside the building in the snow that's far past her ankles at this point. Her furs are a comfort, reminding her ever of her Northern-ness. It was once something she tried to hide, to change.
But here, she knows. Here, her House's words ring ever true. She holds the device up, trying to understand how it works. Her cheeks are rosy, looking around. She isn't lost, but she's hoping she isn't alone.]
I've been locked out-- [Hold your nerve, she thinks to herself.] I didn't realize how late it had gotten.
Is anyone else out here? Has someone else been out here before? [Maybe there's shelter. Maybe someone can take pity on her. Sansa wipes at her nose before brushing back her long, dark strands.
She won't announce what's in a small satchel attached to her wrist, hanging outside the frame. Having already made one foolish mistake today, she doesn't know who else is here. Sansa is willing to share, but she doesn't want someone to take them on her either.]
( two; action )
[She's stopped feeling her toes in search for the warmth of a hearth. But the small cottage on the hill is not too far. One more step, she tells herself. She must keep going, must keep going. It would be too easy to stop, to sit beside a tree and let herself drift off.
But she doesn't. There's a drive that comes inside, to keep going. She cold, her face and feet are frozen, hands stuffed into her cloak as she shuffles through the bitter cold. The determination is too persistent. Her father, her true father, once called it the Wolf's Blood. But it causes her to move quicker, thinking only of the rescue that lays behind those doors.
It is only when she reaches the steps of the porch, the wood cracking at the weight, that she realizes she is not alone. Sansa cannot survive by staying out in the cold for much longer. It is her kindness that she must rely on now, her words, and how to wield them.]
My apologies, [She dips her head as the condensation from her breath rises into the air.] I hadn't know this place was taken.
[It is hard to get her teeth not to chatter, but she tries to look put together despite the snow and frost on her eyebrows and her very blue lips.]
( three; action )
[Death is a shock to the system. People do all sorts of things, she's heard, when they die. It is gruesome and unpleasant, and something she has hoped to never experience-- or at least not until she is old in her bed. It is something Sansa knows too much about already, the grief haunting her from a young age.
But her own? Well coming back from the dead is just as much as a shock. She rises quickly, gasping for breath as her lungs try and work again. It is labored breathing though, slow and steady, and she wheezes each time she inhales as if she cannot get the air into her fast enough. Wide eyes look forward, frightened and confused.
No. No, no, no. This cannot be.
And yet, she can feel the cold beginning to creep over her. The metal table below her is hard, and her nervous system starts to take into account just what she's feeling.
But still she objects, and she tries to voice it. But as much as she dislikes this, nothing comes out. A soft hand touches just beneath her throat. Nothing is there, but still she cannot speak. She does not feel ill, but even as she tries to clear her throat there is no result. All she can do is whisper a wheezy sort of:]
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!
[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!]
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snowblindmemes2015-05-12 07:10 am
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