I̝̻̣̱͖͚͗̈̆̕T̤̞̠͎̘̜̤ͬͭ̋ͬ͂̃̇́ ̣̱̳̗̋̾̑ͥͥ̀B̮̺͇̝̼̺ͯ͌̾͗̿͋Ē̝̞̼̣̻͙̙̒ͭG͓̜̅͐̽̐͞Ï̜̳̥ͯN̯͙̮ͧ̀Sͫ͐̂͏͖

[strangerpeople]

I͔T̫͉̄ͮͮͪͧ ̲̜̪̥̓̈́͂̚̚B̫̲̼͕̦͓͕ͩ̏̊͆E̥̱͚̦͓̍G̠̬͓̟̥ͪͣ͆ͬ̓I̅ͯͣ̿N͐̉̎̂ͫͧS͑͆̒ͣ̆


[There is a blight in the vineyard.

It started without warning, deep into the crop. No one noticed. The blight was an insidious little thing, cultivating itself in the weaker vines over the long winter. Then, when summer came, it struck, and there was no stopping it.

The farmers could only watch the blight ravage their gardens. Grapes shriveled up by the bunch, day by day. Sometimes, it would be hours between the time a perfectly healthy vine caught it, and the time when the fruit was little more than black ash and slag. The problem was so serious that it threatened the very future of the business. It was all the farmers could do to try and isolate the sections of the vineyard still healthy, and the parts that were as good as dead.

Then, one day, it happened. The business recieved a phone call.

The blight was no longer just in their vineyard. It had spread to neighboring farms, and everyone was demanding answers. Yours could not have been where it started. It just couldn't have been.

Where did this pestilence come from? Could it be stopped?

You do not know, and you fear what the answer may be.



-



Good morning, Strangers.

Wake up. Look around. Do you feel like this might be familiar? Not your surroundings, but the circumstances. Do you feel the fear in your stomach? Do you sense the wrongness that permeates the air?

You should. Because your gut is right. You are exactly in what you think you are. Right now, there is no other explanation. There is only the sureness of experience informing you that you have been plunged into a game, once more without your consent. A game where blood will be spilled, and death will happen.

The only other thing you are sure of are the thoughts that pop up when you think of your circumstances. No matter what you do, you cannot shake the finality, the truth of what you are thinking. You cannot deny your own beliefs, after all, when they are so embedded, so imprinted on you, that they are as a part of you as anything else, like your face, or fingers, or hair.

And so perhaps you remind yourself, as you ready yourself to leave the house, of the truths you know to be real.



So steel yourselves, Strangers. You know what to expect; there will be others like you, trapped here. Maybe it will, this time, be for forever.

So welcome, one and all. Welcome to the City at the very End, in the eye, the center. A City that gave in long before the code distorted and collapsed and unleashed a virus on reality. Make yourselves comfortable.

You are not going


an̛͡y͠҉w̸h̢ȩ͢r̸͝e̸.]

Comments

[backuphero]

Too much red, for sure... I found a first aid kit, but - look, if you two talked shop, you know why I don't just blindly ask people past my threshold, right?

[He didn't mean to say that first part. He is terrible at asking for help, too... he steps forwards again, but stops short of grabbing range.]

Especially if you're used to fighting monsters.

[katzenpfote]

I am no vampire. If I was, do you think I would have survived? She would have killed me, most likely.

[He has zero problems with stating it outright, it's fine.]

I have fought demons and oni and a great number of kobolds. ... And people, when it has been necessary.

[He swallows hard and takes a step forward, reaching out to look at the injury.]

Let's clean this up... I have fresh bandages on me, but if you have some to spare that would be helpful.

[backuphero]

[Jonathan nods, slowly. More scholar than fighter, but willing to fight if he has to... and then there's that voice... it's no wonder, if Charlotte got pulled somewhere like he's been yanked three times now, that she'd gravitate towards this guy. He doesn't want to think about it, but... he swallows, throat clicking, and retreats a step again.]

I, uh, yeah. I do, there's a - I found a first aid kit.

[He's repeating himself. That's... that's probably not good. Letting a stranger in when everything is screaming not to is worse, but the man's offering help, and he can't do this by himself.]

Doesn't have much, but it's got enough for a couple dressing changes at least. Come in?

[And despite his best efforts, his voice squeaked on that last question. Today is not a good day.]

[katzenpfote]

[He nods and closes the door behind him, keeping a few steps away from Jonathan for the boy's own comfort. It's easy to find the first aid kit - it's in the exact same place as in his 'home', as he suspected. He beckons Jonathan over to the kitchen sink - it's got more room for two people than a bathroom.]

[He lays out the bandages, a towel, and some antibacterial cream - he's been taught about the latter and it seems like a good idea in a place with no magic.]

Let's see the damage.

[He rolls up his own sleeves, plainly revealing the bandages wrapped all along his forearms.]

CW: descriptions of self-inflicted wounds

[backuphero]

It's not deep, not mostly, but it's not pretty.

[Jonathan lets his eyebrows raise at the sight of Caleb's bandages, but says nothing else. Now's not the time to ask about that kind of thing, and it was almost too much for him hearing about Charlotte in a place like this. To break the awkward pause he nods, the reflexive smile on his face a little queasy and a lot strained, and gingerly peels the dishtowel away from his wrist.

It stings, dammit, and it's worse without anything covering it. And that's his own damn fault.

There's no gush of blood, but a steady welling up - basically oozing, really. He really did leave what look like claw-marks over where the screen would have appeared, matching the blood under the fingernails of his left hand. There are a couple of crescent-shaped lacerations where one of the corners must have been - terror drove his nails straight in and deeper there - but aside from that, the four ragged strips doing most of the bleeding look like they were simply the lines his hand's path traced over the most. They cross a rough rectangle of irritated scratch-reddened skin. It's abrasion, not avulsion, and the whole rectangle isn't scraped away, but it's immediately obvious this isn't something Jonathan could bandage very easily by himself.]

I can still move my hand okay, at least.

[katzenpfote]

I’ve left my share of blood on the field, not to mention the others in my group.

[He sighs at the sight of it, wetting the towel and gently guiding Jonathan’s uninjured hand into the stream of warm water. He carefully wipes the blood away, silently bent over his work until it’s as clean as it’s going to get.]

This will sting. Hold still.

[He coats the bandages in a thin layer of antibacterial gel and starts wrapping the boy’s wrist firmly enough to put pressure on it but still loose enough to allow circulation. He tucks the ends in, weaving them into the wrappings so they don’t leave a large bump. After checking that it will hold tightly he gently pushes the hand away and washes Jonathan’s other hand.]

I am not sure how waterproof they are, so try not to get it wet.