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riverviewlogs2017-03-09 05:59 pm
pundemic) wrote in riverviewlogs2017-03-09 05:59 pm
catch-all;
who: Flint or Ellie (but probably not both) and anyone who cares to join them.
what: general catch-all log for the month of March
where: All around!
warnings: Ellie is a foul-mouthed teen with some trauma she'll never bother talking about but that might come up in introspection, and Flint is a considerably less foul-mouthed carpenter nee pirate captain with the same. Both tend to kill things with impunity, so maybe that? Idk. Will change if anything comes up.
notes: There are a variety of starters under the cut. Feel free to PM if you'd like one specifically tailored to you/your character or any scenario you'd like to run. I have a strong preference for present-tense brackets, but I'll match style if it's an accessibility issue no prob.
what: general catch-all log for the month of March
where: All around!
warnings: Ellie is a foul-mouthed teen with some trauma she'll never bother talking about but that might come up in introspection, and Flint is a considerably less foul-mouthed carpenter nee pirate captain with the same. Both tend to kill things with impunity, so maybe that? Idk. Will change if anything comes up.
notes: There are a variety of starters under the cut. Feel free to PM if you'd like one specifically tailored to you/your character or any scenario you'd like to run. I have a strong preference for present-tense brackets, but I'll match style if it's an accessibility issue no prob.
a; anywhere around Quarantine,
[Ellie definitely has a bag full of assorted types of candy that she is Determined To Try, but also: she pays a lot of attention to her surroundings and the people that occupy your space. You look sad? Lost, out of place, upset or any species of alone? Kid, adult, whatever, doesn't matter. Have some candy.]
Hey. You look like you need this more than I do.
b; anywhere around Quarantine,
[She has definitely found a place that's chill about renting motor scooters to minors (she has a permit now and everything). And that scooter has definitely gotten a flat tire. So now she's sitting on the curb with a mess of tools trying to strong-arm the exhaust off so she can get at the lug-nuts behind them. The new tire is on the sidewalk beside her and she is probably cursing loudly at something. Care to help?]c; (for MCU!Bucky) in the woods somewhere,
[She is terrifically shitty at making her own arrows, but loathe to rely on just bullets. You never know when you'll need something quieter, or that you have a good chance of being able to recover later. So. She's. Experimenting. Out in the middle of nowhere, with a shitty fire, and some shitty sticks, and a variety of shitty arrow heads made from a variety of things she's collected. She is sitting down by a fire trying to figure out how to fletch them properly, and there's definitely a ruined pile of feathers beside her.]
Oh, for fuck's sake!
[Yep, she definitely just split that stick halfway down. There is a moment of vehement frustration, and then she throws the damn thing on the fire. It kicks sparks up into the sky, and she huffs in pure exasperation.
Also: be careful of the half-dozen tripwires she has set up around her perimeter, pal. Smoke-bombs are pretty harmless, but boy do they give away a position.]d; (for DCEU!Clark) Clark's floor and shared quarters,
[Being able to cook, being able to find ingredients that aren't 'whatever you can throw in a pot' is probably the biggest fucking novelty of her life. Cookies. She's gonna do it. She thumbs through recipes on her tablet and eventually decides on gingersnaps. Some trial and error, one burnt batch and another decent one later and she is knocking on his door with a plate of them.]e; (for Prison Break!Michael) sad stairwell shenanigans,
[She doesn't like elevators. Like, call her crazy, but relying on something that's just a series of pulleys and counterweights really isn't her thing, so she sticks to the stairs. It's not like they don't have their own problems (narrow corridors, not a lot of exits, etc) but she's more comfortable in them and tends to take them two at a time on principle.
Today, as she's heading down to the ground level she's stopped short by a guy. He's sitting down at the bottom of the steps that lead out to the second floor landing, facing away from her. There's something about the tension to his posture that makes her think he is probably several shades of not okay and she honestly debates with herself about whether or not she should just quietly edge out the door she came in through.
But. Eventually,]
Hey, pal, you all right?
[Her voice is gentle and soft, but she absolutely has one hand on the gun stuffed into the waistband of her pants. Just in case.]z; forests around Quarantine and near the perimeter fence,
[Monsters pose no especial trouble to him. They are fierce and many, of course, but more predictable by half than any one man he has faced down at the point of a sword. He kills them, and having observed some resort to cannibalism he has taken to burning the bodies afterwards. Thick black smoke roils up from this latest pit, and James stands at the edge of it leaning on a shovel. He is dressed simply in all black, with no particular nod towards any one point in time. He has a modern rifle slung across his back, a modern handgun at his hip and a sword at the one opposite, so really: it's anyone's guess where the fuck he's from.
He can be found either killing monsters, burning them, inspecting various parts along the fence and/or cooking a particularly well-seasoned rabbit on a spit that is, thankfully, roasting over a fire made of wood rather than monsters. Feel free to join him at your leisure, but for the love of God don't sneak up on him.
Welcome in this thread: monster fighting! chats, cr building, disagreements about his Monster Murder, etc, all such things.]y; communal living space floor 1, all comers welcome,
[And speaking of cooking. James is not a chef, nor a particularly charitable man, but he certainly knows how to foster camaraderie and the role in which food features to that end.
So: he's made a meal of glazed salmon, several side-dishes and has left a note out on the counter next to it, help yourselves in a neat, calligraphic scrawl. He can be found sitting on his bed with his back to the wall, reading, at any point thereafter. He keeps a chest at the foot of his bed absolutely laden with books, but he's presently working his way through Don Quixote by Cervantes.]x; down by the river,
[He has claimed to be a carpenter, and to that end he has built several things with his own bare hands for use as a sort of... curriculum vitae, should the need for it arise. Presently, he is working on roughing out a single-log canoe. He's burnt out most of the inside, and is currently shaping the interior with a variety of hand-tools. He works simply, with speed that does not seem to be borne of urgency, and he will likewise seem untroubled should anyone join him there.
He'll give an acknowledging nod to anyone lingering nearby, but because he's a Stubborn Prick will likely not instigate conversation without prompting. Godspeed.]v; (for Eddie Thrawn) cutpurses and piracy and thievery oh my
[Flint is not one for indulgences, but the public festival of Sampremi could potentially yield information beyond what he's culled from his own investigations, and so he goes.
He does not mingle. Mostly, he observes. This place has a dearth of the usual suspects he would expect to find in a crowd. No whores, no cutpurses to speak of, nothing that marks it as a place in which civilization has festered. But then, he has not yet had time to survey the jails, nor the local ordinances to see what the penalties are for failing to abide by the laws of men. Perhaps everyone is simply executed, and that would explain their lack.
He is standing beside a stall, having paid for an apple that he is currently polishing on the shoulder of his shirt when he sees it. A young girl. She is looking for a mark, he can tell by the way she looks so specifically at everyone that passes her, and once she sees someone who fits her criteria, she makes a point of stumbling into them. He watches her hands, and true to form she comes away with the man's wallet and turns to hurry off into the night.
James shrugs - neither his business nor his problem. If you don't keep a hand on your money you deserve its loss. But, as it turns out, he is not the only one to have seen this particular transaction. He was about to turn away when he sees the other man cut across the street to apprehend the girl, and it is then that he decides to drift closer. He does not care for thievery but less for men who set themselves above thieves.]w; sailing the ocean blue,
[He has cleared an area on the ground. There are targets set up for projectile weaponry (ranging from bows to knives to guns) and an arena for physical combat. James will be seated at a table he has obviously built, working on building a star chart of the night sky as people arrive.]
no subject
[He is aware that he does not seem to be a man of any especial age at all. His dress is modern. His accent blandly Londonian. His jewelry - the pierced ears and his rings - are no more out of place on him than they would be on a modern hipster. And he knows: this ability to blend, to shed the weight of centuries, to be a chameleon of timeless conduct is something that makes him dangerous. That danger - the threat of a knife in the dark, against all that is sacrosanct - is one he will consciously enervate. Recompense for the drink which, when it arrives, he tips in a gesture of thanks before his next sip.
At a guess, he would peg John at being from the twenty-first century. There is a commonality he has learned to identify, in men from the years beyond his. He has not yet been wrong, though his speculation runs a vague gamut of years rather than something unerringly precise.]
no subject
[ John regards James with some curiousity. He's honest about most things. It's not that he's incapable of concealing his emotions, so much as it seems pointless to. What people think of him has never mattered. His actions have always spoken louder than his words.
He pushes a fistful of hair back from his face, twisting in his stool to afford James his full interest. Committing himself to the conversation. ]
New Jersey, 2014. Never been to Nassau.
no subject
[He can even account for the logical trajectory of said technology. Humans are creatures of convenience, they cleave their machinations into the world. Microwaves represent a desire to marshal fire. Atomic bombs to marshal God. Flint is no fool.
Ah, but to John. The intent is unmistakable. The commitment. James has his hand resting idly atop the glass, like a man seeking to cage fire in his hand, and he taps his index finger against its rim thoughtfully before he acknowledges the shift in position with a nod, and moves to face him more fully as well.]
The Nassau I know is one that breeds hard men. She's worth what you put into her. I've heard tell in your time that she is a vacation resort.
[There's a tiny little twitch to his mouth at that, the only sign of his displeasure at a scrap of land he fought for, bled for, lost everything he's ever loved at the fucking behest of, has turned into some crass shadow of itself.
He takes a drink, slow. The liquor is very smooth.]
I've spent time in Jersey. Newark, by way of Boston. It was a large city for the fledgling Americas, I assume the province grew considerably between then and now.
no subject
Truth is, John had forgotten he could laugh.
He clears his throat and takes a drink, settling back into himself, and the chair, as James continues to speak. If he looks overly concentrated, it's because he is. As if he could make up for his past transgression by engaging all further conversation with the utmost seriousness. ]
There's about eight million people in Jersey, now. Give or take.
[ He rubs over his chin, thumb stroking over his beard as he works the tension out of his lower jaw. His eyes flicker away from James, and then back to him. Guilty as a dog. ]
Sorry.
no subject
He remembers Gates, the night before he died. They laughed together in a way they hadn't had common ground for in months. Flint thinks he knew even then what would have to be done. Gates was Flint's best and oldest friend, and a good man even by the metric of James McGraw, who abhorred piracy once upon a time, but he stood in the way of something greater than both of them. A free Nassau.
A fucking vacation spot. Fuck it, he chuckles too.]
Nearly a dozen times over what's presently in London. How the fuck does anyone get anything done?
[London was a stinking, crowded cesspool. Nothing like Padstow, and at times it chafed on him. A ship may be crowded, but it is a pinprick of civilization amidst an abyssal, unconquerable sea. One needs only to stand at the prow of a ship on a clear night to feel the weight of one's mortality, their smallness in the universe. But eight million people crammed into even fifty square miles seems fucking horrific to him.]
no subject
[ John's glad when James doesn't seem torn up about it. He hadn't meant any offence. He relaxes back with a chuckle of his own.
For the most part, John Wick is a man who gets along with others. He's always done his best to give respect where it's due, and lend a helping hand.
The men he's killed might beg to differ, but as far as John's concerned, men stop being men once they've wronged him. Then they become targets. Simple as that.]
Everyone doing someone richer's business so they can pay someone poorer to do their own.
It's sad, when you stop and think about it. Guess that's why everyone stays busy.
no subject
[He'll admit, he is curious.]
no subject
[ Or so he keeps telling himself. He takes a long drink. Whether it's the bourbon, or the company, John's finding it in himself to relax. He leans on the bar with one elbow. ]
Was retired. They've got me working again. I'm a teacher now, of sorts. Never been one of those before. To tell you the truth, I'm still not sure how I feel about it.
You seem like the entrepreneurial type.
no subject
Do I.
[There's a curious lack of inflection in the tone that strips it of its question by its very nature.]
I think I would enjoy teaching more, personally.
no subject
[ He rubs over his bearded chin, crossing his ankles beneath his stool. His dark eyes flick over James' face, openly studying him. ]
What about you? I can't be the only old dog learning new tricks.
no subject
Old tricks, actually. I learned carpentry as a boy. I've learned here that I am not bereft of the knowledge.
[Learned at his father's knee, before the man was swallowed by the ocean. His apprenticeship continued guided by his grandfather's hands, but he hadn't the patience for it then. He thirsted for knowledge. Read voraciously, taught himself languages and etiquette, enough that he might blend with high society. James has always been a chameleon, shaping his personality to whatever need he might in that moment have. Oh, he has a strong, definitive self that overrides all else, but there are certain... allowances one can make, where survival is concerned.]