and we can never come back to earth [open]

[postictal]

Who: Tim Wright (postictal) and yOUUU
What: Tim does some rebuilding, some farming, and some not-drinking
When: 11/17 - 11/22
Where: Islets, the Monkey Compound, the Storyteller's Temple, and Ensō E6
Warnings: It's Tim so...general Tim warnings.



11/17 - 11/18; E6; and we're the dirtiest of the dirt

The soil is loose and crumbling beneath his fingertips. He doesn't know a whole damn lot about farming, it's true, but Alabama had its own latent ag culture, even if he never paid much heed to it. The sight of the land, the furrows running in vertical striations over the ground, conjures a whole mess of memories he can't easily define, or perhaps simply doesn't want to. Most of them involve himself perched on a tractor with a cigarette stuck in his mouth while Alex told - or to be more specific, ordered - Seth to keep the camera running as the sun slipped lower across the horizon, all while Tim wondered how the fuck Brian had managed to convince him to agree to this.

He wrenches himself out of the memory with a brief, lateral jerk, a short shake of his head, and starts to pace the length of the land. He'll have to ask around for people with seeds and the equipment to truly get the place going, but for now...for now, he can work the earth and drain it of the remaining water left over from the Storyteller's little tantrum there, and start making the place fit for others to grow shit on. Maybe build some sort of weatherproofing in case the land floods again.

Most of the crops have been picked clean by now, but Tim sets to work digging up weeds and grass, extending the plot of land into something a little wider. He works slowly, obviously unused to this kind of preparation, but nonetheless committed to making it workable.

It's not like they have a lot of choice here.

11/19 - 11/21; islets and monkey compound; every time we fall to pieces we build something new out of the hurt

[The wood's less waterlogged down that it's had some time to dry, and the crumbling palisade from the monkey compound has plenty of lumber when it comes to building materials. It takes some time, but he has enough rope and creativity to design a crude sledge to haul wood to the mana pool and, from there, across the various islet houses. Given that he can only pile a limited amount of timber onto the thing before it simply gets too heavy to drag along, it's slow going. It's not like he needs a lot, either; there's plenty to share.]

[What else is he gonna do with himself?]

[The hatchet's gotten more use as an impromptu weapon than a means of cutting wood. It's long overdue to get a little mileage out of its intended use. The ringing, wooden tone of someone splitting logs echoes out across the waves as they ease against the rounded silhouettes of the quintet of islets.]

[He starts with the shack he shares with the kids, but that's only one house of many. Eventually, he moves on. Armed with nails and more lumber than one man can reasonably be expected to do anything with, he sets about repairing what he can for the dilapidated shacks and cottages, just for the simple act of giving his hands something to do. Walls are easiest, but given enough time, he'll start laying boards down across roofs as well.]

11/22; temple; the brightest things fade the fastest

So Tim has a bottle of moonshine.

He has a bottle of moonshine that he can't drink because alcohol doesn't mesh real well with anticonvulsants, wonder of all wonders, and while he could suffer to use it as discount gasoline, he suspects there are far too many people here who would gladly accept it in exchange for something a little more up his alley.

That doesn't mean he can't, or shouldn't get the maximum amount of mileage available out of something like that. He doesn't question the source of that thought. Going down that rabbit hole is a dangerous and twisting thing, and he's learned. He's learned.

Instead, you'll probably see him carefully aliquoting the contents of the fat, dark brown bottle in his hands into coconut halves. Tim's Cave Moonshine, now available wherever Storyteller temples can be found. Just be sure to bring something worth trading.

wildcard; are you living your life or just waiting to die

[If you want a closed starter or have an idea for something else, just let me know over here or at arrpee. I'll match prose or brackets in any of the prompts above!]

Comments

E6

[demonpuppy]

Chip had come here to try and find a few vegetables not yet claimed by the other islanders, but seeing Tim working here catches them for a moment. They stare across at him for a minute or so, clearly debating about something, before they make their way closer.

"What're you doing?" Well...okay, the basics of it are pretty clear, but they're not sure why he's up to something like this.

[postictal]

It's probably promising that they figure they can approach him like that. Progress with this sort of thing is always slow and staggering, but all things considered - they're doing a pretty good job of it. Tim's expression even resolves into the closest thing he gets to a smile on a regular basis.

"Trying to learn how to garden, mostly." It's plain from the wryness in his tone that trying is the operative word there. "I figure we should start growing our own shi - " He backpedals impressively, all things considered. " - food before we run out."

[demonpuppy]

Chip levels Tim with an exasperated look when he backpedals like that--it's not like he's a parent or anything, why is he bothering? "I know that one already."

Not that they actually use it much, but. Details.

"Doesn't it take a long time to grow, though?" Chip frowns down at the dug-up earth, nudging some of it around with their shoe. "It's all only ready once a year or something, isn't it?"

[postictal]

"That's the idea, yeah. Though I'm starting to think that the Storyteller might help us out." He hunkers back down to dig out a rather grisly-looking weed with straggling roots that remind him uncomfortably of a spider's web. He tosses it aside with a grimace.

Figures they've heard language like that before. No reason for him to make shit worse.

"I mean, the mana pools help us out enough, but it's not like that makes a real appetizing meal, y'know?"

[demonpuppy]

"We're not supposed to drink that, anyway." Numero uno thing to learn: when in a weird and unknown place, don't drink the magic water. How so many people are ignoring that and not getting magicked inside and out is beyond Chip, quite frankly. "But you think...if we tell stories, they'll make the plants and stuff grow faster?"

They watch Tim work for a few moments longer before getting onto hands and knees and starting to pull out anything that looks like what Tim is uprooting--though unfortunately they haven't realized the 'uprooting' is the important bit there. Mostly just break off the top sections of the weeds, and toss them aside without thinking much of it.

[postictal]

"Yeah? Why's that?" The words are bereft of any genuine challenge - but if it's what Chip believes, he's not about to dismiss it outright. Chances are there's a reason for that, and he can't exactly blame them. He recalls needing to forcibly prevent people from jumping into the magic water and taking a little swim, just because they could.

It's difficult not to touch on the wealth of gardening knowledge that he knows runs beneath his veins, in the circuits of his berry-red soul. It's even more difficult to discern in earnest if this comes down to some basic reasoning he's always had, or the full extent of someone else's memories. And hasn't he reaped enough from that which never belonged to him?

"Here." He demonstrates the act of weeding by digging fingertips into the loose earth and slowly working the plant's roots free from the dirt. "You gotta pull 'em out by the roots, see?"

[demonpuppy]

Chip frowns at Tim with the same sort of look one gives a person asking why it's not wise to walk into the middle of a busy street. "Because it's magic? Even babies know this stuff, you don't just drink something like that unless you know what went into it. 'S like none'a you even have magic at home."

They stop and watch Tim, looking slightly panicked when they realize their mistake. Hastily Chip digs at the spots they think they'd pulled weeds out of, pulling out entire clumps of dirt to try and get the roots they'd missed out. "S-sorry!"

[postictal]

"We don't. Back at my home, anyway." Not like their instincts are incorrect. In any other context, sure. In this case, enough people have been sampling from the pool with enough regularity for him to be assured as to how safe it might be.

Their reaction is immediate and disproportionate. Tim shrugs, a tad awkwardly with his hands still half-buried in the dirt, and tries for a vague, partial lift of a smile.

"Hey, it's fine. You ever done this before?"

[demonpuppy]

They slow just as abruptly, glancing up nervously before continuing to unearth the roots at a more reasonable pace. They aren't really sure what to say about a world that doesn't have magic--how does anything even work? Magic is in everything, and even if Chip doesn't understand why that is, they know it's like...needing air to breathe, or ground to walk on.

Thankfully, they're given a new topic to pursue. "...no. Didn't have any dirt to put stuff in."

[postictal]

"City kid?" He's guessing here, and that might be obvious from the uncertain lift to the words, the way his head tilts slightly to one side. He doesn't know much about where they come from, aside from the fact that magic is commonplace as jargon like souls

He does know that it's nothing good, that leads a kid to flinch and skitter like that and immediately coat it in a layer of apologies.

[demonpuppy]

Chip nods, not even thinking to take offense to the question. "Yeah. There's a park near the college, but a fae or something guards it. I never went there."

They glance up, shy curiosity in their expression. "Where'd...uh, what about you? Were you a farmer?"

[postictal]

He huffs softly at that, though it's not mean-spirited. It makes sense that they'd assume as such, given his everything here.

"Not really." He shrugs with a deprecating slant to one side of his mouth. "Just someone trying to make sure we have something to eat that isn't mana pool water. I worked in, uh, construction a little bit. If you can believe it."

[demonpuppy]

Chip looks at Tim for a few moments, then shrugs and goes back to pulling the weeds out. "Yeah. I mean, Sophie's some kinda vampire agent thing, but she doesn't look like it."

That...Chip, that's nowhere near the same kind of thing.

[postictal]

"Well, is she an agent for vampires, or is she a vampire that happens to be an agent?" Look, there's an important distinction that needs to be made here, and this might not be Tim's forte, but he does like having a bit of context in regards to how other people's worlds operate.

Even if, given everything, he kind of has a little too much of that in some ways.

[demonpuppy]

"Uh...she's a vampire that works for vampires, so...both, I guess? Dad doesn't want me knowing what she does, so it's probably super illegal."

[postictal]

"That doesn't seem to bother you." He says it offhand, like it doesn't much bother him either. Which it doesn't, to be fair; he's done his fair share of illegal shit. He makes a mental note of that, though - Dad. They've got a parent who isn't here at the moment. How're they faring without him. Are any adults actually checking up on them with any regularity?

Does he even count as one?

[demonpuppy]

"Well...she's nice. 'N Dad's kind of a wimp so he wouldn't get involved with really dangerous stuff."

Chip plucks at a weed they've pulled out, very deliberately avoiding Tim's eyes. It does hurt, a little bit, to talk about Grant even in a distant way like this, but...they'll get back to him. The Storyteller promised, and They're a god. If Chip can believe anything, it's that. "Plus...I mean, I'm. I don't think I have room to judge anyone that used to be human."

[postictal]

"Hey, we got all sorts here." He shrugs, noncommittal, pretending like that shift in the body language, the hunching of the shoulders, the dropping of the gaze, doesn't sharpen his attention like a knife. Just keep pulling weeds, no big.

"We got monsters, we got...half-monsters. Pretty sure we're a judgment-free zone where non-humans are concerned."

[demonpuppy]

Chip falls quiet in the wake of that response, not quite able to believe it but without any way to really refute it. Sure, non-humans can be...dealt with, or sometimes perfectly reasonable. White nephilim are so often lauded as heroes, and spirits are fine enough if you don't mess with their land. But fae are treated with caution for good reason, and demons...

"...people wouldn't let a demon wander around and do whatever it wanted."

[postictal]

"First of all, I don't see any demons around here." Small children proclaim themselves demons is nothing new, sure, but regardless of what they might think, it's hardly as though Chip has made an effort to back up those claims with anything truly malicious.

"Second of all, I'm pretty sure that's stereotyping. Demons could be real useful members of society. Why paint them all with a bad brush? You never know, right?"

It's said with the air of a joke, but that doesn't mean there's not a foundation of underlying truth. Or at least, something they can take away for the better.