scrapdraught

[They're in the refectory! Love the spice embargo, dry bread forever.

Everyone's cleaning up nicely, now that they have their own duds. Lots of interesting picks here. Sure livens the place up.

Meanwhile Camille continues to fade into the scenery: dark sweater, dark jeans, leather ankle boots with scuffs at the heels. Funny how that makes her the sore thumb here.]

Feeling peckish?

[She scoots out the chair opposite with one foot. Sit.]

[ I'M SORRY FOR MISSING YOURS AHHH slots us Tuesday if you don't mind...

You can find Daan at the river! He's got a bucket and some cloths that he seems to be wringing out in the water, careful to avoid these damn leeches. You can see him occasionally stop and stare into there while he wrings out a rag until they go away before he goes back for a rinse.

The busywork is all fine, but he's also got blackened writing appearing over his back spelling out things -- EIHNER VON DUTCH, ELISE VON DUTCH, and FATE. Pick your poison... ]

[ Good morning… it’s bad, we’re doing bad.

Daan is just out here somewhere, the word TERMINA IS UPON US lacing around his throat like a choker. ]

…Ms. Preaker, where were you last night? And are you feeling alright…?

[ Hey that was Fucked Up!

Which is why when he sees Camille, he's definitely coming over to check on her. ]

Ms. Preaker, how are you feeling...?

[ Whoaaa look at the farm. Daan could not look any more out of place in a damn summer island but you know what, that's fine. ]

At least that solves the problem of our limited food choices, at least for now. Provided people know how to cook?

[ This is hell actually

Daan can be found just kind of sitting on a bench somewhere before the pyre and staring into the fire I guess. This is fine. ]

[ This is the most tired bitch in the world but today it appears to be a different kind of tired. He's giving off the usual somewhat grim aura he usually does, but there's a distinct lack in anything particularly strong -- anger, sadness, frustration... none of it.

He's somewhere, rulebook propped open in one hand, scribbling some stuff on a sheet of paper with the other. ]

[ Good morning Camille! It's another day that ends in y, which is to be expected but somehow today feels a bit worse than usual.

Might be these shadows enveloping us and showing Camille a very unhappy memory, by chance? Nauuur. Couldn't be.

Ftr Daan is just super silent and unmoving when made to relive this. ]

[ Eventually Camille can find Daan just sat somewhere, going through it as he usually does -- bent with his hand on his temple, mumbling under his breath. ]

[Forces you to love me

Anyway Daan's legs move of their own accord, stomp stomp stompity-stomping towards the barrier! what awaits him there, whoa....]

[at daan's chosen residence, a package will be dropped off for him!

Please find: one case of beer
Four packs of smokes.

And a note:

For the pain.

- C.]

Edited 2024-07-01 01:28 (UTC)

[ Wowee, it's a new week and a new location! We can be there or wherever Camille is hanging around extremely awkwardly now that she's here. Daan's just kind of doing a quick morning routine around first, looking at things, for anything amiss. The usual routine.

Oh, and he's on a shoddy crutch. It hasn't been a full 48 hours since the whole Aqua incident and immediate post-swamping.

If he happens to see Camille, he'll stop and watch her carefully first. ]

[Icing her feet in whatever serves as a clinic these days, filled with regret]

I feel like the longer you're at the circus, the more clown-like you become.

[The animes are getting to her.]

[She's had like. A few hours. Getting readjusted. Most people are taking to her return quite readily. Guess it's a surprise, but not such a big one to the swords and sorcery crew.

There's one outlier though. A holdout. Probably the next most perturbed after she is.

Camille waits for him, sat outside wherever he's staying with quick popping emoticons whirling over her head. A dark cloud, fat cartoon sweat drops, lines and a purple has hanging over her forehead. Nothing good.]

...Daan?

[Shortly before curfew, when the rush dies down, Camille will take a silent seat at his side. A respectable distance. Their last conversation still burns hot in her mind. A repeat now might break something, real or metaphorical.

Her voice is low as she murmurs to him:]

Rough day?

[SHAKES....IS HE STILL CYOA WEIRD....I know he's still extra depresso

That's okay because Camille is too at the moment. She is at the pyre, smoking, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at the bulletin with a haunted look.]

[Welcome to our last thread forever Lowe, make sure it's worth your while.

Camille doesn't come until it's the middle of the damn night. She is bleary eyed, hair mussed, fresh off a crying jag. She looks, frankly, like hell. And if smell can pass the barrier, she absolutely reeks of their grape wine.]

...Your turn, I guess.

[ Hello there.

Looks like he can appear anywhere if he focuses enough, so he's just. Well he's somewhere, somewhere in the camp. Just frowning vaguely at it all... it's been a week and a half since he last saw this place. ]

[Post party ig, late night walks it is.

Voids them because i can't comprehend your locations after midnight. She's a little loaded but nothing she can't handle, walking slow among the sights. Too tired to do anything productive, too uneasy to rest.]

All this and you could only represent the Jamba Juice.

[ Wake up dear it's time for your heart game...

Anyway as a broad blanket just in case since this IS a Termina mini-CYOA, but includes general cw for various trauma, self-harm, suicide and/or suicidal ideation, gore, death, etc. not that this is a promise that these things will appear but it's just to generally cover my ass for the canon, I cannot predict what will come up.

~✦~

Camille will find herself enthralled in a memory. It overlays far too perfectly with everything that's been going on in scawwy, because I am a clown who chose my Silent Hill-inspired canon and changed my plurk theme to Silent Hill half a year before scawwy premise came out, and everything happening here is just a repeat of Daan's whole-ass canon.

ANYWAY. She's trudging along the city of Prehevil, exhausted after a long three days that felt much more like weeks, months. Her entire body is sore and her head pounds, sanity low from all the horrors you've seen and the ever-present voice in the back of your head demanding that you kill, participate in the Festival, become the champion. You stubbornly have ignored it thus far though, and you'll continue to ignore it, gods-be-damned. The last thing you want is for this place to win you over. It's the last 'fuck you' you can give to that feathered freak at the top of Prehevil's Moon Tower, or you'll fucking die trying.

Behind you follow three people.

A one-armed girl with black hair, picking grimly at the bandages there. You recall a cackling madman in a white mask had chopped it off with a machete like her arm was mere paper, not flesh and bone. Fortunately you had cloth fragments to stem the bleeding, but guilt strikes you when you see it and the blood and grime on Asa's face. If only you had warned her just a moment sooner when you saw the lid of the coffin shift.

A boy with ginger hair, though his hair is so thick with grime that in the dim atmosphere, you wouldn't have been blamed for thinking he may have been a brunette instead. Bandages cover his face and over the eye there. A strange half-cocooned townsman with a mallet had all but hurled a handful of broken glass right into his face, shredding the flesh. If you got out of here fast enough, got him to a hospital quickly enough, then perhaps Lavi will be able to salvage his vision, but you're pretty certain in the deep of your gut that he won't get that eye back.

And last in the line is a lanky pale man, whose perfect coiffed hair when you first met him is now nigh-unrecognisable with the blood matting it and weighing it down. Even he who learned how to revel in violence out of necessity due to the cruelty of the Great War has his limits, a permanent frown on his features and a decided exhaustion in his blood-red eyes. Astarion's sleeves are alarmingly red up to the elbows, a testament to how many people you've had to cut down just to survive here.

They're all you have left now. You arrived to this city on a train with a handful more people, but... things happened. You watched as the odd little shadowed girl's bones twisted right in front of you, her terrifying scream of pain as she bent and broke under the moon's influence into a horrifying monster, the way Laudna had to step in and swiftly put her down. The beautiful young singer with the halo, gutted and crucified in the midst of the old town, her once-bright eyes dulled as villagers danced around her entrails during the onset of night, bile lining the crest of your every tooth watching this. That quiet foreigner with the eyepatch, unassuming when you all met and spoke on the grass patch outside of the train -- found in the apartments overgrown with white mould, one empty bottle of vodka and a pool of his own blood around him, scalpel in pallid hand and clean cut to the jugular like he knew exactly where to do it.

Day by day you lost folks, and Per'kele was more than happy to remind you who had died thus far whenever you managed to get even a wink in of sleep. You know what to do, so get to it, he'd always say. Bastard. Still, you had little direction other than the place he suggested: Prehevil's Moon Tower. It was an arduous journey getting here, finding the three effigies in strange dimensions, fighting through the horrors, getting through the awful church basement and through the back-alleys... but you're finally here.

You look upon the square before the tower's doors, multiple townspeople's gutted bodies and heads on spikes, a disgusting monument to sacrifice. The sights would make an incredible headline, a photograph of the century, an exposé scoop about the horrors of this backwaters capital that would make every goddamn journalist from here to the next millennium jealous. ]

...Ew...
But this is it, right...? We're finally at the tower...

...Everything we've seen so far has been pretty bad, but somehow, this still takes the cake.

Oh, how wonderful. I'd just been thinking we'd been getting too used to the smell of rotting innards.
Well? We're not here just to ogle all of this, are we dear?

[ You're a normie you understand the absolute feeling of 'what the FUCK', right? Right???

Anyway it's after the fall of god, and Daan is just standing here watching people disperse. He's fished out a cigarette and is just probably astral projecting at this point but it's fine. ]

W0: Saturday

W0, tuesday

W0, friday

W0, sunday

W1, monday

W1, friday