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bakerstreet2017-10-22 07:48 pm
sneaks) wrote in bakerstreet2017-10-22 07:48 pm
Entry tags:
[The one taking in the strays.]
Matthew Murdock | Netflix's Daredevil | cross-canon welcome
proverbs217
2017-10-24 03:48 am (UTC)(link)
[ character info and permissions on his journal. i'm only caught up through s1, which cuts into a lot of canon cr possibilities, but i'm very open to who tags in/we can work something out. gen or shipping okay, canon/cross-canon/ocs all welcome.
while matt's tendency to get injured suggests he'd make a great stray, i'm also okay with him being the taker-in-er emotionally for someone else. interested especially in prompts 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 11, 18, 22. (that's so many, why is it so many?!)
feel free to message or to just drop a starter. ]
while matt's tendency to get injured suggests he'd make a great stray, i'm also okay with him being the taker-in-er emotionally for someone else. interested especially in prompts 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 11, 18, 22. (that's so many, why is it so many?!)
feel free to message or to just drop a starter. ]
New York is nasty when it rains. In the mountains, in the woods, out on the plains and wide open places the rain has something cleansing about it. In Manhattan it brings up the dirt. The gutters run a dull dishwater grey, the sodden deposits of millions of lives, millions of bodies not so much rinsed clean as simply picked up and sloshed around the streets a little.
You can smell the industrial taint of it, the crowds that have passed just before the cloudburst, feel the invisible deposits like a fine film on the skin.
Or at least you can if you're a plant who's spent most of his life out in the wide open wilderness dozens of miles from the nearest hamlet or village, let alone the nearest city, and in a world that has never known a true industrial revolution, no less.
But then if you happen to be a massive walking, talking, sentient plant, you probably don't have much business being in New York City to begin with, and certainly not in anywhere so central as Hell's Kitchen.
This is a lesson that Aurus has learned, neither very comfortably or gracefully, over the course of the past week, a week in which he has been stranded (not a word he would commonly use for the places that his wandering lands him in) here in this horribly foreign city in this horribly foreign world where he obviously doesn't belong.
Unsurprisingly, the list of places that a six and a half foot tall blue plantman can hide anywhere near Midtown is pretty damn short. Add in the old fashioned armor, the massive warhammer slung across his back, the sword, the axe, and the fact that he speaks with something that (here) sounds rather like an English accent, and pretty much the best that can be said is that many people who have seen him have taken him for an actor wearing a very convincing costume.
Were he anywhere else, he would simply have walked away—put miles between himself and the city with good old fashioned shoe leather until he found himself somewhere new, some quirk of multiversal magics and the vicissitudes of the Mists bringing him to another realm, hopefully one closer to his own. But Manhattan is hard to walk away from. Literally. The river crossings are all built for cars. Walking is evidently something of a lost art.
It’s purely by luck that he manages to find Central Park for the first time, though once he has it’s by clever design and the shaping of plants that he manages to make a bower for himself amidst a thicket of bushes that can keep him away from prying eyes. He does his best to stay hidden while he tries to work out a plan, but even still the rumors have begun to circulate: some kind of strange nature spirit (or other stories, perhaps inspired by the lingering fears from the Chitauri attack on New York, say some plant-like alien) haunting the park.
He doesn’t know it, but he’s becoming Manhattan’s own botanical Sasquatch.
All of that is bad enough. What he doesn’t expect, though, is to discover that some part of Tyria--one of the very worst parts of it, in fact--has followed him here.
Maybe it’s the rain that first brings them out, or maybe the thorough uniform gray is just some cosmic coincidence, like meteorological mood lighting.
Whatever the reason, Aurus’s chest tightens with dread when he sees them crawl out of the ground, sprouting like plants but then stepping clear of the earth, moving and walking like animals, though with a far more malicious intent. It’s the wolves he sees first, their bodies like knotted vines and their heads like open flowers--not the beautiful sort, but the carnivorous kind that tempt their prey in with the crimson of petals bright as bloody meat. The strength of their woody jaws, their resinous teeth, could rip a person in two were they to get hold of one. And even worse there are the thrashers--oversized floating monstrosities twice the height of a man that spin like whirling blades and spread a trail of poison beneath them.
He’s managed to kill most of them in the park. Most. But not all. And the only consolation he can take from that, as he steps from the slim shelter of grass and trees and bushes onto the 59th Street sidewalk where the horse-drawn buggies would usually be waiting for tourists in brighter weather (and in the daytime), is that the downpour has chased most people from the streets and made visibility so poor that he can at least hope to go unnoticed for a while.
Maybe he can find the remaining mordrem before they find anyone else. It’s a thin hope to begin with and one that fades when he turns a corner into an alleyway and spots the pair he’s been chasing—thrasher and wolf—facing down...a man in a mask. Well, that’s not something he was expecting.
The man’s a fighter, that much is instantly clear. But it takes time and experience to learn how to battle mordrem, and this is a battle that does not look to be going well. The wolf is moving to flank the man while the thrasher bobs in the air before him, its whiplike tendrils readying for a fresh strike. If Aurus has his guess, he’d say it looks like it might have landed a fair few blows already.
You can smell the industrial taint of it, the crowds that have passed just before the cloudburst, feel the invisible deposits like a fine film on the skin.
Or at least you can if you're a plant who's spent most of his life out in the wide open wilderness dozens of miles from the nearest hamlet or village, let alone the nearest city, and in a world that has never known a true industrial revolution, no less.
But then if you happen to be a massive walking, talking, sentient plant, you probably don't have much business being in New York City to begin with, and certainly not in anywhere so central as Hell's Kitchen.
This is a lesson that Aurus has learned, neither very comfortably or gracefully, over the course of the past week, a week in which he has been stranded (not a word he would commonly use for the places that his wandering lands him in) here in this horribly foreign city in this horribly foreign world where he obviously doesn't belong.
Unsurprisingly, the list of places that a six and a half foot tall blue plantman can hide anywhere near Midtown is pretty damn short. Add in the old fashioned armor, the massive warhammer slung across his back, the sword, the axe, and the fact that he speaks with something that (here) sounds rather like an English accent, and pretty much the best that can be said is that many people who have seen him have taken him for an actor wearing a very convincing costume.
Were he anywhere else, he would simply have walked away—put miles between himself and the city with good old fashioned shoe leather until he found himself somewhere new, some quirk of multiversal magics and the vicissitudes of the Mists bringing him to another realm, hopefully one closer to his own. But Manhattan is hard to walk away from. Literally. The river crossings are all built for cars. Walking is evidently something of a lost art.
It’s purely by luck that he manages to find Central Park for the first time, though once he has it’s by clever design and the shaping of plants that he manages to make a bower for himself amidst a thicket of bushes that can keep him away from prying eyes. He does his best to stay hidden while he tries to work out a plan, but even still the rumors have begun to circulate: some kind of strange nature spirit (or other stories, perhaps inspired by the lingering fears from the Chitauri attack on New York, say some plant-like alien) haunting the park.
He doesn’t know it, but he’s becoming Manhattan’s own botanical Sasquatch.
All of that is bad enough. What he doesn’t expect, though, is to discover that some part of Tyria--one of the very worst parts of it, in fact--has followed him here.
Maybe it’s the rain that first brings them out, or maybe the thorough uniform gray is just some cosmic coincidence, like meteorological mood lighting.
Whatever the reason, Aurus’s chest tightens with dread when he sees them crawl out of the ground, sprouting like plants but then stepping clear of the earth, moving and walking like animals, though with a far more malicious intent. It’s the wolves he sees first, their bodies like knotted vines and their heads like open flowers--not the beautiful sort, but the carnivorous kind that tempt their prey in with the crimson of petals bright as bloody meat. The strength of their woody jaws, their resinous teeth, could rip a person in two were they to get hold of one. And even worse there are the thrashers--oversized floating monstrosities twice the height of a man that spin like whirling blades and spread a trail of poison beneath them.
He’s managed to kill most of them in the park. Most. But not all. And the only consolation he can take from that, as he steps from the slim shelter of grass and trees and bushes onto the 59th Street sidewalk where the horse-drawn buggies would usually be waiting for tourists in brighter weather (and in the daytime), is that the downpour has chased most people from the streets and made visibility so poor that he can at least hope to go unnoticed for a while.
Maybe he can find the remaining mordrem before they find anyone else. It’s a thin hope to begin with and one that fades when he turns a corner into an alleyway and spots the pair he’s been chasing—thrasher and wolf—facing down...a man in a mask. Well, that’s not something he was expecting.
The man’s a fighter, that much is instantly clear. But it takes time and experience to learn how to battle mordrem, and this is a battle that does not look to be going well. The wolf is moving to flank the man while the thrasher bobs in the air before him, its whiplike tendrils readying for a fresh strike. If Aurus has his guess, he’d say it looks like it might have landed a fair few blows already.
[combo of 3, 4, 13 and maybe 19? with bruce as the stray?]
It's raining, fast sharp drops that feel like needles as the wind drives them toward the ground. Matt could have picked a worse time to get in over his head, but not by much. If he'd at least been wearing the armor...but he hasn't put that on since promising Foggy that was going to give up the vigilante work. And this wasn't intentional, he didn't go out looking for a fight. But what kind of person would he be if he had just kept walking, after hearing the things that he heard? Nobody would expect that of him.
At least the rain is washing away the blood trail he leaves, as he hauls himself down a fire escape and staggers the few feet down the narrow alley, tripping over a pile of wet boxes as he stumbles onto the sidewalk. Home is just a few buildings away. Pain shoots up his leg from his injured knee, despite how hard he tries to ignore it, and he mumbles an apology as a man taking shelter under an awning almost breaks his fall.
At least the rain is washing away the blood trail he leaves, as he hauls himself down a fire escape and staggers the few feet down the narrow alley, tripping over a pile of wet boxes as he stumbles onto the sidewalk. Home is just a few buildings away. Pain shoots up his leg from his injured knee, despite how hard he tries to ignore it, and he mumbles an apology as a man taking shelter under an awning almost breaks his fall.
Said man almost recoils at the contact, before instincts kick in and he ends up catching him before he hits the pavement, grunting out a soft sound of surprise. His hands are steady at least, gripping Matt's shoulders to help him upright and then gently turn him away from the rain. It's the least he can do, surprised as he is since the down poor has more or less emptied the sidewalk of pedestrians.
"It's fine." his response is almost as quiet, either because it's awkward to speak to stranger's on the street or he's just soft-spoken by nature.
Though he's still hyper-aware of his surroundings, for reasons so it doesn't take him long to notice the wash of red that swirls along the pavement under their feet.
"Oh." He says with an exhale of breath, and a short pause that must be him wondering if he should continue and actually take notice or play the common New Yorker and play oblivious.
His better nature doesn't allow him to, however. "You're injured, here." He helps to guide Matt against the wall, to at least give him something steadier to lean against than his own frame. At least he's out of the rain.
He's not a medical doctor, but he knows his way around the profession enough to get by, so he's quick to guide the other man to sit while he tries to determine the source of his bleeding.
"It's fine." his response is almost as quiet, either because it's awkward to speak to stranger's on the street or he's just soft-spoken by nature.
Though he's still hyper-aware of his surroundings, for reasons so it doesn't take him long to notice the wash of red that swirls along the pavement under their feet.
"Oh." He says with an exhale of breath, and a short pause that must be him wondering if he should continue and actually take notice or play the common New Yorker and play oblivious.
His better nature doesn't allow him to, however. "You're injured, here." He helps to guide Matt against the wall, to at least give him something steadier to lean against than his own frame. At least he's out of the rain.
He's not a medical doctor, but he knows his way around the profession enough to get by, so he's quick to guide the other man to sit while he tries to determine the source of his bleeding.
He's shaking his head the whole time he lets the man assist him, not wanting to involve some hapless stranger in his problems. Admitting that he needs the help isn't his first choice either, but it's a little obvious to lie about.
It's possible the guy is just checking his pockets to rob him, but more likely is that Matt lucked into a helpful hapless stranger who figures the least he can do is not let Matt bleed to death. His formerly white dress shirt is soaked pink, but although the blood is coming from more than one place, the worst is probably the gunshot wound visible through a tear in said shirt.
Matt can't help a soft groan as the man prods at him, shaking his head once again as he grips the stranger's arm with one hand. "Just need to get home."
It's possible the guy is just checking his pockets to rob him, but more likely is that Matt lucked into a helpful hapless stranger who figures the least he can do is not let Matt bleed to death. His formerly white dress shirt is soaked pink, but although the blood is coming from more than one place, the worst is probably the gunshot wound visible through a tear in said shirt.
Matt can't help a soft groan as the man prods at him, shaking his head once again as he grips the stranger's arm with one hand. "Just need to get home."
Khloe Zhwan | Final Fantasy XIV | Fandom OC | F/F for ship, OTA for gen
the_fractured_heart
2017-10-24 06:33 am (UTC)(link)
[oh please somebody attempt to take this feral thing in, I'm ill and need the lolz]
[Grainne is quite sure she's going to regret this.]
[oh man gotta love her for trying though]
He doesn't know where he is; he doesn't even know precisely when he is (that innate Time Lord's sense seems to have been dampened by his 'condition'). He used nearly the last of his life force attacking Rassilon in what may have been an ill-thought-out fit of rage. He's hungry. He smells like shit.
And amazingly, this isn't even the lowest he's ever been. But it's close.
The Master doesn't even lift his head-- best to conserve his energy for now-- and so simply lies there in the dirt like a sack of rags. An opportunity will come by, and he'll be able to turn this around. He always does. It's totally his choice to just lie here helplessly. Yes.
He doesn't know where he is; he doesn't even know precisely when he is (that innate Time Lord's sense seems to have been dampened by his 'condition'). He used nearly the last of his life force attacking Rassilon in what may have been an ill-thought-out fit of rage. He's hungry. He smells like shit.
And amazingly, this isn't even the lowest he's ever been. But it's close.
The Master doesn't even lift his head-- best to conserve his energy for now-- and so simply lies there in the dirt like a sack of rags. An opportunity will come by, and he'll be able to turn this around. He always does. It's totally his choice to just lie here helplessly. Yes.
Normally, she doesn't even walk. She rides taxis or, sometimes, her magic to get around. This time her taxi never showed up and she felt too irritable to call another, and simply set off.
Her path led her down a street that didn't look as well kept as others, but she was fairly certain there wasn't trash laying about it either last time she was here. As she got closer, she realized it wasn't something someone had left there. It was actually a someone.
Sighing, she started to walk pass, but as she took each step, her upbringing started whispering in her ear, harrassing her to do the right thing.
With an grunt of grumpiness at her annoying conscience, she turned around and walked back to the man.
"Are you all right?"
Her path led her down a street that didn't look as well kept as others, but she was fairly certain there wasn't trash laying about it either last time she was here. As she got closer, she realized it wasn't something someone had left there. It was actually a someone.
Sighing, she started to walk pass, but as she took each step, her upbringing started whispering in her ear, harrassing her to do the right thing.
With an grunt of grumpiness at her annoying conscience, she turned around and walked back to the man.
"Are you all right?"
He raises his head then, barely, to mark who's spoken with sharp eyes. Eyes that maybe seem a little too sharp, given the circumstances. The Master doesn't even bother with the question. It's one he deems too stupid to answer. And besides, he has his own questions.
"Where am I?" he rasps. The girl seems human, but depending on the time period they could be on any one of a number of colonies littered across the universe. For all he knows.
"Where am I?" he rasps. The girl seems human, but depending on the time period they could be on any one of a number of colonies littered across the universe. For all he knows.
Frowning, Grainne decided either this man had too much to drink, or he had gotten a knock on his noggin.
"London. Soho district." She replies, stifling a sigh. "Do you need help or not? It's quite late." Not that she really feared walking around, being immune to most weapons did that.
"London. Soho district." She replies, stifling a sigh. "Do you need help or not? It's quite late." Not that she really feared walking around, being immune to most weapons did that.
'Blue' Cassandra Jo Blackwood | Original Character | OTA
hearts_song
2017-10-24 10:10 pm (UTC)(link)
[ooc: Open to starting since she doesn't have to much on her journal yet. She's a singer in her late twenties who has cancer. She's fun and spunky and lives in the moment.]
[ooc: She has a lot of information on her journal but she's generally a snarky grumpy person who's live is kinda rough.]
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