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bakerstreet2020-01-13 09:39 pm
greatwhitesock) wrote in bakerstreet2020-01-13 09:39 pm
Entry tags:
Plague AU Meme
A Pathologic Inspired Meme
"Yes… it seems unlikely that we'll get along well. But there's only one truth."
"Any choice is right as long as it's willed. That's the truth of the matter."
"Only the heart will show you the right choice! Stop thinking about yourselves, think of the sick! He's in pain. I can't see it yet, but I can feel it."
There is a remote town on the Russian steppe. It's a place where the reach of old gods is long, the word of psychics is respected, and outsiders are distrusted. And now, a horrible plague has hit, a plague that will kill even the healthiest young adult within days, a plague that spreads through touch contact and the air. If left unchecked, the military will step in and burn the town to the ground to stop the plague from spreading.
Who are you?
The Bachelor: You're an outsider. Maybe you're a plague doctor who came to study the plague and cure it conventionally, or maybe you're a soldier sent to scout or burn down houses, or maybe you're a smuggler here to make a quick buck getting the rich elite out of town before they get sick. The trouble is, no one in town trusts you, and even if you do try to help them, no one is accepting your help because you don't understand their ways. Maybe you need to find a Haruspex or a Changeling to teach you.
The Haruspex: You're an insider, and it's up to you to save your town. Maybe you're a folk doctor who understands the culture, maybe you're a diviner slaughtering animals to check their entrails, or maybe you're a religious leader. Or maybe you left, and now you're back to save your town, and the people in town are reluctant to see you again after so long away. But know that even if the townfolk trust you, your head is on the chopping block too if you can't contain this plague. Maybe you need the Bachelor's or the Changeling's help.
The Changeling: You're an insider, and you're a psychic. You're tormented by dreams or visions or hunches or witchcraft. Maybe you see the future, or maybe you have the power to perform miracles that heal the worthy and kill the unworthy. The solution for the plague isn't in physical means as far as you're concerned. It's in spiritual. Maybe you need to make a grueling mission to the old gods, or maybe the old gods require human sacrifice, but you know that any earthly attempt at curing the plague is doomed to fail. The question is, will anyone listen to you? Perhaps the Haruspex or the Bachelor will.
Connor | Detroit: Become Human | OTA
Misty Day | AHS: Coven | OTA
Misty is The Changeling, the lone daughter of a family wiped out in the plague's earliest days, before the masses quite understood what was coming. She rose from her shallow grave two weeks later, wide-eyed and solemn and so out of it she wouldn't have been able to tell you her own name, but earnest. Urgent. Her presence throughout town is constant, despite whatever suspicion, insult, or assault awaits her. Her reputation oscillates wildly, and a secondhand impression will vary. Some have seen her restore the afflicted to full health, some swear just as vehemently she's a killer on par with any. (Both are true. Cures require sacrifice, and while she takes no joy in it, she can at least weed out the unworthy - opportunists seeking to gain through suffering - in the process of restoring all the rest. A fair exchange and a violent one, as it is willed by powers that be. She will shoulder it.) Rumors of witchcraft are close enough she doesn't quite deny them, though the pragmatist in her (and human want for company) do leave her wanting to leave a good impression when she can.
Crosscanon/aus/assumed cr are all good, and specific to this setup, obviously jonesing for Haruspexes and Bachelors, military figures sent ahead to monitor the town before making a final decision regarding its destruction, people who knew her before she died, wealthy or otherwise influential benefactors in town (she's a conversation piece, wouldn't you look good allied to this individual that may save everyone, and she's pleased enough with food and a clean place to sleep), little kids to barter with, ill individuals to cure, and it's a longshot, but possibly a soul or two selfless or far enough gone to willfully be on standby in case she needs a sudden, ah, sacrifice boost. Wouldn't come to pass in-thread, but it's a neat dynamic and an excuse to be around a lot.]
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He knows this, and they know this, so perhaps it's in his best interests to find out more about the situation quickly. Like, say, the town's mysterious.... healer? witch? killer?]
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[Hunkering down in some no-name town in the middle of the wastes until the storm blew over and everything was settled. Seemed fine to him, if it weren't for the contagious plague that was choking the place. It looked shit-miserable too, the people and buildings all, and Fairfax didn't really relish the idea of spending god-knows how long here.]
[If he got sick...]
[Well, he'd better chase down the rumors first. Get to know the healer so many people seemed to talk about, and not just to put down in his report. Find out if she was a quack, a murderer, a witch, whatever. And if she was the real deal, to get on her good side. He was hell-bent on surviving this place out of spite. Which is why instead of ordering a squad to bring her to him like he normally would, he opts to go himself. Colonel Fairfax is a very visible sight clomping up the path to her abode, getting his boot heels stuck in the uneven cobblestone and cursing.]
Damn streets, [he mutters under his breath. He frees his leg with an ill-tempered yank.] Place needs to be bulldozed over and replaced with concrete. Should've just sent Collins to get her instead.
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He's heard before seen; so little foot traffic to begin with makes the occasional wanderer all the more noticeable. There's no missing the skittering of boot-on-stone, and though she paused in the hopes of hearing him switch direction, perhaps a squatter looking to take up in any of the adjacent homes, but he inadvertently explains himself decently enough well before reaching her door -- which opens before any chance to call or knock, just wide enough for her frame.]
It needs to be healed, not replaced, [She corrects, firmly but shy of terse. She's as wan as anybody these days. Food is scarce and lacking in variety, sleep is fleeting. There's light in her eyes, however. Something purposeful and keen. A glance is spared to the old wounds on his face, gauging if any are recent enough to be a risk. Another glance to his uniform. If she has any personal commentary, she's withholding it.]
You shouldn't be out this late. Are you ill?
Cricket Pate / Lawless
Cricket is a local, and depending on what role the other play prefers he can be either Haruspex or Changeling. As Haruspex, he's an unassuming, poor kid who lives with his ailing great-aunt and works with the handful of farmers and moonshiners in the town. He's learned a fair bit of folk medicine from his Aunt Winnie, but given she's very obviously declining into senility, some of what she's taught him may be suspect. Still, he knows the town and its people in great depth and detail. His focus will be on collecting medical and edible resources for survival.
As Changeling, he's the last surviving member of his family, mother and Aunt killed by the plague. He'll be in contact with the dead and the natural spirits surrounding the place, possibly reluctantly so, with occasional bouts of drinking to quiet the voices around him and the guilt of being unable to save his family from the sickness.
Possible starter, but feel free to hit me with something else if you want:]
The town of Jordan's Branch has a population in the low thousands. It was established in the 19th century as a mining town--nowhere near as rich in resources as its neighbors in West Virginia, or in Pennsylvania to the north--and for a time it thrived. Lead was mined in the hills here, and feldspar, and other minerals in smaller amounts. Not any longer.
There's a legend in the town: purportedly sometime in the late eighteenth century, an itinerant preacher was turned away from the place, run out of town under threat of tarring and feathering. There are always two sides to a story like that. Maybe he was causing trouble himself. Maybe he wasn't really a man of God at all. Regardless, the story says he cursed the town with his departure, and ever since then, slowly but inexorably, the economy has been drying up, the population shrinking, and the town falling into disrepair.
Mind you, a century is a long, long time for a curse to take effect. It could just be natural entropy and fluctuating economic conditions causing the decay. But the plague descending on the town certainly seems to bear out this story.
So do the sinkholes. Maybe the soil is rich in eroding limestone, maybe the old lead mines, or the newer clay quarries, have disrupted the water table somehow, but every couple months a pit will drop out of the valley floor, usually only a couple feet in diameter, but twenty feet deep or more. Nature fills these back in over time, and the residents are used to them, but everyone has a story about a car being swallowed up, or a tree crashing down in the middle of the night. "Could be someone's house next," is the prevailing sentiment, "Or a person just minding their own business." But no one does anything about it.
Then again, what is there to be done?
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Bob really hated feeling the pull of summoning, much worse, he hated being stolen. It had been several days since he was stolen, skull stuffed in a sack and driven far from his 'home'. Whomever had stolen his skull had took it upon themselves to bury him at a road side near the town. Presumably they would comeback at some point, probably after they found a buyer. Bob despised these trade offs because they altered his personality, and not always for the better.
He wasn't going to sit still, waiting to be sold off like chattel. The dead around said that there was someone in the nearby house who spoke to them on occasion. It was a long way to go without something to carry his presence. Exhausting. Though, one night he left a note, gold lettering in the air by the door that would dissipate if touched.
Left at the roadside by the fallen pine.
He couldn't leave too long of a message, but getting the person closer would make it easier to communicate. There'd be less strain. Now he hoped that whomever came was a better option than whomever had buried his skull here in the roadside ditch.
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The ghosts of this town have far too much to say, in his opinion, and none of it, so far, has prevented anyone he cared about from following them into the afterlife.
So, he's not excited to feel, from a distance, the tug of another ghost wanting something. He's aware, dimly, of Bob's presence within the borders of the town even before the gold lettering appears beside his door. The message is only a more assertive reminder of the gift Cricket possesses, which he did not ask for and for which he has no return receipt.
Still, the kid has some manners. It would be rude to ignore the call completely.
And so, shortly after dusk on a January evening, he approaches the fallen pine with a half-full mason jar in his hand, draped haphazardly in coats and sweaters. His tread is slow and creaky, thanks to the leg braces, and he pauses to sit on the fallen tree with a little groan.
"A'ight," he says to the air after catching his breath. "I reckon you got some real bad luck, to have ended up here. Least you can't get any deader. What do I call you, and what d'you want?"
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"I was stolen." He says flatly, unimpressed but slightly grateful that the person had listened, or rather read his message. "Hrothbert of Bainbridge."
He's trying to be polite but Bob always sounds just a little disgruntled and annoyed. So long chained to his skull and in servitude was likely part of the problem. "Well, I'd really prefer not to be here when they come to dig up my focus and sell me off to whomever is power hungry enough to purchase me."
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The plague doesn't help. Palmer's not sure what to do, honestly. He's selfish, but he doesn't like the idea of not helping at least a little bit before he does the smart thing and gets the hell out of Dodge. Maybe get a few other people out, if he can.
"You from around here?" he asks as he settles down beside the younger man. "I'm a long ways from home myself. Californian, originally." He offers Cricket a friendly nod. "My name's James Palmer, crack mechanic. I came here to do some trading, but it looks like your town's in some bad shape."
He rummages in his bag, pulling out some cans of food. "I'll be leaving town soon, but I reckon you'll be needing this more than me."
((Will play Cricket as the Haruspex for this one.))
Cricket spends a lot of time fishing on the ice, and he's been carefully hoarding non-perishable food, and odds and ends that could be used as medicine (including liquor). He's inclined to feel the further away he stays from the plague-riddled main center of town, the less likely he is to die of the illness. Right now, he has a rickety little seat under him on the frozen bank of the Branch, and a line trailing into the black water under the ice. He heard the stranger approach, but only gave him a mild glance and a nod of greeting as he passed, and so he's a little surprised to be spoken to, let alone offered food.
"...yessir," he says slowly. "Lived here all my life. You picked a hell of a time to visit."
He eyes the cans of food and presses his lips in a thin line. "Ain't sayin' no, Mr. Palmer, but you might wanna hang onto some of that. Weather's gonna get rough soon."
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Sinkholes he knows, though he doesn't know how to handle them. THe last thing he wants is to be stuck in a dying, plague-riddled town. There's a risk of that happening, so the sensible part of his brain is yelling at him to stop scavenging and leave while he still can. However, his heart is worried about this young man.
Palmer takes back half of the food, working to open one of the cans. "Figure I'll be packing to go soon, but I figured I oughta help out a little before I go. Glad to see you're not sick. Haven't gone too far into town for that reason - didn't come all this way to die of whatever's spreading in town. Not exactly used to nasty winters where I'm from, so all this is new on me."
Vice Admiral Alexei Stukov | Starcraft II/Heroes of the Storm\ OTA for Gen, 35+ for Shipping
Death | Milton's Paradise Lost | OTA