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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 29, 2016 13:25:30 GMT -5
Hester Scoresby Group Two
Everybody’s talking. To each other. At each other. It made for a whole lot ‘a noise that only the solid confines ‘a the library could hide from the ever-listening ears of walkers. Hester herself didn’t mind it much at all. Back home, the only place you could hope to find a drop quiet were those great endless expanses ‘a desert (least, she thought them endless way back when). The ruckus had swelled only slightly upon her appearance, no one seemed to pay her much mind seeing as they already found themselves tangled in one another’s snares. Didn’t take a genius to see they weren’t none too keen on each other, though the good doctor seemed to be the source ‘a dislike. ‘Cause Ray didn’t like him stitching up her leg and Markias? Well, Hester couldn’t tell why Markias weren’t having none ‘a Dr. Dashay.
She shrugged it off ‘cause that’s what you do when you don’t go the solution to other people’s problems and moves on. “Markias, you sound like a basket full ‘a firecrackers lit up by a fire-happy kid! You sure you didn’t break nothing doing that?” She laughed, ‘cause the image alone made her think ‘a her littlest cousin when she discovered the joy ‘a firecrackers. Not fireworks, you mind, her momma woulda never allowed that. Too dangerous, she always said, you’ll blow your head off.
She rounded on Ray with a big grin, plopping the fish back in its basket, “Well, next you go fishing make sure you bring me along! I got all kinds ‘a stories I could tell you while we wait for a bite. Or we could just read, got plenty ‘a books too.”
Then she remembered that Mark asked her a question (lost it in the jumble ‘a sounds everyone were making) and Hester pounces on it like a coyote on a lame rabbit. “I’m glad you asked, Markias! You see, I think I got some sleep. Just a touch though. I’ve tried everything to get a good night’s rest. Everything! But nothing works! I think I’ll give some ‘a that meditation stuff a shot. You know, the breathin’ stuff them buddhists were always talking up.” Hester’s lack of sleep was a phenomenon like no other. Somehow, four, three, two hours of sleep didn’t put no dent in her boundless energy. Her momma used to insist she were running on nothing but sunlight and good vibes. Maybe that were true. Or maybe the looming threat ‘a death at the hands ‘a death were enough incentive to keep Hester from falling flat on her face after running on empty for so long.
You’ll find nothing works better as a motivator than death. Your own death is pretty good, but the possible death ‘a others is like magic. There ain’t nothing Hester wouldn’t do to keep everyone in the group alive. That included the good doctor no one was taking a liking to and Ray who’d sooner biter her head off than look at her (more dangerous than a firework, she woulda liked to tell her momma). Hester was downright convinced that if she were to slice Ray sideways she’d find a nest ‘a rattlesnakes ‘stead ‘a guts. That’s what Hester liked ‘bout her. Anyone with rattlesnakes ‘neath their skin make the best kind ‘a friends. Markias wasn’t the worst ‘a them, even if he looked like a lost middle-schooler with those wires all over his teeth. He weren’t distant like Dashay or got rattlesnake venom for blood like Ray. He was just kinda there. Crude and straightforward. Hester liked it. She liked he didn’t waste his time making his pretty and buttered up honey.
Edgemont. The word pops in Hester’s hearing worse’n the sound ‘a Markias cracking his back. It’s full ‘a hope and fear all at once. Hester knows traps. She knows snares and pits like the back ‘a her hand. And the best bait for humans is something only humans like: hope. Ain’t no fox gonna go sniffing an empty snare just ‘cause he hopes something’ll be there. If there ain’t nothing there to start that fox won’t even look in its direction. But humans? Humans go chasing feelings like they candy. Sometimes they weren’t good feelings. Hester’d heard ‘a folks ruining themselves ‘cause ‘a feelings. Dating people made ‘a hate and spite. Drinking and smoking even though they know it ain’t right.
But hope? Now, that were something everyone wanted. Especially now. Especially when walkers were stumbling down the streets and taking chomps outta people you loved something awful. Hester wanted to be free ‘a that kind ‘a evil. The fox wouldn’t go sniffing ‘cause it weren’t worth his time. But Hester weren’t no fox. And that fox didn’t know what it felt like to watch people be swarmed and devoured whole.
“Y’know,” she starts talking real slow, making sure she snags everyone’s attention, “This ain’t gonna work too well. What we got going now, I mean. Ray’s leg is a dinner bell itching to ring, but we can’t stay here much longer. Edgemont’s right there! Sanctuary’s waiting to open its gates for us! What we need---” pause for dramatic effect “---is a car!”
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Post by koi on Dec 29, 2016 13:58:19 GMT -5
[ I LOVE HESTER SO MUCH THIS IS UNREAL. I AM. IN LOVE ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 29, 2016 14:02:51 GMT -5
{ hester's a good kid. she just wants everyone to be happy. }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 29, 2016 14:22:49 GMT -5
Soraya:
Hardly thinking over what Dashiell said she answered, “Edgemont isn’t far. I’ll be alright if we start moving now.”
Soraya listened to the others talk. Their noise turned into a buzz and they sounded like she had cotton in her ears. Her eyelids felt heavy like someone had tied miniature anvils to them and was trying to pull them down. The mention of sleep made Soraya hunger for it. She hadn’t realized just how nice the couch felt until she let herself really sink into it. It’d been awhile since the last time she truly let herself relax. Always she’d been ready to spring at the first sign of danger. But now the siren song of sleep was calling to her and she wanted desperately to obey. But they were talking about something important so she had to stay awake to stay alive.
Blinking to try and keep herself awake she inclined her head towards Hester at the mention of a car. That...wasn’t a bad idea but finding a working car and getting gas might be dangerous. She wanted to say that, just to add to the conversation in anyway but her tongue was glued to the inside of her mouth and her lips were stitched shut. Resting her head against the back of the couch she distanced her ears to sounds farther away.
Apparently she wasn’t the only one listening to their conversation. The ears of the dead were not keen but since the world had become so quiet there were no other sounds to drown out their orchestra of voices. Their hands hit against the door trying to gain entrance. The moaning was beginning to grow louder as more joined in. First it might have been just one or two that had been attracted to their noise but then others were attracted just to the movement of the walkers by the door.
Soraya pried her eyes open and looked beyond the sitting area. “Walkers.” Was about all she could muster with her quickly fading strength.
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Post by koi on Dec 29, 2016 14:28:29 GMT -5
[ i think its my turn to reply but i feel so bad im just going to go back to bed for a while so if anyone wants to go before me go for it ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 29, 2016 14:35:30 GMT -5
{ oh koi. you're still sick??? you poor thing. go back to bed and have the sweetest dreams <3 <3 <3 }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 29, 2016 14:45:04 GMT -5
(sweet dreams koi fish <3 feel better soon)
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Post by mags on Dec 29, 2016 15:44:28 GMT -5
( GUYS IM AT THE THREE BROOMSTICKS THIS IS INSANE )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 29, 2016 17:10:12 GMT -5
{ a wild hester scoresby appears with cowboy boots }
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Post by koi on Dec 29, 2016 17:16:40 GMT -5
[ AAAA. SUCH A DARLING ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 29, 2016 17:22:44 GMT -5
{ she's on her way to herd your cattle and ride off into the sunset }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 29, 2016 17:24:40 GMT -5
( OH MY PRECIOUS! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 I LOVE)
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Dec 29, 2016 20:12:39 GMT -5
HEATHER IS SO CUTE. Btw no posts from me today I ended up staying at the dorms. Again. Lmao. ))
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Post by mags on Dec 29, 2016 20:24:47 GMT -5
( WHAT A CUTIE. OH MY GOODNESS. <3 also guys this is like. typical mag right here. i just walked into a fire hydrant. like a random freakin fire hydrant. and now theres like an imprint of a pentagon on my thigh hahahaha )
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Post by koi on Dec 29, 2016 20:25:16 GMT -5
[ things i should be doing: replying things i am doing instead: drawing gio de luca because f*ck that ]
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 29, 2016 21:11:11 GMT -5
(Aw briar why you gotta do this to us? ;-;
that's ok mag sometimes people just walk into fire hydrants at random. it happens to the best of us but you're still a doof
take your time koi! )
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Post by koi on Dec 29, 2016 22:11:46 GMT -5
[ i just spent an hour of my life doodling mark lias' dance partner. worth it? completely. ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 29, 2016 22:37:45 GMT -5
{ GIO! MY BALLERINA CHILD! I LOVE HER! }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 29, 2016 23:22:52 GMT -5
(GIO IS SO CUTE!)
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Post by koi on Dec 29, 2016 23:29:37 GMT -5
mark liasgroup 2, library
If Mark had the choice to fix one thing in his life, one thing that bothers him, he is at least 80% sure he would choose to never have back pain again. Which is odd, because if I were Mark, I’d choose to not be so goddamn hateable. However, he has different priorities than only his sh*tty personality, and if he were to fix that, he should’ve done so in grade school, but he digresses. He looks up at Hester, tall and that type of blindly-happy that should piss him off but doesn’t. It doesn’t piss him off probably because he was, somehow, always that sort of person way back when, the one who had energy so long as he had a juice box and someone to bug, at the end of seven hour rehearsals with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders (it was Lydia’s) and a headband stuck in his hair, pushing his bangs back (that was Anya’s. She was always sort-of fond of Mark, f*ck knows why, was sort-of fond of everyone in their class in a silent way, like there wasn’t anything none of them could do that would make her truly hate them, even if Carmen stumbled while turning her or if she bruised her ribs on Anton’s hands. She was a wisp of a girl, had a personality that was caught between her limbs like a web in a spider’s unsteady movement, worn down as thin as her own wrists. She was so damn accepting it felt like a slap in the face, like something he did not deserve but got given anyways, and he couldn’t do much but just be nice back, because although he is a f*cking dumbass, he is not, necessarily, cruel. He tries not to be. Mark did not pull her pigtails, because he was afraid she would get pulled down with them). He looks up at Hester, wonders how old (or young) she is, looks like she is made of optimism and a shrug or two when things do not go as planned.
He smiles, though his spine feels stiff as it usually does when he hasn’t gotten around to stretching it, not a true pain but a nagging thing, like the physical feeling of when you want to be alone and then someone sits right next to you (this is why Mark had moved away from Dashiell so graciously, because there is literally nothing worse than trying to live your life with someone hovering right over your shoulder). Mark has always been a major slut for sleep. Seriously, there is almost nothing that brings him more joy than sleeping, and oddly, the whole looming threat of getting your face chomped off by the living dead did not cut his hours of sleep any shorter. Mark had a knack for falling asleep just about anywhere (the studio floor, while in the splits, that time he head-nodded during Waltz of the Flowers, once while standing up and leaning against Carmen’s back, then backstage five minutes before he was supposed to be on stage, there’s a lot of awkward times he’s fallen asleep but those are a few), and the fact that he could die any minute via cannibalistic dead folks did not discourage this skill of his, but he grins anyways, listening to Hester’s words.
“We oughta find some Nyquil for you, Hes,” and Mark has a habit of shortening people’s names or scrapping the idea of them in the first place, went a whole year of his life calling Carmen ‘Cameron’ (but calls him ‘Carm’ now as if it’s his full name), and Mark would rather say ‘Dash’ than ‘Dashiell’, because ‘Dashiell’ just makes it sound like he grew up bottlefed from a Swarovski crystal encrusted sippy-cup (though it’s pretty likely the case). So he calls Hester ‘Hes’ as if he’s known her since he was twelve. “Or, like, night time Tylenol. Something’ll work.”
Y’know, if all of the people in this group were strapped to a sinking boat and he could only save one of them, he’s not saying he’d totally save Hester, but he’d totally save Hester. Just an observation.
“Sh*t, yeah,” he says, listening to what she has to say with his eyebrows risen, swivels his legs from under him until he sits cross legged, facing her. “Good idea, bro, but like. How.”
Mark has put absolutely no thought into this whole Edgemont thing. Less than zero. He has no idea why it would be a good idea, but everyone is pretty into it, so he says nothing, doesn’t even roast it for having a Small Town In BC type of name. Speaking of Canada, if Mark had his way, he’d be trying to direct everyone over the border, because he has this feeling that Canada is probably, sort of, at least a little bit better.
1. Its Canada. Even their walkers would be at least a little bit nicer. 2. Tricky terrain. Can walkers climb snowy mountains successfully? Probably not. But Mark can, so, in your face. Also, wouldn’t walkers just...freeze? Kind of? 3. There are like...four whole people living in Canada. Maybe five, at least. That means less chance of getting turned into one of those human eating fleshbags.
Soraya doesn’t shut the idea completely down, but she does make it sound like she’s up for walking to the Promised Land herself, which is...unrealistic. She just had her leg sliced open, put it back together with fishing line like some sort of more-hardcore MacGyver, and she thinks that she’ll be good to just hike her pants up and start moving ASAP? Yeah, Mark is unsure about that one. He opens his mouth, probably to say 'Hands up if you’re not gonna carry Soraya,’ but then there’s a disconcerting slam on one of the outer walls of the library, like when you slam your hands down onto a table after winning a lit game of Pokemon, and he stills, stops himself.
“Really. Reaaaally,” he drawls, in a deadpan, then turns to Soraya. “That isn’t the herd you said you bumped into, is it?"
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Post by mags on Dec 30, 2016 3:32:00 GMT -5
ingrid wiesel —
( whoa guys, finally finished something, but like. it's kinda short and super choppy and i didn't edit at. all. hahaha IM SORRY OK anyway it's like 12:30 and i'm super tired and like super loopy and my legs won't stop shaking so imma head to bed y'all <3 )
”Do not go gentle into that good night.”
That was all Ingrid really remembered of the her sophomore English class, really. Well. That, and that poetry, in its entirety, was stupid. Pointless. A waste of her precious time. In her (not so) humble opinion, poetry was for wimps. And for that reason, she didn’t really pay attention in that portion of her class. But whatever. Her failing of sophomore English is another story entirely.
But now, in the face of the freaking zombie apocalypse, that dang poem was honestly all that came to mind. Surprisingly enough, it was as if that one line empowered her. She interpreted it to contain a message of strength, of a willingness to survive. It reminded her not to give up on her life, on herself. She would not allow herself to be overcome. She would not allow herself to falter. For even though she was not the most coordinated being on the face of the planet (and folks, let’s be real here, hand-eye coordination is just something that our young flower child simply does not have), she certainly did possess a sense of bravery and courage. A drive to move forward even when times seemed bleak and hopeless. And that was her strength. That, above everything else, allowed her to keep a sense of tenacity throughout her everyday life.
But really, who could stay optimistic about life when one’s single job was to stay away from the walking dead? When a person’s sole goal of every day is to simply stay alive, it would not exactly take long for a sense of realism to kick into gear. That voice that said, “if you didn’t die today, you’re hella lucky.” So even though Ingrid, being the rather naïve and impulsive being she was, tried to retain a feeling of optimism, there was always that pull of a pessimistic reality tugging at the corners of her vision.
As she lay awake on the cold floor of the somewhat musty church — knees pulled in close to her chest, arms wrapped around them tightly, as if to literally hold herself together — Ingrid became aware of the soft sound of shuffling in the space around her. Though it was small, the room still maintained a normal church’s acoustics, and every movement seemed to faintly echo throughout the space. She recognized the familiar sounds of Emilio and Abuela conversing, partially in Spanish and partially in English, and because of the change in language, Ingrid didn’t really pay attention to their conversation. (Key word: really.) But in all honesty, she was feeling a bit lazy. After all, she had only just awakened. Would anyone really expect her to try and flip back and forth between two languages at this hour? Especially considering how much Spanish she actually understood? (And here’s a hint: it wasn’t much.) Um, no. No thank you, no can do.
She only truly started listening in once another familiar voice joined the conversation. Ezra was certainly quite the character, and now that he had joined Emilio, Ingrid’s interest began to pique. She often found herself amused by his mere persona. But because of her position in the church (she was facing away from them, and their backs were to her as well) she couldn’t exactly eavesdrop successfully. Inwardly, she sighed. Time to get up. What a pity.
As she stood, her knees cracked, once each, and her back followed suit. Honestly, to Ingrid, the sounds of her popping joints drowned out the voices of the conversation taking place a few feet away. But who knew, maybe that was just her. She dusted the backs of her jeans as she began to silently (or as quietly as she could, anyway, so as not to disturb anyone else) walked up to the three others, and she placed one hand on Emilio’s shoulder, and the other on Ezra’s.
”Hiya, fellas,” she began with a bit of a dark chuckle, her teeth glinting in the dimmed light of the church. Her bright blue eyes flicked up to meet the other female’s, and she dipped her head slightly in respectful greeting. “Abuela.”
She paused for a moment, and her eyes slightly narrowed as she listened to the three converse, eventually allowing her hands to drop from the two young men’s shoulders, instead shoving them into the pocket of her sweatshirt. Her jaw tightened, perhaps noticeably, as Edgemont was continuously mentioned, and slowly, she deeply exhaled. This was the time they had all been waiting for..right?
But she agreed with Ezra. It seemed risky. And even though she liked to think of herself as brave and at least somewhat optimistic about what lay ahead of them, a suicide mission certainly did not make Ingrid Wiesel’s bucket list. She ran a hand through her dark hair, trying to wait for a good place to interject her opinion.
Eh, perhaps now was just as good a time as any.
”Y’know,” she started, pausing briefly as her lips pursed and she let out a breath through her nose, ”maybe Ezra’s right?” The way she spoke was almost tentative, posing her statement almost as a question, as if she were nervous about actually speaking up and stating her own opinion. (And really, Ingrid was not normally one to think about her words. So. That alone said something. But about what? How much she respected Abuela? Or Emilio? Perhaps both.) She swallowed hard before continuing, ”How far are we from Edgemont anyway? Would we even be able to get there today? Like. Find out where we’re supposed to be and all? Because if you have a plan to keep us all alive,” she stopped again, huffing a laugh, ”I’m all for it.”
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Post by koi on Dec 30, 2016 3:47:55 GMT -5
[ godddDDDD INGRID. MY LOVER. i love her so much this is almost embarrassing? am i really okay? no. not at all. i want to draw her. ]
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Post by koi on Dec 30, 2016 5:51:49 GMT -5
kameko ikeda group 1, church
Sometimes, Kameko’s lungs feel a little too heavy in the confines of her ribs, nowadays, like she cannot force her throat to expel the amount of air they can take, but as she breathes, deep, pushing herself up to sit in the pew of a church, she thinks it’s only fair. The last time she was in a church was not when she was married, but for a funeral, which seems fitting, seems just as fair. Her back is cramped up, everything is dusty, and she woke up pissed off, which (to complete the trinity) seems as fair as the rest of her life. And Kameko takes a breath. She feels herself wheeze, a little, because the breath is too deep, and her lungs fill with moats of dust floating in the air. She feels like she’s been sitting at the pew for so long that she’s collected dust as much as the rest of the church has, as if when she looks down at herself she should see a layer of unidentifiable particles, and she wants to laugh, but she doesn’t, of course, because the urge is not that strong, and she’s never wanted to draw attention to herself.
Kameko is not a naturally isolated person, but there are slight limitations to being stuck in a group where two of their members spoke Spanish to each other as much as English to the rest of them. She can’t even use natural intimidation to gain respect, because that would just make her an unfriendly b*tch (none of her hockey boys were ever overtly fond of her, except for a vague handful who had enough intelligence and tact to appreciate her cold, hard humour, or maybe they were sucking up to her for a good word, she does not know). So Kameko tries to make up for the language barrier by being (her version of) friendly, but she’s figured out that even if she laid down her life to save another member of this group they’d probably simply sigh and say, “Oh, Kameko. Stoic to the very end. She should have smiled more.”
Because that was just her character, at this point. She was The Silent One. She didn’t even have enough words to tell them that she isn’t pissed off at all of them (not usually, anyways), she’s just very, very tired, and has no motivating force. She is, more or less, kind of just--pissed off at the world, and that’s the best she can describe it as, nothing less, not anything more, Kameko is not, technically, the one with bad luck, but it’s starting to feel like it’s extending over to her. Sakura always quoted Dumbledore with that one phrase that went, “Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.” (really, she quoted a lot of sort-of inspiring things, always abruptly switching to English mid conversation just to make a point, and it was incredibly jarring) and Kameko finds it stupidly ironic now. It would be a disservice to everything she has done for herself up until this point to say she wishes she were dead, but she would sure as hell be having a better time six feet under in a small grave in Alberta than she is, right now, sitting in a church pew and feeling, deliriously, like the worst sinner out of everyone here, feeling sour and sobered and silenced by the weight of the air.
The group is starting to join one another now, roused from the confines of sleep by the purr of Abuela and Emilio’s soft-spoken Spanish, nothing Kameko can understand. She peeks one eye open and can see them, a small group almost huddled together in the smaller church. She can barely decipher when Abuela and Emilio switch to English. She can barely say their names in the first place. Sakura always teased her about how thick her accent was, like she was still unwilling to let go of her Osaka roots, and it still holds true. She uncrosses her arms, and stands, takes a moment to reach her arms skywards, yawn and stretch, and then steps out of the confines of the lines of pews, joins the group slowly, stops herself a fair distance away (doesn’t want to intrude), catches the edge of their conversation, words here and there, hears about Edgemont, then something about how long it’ll take to get there. She has no idea what the plan is, wonders how easy it’d be to hijack a car before commencing the journey.
“Good morning,” she says, quiet (Sakura always pointed out that she talks in English like a TV being turned down in volume all the way. When she is not screaming at hockey players, she is quiet as hell, is asked to repeat herself often), expression something gentle but not necessarily open, nothing is an offer. She starts fixing her braid, listens in on the conversation. Emilio talks like he is being given a set time limit and a set word count and she wonders if he has time to breathe, barely catching anything as he barely catches his breath. She’s sure Ezra says something clipped and sarcastic in return and she’s reminded of a hockey boy she wanted to throttle because he kept saying “Cool beans,” to her when she gave him instruction. Do you know how disconcerting it is to hear that? Do you know how much Sakura laughed at her when she asked what the everloving sh*t it meant?
“I suggest we try and find a car for the rest of a trip,” she says, quiet, in between the lull of the conversation, “if we are to make it. It is easier to, um, get past the dead if we are in a van or—something.” It’s just an idea. It’s also easier to up and make a getaway if things don’t turn out. She adds this fact.
“We can also leave faster if things don’t—turn out, if we are in a vehicle.”
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Post by mags on Dec 30, 2016 6:42:31 GMT -5
( ok. first of all. YES KOI. FREAKING. DRAW. HER. PLEEEEAAASSEEE. honestly that would make me so happy. but omg im so glad u still like her (': and secondly, omg. kameko. i have no words. SHE IS SO CUTE AND ITS 3:30 AM WHY AM I READING THIS RN but im so glad i did she is such a CUTIE!!! <3 )
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Post by koi on Dec 30, 2016 6:49:24 GMT -5
[ WHY ARE WE BOTH STILL AWAKE MAG ITS ALMOST 4 i will draw her tomorrow what a sweet babby ]
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 30, 2016 9:38:32 GMT -5
(G'morning guys!
I LOVE INGRID AND KUMEKO! what sweethearts <3)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 30, 2016 10:58:14 GMT -5
Emilio Zubizarreta & Abuela Zubizarreta group one
Ezra’s mention of the cult turned Emilio’s blood to ice. Rumors of the cult had reached them in the same way rumors of Edgemont had. Insane people who worshipped the dead or something like that. It didn’t really matter. He could barely handle the dead (correction: he couldn’t handle the dead, Abuela handled them for him) but the notion that even the living were against them was gut-wrenching to him. At least the dead were mindless, they had one goal: kill. But living people could think, could plan, could strategize. How were you supposed to keep kicking in a world that just wanted you gone?
Abuela tutted her tongue, a soft sound as though she were disappointed in a kitten’s naughty behavior rather than the doubtful nature of her group members. “Mis hijos, por favor. Por favor, escuche a abuelita,” Emilio noticed the soft hiss in her voice, it was the tone she used to comfort him. Right now, it was only slightly evident, though he couldn’t say why. She took the map from his hands, folding it neatly and tucking it away in his bag as she went on, “You are afraid, I understand. I am proud of your thoughtfulness. Though this world is no longer ours you have not forgotten that there is not always good in people, that evil exists in the hearts of all. Ingrid—” the pronunciation was less ‘Ingrid’ and more ‘Eengred’ “—Ezra, your fears are not unfounded. But you cannot always expect the worst of humanity because you will always find it. Hijos, we do not die when our hearts stop, we die when our faith in humanity stops.”
Emilio pursed his lips as she finished speaking, gaze landing on Kameko as she joined their early morning powwow. The Japanese woman was something else. Emilio quite liked her— but who didn’t he like? She was quiet, but tough, made of the same stuff as Abuela. Though, less sugar and more steel. A whole lot of steel, if Emilio had to guess. Maybe a little salt too. At the mention of getting to Edgemont, the young man perked up, “Of course! We’ll be getting today sometime around noon if we leave in the next hour. As for actually finding the safe haven…” He trailed off, glancing at his bag where Abuela had tucked his map away.
“As for actually finding the safe haven, that’s where the trouble begins. Based on the rumors, it was previously someone’s residence that they opened up to the public when things started going bad. Which means it must be pretty well-fortified if people were willing to bet their safety on a stranger's home. The problem is… There are no directions for getting there,” he felt a hand on his shoulder, not like Ingrid’s hand. This touch was familiar. Sugar and steel. Abuela. She was looking up at him, dark brown eyes framed in wrinkles like the map of her long, long life.
The gesture was like a balm to his fraying nerves, soothing him instantly. He relaxed beneath her hand, even as her attention moved to Kameko when the woman spoke up. “A van, that is not a bad idea. We’d be moving faster and safer. But, hija, where would we get a car?”
Getting the car wasn’t the problem. The roads were littered with them, sometimes packed end-to-end with traffic stopped dead by, well, the dead. Hopefully someone had been in a big enough hurry to leave their keys in the ignition or something. Otherwise, Emilio agreed with Kameko’s logic entirely. “If everyone is awake,” Abuela began speaking again, her voice a gentle reassurance, “Then we should get moving. Rapido, mis hijos. Rapido, rapido! Get your things together and let’s get going. El sol no esperará.” The sun will not wait. It wouldn’t. Neither would los muertos.
"Abuelita," Emilio dropped his volume to a hushed whisper, as though the others were children not to be frightened, "What about the cult? If the rumors about the safe haven are true then the ones about the cult must be as well!" Abuela tutted again, clucking like a mother hen, "Mi conejito, por favor. No hay culto. Es un... Mentira, asustar a la gente."
"But what if it's true?" He pressed, wringing his hands, glancing out the window as though a cult member would appear at any second.
This time the old woman pinched his cheek, not in the reassuring way that she had when touching his shoulder, this was chastising. Emilio yelped, hopping from one foot to the other until she released. Her lips pursed, a souring look, "If it is true then we will deal with them like we have dealt with everything else."
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Post by mags on Dec 30, 2016 11:16:27 GMT -5
( KOI IDK MAN I WAS JUST KINDA UP. i had just had a super intense hp dream tho so.
SERV YAYYYY IM SO GLAD U LIKE INGRID <3 shes honestly such a dork. well. actually she's basically me. so like. i just write for myself hahaha
also hon omg i love how abuela is so wise and kind!! but shes also so strong. u have a great way of like balancing between her like stoic-yet-sweet demeanor. man i love ur writing <3 and ur characters. EMILIO IS SUCH A CUTIE IM ADOPTING HIM AND U CANT STOP ME HAHAHA!!!! )
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 30, 2016 13:36:36 GMT -5
(Hey mag! Hey robin!
does anyone know where aviva went?)
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