(catch-all) the storm & the st. paddy's day festival

[officialnotice]

CATCH-ALL: 16TH & 17TH

march 16

THE THUNDER ROLLS

The day starts off atmospherically heavy. The clouds are low, and the temperature is unusually warm, settling in the mid to high 50s (teens in Celsius). Townies are wandering around town in lightweight jackets and hoodies making small talk about the unusual weather, but for the most part they're pleased with the warmth, even if the clouds off in the distance look rather ominous. As the day goes on, the clouds creep closer and the residents seem more inclined to get a roof over their heads and stay there. The midmorning news predicts heavy rainfall by the late afternoon, but the savvier townsfolk say it’s going to be worse than that.

They’re not wrong. The sun drops low, and the winds start to pick up, howling through the trees, bringing with them nickel-size chunks of hail and torrential rains. The darker the night gets, the worse the storm hits Wayward Pines; by the time the sun has set, the sky is obscured with opaque, swirling clouds, the winds snapping trees in half, rattling the power lines, causing electricity to flicker and sometimes go out. The hail pings against the cars not safely parked inside garages, leaving the more exposed with significant damage to paint and windows, and anyone brave (or stupid) enough to step outside is instantly soaked to the skin in cold rain.

The most chilling thing of all isn’t the rain. Anyone trying to wait the weather out on Main Street will hear three wrenching cries coming from the woods, almost like the exact moment a person shreds their vocal cords in a scream. The townies claim not to hear anything unusual. It’s just the wind, they say, and they may be right. The sound as it shrieks through the trees and between buildings is similar enough to cast doubt, and combined with the rain even the most experienced camper would likely get lost trying to find it.

march 17

THERE’S WHISKEY IN THE JAR, OH

Whatever damage was caused by the previous night’s storm has mostly been cleared from Main Street by the early morning of St Patrick's Day. The streets are still a little wet, with plenty of puddles for the more adventurous children (and adults) to splash around in. The air is still a little chilly, but nothing a sweatshirt can’t fix. Nothing’s fully set up until about nine in the morning, but when it is, the St. Patty’s Day celebration gets under way. It’s small, more of a farmers' market or small festival than anything major. There’s food stalls and tables for eating, as well as a few booths where townsfolk are plying their crafts and non-food wares, as well as live music. The festivities during the daylight hours are pretty tame, a PG-rated good time for all.

When the sun sets, the party gets a little more rowdy. Someone busts out the booze and someone else busts out the Mardi Gras beads, and the music gets louder. While many food stalls are still open, the rest have shut down as the street fills with revelers, many of them holding cups half-filled with beer or something a little stronger. This part of the party isn’t for kids, and if anyone underage is spotted they'll quickly get escorted back home by the police — so try not to get caught, yes?

MOD NOTES

This is a catch-all for any and all threads pertaining to the storm (March 16th) and the St. Patrick's Day festival (March 17th)! Details on both of these happenings can be found in the March Newsletter.

PLEASE INCLUDE IN SUBJECT LINE: Character Name, which Day(s) your top-level takes place in, and Open or Closed, to help keep things a bit more organized. (For example: "Joe Biden | 16th & 17th | Open!")

Should you choose to participate in both mini-events, you're welcome to make separate top-level posts for each day or to combine them both into one.

If you have any questions regarding this event, feel free to ask them here.

Comments

howard stark | 17th | OPEN

[inventor]

festival; after sundown

( a bell rings. somewhere — far off. his mind strains to place the noise. a telephone, that's what it is. close enough to hear. but —

his mind snaps into focus. his eyes adjusts to his surroundings. like waking up in a daze, a fog veils his vision for a moment before clearing. it's nighttime on main street. above is the black expansive inkiness of the sky, dotted with white dots twinkling like diamonds. below is a party: bright, loud, and rowdy. a moment passes and his hearing clears. he becomes attuned to the fanfare and swirling crowd around him. the ringing still persists in his ears, a noise that's not exactly identifiable. horns blare. people shout and cheer. the garish lights of the booths blind. a bottle of champagne pops. something hits his shoulder.

something's wrong. he doesn't feel right.

the realization starts slowly, at first. creeping into his mind before suddenly seizing upon him like a wild cat's ambush. he doesn't know how he got here. his feet act on their own accord and takes a step to the left. he bumps in to someone. various words of apology come to mind but he isn't aware that he said anything until the person replies back with a slurred "'s ok, mistah stark!" the person stumbles away, leaving behind a stunned howard stark. he wants to follow the person and ask him what's going on, but his body doesn't respond. it's as if his body's on autopilot, acting on its own. he's not in control.

his fists clench tightly until white-knuckled, and it's the first movement he does intentionally. a glass shatters a few yards away, and a woman laughs shrilly, and he winces, and people push up close against him like they're sardines about to be canned, and a strong perfume enters his nose, and his hands begin to shake, and it's, and it's, and it's, and it's, and it's, and it's —

his eyes settle on the ornate, glitzy sign of "SHIELD's electronics & repair." the shaking in his hands stop and, as he regains control of his body, the fear begins to float away. his eyes slip close and he lets out a sigh before taking in a sharp breath of air.

he doesn't feel right. he needs to leave.

he starts to move, pushing through the crowd, to get to — well, anywhere honestly. just someplace that doesn't reek of vomit and isn't overflowing with cherry sisters rejects. his pushing is a little rough at times. so, if he happens to push someone a little too roughly, feel free to let him know. he's itchin' for some action. )

[unforgivably]

[ before, his reflexes were unmatched, catching the temper tantrum's errant beads she tossed off. that's nothing to say of what she looks like. and perhaps, it's because damon is so unnerved with how familiar her horns and tail were and how wrong they seemed. people didn't have horns, nor tails. people who weren't itching to be in ripley's believe it or not.

howard all but runs straight into his arms, damon's hands coming to the man's shoulders. ] Where's the fire? [ recognition washes over his face, barely there concern and curiosity shifting irrevocably. ] Howard. [ where some people trigger one or two flashes, damon has several. they drink together, they laugh, he's fixed howard's car, katherine and him even attended a dinner party thrown by him and jefferson, whom he'd learned earlier had consciously uncoupled.

this is one of his best friends, a cad himself and a womanizer and yet also a good boyfriend. a man he's shared alcohol with, stories with, and a good cry with. he finally has a face to the name he'd remembered.

he looks past Howard in the direction he'd been coming from. it's as if everything's surfacing, the paranoia he feels daily, knowing that one day the shiz will hit the fan. ] What's wrong?

[keephimtalking]

[ Lantar had stayed late to help Malia out with the rowdy, festive crowds and now that he's done kicking the last lot of them out and closed shop, he's heading home with the intention of curling up and pretending he didn't exist until the next work shift.

Unfortunately, the crowd he'd kicked out was the one currently standing between him and his goal of psychological oblivion. Tall as he is though, Lantar moves past them like a fucking icebreaker, leaving a trail of bewildered, stumbling drunkards in his wake.

Get home, he repeats to himself, an internal mantra, shoving his hands into his pockets. Get home, get home, get home...

Howard bounces off his carapace and the Turian almost misses him. It's only a glimpse of that familiar moustache that makes Lantar stop and double-take.

It's strange, but he doesn't remember seeing the human all night. ]

... Where the hell've you been?