#jack001

Perhaps hiring a landscaper who did like regular yard work was possibly not the best idea Madi had, but also if this Jack Lynch had an issue with it, his advertisements in the local paper should have been more specific.

Ugh, was that who Madisyn was a person now? Someone who not only read the local paper that had no gossip, only advertisements for local businesses? That she personally contacted?

Maybe she should have tracked down her old PA after all, sent her a fruit basket, beg her to take her job back so Madi would never have to stare at another calendar ever again.

Still, she pushed all that aside as the landscaper approached the farmhouse, gated off from the seasonal petting zoo the previous owners implemented, but it seemed profitable and great aesthetically for Instagram, so Madi was keeping it for now. Truthfully, as she examined the man walking up the path, she was expecting a super hunky cowboy type, and was disappointed that this guy just seemed...fine. Hot, sure, in that broody sad boy way. But probably not exactly up for a good time.

"Hi there, I'm Madisyn Huang!" She put on her best showstopper smile as he closed the distance, meeting her on the porch. "You must be Jack Lynch. Thank you so, so much for meeting me today."

Whilst it had been nice to be home for a few days — surrounded by his loved ones who didn’t care for gossip or thinking of him as the singular black cloud over an otherwise idyllic blue-sky of a town — Roman did feel a little off-kilter. His consultation for his hand had led to him being made to wear a splint for the foreseeable future, making him feel like he was a newborn baby who had to have mittens forcibly shoved over their hands so they didn’t actually scratch their sensitive skin with their fingernails. 

Another factor was, indeed, missing the past week of the grief support group. Fair enough, a good 87% of the people annoyed him, but Roman was a man of routine. He could stomach Louise sobbing over the death of her great-aunt Mildred’s second-cousin Geraldine, who probably was either made up or died about fifty years ago, if the names were anything to go by. He could even put up with the fact he had now socialised with Rory outside of group, even if it just revealed him being some sort of weirdo with a penchant for llamas. Truly, as hard as it was for Roman to admit it, he just needed the structure, the camaraderie of these lost souls who banded together.

So, despite getting back early and the jet-lag, he still managed to make it to the meeting, even if he was sliding in five minutes late and sitting in the back, the leader thanking everyone for making it, giving their usual rehearsed speech and inviting anyone to share if they were willing. Instantly, Louise’s hand raised. From this distance, Roman couldn’t really see her, but knew tears would be welling her eyes the minute she stood and talked about how ‘well, it’s been a super tough week…’

“Fuck me,” He muttered, mostly to himself but loud enough the man next to him could overhear without disrupting the full group. “I hope she never gets into gardening, she’ll be coming in, fucking weeping over killing her…petunias or something.”

It had been a while since Phoebe went on a hike. It was something she did a lot, the summer before her and Foster met. Not that he was the sole reason for the lack of outdoor activity; the weather hadn’t been great and since joining the paper, felt like she had no time to herself, preferring to enjoy her days off with good old-fashioned bed rotting. Still, she was waiting to hear if she had been accepted for this upcoming summer writing workshop — applied through Blue News — and with everyone else working that day, felt like there was little else to do that would be better at distracting her.

It was the easier of the few trails on offer, but her lack of recent experience and the hot sun blaring down soon had Phoebe out of breath and wanting to admit defeat. She was resting against a tree, trying to make sense of where exactly on the trail she was, freezing up when she heard the familiar sound of a branch cracking under someone’s step, a man appearing from the foliage, notebook in hand.

Now, realistically, she was aware it was the middle of the day, and a semi-popular trail so other people would be out and about, but she couldn’t help but be cautious, fingers gripping against the bark of the trunk as if that would somehow protect her if things turned south. “Just taking a break.” Because it was best to play safe by making idle small talk, nodding towards the book in his grasp. “You write? I write too, kinda, over at The Blue News.” Translation: people will notice if I don’t come in tomorrow and I have enough connections that it’d make the front page. Not that it was true, but still…it wasn’t lying if she was just making insinuations.  

Starter for: @howlighte

The storm raged against the dying of the light, and for the first few days, Savanaclaw was in a flustered mess of confusion and chaos. The winds roared and battered against the dormitory’s architecture. Thunder continuously smashed against the coliseum grounds alongside pouring rain which plummeted into anyone that dared venture outside.

These drastic weather changes were uncharacteristic for Savanaclaw, which usually reflected the paradise-like scorching sun of Sunset Savanna. It no longer resembled a paradise, but a nightmare.

Eventually, the rumbling thunder and blinding flashes of lightning died down, but so did the temperature. Drastically. The constant heavy rain transformed into thick glistening snowflakes. With next to no warning, a relentless blizzard was upon them. Inside, students witnessed snow beginning to pile further and further up against the windows, showing no signs of stopping, and people were beginning to get worried of the possibility of getting snowed in.

Hours earlier, Zacaraya Samble had witnessed the snow beginning to die down ever so slightly, and took the chance to escape the overcrowded gathering of idiotic Savanaclaw students in the Lounge to go for a run. They had been told that no one was allowed to leave, but running was the only thing that eased the tension and the feeling of worthlessness of not being able to control the situation.

So, Zacaraya had bundled up in multiple layers, including his favourite fluorescent-orange windbreaker, and opened the doors when nobody was looking to be pelted with freezing-cold air. Nevertheless, he ventured forth. His ‘run’ very quickly turned into the beastman slowly trudging his feet through the thick snow whilst shielding his face from the biting icy-cold blizzard air. Nevertheless, he was glad to be away from people.

That was, until he was knocked unconscious. He was given no time to react. Suddenly the winds had picked up, almost knocking him off his feet. His vision went white as the snow engulfed his peripheral, and he lost all sense of direction. Everything was white. Where the hell was he? Which way was back to the dorm?!

Zacaraya’s foot suddenly fell through the snow, having no ground below it, and his entire body followed suit. Like a ragdoll, he was endlessly battered as his body fell down a steep cliff. Surges of pain shot through him with each tumble, but in reality he was only falling for a few seconds. However, the last collision happened to be on the back of his head and when he finally came to a stop and faceplanted the snow, the beastman did not get back up again.

The warm woolly hat that he had been wearing was lost to the winds, and his bright orange windbreaker fluttered around his motionless frame against the pure-white snow which was slowly beginning to stain red near the beastman’s head.

It’s... curiosity, more than anything, that led Sawyer to the Crimson Veil. He’d probably not even want to, ahem, do anything in there, but he’s just... curious. The Essex House really stole a lot of his best years, and now he’s nearing thirty but feeling like an inexperienced teenager in a lot of ways.

His heart was pumping too hard in chest, his breath coming in shaky gasps, only partially from the sprint up the stairs and into his room the moment he could push himself out of that stuffy council room. He’d felt it near instantly, the ever-present thrumming under his fingers, under his skin, g o n e.

He didn’t believe in this bullshit they called magic, didn’t care about it, but something primal struck through his core the moment he realized that he couldn’t escape. That the possibility to just leave -

His heart ached in his chest as he grabbed the half-filled bag stuck under his bed, choking him. (It felt like when he’d been left behind, again and again, but some part of him had left himself.) 

He had flickered out the moment he felt the connection come back, before appearing back in his seat a moment later. He couldn’t leave like this - not yet. There was a book upstairs where Emmy was trying to teach him basic chords and where Ziyu had practised lettering, a scarf that Laila had made that would keep him warm even in Canada, and if he couldn’t come back - he needed to take them.

(There was a whole other lump in his throat, even as he tried to push away the thought that this was too much, that this was a sign of something that he was trying to ignore.)

His emergency supplies were always in the belt bag on his chest but the backpack had an extra warm layer, spare underwear, extra cash. He was in the midst of stuffing the scarf ontop when he heard the door open.

His bag dropped from nerveless fingers, coins spilling out from the top pocket and clattering to the ground. He span, cursing the fact that he hadn’t locked the door behind him, trying to past on a smile he didn’t feel.