abeycnce

[abeycnce]

REAGAN LEANED BACK SLIGHTLY IN HER CHAIR, a smirk tugging at the edge of her lips. “Tripping your nonexistent balls off? I dunno, maybe that’s exactly what I need.” The visual of herself stumbling through the woods, grasping at the trees to remain standing, came to mind. What would the others think of their leader? I don’t care, she began to think, only to cut herself off. Lies.

“Should’ve known this place would spoil all the good stuff,” She picked at a callus on her palm, nails lined with dirt from the woods. “Y’know, I think I’d rather let Them claw my ears off than sit through a sermon."

Looking up from her nail beds, she quirked a brow. "I’ll keep the roommate idea in mind, though. Maybe you could volunteer. Bet you’d have me snoring before you got halfway through one of your stories." There was an attempt at levity in her words, but her voice faltered just slightly at the end. "That'd be one way to keep me out of trouble – threaten me with a good time."

It'd only been a year for Reagan to have been here, yet the woman showed such skill to become a hunter right away. Nikolai had seen great potential in her to had taken her under his wing, to shape her into form and take her out the woods everyday. Seven years ago, she'd been approached about becoming a hunter too, when her leg had healed enough to go out there. Had Emery been a nature person, one to go off and be surrounded by silence for hours on end - she would've. She would've taken the job offering within a heartbeat. But she wasn't. She was a people person, and that was that.

''I get that,'' she really did, as ex military who had her fair share of days, weeks, even months on end where sleep was hard to get when they were deployed and Emery, as the sergeant of her team, always had to stay on guard. Even when she got wounded and her body ached for a good night rest, she simply just couldn't. This was almost like that. Different circumstances, still the same voice in the back of her head that said there was danger outside, there always was.

With a nonchalant shrug, she took a moment to think it over. ''I heard the greenhouse might have some of the good stuff, but I refuse to try anything the settlement has potentially meddled with. Last time I was in desperate need of meds, I tripped my nonexistent balls off.'' There was a snicker in her words, before she moved on to a different approach. ''What about finding a roommate that would talk your ears off at night? Crazy suggestion - the pastor maybe? Ask him about the bible, I'd doze off for sure.''

[abeycnce]

REAGAN, ALREADY SLOUCHED LOW AGAINST THE BAR, glanced up at Jude with a flicker of irritation, though it wasn’t strong enough to chase away the exhaustion in her eyes. She couldn’t say that she hadn’t anticipated Jude’s particular brand of conversation. In fact, somewhere deep down she had intentionally sought it. Her course was set the moment she swung open the doors and found the ranchhand 

The harshness of her words acted as a balm laced with whisky, burning just enough that she almost felt normal. As though she could feel at all. “Can’t argue with you there.” Reagan swirled the dregs of her glorified moonshine, the amber liquid catching faint light from the sputtering neon. Her lips curved up into a small smirk. “Bunnies lived to see another day, if you can believe it. But thanks for your concern.”

That had been her mistake. A black rabbit crawled from a burrow, pausing to nibble a blade of grass. Crouched in the brush, bow drawn and waiting for that exact opportunity, Reagan hesitated. Its fur, which in the light betrayed itself to be a deep brown, was impossibly soft. Eyes wide and innocent, vulnerable. She hesitated and then the moment passed. The rabbit moved on and she was left with trembling hands. Pathetic. 

She tipped her head, just enough to glance sideways at Jude, her tone softening a fraction. “What about you? Spend another day winning the heart and affections of our fellow townies?” Reagan didn’t wait for an answer. She threw the rest of her drink back, letting the flames settle in her chest, but it wasn’t enough to dull the ache she couldn’t name aloud.

Her fingers tapped lightly on the counter, not quite keeping rhythm with the murmur of the room. She wasn’t here to talk, not really; but then again, neither was Jude.

“That’s the thing that gets me about this place,” she murmured, half to herself. “We all keep pretending that it’s fine, that it can be normal. Even in here — we start drinking in the middle of the day like it’s a choice.”

Burnt-out neon buzzed above Jude’s head. A bulb that flickered and died. The bar had been her first and perhaps most frequent stop in the town. Even since her retreat to the ranch, where she was more than content to spend her days alone, the bar still promised a familiar vice. Since the first night, however, she had well avoided blacking out in the place, now she winced at the watch on her wrist, always slightly out of time—arms that were starting to blur.

A deadline, save she be ripped apart by a monster in the night, steps away from her makeshift home. 

Or worse, spend a night among others. 

Company. Jude acknowledged the presence with a noise halfway between a grunt of agreement and a snort of a laugh that had long died. Hotspot exactly. One of the few places she could get the edge of this new world taken off without shedding blood or guiding a knowing hand to her throat—after all, hoarded provisions died just as quickly as anything else. Most who frequented the bar were keepers of solitude, brought out only by the promise of a brief repose from the decay. Many of whom knew well that, after a long day’s work, the local rancher would be far from a pleasant drinking partner.  

Jude had done one good thing with her prior existence. Not subjected another being to it—killed the flow of a poisoned bloodline. Alone was better for everyone. 

Jude drained her third bottle, lukewarm and bitter—inched her head in Reagan’s direction. "Shit, you look like I need another drink." She waved for another, pushed the empty one away. Contended, briefly, with the lure of something stronger knowing everything in Arcadia was just short of being something real. An imitation. What days she had wasted—slumped on a stool, elbow on the bar, drinking away a life. She had haunted it, never quite knew how to live. That, at least, had not been so distorted by the tree. 

She eyed Reagan’s glass. There had been a life before this. One Jude had spent on the road, never lingering. One they had known each other in, however briefly. She had never stayed anywhere long, a life she could always burn down and start again in some other town the next day. Not so unlike her mother. "What's wrong, not kill enough bunny rabbits today?" She questioned drily, an internal wince. The words were never the right ones. She had been locked into her work for days, away from the cycle of deaths and arrivals—still too knowing the terror had claws in them all. Her coldness was not always intended.

[abeycnce]

“I KNOW I’M HILARIOUS.” Reagan leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed like she’d wandered in to browse rather than to bleed. Her lips quirked into a dry smile at Shaw’s words.

“Snow globes and cigarettes? You’ve got expensive taste,” she said, voice edged with a wry lilt. “I’ll be sure to leave you my best bottle of mead — it’s so good you almost forget the real stuff.” Not quite… hardly a comparison, really, but they made do.

She stepped forward as they gestured to the bed, her boots scuffing softly against the worn floor before she settled atop the squeaky mattress.” It’s been... I don’t know. A day… and a half? She winced at how it sounded. “Early bird and the worm — they needed me this morning.” 

Reagan had the good sense to look abashed, eyes flicking between the floor and Shaw. “But hey,” she added, the grin creeping back into her voice. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Shaw had spent enough time in the clinic to know that their patients often fell in one of two camps. The first stock consisted of the overreactors, townsfolk whose grievances were minor complaints who clogged the beds only to be sent home some minutes later. The second were those who under-reacted to everything, refusing to show up until they were teetering on death’s door. Both groups posed a problem in their own way, but only the latter had a tendency to, well—die on them. 

The lead hunter, Reagan, fell squarely on the latter. In the year since she arrived, she’d proven herself maddeningly self-reassured and possessed a courage that few people in town held, and if they did, only intermittently. It was with surprise that they met Reagan, then, seeing her stride into the sick bay. Having just finished tending to the young man in the next bed—already sleeping soundly—Shaw rose from their chair, eyebrow raised. 

Their eyes darted towards the gash on her brow, blood crusting and flaking at its edges. “Oh, you think you’re funny, don’t you?” They fought for the line of their mouth to remain straight and short, but their upper lip curled faintly. 

“Better prepare your last will and testament to be sure,” they said, humor slipping past. Shaw gave the wound another once-over as they stepped closer. It wasn’t life-threatening, might even make for an interesting scar, but it was reckless to leave it this long all the same. “I’ll make sure you have time for amendments. Just know that I’m quite fond of cigarettes and snow globes.” 

They gestured towards the empty bed next to the sleeping man’s—separated only by a ratty curtain—before walking to the supply cabinet that had contained the medical supplies reserved for this occasion. “How long’s it been like that?” they added as they walked, words echoing against the quiet.

[abeycnce]

REAGAN SLIDES FROM FIGARO’S BACK, training her stare on the woman before her. She squints, uncertain whether Mavi is seeing her or past her, though at least Fig seems to hold her attention

The woman is difficult to parse, always has been. Though Reagan can’t recall the last time she was close enough to really take her in. There’s always something else, someone who needs attending or weapons to exchange. Never time to breathe. And now, as she watches the way the sheriff’s body tenses, the sharp rise of her chest, as though she’s forgotten how to let it fall. It’s as though the very sinew of her being has coiled at once; a puzzle box with wide eyes and fevered hands. 

“See it…”Brown eyes immediately rake over her skin with militant precision, and she takes an involuntary step forward — no cuts, no gaping holes, no blood. A glance cast to the canopy reveals little more than a curious crow. Was the good sheriff always like this? She can’t blame her—the forest has a way of twisting the senses, morphing shadows into specters, 

An artist became a killer in the shade of these very trees, hands that once wielded a paintbrush now readily fire a gun. Reagan’s fingers twitched toward the knife affixed to her hip, an unease rolling over her. Who’s to say what is or isn’t there?

Reagan’s attention shifts, catching on the tapping fingers. A rhythm tumbling forth, punctuated by the low inhale and exhale of Figaro’s warm breath over her shoulder. Had the sheriff truly ventured this far on foot? In this state? Another puzzle piece.

Mavi’s voice breaks her introspection. The corner of her lips draws up into a slight smirk, “If I told you, that would spoil the fun.” She could have pointed out that the fish were in the opposite direction, that the deer prefer the dawn, or that she’s already delivered an assortment of rabbits to the diner. But that would discredit one important factor – she’s bored. 

“Albeit you’re a little too easy to stalk for my taste, Thumper.” She nods toward the faint trail left in the sherrif’s wake; the grass bent just out of place, overturned leaf litter, fractured branches from outstretched bushes. “You’ve been wandering around here for a while now. Did the trees happen to tell you what they want?” 

THE TOWN VERY RARELY PROVIDED QUIET moments Mavi could fade into ⸻ we need fences for the barns, the food is scarce, the settlement, my neighbors, leaky roofs, sheriff sheriff sheriff SHERIFF ⸻ She blinks, blood-cutting tight grip on the strap of her worn bag. It is not their fault, Mavi knows despite the bitter taste of resentment on her tongue. There is something wrong with this town ⸻ in the very soil and earth, you can feel it; palm to dirt, the ground buzzes with something poisonous and heavy, dormant ⸻ clawing to get out. People are scared, it is only natural to be. But their dread renders her incapable of feeling anything but braveness and foolish heroics. She is not granted the vulnerability of fear ⸻ if the Sheriff falls, what will hold this place together?

She doesn't have much space to investigate the images in the corner of her eyes ⸻ soldiers with blood leaking from their gaping mouths, settlers staring at her with empty eyesockets and open raw hands. They want and they reach and Mavi cannot answer, can't calm the rapidly beating rhythm of her heart. The air in her lungs is filled with the scent of rot, and there's nothing she can do ⸻ only choke and hope the next inhale won't be glass shards and thick smoke. So she takes any possibility offered to her with eagerness on her step, like a child on Christmas morning ⸻ fills her bag with supplies, places her amulet around her neck like a rope, and grips a crumpled old notebook before wandering into the forest.

No one looks for her here. No one needs her here. With the crows cawing and the wolves howling, Mavi is allowed to just be; curious, terrified, mad. She follows blood trails and presses her nose to tree barks, furiously scratches her nearly-over pencil against yellowed paper, trips over branches and leaves. She hears children singing in the distance, shadows looming where her eyes can't see, tries to understand why this particular tree is oozing blood. It must be a sign. It has to be something ⸻ for there is no body hanging from old branches. She needs to know, needs to ⸻

"Wha-" Mavi is easy to startle, a fact she shamefully has to admit. There is no hiding the goosebumps breaking on her skin, the tremble of her body, a sharp turn of head and parted lips gasping. Reagan. Of course. "Hi, Figaro," she breathes out, pressing her palm against the tree harder. "Don't you see it? The trees⸻" bloodied hand holds itself open in front of the hunter, frantic movements following quick words ⸻"are bleeding. All over us, they are ⸻ Whispering. Can't you hear?"

She turns wide eyes back to the tree, where ⸻ Nothing is found. Mavi blinks, and blinks again, hand clean except for dirt and moss. No no no no no ⸻ Trembling hand moves up to tap against her chest, throat bulbing around the barbed wire she suddenly feels herself chewing and swallowing. When did it become hard to breathe?  

"I ⸻" In, and out, in and out. Tap tap tap tap. "What are you doing here, Reagan?" It is her terrority, Mavi knows. The hunting grounds of the town own Artemis. "Don't you have some deer to hunt? Fishes to ⸻ Fish? Or do you make a habit of stalking me?"

[abeycnce]

REAGAN TILTED HER HEAD, a smirk tugging at her lips as she glanced at the arrow lodged in the dirt just shy of the target. She leaned casually against her bow, the picture of calm, but there was a teasing glint in her eyes.

“Well,” she started, drawing out the word with mock seriousness, “if the target was a particularly slow, slightly confused armadillo, I’d say you really gave it something to think about.”

She moved to retrieve the foam dummy, brushing some dirt from the tape. “But you’re right, you’re getting there.” She collected the arrow next, inspecting it for any damage. “That release was way better—smoother.”

Satisfied with its condition, she turned to Theo, tucking the bow into her quiver before reaching to adjust his grip on the bow. “Focus on relaxing your shoulders next time. You’re tensing up right before you let go.” She offered him a new arrow. “And remember, it’s not about perfect aim— it’s about consistency.”

Her voice dropped slightly, a faint grin returning. “Besides, Theodore, I’m not letting you quit until you can take out at least one imaginary woodland creature. It’s a matter of pride now.” It took little more than a minute to reset the disk and step safely out of range. "Go again."

Theodore watched her, blinking blankly at the makeshift target in her hands. For a moment he almost forgot to breath, like a child caught in the lights at a choir concert. She was always so calm and so sure. Never a moment where she wasn't in control. And then there was always Theo, a flustered mess with a bow. Previously, the DSM or a prescription pad.

He felt the weight of it in his hands. "An armadillo." He repeated, trying to grab onto something that made sense to him. Something he could work with. The tension of the bow mocking him. The idea of hitting a target in motion, that was a whole new level of humiliation. But he was used to it and with just Reagan, he wouldn't even feel it.

"Okay, totally. Got it. Easy." A slight wobble was there that said he wasn't really buying that. Theo glanced at her. Her steady hands and quiet confidence. This was her world and he was only trying to make himself into anything other than the fool.

Theo took a deep breath and drew the bow back, trying to emanate the movements and ease from her demonstrations. This time he focused less on the tension, tried his hardest to not let it take over. He aimed, released, and for a second it almost seemed right, felt right. But then it zipped by and missed the target. Not by much but still enough to leave him disappointed.

He let out a frustrated sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes falling to the grass. "Needs some work, you think?" Genuinely curious but always self-deprecating, "I think I almost got it that time!" A hopeful smile on his lips.

[abeycnce]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑: mavi @kllersfrnzys

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: the forest 

REAGAN SOUGHT THE SOLITUDE OF THE FOREST, each day hoping it might regain the allure it once held. She hunted alone—not just for the solitude but so the others wouldn’t see how she flinched at rustling leaves or squinted suspiciously at shadows in the underbrush. So they couldn't witness her undoing.

Figaro’s ears pricked at the snap of a distant branch, and Reagan’s head jerked to attention. Not my imagination. Without hesitation, she nudged the horse into a brisk trot, slowing only when they neared the source of the sound. There were still several hours of daylight left, if the sun’s position was any guide. It couldn’t be...

The weight of her amulet pressed firmly against her collarbone. She would be fine. But then, hadn’t Nikolai thought the same?

Her shoulders relaxed when she recognized the silhouette ahead, driving off thoughts of her predecessor — of her.

Still, she kept the black horse at bay, opting to watch. She’d seen the woman in the woods before, a passing blur in the treeline. Sheriff business, she always dismissed. Now, however, she took the time to observe the way she poured over the terrain. As if there was something beyond the greenery, a secret written in the brush. *There is,* came the dour thought.

Even so, Reagan held the black horse back, choosing to observe. She’d seen the woman in the woods before, a passing blur among the tree line. Sheriff business, she had always dismissed. But now, she took the time to study the way the woman combed the terrain, as if there was something beyond in the greenery, a secret written in the brush. There is, came the dour thought.

“Do you always do that?” she asked at last, nudging Figaro forward toward the sheriff, who—from Reagan's vantage point—appeared to be reading a particularly enthralling section of tree bark. “If you’re looking for a sign back to town, you’re about ten years too early. That’s on my to-do list for when I start going senile.”

[abeycnce]

“TOOK LONG ENOUGH,” she smirked. “I was starting to run out of plasters.” For months her hands had been littered with various nicks and scratches; at least she could never question her dagger’s integrity. Nikolai would have laughed at some of her fumbling attempts, a doe’s hide shrinking and curling until it was just barely usable as a side pack.

The woman’s question drew a breathy laugh past her lips. “Can’t say I have.” Perhaps the understatement of the year. “You’d think riding around the woods all day would be enough to tire a person out.” The leader’s presence grounded her, providing just enough comfort for the brunette to shirk the blasé confidence mask the hunters expected of her. “I only sleep when I’m completely drained, and even then… it’s not real rest, more just unconsciousness. I never… relax.” She made a conscious effort to relax her palms against her lap, fingers unintentionally tensed. Like her nerves, her body always seemed to be on edge in Arcadia.

“You?” She cast a glance towards the frame that had held Emery’s interest just minutes before. Maybe it never got any easier. “Any tips?” 

Whereas Emery's door would usually be open for anyone to come in whenever they'd please, the weathered sergeant had taken advantage of the quiet day to talk to her wife. Well, a framed photo of her wife. Wherever she'd be, she hoped she was safe. Whilst Emery hoped to see the rest of the world one day again - an end to this town they were all trapped in and see the face of her loved one she ached for every single day.

''Come in,'' Emery's voice was steady, any weakness she momentarily showed was gone in a second when the door opened. ''Hey Rea,'' she recognized the way Reagan shifted her weight with every step, her voice before even turning around. Gently she put the frame back down on her nightstand. ''How'd it go?'' Every time Reagan paid her a visit, there was this shift in the air that made Emery feel like she could breathe just a little bit better. After losing Nikolai so sudden, it frightened Emery that really anyone - however experienced with those creatures of the night - could wither at any given moment.

''Would you look at that - I guess practice does make perfect, huh.'' There was a hint of a grimace building on her lips when she sat on the corner of the desk, facing the petite woman. ''How's life treating you?'' It never got any easier, the loss, the fading of hope bit by bit each and every day, the dreading of never seeing loved ones again outside of town. ''Sleep any better?''

[abeycnce]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑: jude @saintlcss

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: the bar 

IT HAD BEEN DAYS SINCE REAGAN HAD SLEPT for more than an hour or two. Nightmares plagued her, and apparitions haunted her hunts. Every shadow was too long, every rustle of leaves too deliberate. She could feel herself slipping, adrift in a sea of regrets and the familiar twinge of hopelessness. They had taken her.

The memory gnawed at her like a phantom wound. A sinking feeling coiled in her stomach as she rode Figaro into town that morning, Theo trailing silently behind her. At the square's edge, the old cinema loomed like a mausoleum, its doors splayed wide as if thrown open in haste. Leaves littered the darkened lobby, and silence hung thick in the air.

This wasn’t like last time; there were no breadcrumbs to follow, nothing to grasp onto. Her shoes were gone from their place by the auditorium door. Her coat no longer hung on its hook. The bassinet lay empty. She hadn’t been seen since the afternoon prior, when she’d mentioned awaiting the hunters’ return, “I’ll ask Theo to watch Eresh tomorrow,” she’d said. “Only if he’s not too tired.”

Then, as if to mock her, that night They stole her voice. Reagan had listened, back pressed against the door. Heard the pleas, the muffled sobs, apologizing for a wrong that the woman had never committed — “I’m sorry for leaving.”

No, she hadn’t left. She’d been taken. Stolen. Twice. The Hand grew stronger.

Reagan slid onto a nearby stool, her movements deliberate, controlled, as though her body might betray her at any moment. Her spine stayed rigid, her fingers trembling slightly as she waved for a drink. When it came, she didn’t hesitate. She tipped the glass back and drank deeply, draining half of it in one long pull. The burn of the alcohol settled into her chest, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had made a home in her bones. Nothing would, she decided. 

She set the glass down with a sharp clink and turned to the woman beside her. "Funny seeing you here.” The words dripped with sarcasm yet her eyes held no light. In Jude, she saw vestiges of life before—road trips to art shows, cowboy hats bought at all-too-loud rodeos—and glimpses of who she’d become —the gelding she called her own, a partner through hell itself. Reagan’s lips twitched faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “This place has so many hotspots."

[abeycnce]

DUCKING UNDER A BRANCH, Reagan trudged through the woods in search of just the right break in the foliage. Her heart raced, frayed nerves threatening to snap as the familiar woods twisted into the stage for her nightmares. The place that had once soothed her now felt alive with malice, each shadow behind the tree trunks whispering of danger. And there, leering through the pine needles, she saw Them.

If only they hadn’t stayed the night. If only they’d left sooner. If only she wasn’t a hunter. “Here’s good,” her voice was thick when she called over her shoulder, finally stepping out into a sun-dappled clearing.

It had been weeks since they’d started working on Theo’s archery, but recent events had shifted her focus. Solo hunts filled her days now, without anyone to caution her or demand she rest. There was no one left to fret over her return.

No one except Theo. She would keep her promise — she’d keep him safe. They were family. 

And so, she invited him on a field lesson, where they could sharpen his skills against something that could move. Reagan reached into her bag and pulled out a battered blue circle, its edges dinged and warped from use. She’d salvaged the foam disk from debris near the ruins, patching it together with duct tape into a makeshift target. “Imagine this is an armadillo—minus the scales—” she held it up. “—your job is to hit it while it’s rolling. A flicker of a smile ghosted across her face. Don’t worry, we’re far enough out that if you miss, you’ll only hurt the target’s feelings.”

“If you weren’t here?” Theo asked, tone musing off as he crouched and placed the bow, carefully, on the ground before he turned dramatically. If she wasn’t here, it was unlikely he’d have the guts to start in the first place. At least not yet. “Joking ! Of course.” He stated, hands coming up defensively. He picked the bow back up, just as gently as he had laid it there.

Theo shuffled his feet as his fingers ghosted along the wood of it. He was trying to look composed, poised. Or at the very least, like he was someone who had an inkling of what they were doing. As always, his flustered face and clammy hands gave him away. His gaze flickered back and forth — Regan, Ophelia and the bullseyes. “Right, uh okay. Simple, right?” He murmured, mostly to himself. Nodding, hoping that it would give him a bit of confidence. Something he intrinsically lacked.

“It’s just… pulling and aiming? Super intuitive. I can do this.” Theo positioned the bow and pulled back the arrow with the skill of someone throwing a live grenade. It creaked as he did this, arms barely trembling from the tension of the weapon. “Okay, okay… Become the arrow… One with the arrow.. Something like that.” Once more, mostly to himself. Theo released it. It immediately whizzed by, wildly to the right, embedding itself into a brush. He audibly winced, slumping his shoulders slightly.

“So…” he laughed, forcing a wry smile onto his lips as he glanced towards Reagan. “By the way, I was just giving a demonstration of how not to shoot an arrow. I thought it would be a good rudimentary lesson. Educational purposes..” he trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Besides, um, everything… do you have any pointers?”

[abeycnce]

"ALRIGHT CONOR," Reagan said, tilting her head with a small, wry smile. His self-deprecating humor didn’t exactly land, but she appreciated the effort. This was… surprising. "I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Just… try not to pass out on me if things get messy, yeah? I don’t have time to visit the clinic today."

She pulled the pheasant from the bag, brushing a stray feather off her sleeve. "Alright, Conor," she said, with the exaggerated patience of a teacher dealing with a new pupil. "You said you’re a quick study? That's good, because meat doesn't wait for slow learners. First rule, be methodical. Start here–" she indicated to the chest, "—the breast. It's the best cut, and we want to get it off clean. Makes the rest easier." She positioned the bird on its back, ghosting her knife along the keel, the tip hovering just over the delicate skin "You make an incision at the top, just enough to get the skin started. Then, you use your fingers to peel the skin and feathers back. It's not pretty, but it's faster than plucking the whole bird."

Conor noted the surprise in Reagan's voice, and he understood it. After all, he didn't make it a habit of initiating social interaction, and he'd never helped her dress the meat she brought back. It wasn't like Conor didn't contribute to society here in any meaningful way, but the ways he chose to do it were often solitary, like guard duty. Nodding, he acknowledged, "Yeah, I know, but I'm not sick or something. I just want to help." It was his attempt at a joke, but truthfully humor was never Conor's strong point. That was why he was a horror author, not comedy.

If Conor had known that Reagan was doubting his outdoor skills though, now that would have been funny, to him at least. And even though he didn't know what she was thinking, Conor explained, "I've never dressed meat before, and I'm not a hunter, but I'm a quick study, especially natural things like this. I don't know, maybe my training prepared for picking up skills like this. I don't know." Even though dressing meat wasn't a skill he had learned as an Eagle Scout, Conor felt like he could pick it up quickly, at least the basics. Shaking his head, Conor replied, "No, I haven't, but just tell me what I need to do. I'm sure it's not as simple as it sounds." He would defer to Reagan, who was the expert here.

[abeycnce]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑: emery @fernsbys

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: common house 

THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR WAS MEASURED, more habit than necessity— Reagan knew the room's occupant wouldn't mind. Still, she lingered. The common house smelled of old paper and firewood, and though she'd been here countless times, the quiet weight of it still had a way of making her pause.

As she stepped into the room, the heavy groan of the door felt familiar, grounding. How many times had she visited with Nikolai? Reagan cleared her throat softly, setting down her bag near the desk. "I brought those pelts I told you about," she said, dropping down into a nearby chair. She’d meant to make the delivery earlier, but the morning had slipped away in a series of smaller tasks that always seemed to multiply when she wasn’t looking.

It had been some time since she'd visited Emery, their latest interaction lasting less than a minute while Reagan made her way toward the ruins and the leader returned to the Common House. Unlike then, her work for the day was finished and she had time to linger. "They're better than last time," she added, her tone matter-of-fact as she unwrapped the bundle to reveal two supple, well-cured rabbit skins. "I think I'm finally getting the hang of it."

[abeycnce]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑: shaw @solidgrovnd

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: the clinic 

WITH EACH STEP REAGAN TOOK, a bit of her resolve chipped away. A straw branch had caught her brow that morning, nothing unusual in the pursuit of a doe, but unlike usual the bleeding didn't stop for a few hours. By the time she returned to town, the sharp sting above her eye had dulled to a throb, blood drying in a tacky line down her temple. She could have left it—had intended to, really—but Ophelia’s voice had been clear enough in her mind to drag her here. "You better not let that thing get infected. And don’t think I won’t know if you ignored it."

A finger prodded against the skin elicited a quiet hiss, and she continued on her path to the clinic. She was bullheaded, not an idiot.

The building smelled of rubbing alcohol and mildew, though she supposed that could be attributed to its sage. Sometimes she wondered about Arcadia, what it might have looked like in its prime, before the fog. Had it existed before then or just appeared one night, well lived-in and eerie? She didn't have much longer to entertain the thought, finding the doctor in the first bay. "Figured I've sent enough people your way that I might as well try it out myself." Her teeth flashed in a grin. "Tell me straight, Doc, am I gonna live?"

[abeycnce]

BOUNDING DOWN THE STAIRS, REAGAN WAS THE FACE OF THINLY VEILED ENTHUSIASM. Since he joined the hunters, she had watched him slowly settle into the idea of it all. She didn't push him any more than she did the others, instead giving him the space to cut his own path. So, when he finally asked her for lessons, she was thrilled. They had known each other for years, which, unfortunately for Theodore, meant that her fondness manifested as a strong desire for him to succeed. It would take some work, and she knew to keep her expectations for the day low, low, but eventually, he’d get there. Given the near-frantic look he gave her as she joined the siblings outside, though, they’d be starting slow.

"To bring me honor," she echoed, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Alright, Theodore, let’s see what you’ve got." After watching him fumble with a shotgun—and nearly shoot himself in the foot—Reagan had decided archery might be the better route. Arrows were less intimidating than bullets, and there wasn’t any recoil to throw him off balance. “I promised your sister I’d go easy on you, so we’ll start simple." With a wink in said sister's direction, she set off around the corner.

In the alley beside the cinema, Reagan had rigged up a makeshift shooting range: hay bales painted with bullseyes, arranged in a staggered formation fifty feet away. She handed him a compound bow and an arrow, then slung her own over her shoulder, patiently folding her arms as she turned to him. "Now, show me how you'd do it if I wasn't here."

for: @abeycnce

location: the Cinema

Theodore's head turned hastily as the door of the Cinema opened, a quiet nervousness gnawing at him despite the fact that the conversation he was having with his sister was pleasant. The moment Reagan appeared, a familiar knot of anxiety coiled in his stomach. He had met Reagan already and loved her, of course, his sister's love was family to him. But there was something about this moment, the knowing that everything was about to start that made his stomach churn. An excited smile tugs on his lips despite that, eyebrows raised as he stepped towards her. "Today's the day, huh?" He said, but the words came out more unsure than he would have liked. "First training day. Kinda nervous, actually." He let out a soft laugh, one that was half hearted and didn't reach his eyes. Usually he was a master of hiding discomfort but he was too far out of his element to grab the reins.

He glanced back at Ophelia and then back to Regan, his nerves manifesting into clammy hands and increased blood pressure. "I'll... try my best to not mess it up. To bring you honor." he added, sounding a bit more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else. The thought of holding a weapon and actually using it on a living creature didn't sit well in his stomach. Deep down, he needed to do this for Ophelia but that didn’t make any of this less terrifying.

[abeycnce]

THE WORK DIDN’T END WHEN THE HUNTERS REACHED TOWN, if anything, she considered that the easy part. The comforting solitude of the forest gave way to the challenging task of dressing the day’s kill. Which, for Reagan consisted of two rabbits and a pheasant. Since arriving in Arcadia, her dressing work had improved significantly, though she often preferred to have Ophelia nearby — her experience butchering carcasses made Reagan look like an amateur. But the other woman was busy with Eresh and the meat would go off if she didn’t start soon. She made a point to use each part of the animal, not leaving anything to waste, and that took concentration and a steady hand. If the knife slipped into an intestine, it could mean losing an entire animal. 

Reagan nearly didn’t hear the man approach, looking up over her shoulder. Her hands were already soaked with blood, the first rabbit thrown over her knee. She knew Conor well enough, theirs was an amenable acquaintanceship strengthened by a mutual habit of staying out of one another’s way. And so his question caught her off guard. “You want to help?” 

He didn’t strike her as the skinning type, or as outdoorsy to begin with. She could count the number of times she’d seen him outside the theater on one hand. Regardless, Reagan nodded toward the other stool and slid the burlap tote to him. The pheasant’s head lolled out, the white feathers about its neck standing in stark contrast to the warm brown of the bag. “Have you ever plucked a bird before?” 

Closed started: Reagan ( @abeycnce ) Location: outside the cinema

Conor was trying to get some reading done, but he was distracted. He was downstairs in the cinema, going through one of the latest finds from the library, The Waves by Virginia Woolf. This had been one of Conor's favorites in college, and it wasn't even close to the first time he'd read it, though he was reading it again because honestly it brought him comfort. Finding it in the library had felt like a miracle. The book was especially meaningful to him now, this story about loss and the way people unravel in the face of it; it was something Conor felt like he could apply to his own life even before ending up in Arcadia. But that wasn't why he was distracted, the fact that he had read this book and knew how this story played out. No, Conor felt like there was something else he should be doing.

Ever since coming to Arcadia, Conor had actually been around people more than he had in his old life of self-imposed isolation. That had actually been as big of an adjustment as anything since ending up here, being around people, interacting with them. It was like Conor had forgotten that skill, not that he'd ever been particularly good at it. Even with Garrett, he'd done all of the heavy lifting in the beginning of their relationship. He'd - no. Conor couldn't start thinking about him because that was a path to ruin; he'd gotten through the days since his death by decidedly not thinking about Garrett as much as possible. The desire to distract himself, to get his mind off of this dangerous subject, was what compelled Conor finally to climbed out of the seat he was sitting in in one of the theater rooms and head outside. Reagan was there as he knew she would be, having just arrived back from a hunt. He felt more comfortable around Reagan and Ophelia because they lived in the cinema with him, though Conor wouldn't call them friends exactly, not yet. Even so, it felt like the right thing to do to offer his assistance, so he asked, "Do you need some help?"

[abeycnce]

REAGAN KNEALT OVER A MALLARD IN THE CLEARING, carefully removing the arrow from its breast. Her gaze softened as she gently smoothed the bird's feathers. “Agradezco su sacrificio,” she murmured, lifting the duck and securing it to her saddlebag alongside the others. Her father had taught her the importance of gratitude the first time she went fishing with him. Every life matters, he'd explained, no matter how many fish they caught. Each one was sacrificed for the sake of their livelihood — success was never guaranteed. Here in Arcadia, this duck had given its life so they might keep theirs. 

It was shaping up to be a good day. The mallard was the last she needed to meet her self-imposed quota, which meant she could return to town early. She left the birds intact for now—dressing them could wait. The hunt had been clean, at least until Buddy’s overenthusiastic form barreled out of the brush. Her eyes darted to the red streak running down his forearm, then to his unbothered grin. 

Their personalities couldn’t have been more different; where the scout was filled with seemingly boundless optimism, the leader was a skeptic. Still, she found his enthusiasm endearing. Raising her brows, she wiped her hands on her jeans and gestured for him to lead. “This had better be good.”

She'd first met Buddy at a museum some years ago, she a starving artist working as a curator and he a traveler who had taken the time to explore the gallery where she worked. Something about him reminded her of her brother George, as he had been when they were young. Over the years their paths would cross and they would share meals, Reagan insisting on cooking her grandmother's recipes. He had seen the ruin she became after Ophelia—had seen the vacant stare in her eyes and hadn’t balked. Never did she think their roads would converge in a place like Arcadia. Yet, here they were, family in all but name. Setting off behind him, she coaxed Figaro to follow. The horse complied, no doubt out of long-suffering familiarity with Buddy’s antics.

“I'd pay to see you arm wrestle a bear,” she retored, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. Her pace was only slightly faster than her usual gait, but the fact she was rushing at all was a feat in itself. “Which reminds me — what the hell did you do to your arm? You know I’m the last person who should help you stitch it up.”

For: Reagan | @abeycnce Location: The Wilds Time: 2:16pm

Buddy rushed through the trees, his arm stinging where a sharp branch had scraped across it. But the blood didn't seem to bother him. He had a big grin plastered across his face, and his energy was infectious, like a child who had just discovered something incredible. He barely noticed the blood dripping down his arm as he practically skipped over roots and under branches, heading straight for the clearing where Reagan was most likely finishing up her work.

He finally burst into the clearing, breathless and smiling like he’d won a prize. "Reagan!" he shouted, his voice eager. "You’re not gonna believe what I found!" His arm hung awkwardly at his side, but it didn’t slow him down. "A whole patch of wild strawberries! And they’re huge, Reagan—bigger than anything I've ever seen!" He paused, almost bouncing on his heels. "Come on, you have to see this!"

Buddy waved his good arm, clearly too excited to care about the cut or any other danger. "I could use your help, anyway. Some of the berries are in a weird spot, and I don't think I’ll fit through the brambles without ripping up my legs. You gotta come with me!" His eyes sparkled with excitement, and even though he was clearly a little wild-eyed and disheveled, his enthusiasm was impossible to resist.

"Come on, what are you waiting for? It's gonna be worth it, I swear!" His voice had a playful edge, and he didn’t give her a chance to say no before he turned and started rushing back the way he came, calling over his shoulder. "You better hurry. This is like -- winter stash. Like a bear is gonna come along and we're gonna have to challenge it to an arm wrestling match or something."

newt ooc note: you wanted a little brother, you got one.

[abeycnce]

BOW STRAPPED ACROSS HER BACK, Reagan led the group through the dense forest back towards town. Her thoughts were a low hum amongst the chatter of the others, exhaustion blocking out all but the essential. The brunette's face was marked with dirt and the scent of earth and moss clung to her skin, the aftermath of an encounter with a wild boar. 

A wiser leader might have delegated the task, or acted pragmatically and found another solution; no one could accuse Reagan of being a genius. As she crouched in the bushes listening for the steady trod of hooves and, when it was less than a meter away, drove her shoulder into a roll to intercept the boar’s path, she didn’t even consider failure. Her arrow struck between the beast's eyes, exactly where she willed it. An inch lower, and it would have trampled her. 

Reagan cast a glance over her shoulder to the newest recruits who were tasked with hauling the carcasses. One of them had seen fit to follow a pheasant into the ruins… they wore it tied to their hip, legs bound and blood oozing into the leather of their boots. A punishment for stupidity. The risks taken by the hunters for the sake of the town were an unspoken truth across Arcadia; hunting was as necessary as it was stupid. And the ruins... those were abandoned for a reason. 

The game would be taken to the diner for butchering and, given the lengthy nature of the week's hunt, they would only need to go on short daily excursions for some time. It was a relief; nonchalant as she may appear, each night in the forest increased the likelihood of someone not coming home... and she refused to leave anyone behind, or risk not returning to her. 

Reagan swung her leg over Figaro’s back, dropping from the ebony horse in one fluid motion. She led him to the nearby paddock, setting to work untacking while she checked in with the others. Her stare caught on a shadow by the treeline, and the sight brought the ghost of a smile to her lips. There she stood, the magnetism of her presence holding her stare for a long beat. 

If the Hand breathed over her shoulder, a chilled dread settling into her bones, Ophelia was the pyre she faced, melting the ice. She could feel the heat of her eyes boring a hole in the side of her face, and it took a concerted effort to remain focused on the scouts' questions. Yes, the storefront with the red graffiti on the door might have something of value inside. No, you cannot take Figaro. Yes, a map would be a great idea. No, you cannot go alone. 

She watched the woman in her periphery, the way her hair moved now and then confirming that her presence was, in fact, intentional. Dismissing the hunting party, or as much as one could dismiss a group of chronic loners, Reagan finally turned toward the trees. 

"Anything interesting in there?” she asked once she was close enough, voice dripping with amused fondness. It was easy to tease the other woman, especially when her attempt at inconspicuous observation was so readily foiled. “You should move things around some more, just to be sure.” 

Reagan lingered for a moment, letting the silence settle between them before slipping her hand into her coat pocket, the corner of her lips curving up as she retrieved a small grey rock. "For you." It was a ritual of sorts, finding small trinkets on her hunts, a pantomime of the art she would bring her when they were separated for work trips. Sometimes they were as simple as flowers for Eresh, and other times they were reminiscent of something she might have bought in Chicago in the Before. Before they were separated, before Helltown became their reality — before she hunted for a living. 

She spotted the geode while following the rookie through the dilapidated antique store earlier that morning, sneaking it into her pocket on their way out. The amethyst caught the last of the day's light, yet Reagan's stare didn't waver from Ophelia. "What did I miss?" 

For: Reagan | @abeycnce Location: Town Center Time: 6:00pm

Ophelia’s heart quickened when she heard the faint but unmistakable sound of the hunting party returning. The clatter of hooves on the dirt road, the low murmur of voices, and the occasional bark of a dog carried through the crisp evening air. She paused mid-step, her basket of herbs and roots forgotten at her side, and turned toward the sound, her breath catching in her throat.

She had waited all week for this moment, her worry building with each passing day. It was always the same—an anxious tightness in her chest that only eased when she saw Reagan return, alive and whole.

Ophelia hurried toward the edge of town, her steps quick but deliberate. She stopped just short of the main road, close enough to catch sight of the group but far enough to avoid drawing attention to herself. She smoothed her skirts, pretending to busy herself with inspecting the herbs in her basket, though her eyes flicked up again and again.

And there she was—Reagan, dismounting her horse with a practiced ease that made Ophelia’s breath hitch. Dust clung to her coat, her movements steady and purposeful despite what had clearly been a grueling week. The hunting party seemed to orbit her, their respect for her leadership palpable even from a distance.

Ophelia hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of her basket. She wanted nothing more than to rush forward, to meet Reagan’s gaze, to say something—anything—but the weight of the onlookers around them held her back. Instead, she lingered in the shadows of the trees, her presence quiet but deliberate.

She shifted slightly, positioning herself where she knew Reagan would see her if she looked this way. Ophelia ducked her head, pretending to busy herself with rearranging her basket’s contents, but her attention remained fixed on Reagan.

Please look this way, she thought, her heart thudding in her chest. She didn’t need words or grand gestures—just a glance, just a moment to know she’d been seen.

[abeycnce]

⸻  sea breeze trapped with a morning mist, promising a storm / the song of an arrow piercing through the air /  freshly-polished boots with the laces tied in haphazard loops / the warmth of ground espresso with a hint of amaretto / blood-speckled tank tops and thick fur pelts. the photo on the missing poster is of reagan bardales. they are thirty eight, and have been missing for one year. when the sun rises, they work as leader of the hunters. rumors in town say they can be sardonic and loyal. they chose to live in the town, cinema, and have an uncanny resemblance to wynonna earp (wynonna earp), kara thrace (battlestar galactica), vi (arcane) . can they survive another night ?…

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&. BASICS

full name: reagan cara bardales

age: thirty-eight

gender, pronouns, sexuality: cisfemale, she/her, bisexual

hometown: gloucester, ma

job position: hunter leader

&. MORE BASIC INFO

zodiac sign: cancer

mbti: intp - introverted (69%), intuitive (70%), thinking (64%) prospecting (58%) assertive (63%)

scars: various scars of scattered origin, most notably three long claw marks running from her left shoulder blade to her thigh and a small scar on her wrist from the plane crash

secret talent: she's great and knot-tying and sailing

fears: flying

five + traits: loyal, charismatic, inventive, dedicated, protective

five - traits: sardonic, impulsive, cynical, stubborn, irreverent

pets: a seventeen hand friesian gelding named figaro

&. BACKGROUND

tw: death, family illness

well, you don't know me, but i know you.

the hand first visited reagan bardales at an early age. in the quiet of a warm september night, it seeped around the doorframe and coiled beneath her bed, permeating every inch of what should have been a safe space. 

an unfamiliar disquiet settled across her shoulders, a cold restlessness that starkly contrasted the comforting warmth of her blankets. it felt sinister, and it had sunk its roots in her. 

and i've got a message to give to you.

then, just weeks later, an accident. her half-brother, george, twelve years her senior and fresh out of flight school, had loaded them up in his new piper cherokee 140. he was eager to show her the skills he’d learned — "maybe one day we can see the world" — just like her hero, amelia earhart. 

so you better get ready. ready to go. 

from there, the rest is a blur. one moment the siblings were cruising down the runway, broad smiles on their faces, and the next, they were canting downwards, weightlessness tickling at their stomachs. each one walked away with their lives that day, though neither returned to normal. 

you can come as you are, but pay as you go.

reagan paid with her childhood. george had suffered a stroke, the spontaneous rupture of an artery causing him to have severe brain trauma, leaving his sister to face the daunting fragility of the human condition. he was unable to speak for months and, when he did, he was unrecognizable—the brother she had known was gone.

this is the hand, the hand that takes.

the loss of her brother, along with the sudden disappearance of the chill, unsettled the young girl. her mother reassured her daughter that a curse hadn’t taken down her brother’s plane. it was a freak medical accident. to distract her, the two developed a routine of walking to the beach each evening and painting the sunset. that helped reagan sleep well enough, until… 

hello? this is your mother. are you there? are you coming home?

her name rang out over the crappy grocery store intercom – “reagan, we have a call for you on line one.” could she bring home a pack of hotdog buns? fourth of july, the annual family cookout. her mother was exhausted planning for it all, graveyard shifts at the hospital draining the last of her energy. at least the house was quiet enough for the woman to rest; her son had gone to live with his father, her husband was down at the docks, and her teenage daughter was at work. so busy, that the latter didn’t notice the chill seeping into her bones.

smoking or non-smoking?

it didn’t matter when or where reagan became aware of her unease. time stops having a meaning when met with such finality. when her bike came careening to a halt in the driveway sending the buns clattering to the ground, ash and soot were all that greeted her. someone cried out, a piercing, haunted sound. and then she was on the ground. 

the warm embrace of rough hands and the faint smell of the sea drew her back into her body, clearing her bleary eyes enough to find an explanation in matching brown irises.

neither snow nor rain...

the fire rattled the close-knit community. fruit baskets were delivered daily to listless stares and halfhearted ‘thank you’s. most of the food went bad, spoiled due to the excess that poured in. the bardales’ were grateful, but lasagna held little interest when it symbolized the loss of a matriarch.

by the time the chill returned, reagan was ready. she pleaded for her father to remain home, to call in sick if he had to — they had to stay together, to stay safe. but what could he do? it was still early in the season and it wasn’t unusual for new england to have a chill in the air; it would be fine. the rain pelted the roof of their small apartment, the best he could afford on his meager income, and yet the tuna wouldn’t catch itself. his wife had left behind a sizable life insurance policy, but he insisted that reagan keep it for college; it was what her mother wanted. 

... nor gloom of night…

it took a week for his ship to wash in with the tide, scattered bits of hull and mast littering the beach. neighbors left wreaths at the fisherman’s memorial in the town square — a green-tinted bronze statue forged in honor of the souls lost at sea. where once reagan had ridden her bike around it, now she dodged the seafaring man and his wheel. 

... shall stay these couriers... from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

at fifteen, reagan nearly became a ward of the state of massachusetts. her parents had forgotten to update their wills after george’s accident and he was deemed unfit to take full custody. without an apparent next-of-kin, reagan was slatedto be delivered to the foster system.

it was by an unusual stroke of luck that a woman with oversized tinted glasses, a cherrywood cane, and a star-speckled navy coat called an emergency courthouse hearing. that was the first time reagan met her grandmother. 

cause when love is gone, there's always justice.

the woman, a chef by trade, was deeply superstitious and took reagan’s concerns seriously. if a curse had taken hold, she would have to be crafty to evade it, thus she taught her recipes that incorporated mugwort, chamomile, and sage. lavender was reagan’s favorite herb, and she quickly became proficient at lavender-based muffins. in another life, she might have been a baker herself.

and when justice is gone, there's always force.

by the time she moved out for college, she was seasoned in jinxes, hexes, and breads. reagan’s hands had always been her best asset. grandmother suggested culinary school, however, the sentimentalist in her was fascinated by the arts. weekends spent at the movie theater with her brother had instilled a love of the filmmaking process, and her mother’s talent for painting carried over to her daughter. a major in fine art with a minor in film studies suited her best, and reagan found her niche among the art students.

and when force is gone, there's always mom.

she graduated at the top of her class, a recreation of one of her mother's paintings earning her honors at the college's spring show. some professors argued her that her ability to convey her opinions —both through her paintings and her written thesis— and sway an audience would make her a strong lawyer, but she had little desire to find herself back in a courtroom. so, she found a job at an art museum in chicago and settled into life as a curator. 

so hold me, mom.

reagan never quite shook the desire to belong. all she had known was ripped away: her brother, her mother, her father, and the seaside town they once called home. her losses created a longing that could never quite be sated by the revolving door of partners she found herself with. she ended up in europe by accident, a surprise trip with a soon-to-be-ex partner gone awry after the extent of her aerophobia was revealed. regardless, it was an opportunity to experience the world, which she embraced with open arms. and that was how she landed in the arms of one ophelia arsene only a day before her ship was set to sail home.

in your long arms. 

ophelia was different, likeminded yet enough of a spitfire to match her energy and call her bluff. she was brought to her knees that day, knelt before a pore of startling familiarity, and burned. reagan’s ship left without her, and so began the best four years of her life. 

in ophelia reagan found what she’d always sought — belonging with a kindred creative spirit. their art fed off of one another, ophelia’s songs a backdrop to reagan’s brushstrokes. when she held her first gallery show, she dedicated it to ophelia.

in your automatic arms.

the loss of her relationship caught the brunette off guard and shattered her sense of stability. an open window carried in the sharp chill of fall, but a disquiet settled in the pit of reagan's stomach as she spotted a gold chain on the ground. ophelia never removed that necklace. ever. the hand had dealt its final crushing blow — and she refused

in a grief-stricken haze, she quit her job, sold her apartment, and set off in pursuit of ophelia. yet there was no trace of the woman at the hotel she sang at, nor the town where she grew up. It was as though she’d vanished from the face of the planet. reagan spent a year searching before the tree claimed her. 

in your electronic arms.

reagan fell in step with the hunters quickly. a shared restlessness and rebellion against the underlying feeling of doom that befell the fog-covered town sent her racing through the woods each day. it was a hellscape of her own creation — each day holding out hope that maybe she'd stumble across her in the bramble, waiting patiently as if no time had passed. that was the thing, there was no telling how much time had passed. not for reagan. she attacked the terrain every morning with the same fervor, systematically turning over each quadrant of the woods for as long as the sun would allow.

still, her hopes faded the longer she remained in arcadia — hell town— which only made her push herself harder. if her search for ophelia was to truly be in vain, she needed something to keep her mind busy. to exhaust her body to the point of collapse, a dreamless sleep the only way to escape the hopelessness of knowing that she was out there somewhere and it was all reagan's fault.

there was no leaving hell town, and so, gradually, reagan made peace with reality. yet again she found herself relying on her hands, years of practicing archery in her high school having left her with a skillset the hunters coveted, and she excelled.

your petrochemical arms.

she impressed the hunters' leader with the accuracy of her shot, and the sureness of her movements. most importantly, she didn’t balk in the face of danger — a starving bobcat caught her and her partner from behind one morning, having stalked them from the trees before pouncing.

that day she bore deep claw wounds across the left side of her body, which would later turn to lasting scars down her back — but she managed to escape with her life, as well as her partner's. that night, arcadia ate well, and reagan earned a place hunting alongside the leader from then on. she was also given a black gelding to ease the strain on her leg, though in time the two were rarely seen apart.

your military arms.

reagan and the leader worked well together, him teaching her the ropes and her taking the risks required to bring them success. the night he rode into the woods after a missing scout and never returned, reagan was devastated.

the others turned to her for guidance and, for the first time in a life of escapism and running, she dug her heels in and took charge. reagan wasn’t looking for control or glory, and perhaps it was that mentality which endeared her to the other hunters and scouts. under her lead, the rules were simple: don’t be stupid, don’t get killed, look out for each other, and don’t come back empty handed. beyond that, she left them to their own devices. arcadia’s one for all mentality made her job simple, and she found herself enjoying the unpredictability of each day.

she was returning from an early morning’s hunt when the thought struck to stop at the cinema. reagan had developed a habit of seeking the building out when she needed to feel grounded. it reminded her of her brother, of life before, and she often spent more time there than her home. she didn’t notice the door opening, the light spilling across the red carpet. but, when she saw her, reagan felt the ground shake.

at first, she mistook her for a mirage, the result of a mind in decay playing tricks on her. but as her hand brushed against the warm skin of the woman’s cheek, reality clicked into place. all she could say was, “you made it.”

in your arms.

since that day, reagan's life has taken on renewed purpose. she helps ophelia where she can, tentatively piecing together what can be salvaged; reconciling who they had been with who they are now. when she’s not at the cinema — ophelia's presence presenting a reason to finally relocate from the docks— Reagan can be found astride figaro venturing through the woods or mentoring the other hunters.

bold which habits your muse has

nail biting | throat clearing | lying | interrupting | chewing the ends of pens | smoking | swearing | knuckle cracking | thumb sucking | muttering under their breath | talking to themselves | nose picking | binge drinking | oversleeping | snacking between meals | skipping meals | picking at skin | impulse buying | talking with their mouth full | humming/singing to themselves | chewing gum | leg jiggling | foot tapping | hair twirling | whistling | eye rolling | licking lips | sniffing | squinting | rubbing hands together | jaw clenching | gesturing while talking | putting feet up on tables | tucking hair behind ears | chewing lips | crossing arms over chest | putting hands on hips | rubbing the back of their neck | being late | procrastinating | doodling | shredding paper | peeling off bottle labels | forgetfulness | running hands through hair | overreacting | teeth grinding | nostril flaring | slouching | pacing | drumming fingers | fist clenching | pinching bridge of nose | rubbing temples | rolling shoulders

&. HEADCANNONS

how did your muse spend their first night in arcadia, and where?

bruised and battered after several attempts at finding her way back to the car and running into the same damn tree, reagan’s first night was spent at the cinema. it was a stupid game she and her brother used to play — walk into a random theater and buy tickets for the next showing, regardless of the movie. they saw their fair share of blockbusters, but also some terrible duds that would haunt her for the rest of her life. part of her was seeking that familiarity when she stumbled through the cinema’s doors. she spent the night flipping through old film reels, trying to recall the movie’s plot from its title and, when it escaped her, making one up.

why did your muse choose to live where they do?

reagan grew up by the sea in a house that held the smell of salt and sand. she loved that house, until it was little more than a pile of burnt lumber. as such, when she arrived in arcadia the docks called to her. but she wasn’t a fisherwoman, never had been, and so her purpose there was always in flux. until she found her again, and something clicked into place. reagan moved into the cinema a month ago, helping where she can to justify her presence there. it’s a second chance at… something, and in hell town, that’s more than anyone could ask for.

what was your muse doing when they came across the tree?

reagan was in search of her missing love. the other woman’s necklace clutched in her hand, she packed her life into a beat up jeep and set her gps for nowhere. the only realistic place for the cult to be was abandoned and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was running out of time. a sharp turn after hours on the road, her engine sputtering to a stop, and slowly setting sun spelled the end of her roadtrip. when she stepped out to pop the hood, the fog enveloped her until there was nothing but her and the tree.

has your muse left anything behind that they are desperately trying to return to or escape?

reagan believes wholeheartedly that she’s a harbinger of misfortune. her own cursed manifestation, the hand, introduced itself when she was eleven, claiming the life of her brother, then her mother when she was fourteen, and finally her father at fifteen. so, she ran, and when she finally stopped running, it took the one closest to her. now, despite her fears, she clings to her amulet like a lifeline, daring to hope it might tether her to safety and stay the hand’s grasp.