moonstalk

[moonstalk]

I heard it's someone's week 👀

[moonstalk]

happy friday the 13th :)

[moonstalk]

jason stood at the edge of the lake, staring across the dark water to the fog-laced silhouette of the campgrounds.   the mist curled and shifted above the surface,  thick and restless.   it looked different, older. more warped by memory than time.   but he knew this place.   he could feel it.  

flickers of memory passed across his thoughts.   the water closing over his head,  lungs burning,  thrashing limbs,  the light vanishing above him.   screams,  distant and distorted,  echoed across the lake.  voices he’d never forget,  some calling his name,  others crying for help.  ghosts.  every inch of this place was steeped in them.

his grip on the machete tightened,  the metal a familiar weight in his hand.  the blade,  still caked with bits of flesh and mud,  gleamed dully in the haze.  he took a step,  then another,  as he began to prowl the shoreline.   his path arced toward the camp,  to the cabins and fire pits and broken signs that had long since rotted in the damp.

behind him,  the clown followed.   jason didn’t look back.   he didn’t need to.   he could hear the soft squelch of the clown’s footsteps,  the strange bounce in his gait ill-fitting among the decay and shadows.   jason didn’t understand it,  how he grinned through slaughter,  how he danced through entrails like they were ribbons.   but he would tolerate it.   for now.   the clown had not raised a weapon against him.   that was enough.

blood called for blood. his mind was already hunting. he could feel them—footsteps too new in the soil, breath too loud in the brush. trespassers. the lake had not been left alone. and so neither would they.

and the clown would be there to paint with it.

𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃, feeling their still - warm guts in his hands. his companion didn't partake in the dismemberment. watching him as he plays with the organs in the mess of mud & blood. it washes away with the water on the ground - but that doesn't stop ART from becoming a mess of viscous liquid as he tears their insides out. holding them up like a trophy. he hadn't been the one to kill the person - but he still finds enjoyment in toying with the corpse. it was something that the man had wanted to show him, with good reason too. he was having too much fun with it.

it wasn't until his newfound company started to wander that he put the viscera down - getting up from the ground to follow him. he didn't want to get left behind in the woods - no, his companion had something else that he wanted to show him. he was feeling the pull of something & ART wanted to know what it was. bouncing to his feet - he collects his bag so that he can follow him. he wouldn't allow himself to fall behind. if more slaughter was going to happen, he wanted to be apart of it. he didn't know his way around the woods, not like this stranger had. he would follow him into the depths of it - uncaring if he couldn't find his way out after. he was a nomad - fully capable of finding his way out of tricky situations in the end.

he walks with too much bounce in his step, not matching the energy of his company. the other man trudges along, something motivating him to move in the direction of the lake. ART would have taken in the scenery some more - if not for the dark shrouding the majority of the shrubbery. the trees had only served to provide more shade, making an eerie scene of it all. he wasn't fond of the woods, comfortable in the city. but this was where fate had found him, & he was interested to see it through.

[moonstalk]

jason watched from the tree line, motionless beneath moonlight. the cabin lights flickered through the branches like a beacon drawing flies to rot. they always came—loud, careless, trespassing where they didn’t belong. where they shouldn’t be.

he had seen the girl arrive earlier, dragging her feet behind the others. the third wheel. an outsider among outsiders. she hadn’t laughed with them, hadn’t wandered off into the woods to drink like the rest. still, she was here. still, she was part of it.

jason’s grip on the handle of his machete tightened as he watched through the basement window. slick with fresh blood. she lay on the couch now, glowing blue in the light of some ancient television set. a show from before they ruined everything. before they drowned him. before his mother’s voice became the only thing that cut through the noise.

her anger radiated from her. he could sense it. see it in the way her jaw clenched, the way she stared at the screen like it owed her something. like it was supposed to make her forget. but anger didn’t go away. jason knew that better than anyone. it only sank deeper. until it had to come out.

upstairs, the others laughed. doors opened. closed. he moved like a shadow through the dark, silent steps across warped wooden floors. he had already dealt with one of the boys. dragged him screaming into the woods where no one would hear. the others wouldn’t be far behind. they never were.

killing made it quiet. for a while. it was like smoothing dirt over a fresh grave. but it never lasted.

his eyes lingered on the girl in the basement. alone. angry. just like him.

he didn’t move yet.

he watched.

Closed Starter for @moonstalk

Rosie found herself at Crystal Lake because her so called friends convinced her and now she was here. Being the third wheel as always. She watched as her so called friends individually went into their rooms. They were all the fucking same. Not to mention she had no idea their boyfriends would be there. She felt like a fool.

She was currently in the basement of the cabin laying on the couch watching an old 1970s sitcom as she sipped her coke as she tried her best not to let her rage take over. Ever sense she lost her family she was never the same. Her anger issues got worse and this wasn’t helping. However, little did she know she was being watched.

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jason did not move at first.   the axe in his grip remained lowered,  but he made no motion to sheath it. blood still wept from his armour, thick and dark,  the scent of iron lingering heavy. he had made it clear it was not his, but its volume told its own story. violence had accompanied him here, as it often did. not out of want. never out of want. 

he tilted his head slightly at vyke’s words.  talk of a certain lord.   talk of his mother.

jason had heard of this lord. had seen echoes of his worship woven in crimson profanation.   his mother’s call was a quiet thing by comparison. gentle. whispered. hidden in the slow drip of blood from open wounds, the warmth of a kill not yet cold.   like an embrace. she had never asked for grandeur. she had only ever asked for love and blood. 

one gauntleted hand rose from the axe haft.   fingers curled in deliberate rhythm,  slow and exacting for a man who had not uttered a word in decades.

' i know of him.  not mine. ' a beat.  his fingers moved again. ' but i know his path.  i’ve walked near it.  seen what he leaves behind. '  jason’s breathing was deep behind the iron of his mask.   the thought of the lord who also called the mother his did not trouble him. but it did not help him either.

another pause.   then,  his hand rose once more,  movements more forceful this time.

' i will tell you.  but you will help me. '

he tapped a single finger to his chest. 

' she is missing.   my wife.  small.  clever.  smiles when angry.  i will not stop looking. ' the ritual spear on his back swayed slightly as he shifted. an offering piece---never used in battle,  never sullied.   it was for mother.   it was for when blood must be spilled just so.

his final motion was slower,  as if weighed down by something heavier than plate. ' help me find her.  i will show you what you want. '

and then the hand dropped again,  resting against the haft of his axe once more. silent. waiting.

' it isn't mine. ' jason signing to vyke about blood dripping from his armour. hi :)

❛ Right … of course, silly me, ❜ Vyke replies, yet a level of concern forms his covered features all the same, as he stands before the larger man. To be fair, it is quite a lot of blood. One such that Vyke can only think the man had bathed in a pool of it before surfacing to greet the world as is. In a way … it would not be too hard to picture for one who would be rightfully called a bloodfiend in less than flattering terms by any other. The Formless Mother desires its blood, through any means capable of those devout. The question of concern only becomes unnecessary as a result, through and through.

Still … Vyke cannot bring himself to complain. It is far better to have Jason on his side than against him, seeing as how unforgiving he is when it comes to battle, to be sure. To contend with him, may just be contending with a Giant.

❛ Well, put up that axe of yours. You paint a rather imposing figure and all I wanted to do in coming here is to have a little chat with you, ❜ he then says, folding out his arms with empty palms facing the other. The spear on his back only towers, but there is no desire to reach for it. ❛ I need your specific knowledge on a certain lord, if you know of such. He follows your Mother … of a sort. ❜

@moonstalk !

[moonstalk]

jason’s grip on the machete tightens the moment suhani makes her request, the leather groaning beneath his fist. blood is familiar.   it is everywhere here,   soaked into the ground and clinging to his very being.   it would be easy to spill, to drag his machete across the flesh, but something within him resists. his hand twitches, but he does not—will not—lift his weapon. 

elena, watching him, already knows what his stillness means.   she sees the way his shoulders tense,  the way his posture shifts just enough to be defensive.   jason may not speak,  but his silence says enough.

❛ ... he’s not going to do that,   ❜ elena mutters, side-eying her companions. jason’s devotion to suhani is something she’s witnessed blossom over the course of their endless time here.   it’s something the two of them have stubbornly persisted in,  despite the entity’s interference,   until they have become nigh inseparable.   he would never strike her.   not even if she asked.

elena crouches at the base of the arch,  peering closer at the grooves.  the older blood still has life.   it is still reacting.   the light continues to grow in slow pulses like the beating of a heart.   she rolls up the sleeve of her stained sweatshirt, exposing her arm.

❛ i’ll do it. ❜

she steps up to the edge of the arch,  and immediately feels it.   something watching.   savage.   hungry. its attention is focused and starving.   elena draws a makeshift blade she crafted long ago but never used.   it’s a small thing—hardly worth the effort it took to make—but sharp enough to cut along the curve of her forearm. 

blood wells up immediately, spilling warm and red over her skin. 

she presses her palm flat against the gold,  smearing the blood until uneven trails drip across the carved script. 

the effect is near-instant.

the arch thrums with energy—but not just for blood. for intention. for sacrifice.

❛ i think it wants more, ❜ elena murmurs to herself, taking a step back from the bloody display. ❛ not just blood, but suffering. real suffering. ❜ she turns slightly towards suhani,  expression grim. ❛ it's never just blood, is it? it’s about what you give—no, who you give. ❜

and jason would not give suhani.

Ancient languages hold nothing if there is no scholarship behind them. Such a thing Suhani knew rather well; frustratingly so. But she will not allow that to be a point of failure. Elena recognized it, and if she can, then someone will be able to read it. Merely a small step to a larger success. It is in such things that keep Suhani's head on straight and her mind sane. Basic survival in this twisted realm.

But there is something else. A small warp in the fabric surrounding them all. Elena's switch all but confirms that, to which Suhani does not hesitate to look to where she looks. There it is. A change. Like a generator's flickering lights, this too is slowly powering up from the conduit it has been given: blood.

❛ Of course it is blood, how could I be so stupid? ❜ Suhani murmurs to herself, tapping her forehead with the heel of her hand. Of all the things—blood is what the Entity craves, the more that is spilled, the happier the beast is. That is why the Killers are the way they are, that is why this game has been created; these realms all but a bleeding ground to drench the gluttonous, savage god. It fit together so well, how could she not have seen it before?

❛ But if I know something about gods and their appetites, it will be quite a lot of blood to shed, ❜ she then says to Elena before stepping closer to the now cracked doorway. The energy pulsed. Weakly, but alive all the same. She can almost feel it on the tips of her fingers, reacting to the mana inside of her.

Soon enough, she is turning to Jason, and then to his machete always in hand. They have the tools ...

❛ Jason, vhenan, would you mind striking me with that machete of yours? Just right against the arch, ❜ Suhani asks, pointing towards his weapon and smiling. ❛ Wind up and let that blade fly. I won't die, we just need a bit of blood to measure. ❜

[moonstalk]

LOTTIE MATTHEWS Yellowjackets, 'Croak'

[moonstalk]

her voice again. rambling, yes, but not in the way others would speak to him. with fear. cowardice. hatred. no, she spoke with care. with intention. her words were offered, not demanded. and though she fumbled and hesitated, there was no cruelty in it.

panic attack. jason didn't know the term, but he understood it.

he knew the stillness. the paralysing grip of memories that weren't quite memories at all—just impressions of things burned into his mind. screams that weren't always his. water. fire. blood. her voice cutting through it like sunlight in murky water.

he looked down, again, to where her hand had been clutched to his jacket. it was gone now. she'd dropped it. apologised. why? that tug hadn't hurt. in fact, it was the only thing that had kept him from ... falling.

slowly, so slowly he barely realised he was doing it, he reached out with his free hand and touched her wrist. just two fingers, light and unsure. he didn't hold her. he didn't pull her back. he just let himself feel her. real. warm. present.

her words turned over again in his mind. he had never learned the language of comfort. but there was something in the way she looked at him. something that told him she didn't expect grand gestures or perfect responses in return. just ... something.

jason gave a tiny nod. barely perceptible, but it was his way of saying i understand—or maybe thank you.

his fingers lingered at her wrist a moment longer before drawing back. not because he wanted to. because he heard it. the faint clang of an end drawing near. the gentle twisting of reality, bending towards its conclusion. he turned his head slightly, as if listening to some distant whisper only he could hear. the trees no longer swayed, and the ground no longer churned beneath his feet—but the world was shifting again. he could feel it.

not yet—

his hand clenched at his side. no mask could hide the sudden heaviness in his posture, the reluctance in his movement as he stepped aside for her to leave.

When he stops moving, Suhani is unsure what that meant. In this world—no, realm ... in this realm, anything could mean anything, as frustrating as it always is. Did the Entity take hold just then? Is that something that happens? Will it happen even if it not now? What of Jason, this killer who hesitates to raise his hand against her? Well, completely. He did hook you, she tells herself in a more chiding fashion, harder upon her actions because no one was around to do it for her. She aimed the blame of bad upon her own person.

Yet, she remains. She watches him still, and meets his eyes in the hollows of his mask without shying away when he finally regains himself. The tilt of the head, a formless question; one that makes her realize she is still grabbing his jacket, to which she forces her hand to drop back to her side with a quick, murmured apology.

❛ Panic attack, ❜ she admits, blurting it out, sounding as if in the middle of a thought. Suhani shakes her head. ❛ Panic attack ... it is something I know well. I have seen it in others—they freeze sometimes, other times it is more than that. Like a sudden fear over what isn't there, what you cannot control. Whenever I—whenever someone has them, they sometimes may need something to ground them, to focus on. A calming presence, more so. ❜

And now she is rambling. Suhani swallows, before she begins to backtrack a little. ❛ Or that is what it looked like. From what I said, I admit, it was without tact. I forget that others may take information with less ... openness than I do. Perhaps it is different, for you. I don't know. All I know, or am beginning to realize, is that we may be more similar in our circumstances than I first thought. Forced to be here, unable to leave. ❜

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hi everyone first of all im so sorry for my absence. i do plan on returning. second of all i cleaned up my followers so i'm sorry if i ended up breaking mutuals with u. it's nothing personal at all i've just been absent for so long i needed a smaller follower list to get my head back in the game :( anyway i collected all my drafts but cleared out most of my ask box so i didn't feel so overwhelmed. life is beginning to slow down some and get itself back on track, so i will hopefully get to writing some time this week <3

[moonstalk]

made this for @fadedpath. before u ask yes it is extremely height accurate <3

[moonstalk]

i understand everything it's been saying to me. (lottie, what did you do?)

YELLOWJACKETS — 2.01 | 3.06 | 3.07

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how you let me drown

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🗡️

[moonstalk]

❛ Eil ... if you pull your pants down in extremely cold weather, do you think you can see the fart? ❜ Zaahyr asks, staring off into the mountains of snow that covers Emprise du Lion.

eilruana trudged forward, each step sinking into the biting cold that numbed her feet. the cold bit at her skin, needling into her very bones. it was a miserable kind of chill, the kind that gnawed rather than merely settled, and she exhaled sharply, watching her breath curl into the air.

perhaps, just this once, she should have worn shoes.

she pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the frozen terrain ahead, when—

❛ eil … if you pull your pants down in extremely cold weather, do you think you can see the fart? ❜

eilruana stopped. the snow crunched softly beneath her as she came to a halt, blinking once, then twice, staring out into the distance as if the vastness itself may present her with an answer.

then, very slowly, she turned to look at him. zaahyr stood beside her, his expression genuine as if he had just asked one of the great mysteries of the world.

golden eyes flickered to their other companions, searching for confirmation that she had, in fact, heard him correctly. blackwall looked highly amused, barely stifling laughter, while vivienne wore a look of sheer bewilderment that mirrored her own.

her mouth opened, then closed.

for a moment, silence stretched between them, and then the corner of her lips twitched with amusement.

❛ maybe, ❜ she said at last. ❛ but you should be the one to try it. ❜

[moonstalk]

@fadedpath

these woods thrum with power, a melody just beneath the surface of reality. yue can feel it, an unseen current shifting through the air, threading through the trees, coiling beneath her bare feet like whispering tendrils. it hums in the stillness, an echo of something eldritch and vast, something that should not be.

she tilts her head, listening.

a song.

not one sung with voice or instrument, but something older. something ancient. a resonance that prickles at the edge of her mind, so close she could almost reach out and grasp it—almost. but something stops her. not a barrier, but a warning. a restriction.

forbidden.

yue exhales slowly, tilting her gaze upward, toward the fractured ceiling and the moonbeams spilling through the cracks. for a moment, she clings to the sight, to the soft glow of silver light. it has always been a comfort to her, a tether to the magic that sings in her blood. but now—

nothing.

a hollowness yawns where there should be power, where the celestial touch should stir in her veins. the light above is an imitation. a false moon. it dawns on her, then, that this place is more than strange. it is wrong—a carefully constructed illusion, a prison built from threads of a force she cannot name.

footsteps sound behind her, and slowly, she turns. her gaze finds an elf—short and slender, brown skin dappled with shadow, elegant patterns adorning her form. the elf carries herself with quiet grace, a wariness that speaks of experience, of survival.

❛ do you hear it? ❜ she asks softly, musing, as though they are the only two souls in existence. ❛ the song. ❜

[moonstalk]

Courtney Eaton How Yellowjackets Use A.S.K. (Part 1) 💛