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exsiliumlogs2012-06-23 09:32 am
initiatesnpc) wrote in exsiliumlogs2012-06-23 09:32 am
TEMPORAL TURBULENCE: BRAZIL&NORWAY
Date & Time: Brazil, 1200 A.D./Norway, 1201 A.D.
Location: Assorted
Characters: Alistair, Bariyan, Chloe, Martin Darkov, Natasha, Robin, Sark
Summary: Group #4's adventures spent lost in time.
Warnings: Violence? (notify Elle or Liz of anything else worthy of labeling)
The mission was set. Team members were given their equipment: The cloaking devices would acclimate to the area and disguise them based on the historical data pulled in. There was a weapons check: The Initiative was insistent about having those chosen weapons along for the ride. Four operatives were introduced as beacons: They would stay in contact with the Initiative and relay any alterations in plans until the mission was deemed a success. And it had to be a success, or disaster would be the only thing left.
1890 A.D.
There was a man, not very well-known as far as famous men go. A writer. His existence alone was not the significant factor in the timeline's disturbance, but his profession and his choice to tell a particular, peculiar story.
This man, the Initiative states, helped sow the seeds for modern time travel centuries before its prime. What was a captivating fiction in that man's time was the reality of today, and without his account of the Time Traveler, there was risk of the very existence of so much. The recruits absolutely have a stake in this.
To the export room — the massive, rather bare and bleak place where so many were to exit and put a stop to what was putting a stop to the writer's tale. It was as yet unclear, but the Initiative is certain they'll know it when they see it, that it will be revealed once their reluctant soldiers set foot on ancient soil.
One last check, one last insistence on the urgency of their task. One, final urging to avoid as direct an impact as possible without ruining their chances; keep your temporal footprint as light as you can.
Good luck. We're counting on you.
A flash, a bitten-back breath, a blink...The room was gone.
But this wasn't right.
Out of the many who were assigned, only seven remained. Seven, and an Initiative's operative, who was immediately aware of a problem. A big problem.
BRAZIL, 1200 A.D.
The village the eight found themselves in was in no way even close to the one they were targeting. Already, the cloaking devices were fumbling to find disguises to suit, lacking the historical data for an appropriate match for an undiscovered Brazil. Historically undiscovered, anyway; if the ghost city they had arrived in was anything to go by, humans were not strangers to this land.
But it was empty. Birdsong echoed off great stone structures, some decorated, some bare, but all vacant. There's a faint scent in the air of salt from an unseen but not-so-distant ocean, and a thick, heavy humidity causing a sweat right away.
Over six centuries too far back, the data relays. And no answer as to how to get back.
NORWAY, 1201 A.D.
The heat is very suddenly gone, replaced with a breath-stealing cold. There is snow to the ankles and a sharp wind blasting through. Mid-gust, the party has arrived in a land so far away from the last, but barely a blink away in time.
One whole year. The dismay in the operative's report cannot be disguised, nor was there any attempt to. Whatever was going on with the equipment back at the Hold was serious trouble.
Speaking of serious trouble. Unlike the first, there were no quiet and empty cities to wonder at; this frozen land was very much alive, filled with the scattered shapes of horses and ironclad men racing to a location unseen in this bone-chilling darkness. Flickers of firelight on metal, the loud whinny of a horse and a man's shout straining to echo far...Something was certainly up.
Location: Assorted
Characters: Alistair, Bariyan, Chloe, Martin Darkov, Natasha, Robin, Sark
Summary: Group #4's adventures spent lost in time.
Warnings: Violence? (notify Elle or Liz of anything else worthy of labeling)
The mission was set. Team members were given their equipment: The cloaking devices would acclimate to the area and disguise them based on the historical data pulled in. There was a weapons check: The Initiative was insistent about having those chosen weapons along for the ride. Four operatives were introduced as beacons: They would stay in contact with the Initiative and relay any alterations in plans until the mission was deemed a success. And it had to be a success, or disaster would be the only thing left.
1890 A.D.
There was a man, not very well-known as far as famous men go. A writer. His existence alone was not the significant factor in the timeline's disturbance, but his profession and his choice to tell a particular, peculiar story.
This man, the Initiative states, helped sow the seeds for modern time travel centuries before its prime. What was a captivating fiction in that man's time was the reality of today, and without his account of the Time Traveler, there was risk of the very existence of so much. The recruits absolutely have a stake in this.
To the export room — the massive, rather bare and bleak place where so many were to exit and put a stop to what was putting a stop to the writer's tale. It was as yet unclear, but the Initiative is certain they'll know it when they see it, that it will be revealed once their reluctant soldiers set foot on ancient soil.
One last check, one last insistence on the urgency of their task. One, final urging to avoid as direct an impact as possible without ruining their chances; keep your temporal footprint as light as you can.
Good luck. We're counting on you.
A flash, a bitten-back breath, a blink...The room was gone.
But this wasn't right.
Out of the many who were assigned, only seven remained. Seven, and an Initiative's operative, who was immediately aware of a problem. A big problem.
The village the eight found themselves in was in no way even close to the one they were targeting. Already, the cloaking devices were fumbling to find disguises to suit, lacking the historical data for an appropriate match for an undiscovered Brazil. Historically undiscovered, anyway; if the ghost city they had arrived in was anything to go by, humans were not strangers to this land.
But it was empty. Birdsong echoed off great stone structures, some decorated, some bare, but all vacant. There's a faint scent in the air of salt from an unseen but not-so-distant ocean, and a thick, heavy humidity causing a sweat right away.
Over six centuries too far back, the data relays. And no answer as to how to get back.
The heat is very suddenly gone, replaced with a breath-stealing cold. There is snow to the ankles and a sharp wind blasting through. Mid-gust, the party has arrived in a land so far away from the last, but barely a blink away in time.
One whole year. The dismay in the operative's report cannot be disguised, nor was there any attempt to. Whatever was going on with the equipment back at the Hold was serious trouble.
Speaking of serious trouble. Unlike the first, there were no quiet and empty cities to wonder at; this frozen land was very much alive, filled with the scattered shapes of horses and ironclad men racing to a location unseen in this bone-chilling darkness. Flickers of firelight on metal, the loud whinny of a horse and a man's shout straining to echo far...Something was certainly up.
no subject
She should really be questioning her sanity at this point.
Not there. Good, that was a good sign. Couldn't you get diseases from leeches, though? She leaned over, checking out her foot. There was some blood, and she remembered hearing somewhere that the parasites used an anticoagulant, but it could be worse. Making a face, she sighed and looked back over at Martin.
And then she noticed the dead thing in his hand, squished. "That's seriously gross." Glancing around, she grabbed a leaf and almost went to wipe his hand off for him before pausing. "I, um... Here. Use this to, you know. Clean your hand."
no subject
He gave a nervous giggle, which, though muted just by the nature of being so rare, still lingered even as Chloe went about for the leaf. Martin drew his sleeve to his mouth to stifle it before realizing that was the one with the leech-filled hand and switched.
"Mhrhm," he said, muffled and unintelligible. He groped for the leaf, eyes crinkling as he felt the squishy dead thing against it, pulling it away. "Thank you..."
no subject
Her nose wrinkled as he cleaned his hand off, not envying him for the task. "Um, no. No, thank you. For getting it off of me. I guess that I... I sh-should have known something like that could happen."
no subject
He put the leaf down and set to picking sticky black bits off his hand and flicking them aside, rubbing again until they were gone. Somewhere in there, he sneaked in a cautionary sniff, catching no whiff of monster or magic off of the remains. That was a relief.
no subject
Chloe watched him for a second before glancing over at the water. She should wash her hands, but did she really want to risk dipping them back into there? For that matter, what about the water? This would be the most anti-climatic scene if she were writing the screenplay of this.
"Never taking my shoes off again."
no subject
There was no need to mention the wild array of insects they'd had no choice but to encounter since arriving in that strange, overheated place, either.
He made a nasally sound of agreement before shifting and slowly rising to his feet.
"Not here, anyway..." He bent down and picked up the gourd. "We should go back."
no subject
She cast a mournful glance at the river before nodding. "Right. I'd hate for them to start mounting a search and rescue for us." There was another grin tossed his way before she began to walk back, making sure to watch her step.