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determinedest) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2016-10-21 03:04 pm
determinedest) wrote in entrancelogs2016-10-21 03:04 pm
we must be killers, children of the wild ones [open]
Who: Frisk and YOU
Where: All throughout Neverland
When: October 21st - 25th
Rating: PG-13 for sad mad bad kid thoughts probs
Summary: I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth, a memoir by Frisk
The Story:
the beach; you were there, you were tearing up everything
Where: All throughout Neverland
When: October 21st - 25th
Rating: PG-13 for sad mad bad kid thoughts probs
Summary: I've Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth, a memoir by Frisk
The Story:
the beach; you were there, you were tearing up everything
Frisk has a lot of policies regarding what should be done about the influx of adults and people who don't belong here, trespassing on the land where all the lost children belong. They might require a firm hand and a heavy stick, but there's no reason for anyone to die, or for anyone to use such lethal methods as dreamshade on any of them. But Frisk knows they're nimbler than a bunch of clumsy grown-ups, so it stands to reason that they try something like reasoning. Something diplomatic. Politely telling them all to buzz off, and never bother any one of them.the woods; the silver tigers in the moonlight running
Enter Frisk, the self-proclaimed ambassador of the Lost Ones, ready to negotiate. Their expression is tighter, darker than you might remember. Their brows are clearly curved downward in a glower, their mouth a hard, stern line carved across the features of their face. Anyone who's not part of the ranks of the Lost Ones is welcome to approach them, but be wary - if you try to pull anything funny and steal them from their home, they do not come unarmed.
They come with knives. And they have a great deal of them, even if you can't see.
[Negotiations have failed. No one, it seems, is intimidated by a small child wielding a disproportionate number of knives. Frisk's non-killing policy still stands, but they are not above using said knives to get what they want. They will beat you into submission if they have to, because a wild animal, when backed into a corner, will do whatever it takes to survive. It will writhe upon itself, bite into itself, destroy itself to tear itself out of the corner you have created for it.anywhere; and the wind in the trees singing, do you believe?
It did not take long to prepare. They've streaked their face with paint and mud and grime, the darkest pigments they've got available to them, rolled about in the underbrush to mask any familiar human scent they might have. All the better to blend in with their surroundings.
Frisk waits on a hefty bough, months of stalking silently through the undergrowth having given them all the skills to lie patiently in wait that they require. And they are patient. They will stay there all night, for hours at a time if they have to, slowly and imperceptibly shifting and tensing their muscles to prevent cramping over long periods of time, until some unlikely, unsuspecting adult comes along.
Then? Then, they will drop from their hiding place, and they will strike.]
They keep feeling like they're being watched. Followed. It's an illogical fear, they know it is, they know it has to be, but there's no other reason behind why they keep twisting around, having sworn they heard something. A snicker, a laugh, a glimpse of something burrowing beneath the ground behind them.lost one encampment; and we all know what we have done
And then they turn, and find that something is there. Something that - that looks familiar. Like a flower, but it has a face, a wide, impossibly toothy grin, its bright yellow petals dissonant splashes of color against the otherwise uniformly dark landscape.
"Howdy!" it shrills cheerfully.
Frisk lunges. Their knife passes harmlessly through it, as though it's made up of nothing, nothing at all.
"Gosh," chirps the flower with a prolonged cackle, "that didn't take long at all! I knew you had it in you!"
They stare at it, long and hard. This isn't right. This...it seems familiar, but that's impossible. They can't have seen this before in their life. They'd know if they had. And people - people sometimes see things in Neverland, they know that well enough. But not Frisk. Never Frisk.
"Aw, c'mon," says the flower, soft and cajoling. "Don't tell me you don't remember me!"
"I don't," Frisk hisses, forgetting too late the advice Pan gave them, all of them, upon their introduction. Never speak to things like this. Never acknowledge them. They're echoes, whispers of a life that's no longer yours, nothing more. To recognize them is to forfeit your home, your family. It acknowledges that you do not truly belong to the Lost Ones. It acknowledges that your fealty is false.
With a strangled cry, they lunge at it again, slashing wildly. But it seems to appear everywhere they look.
"I'm disappointed," the flower tuts from behind them. A halation of white bullet-like projectiles materializes above its head as its smirk abruptly solidifies into something horrifying, empty, cruel. A smile with too many teeth and blackened, pitted sockets for eyes. "Sure you remember y̸͔̦̎ọ̶̾ur ̶̱͍͆̀b̵̻͝e̷̟̺̿̈́s̸t̶ ̵͂fr̷͉̃̈́i̶̯͘e̴̼̭͆n̷̢̞̉d̶̺̺͗?"
Frisk screams, and dives at it again.
[They're tired. They're so, so tired, and sleep has never come easily. The thought that there are people creeping about here that might snatch them away, specters of memories that don't exist and must not ever have existed, that just keeps them awake even more. They stay around the fire that crackles in the center of the place where they've made their home, watching it spit up yellow-and-orange sparks, belching wisping flakes of ash.wildcard; and we all know how to fake it baby
They're on their guard, hyper-vigilant. If anyone happens by, be they Lost One or trespasser or simple hallucination, Frisk immediately stiffens, brandishing whatever weapon they have on hand, whether it be a knife or a big stick. The flower's bright laughter still echoes cruelly in their ears, and you might find them taking a swing at shadows, formless shapes cast by the flickering flames. They look horribly on edge, and surprisingly vulnerable. If you have the goal of capturing them, now might be the best time...]
[Don't have an idea that jives with these prompts? No problem! Hit me with whatever you've got. I'll match any format. Feel free to ping me over atarrpee for any questions!]
encampment - I AM SO LATE, tell me if I'm too late!!!
Instead he sits down not far from them, legs crossed.]
You awake, Frisk?
NAH UR GOOD MY GUY
No, I'm sleepwalking.
[Blatant sarcasm.]
no subject
[He crouches down next to them, still a foot or two away. Neither of them are very touchy-feelie people, he's not about to change that.]
Can't sleep either. Mostly because I think I shouldn't.
no subject
[Their eyes flick up to meet his briefly, dark and intent. They've been putting their sleeplessness to about the best use they could think of. The flower won't shut up and leave them alone, and if they won't be sleeping, they might as well be doing something. Even if that something is making sure no adults creep in to steal them away overnight.]
no subject
[It's the most useful thing to do, given circumstances. He's haunted by ghosts of his own, but the way he's been dealing so far has been trying not to react. Not to show what he's feeling. Perhaps because that lesson has been drilled into him long before he's ever come here.
He looks at them now, holding their gaze.]
They are not getting us, Frisk. We won't let them.
no subject
[Their hand curls around the sharpened stick in their hand, the wood white and soft where they'd carved away the bark and whittled the stick to a point. It's their protection. Their armor. They'd daubed the ashes from the last night's fire under their eyes and over their cheeks, darkening their already dark (filthy) skin so they can throw themself flat on the ground, hide among the ferns and underbrush at a moment's notice.
Doesn't keep them from flinching at the snap of every twig, the rustle of every approaching footstep.]
Just feels too much like how it was before I came here.
["Home," they almost say. But it wasn't home. It was a place where they jerked awake at the creak of every floorboard, huddled under their blankets and sucked in their breath and prayed that they'd be passed by, as if by making themself as small and ball-like as possible they'd be less of a target.
The shifting of heavier feet, weighted steps - none of it means anything good.]
no subject
[He can just agree with them. Their stories might not be identical, but some things are the same. Grown-ups are not something to be trusted. They are not something to ignore. They are something to fear and he does just that. Not that he'd want to admit or show it.
But they're younger, they are not him.]
You're never going back there. We'll get rid of them and we're staying right here. Got it, Frisk?
no subject
[People tried to take their family away. Tried to take Stan, and they retaliated with blood and an injury they regret tacitly inflicting, even if they weren't the one to do it. Still. That showed them. Proved to them that they can't just tear kids up like that, can't just rip them from their home, their family.]
If they take you back, I'll kill you.
[A little joke, they think. A stupid threat, because everyone knows Frisk doesn't kill anyone. They'll hurt, maim, threaten if they have to, if they're backed into a corner, the same way a caged animal will lash out at its captors, but killing - that's the one line they don't cross.]
no subject
[The only sound he makes, thinking about how ready he is to kill anyone who would threaten what they have, threaten any of them. He has nothing holding him back, unlike Frisk, but he'd never ask it of them either.]
You know, if they take me? I might prefer that.
[Another joke.
Or something.]
But they won't. We're all staying here. Together.
no subject
[That one's not a joke; it takes the stepwise ladder down the scale of dark humor to plain darkness, the line he was straddling and that they stepped over. They're not one to kill, everyone knows that. But if they get taken back there -
They'll fight hard enough that they might not have a choice. They'll kill them, and then they'll maybe laugh when the blade turns around with their fingers slick on the handle and the steel will make the red run sickly from their throat and they start to wheeze. That's the only way they'll make it out. To not make it out at all.]
Or Chara will.
no subject
[It's what it all boils down to, isn't it? And it's a good sentiment, a strong sentiment. As long as they are enough. Enough to keep each other safe, every single one. Leonard is worried that they might not be. Without Peter and with all these adults. But he doesn't say that and his voice holds steady.]
They won't touch even one of us.
no subject
[Their mouth twists slightly in evident distaste, a scornful upward curl of their lip that approximates a sneer.]
Didn't work. We took one of them right back until they let him go.
[That's a simplification of what actually happened - Stan being able to get away on his own, leaving his alleged brother caged up without much reason to be. But he had it coming. He had to have.]
no subject
[It worries him, but being worried doesn't help the situation. He will do that by himself and he won't sleep tonight. Maybe they won't either. Maybe neither of them would.]
Us against them and we know this place.
no subject
I tried talking to some of them. They wouldn't...listen.
no subject
[Like so many of the Lost Ones, any memory Leonard has of grown-ups is a negative one and he will err on the side of caution, no matter if they have to kill for it.]
Don't bother trying again, Frisk. I don't want you to get hurt.
no subject
[It'd been worth a shot, though, hadn't it? They don't want to have to hurt someone unduly. They don't want to have to hurt someone at all.]
I just wish we didn't have to fight.
no subject
[He doesn't mind fighting, he isn't used to seeing life as anything but a fight, but he knows them. They know each other, somehow.]
I'll fight for you. When I can.
no subject
[He shouldn't have to, rather. They can take care of themself, and they already have when it's required of them. Talking hasn't worked. Nothing has worked except to fight.]
It's not gonna work like this forever. There's more of them, and they're all bigger.