bothfoulandfair | eight ❅ spam

[May 9th, Spam for Dillon and Morgana]

[The Barge shakes and trembles, and when she opens her eyes, tries to pick herself off the floor, she's still the same.

Well. Almost, because the one important difference makes itself painfully obvious as soon as she reaches out to grip her bookcase, planning on lifting herself up, only to feel the familiar tug of magic and stare, wide eyed and terrified as the entire thing ices over.

Her powers are back. Her powers are back, and they're strong, and the terror that grips her has nothing to do with being on another Barge, with finding out what exactly that's going to mean, or anything else.

Her powers are back, and she still has no idea how to control them.]

Dillon! [She shrieks before remembering what everyone had said, what Morgana had warned her about. There's a very good chance her warden won't be the man she knows at all, and she clamps her hands over her mouth, as if that's going to take back what she'd said.

It takes several minutes, but somehow, she manages to get her gloves on and creep into the hallway. Ice fans out under her feet, but it's subtle, almost unnoticeable, and she doesn't know what she's doing or where she thinks she's going, but she needs help, needs someone who's going to be able to fix this, and she thinks of Morgana, how the other inmate is more likely to be a kinder version of herself or the same woman she's gotten to know on the real ship.

Maybe she can help now.]

[May 10th, Spam for Scorpius]

[Choking back panic is not an uncommon state for her to be in, but in the past, the fear has been fleeting, swept aside by guilt and desperation and depression and loneliness and in one glorious instant by complete and utter joy, because she's been able to retreat and regroup and figure out how to move forward.

This is different. This is a constant, strangling terror that threatens to burst out at any moment, and if she lets it, she has no idea what's going to happen. None.

But she thinks maybe, maybe she can do this.

And then the ship crashes.

So she's already fraying at the edges, walking one of the hallways and trying to find someone, anyone, any familiar face or reassuring presence that can help anchor her here, keep her control from splintering further.

Or maybe she just needs to get back to her room.]

[May 10th through Event End, Open Spam]

[She's out of control.

It's all happening again, and she can't do anything to stop it. It's like trying to hold back a tidal wave with your bare hands, and it's so much easier - so much easier - to just give in, to just feel it rip out and spill over everything

The worst part is? It feels good.

But she's icing over the remains of the ship, and she knows people will hate her for it. Will be frightened and angry and murderous, and she can't be here when they come for her. She's afraid, she doesn't want to die again.

So she does the one thing she can: she runs.

Ice and snow follows her like a virus, spreading out over the terrain, blasting it bare and leaving a trail for anyone who wants to to follow.

They'll need to hurry, though. The radius is expanding rapidly, eating up the clear path and creating a wide expanse of quasi eternal winter.]

Threaded | Flat

[Scorpius knows he is going to die soon. All through the last week he's been fighting, struggling to maintain the agony inside his head as his genetics work to cook him alive. Should he not find a way to cool himself down, should his warden still refuse to provide him the necessary tools for survival, he will die.

Over and over and over again.

He's not afraid of the wardens, and he's not afraid of death. He loathes them, everything around him, and is resolved to see this through and survive. Meditation helps in part, but eventually his temper spikes and he loses focus.

And this is when he spots Elsa.

Scorpius is clutching onto the wall to steady himself after the crash, not knowing what's happened but figuring it secondary to the continuation of his life. He watches Elsa travel down the hall, entranced by her energy signature. By all accounts, someone with that sort of chill stored within them should be dead. But somehow her chemistry keeps it all aligned.

It's perfect.]

Elsa.

[A shiver creeps up her spine, and she can tell it's unnatural because a moment ago she was perfectly warm, hot if anything. She was standing on the stairs, staring at the section closed off floors, knowing that her room was down there just out of reach. It's childish, she knows, the urge to sleep in her own bed, and take comfort in her own room.

She's been moving about instead, sleeping on Dean's shoulder to keep him company, staying in Risen's room, but for the most part, she hasn't been sleeping. Rationally, Morgana knows that this absurd desire is likely due to exhaustion. Emotionally, she wants to collapse into her bed and sleep for a day. She knows she can't.

Letting loose a resigned breath, she notices the temperature drop and spins, taking the stairs up slowly.]

Queen Elsa?

[She's wary. What could she be after now?]

[Arthas crouches to examine the trail of frost and tugs on its lattice lightly, trying to unweave it with his own knowledge of ice magic.

Loki? No, he was a showoff but never this gifted. But a lesser god, perhaps? Too new to know that running is useless? Ice magic is high-strung, it's common enough for even him to lose control sometimes. This is either the work of someone who knows themselves and their magic well enough to unleash or rein it in effortlessly or...

Regardless of the result of his experimental spell-prodding, he presses an sphere of pristine, glasslike ice into being between his hands.]

Follow it, [He tells the orb. A deep crack forms, like the slit pupil of a cat's eye, and when released the orb takes flight, seeing and searching for the source of the growing winter.

Arthas himself turns to the Barge. This will all have to go.]

[Her door isn't hard to get through - the lock is just regular metal tumblrs, and one good jolt with the heel of his palm sends them clicking into place. He lets the door swing open and leans in the threshold without entering. The Snow Queen reminds him of Michael, of Lourdes. He respects her domain.]

You called, your majesty?

[There's something sleeker about him now, playful and mean. All his awkward, tender compassion is gone, but at least he likes her - or he did. One good look at her and his eyebrows rise. So, the rumors of infiltrators were true.]

[She left the ship because she could. It was amazing. She'd lived in a prison for so long, both while alive and dead, she had forgotten what it was like to see grass, trees. She didn't care that it wasn't Earth. It wasn't any place with walls either.

She reaches out and touches the bark of a tree. Her gloves cover everything except the palm of her hands, and she doesn't take them off. It's just how she experiences the world, through a thin veil of cloth.

And then suddenly the tree starts to gather frost on it's bark, and the air grows chilly. She's confused for a moment, and watches as ice starts to rapidly swallow up the tree at it's roots. She only just manages to put the pieces together in time to throw herself away from the tree before the ice freezes her to it. She staggers and falls to the ground with her own rushed momentum, right in the runner's path.]

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Post-crash.

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[Spam]