[Anniversary Event Starting Log] I Awaken To Another Day...

[thepull_mods]

Who: Open Log! This means everybody!
When: September 1st, 1918. Dawn.
Where: Farmer Whitty's Squash Patch, City of Missionworth (Ye Olde... Baseball Diamond?)
Summary: Midnight on New Years Eve finds the entire Newcomer Community thrust backwards in time...oh, 95 years or so?
Warnings: A lot of potentially drunk people are about to land facefirst in a field. Once word is out that a small horde of strangers have mysteriously arrived on the island, Military Forces will be rounding them up for questioning. You be the judge of how badly this goes.



Whether right in the middle of a rowdy parties as toasts are raised with complementary champagne, or having a quiet evening at home on the couch, watching GloTV's annual Auld Lang Syne Countdown Extravaganza, a sickeningly familiar tug of a feeling suddenly wrenches in the gut of every Newcomer on the island who has been brought here by Pull in the past three years.

As fireworks sound over AGI tower and the clock finishes striking twelve, the world spins. For a dazzling colorful moment, flashing scenes from their stay in Port roll backwards like rewound film before their eyes. It becomes a blur, the Pull drawing tighter and tighter, ears might pop and there's a very good chance the contents of their stomachs might be turned out.

And then there is coolness, a brisk breeze, morning dew and damp earth beneath them all.

The newcomers are scattered across a planted field of winding vines and colorful gourds, which won't be ready for harvesting for another month or so. Several startled crows are circling overhead, screaming. There are no tall towers on the skyline, and there are more surrounding trees, particularly toward the western horizon- golds and oranges of early autumn.

To the east, a picturesque early 20th century settlement stretches to the island shoreline, already bustling with traffic and construction in the early dawn's light. There is no putrid, sick-sweet rotting smell which normally lingers for awhile in the morning fog, after the lifting of darkness.

Two young boys stand agape at the edge of the field for several moment, leaning over a fencepost, then turn and tear off towards a homestead not far away, shouting for their papa.

Welcome to the City of Missionworth. Look's like The Core's decided to give you all a history lesson for the New Year.

Comments

[freeholding]

John, for once, does as he's told, and makes his way over to Harry. As he does, he winces and looks at his feet and tries to decide if damp socks are better than barefoot or not. At least last time around, the Pull happened when he was fully clothed and well-dressed. It served well for resourced early on, if nothing else. This is much less fortunate.

Trudging over, John fills Harry in on when he figured out during his short run-in with Ella. "NVs are down. Looks like Newcomers got yanked. No idea where or why, but the how is pretty clear." Goddamned Pull.

He finds as he gets near Harry that he's not just summoning light but heat, and he sighs in relief. It's not the brutal cold of winter, but it's bad enough.

"Are you all right?"

[forzare]

Harry cusses again. But of course they'd arrive with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the NVs in their pockets - NVs that, John informs him, don't even work. Which means that when Harry steps close to the other man, he's not likely to be leaving. Surrendering his support and potentially losing track of John? Uh uh. The thought might have confused him a while ago, and maybe it still itched a little, but they made a damn good team in a crisis and this was most certainly a crisis.

He opens his cupped hands a little more to shed light on the surrounding area (and the pentacle about his neck responds with an additional light) and exposes a little more of the trapped heat he's cultivating with a will and a word. Harry fists one hand to keep the spell buzzing, and the other finds it's way around the crook of John's arm, dumping as much heat into his skin as he can. Like hell if he'll stand there and watch the man shiver when he can do something.

"Christ," he hisses, and his breath mists in the air. "I'm the one who's got a coat and shoes! And you're asking if I'm okay?" Harry is quick to cast a look around, and his stance is quite obviously defensive. Protective, if someone might cross their eyes and forget that he'd deny it. The first thing he's doing is to look for adequate shelter. Someplace to bunker down out of the elements. It's funny, how easily their roles change hands. "Someone's coming."

He draws attention to the the commanding voices and sweeping lights. Some sort of military force. Harry lifts an arm to shield his eyes from the lights, the jangle of his shield bracelet against his forearm makes the gesture obvious (defend! do it now!) - especially since he's automatically shifted to put himself between the shadowy figures and John. Not like he'll think anything of it, it just comes natural now.

[freeholding]

John expects Harry's touch to be warm, because the wizard's reach out before and John's noticed his hands are always toasty, like some fluke of magic metabolism. But when Harry's hand catches him, the rush of heat is not mere skin contact but a wash of feeling. It's like the feeling of falling asleep in a sunbeam concentrated and directed right at John, warm but also alive in a way John doesn't understand. Magic is always like this, something remarkable and unfathomable. The feelings it raises in him, of wonder and interest, are usually something John silently covets. But standing out in the middle of a squash field in the grey of dawn with no shoes is not the best time for that. So John shuts his eyes, thinks of cold showers, and swallows thickly.

The warning snaps John back to himself, vividly alert as soon as he needs to be. He looks in the direction Harry is and curses under his breath. Yes, that's decidedly not good. Getting shot or taken into custody now, when they have no concept of what is happening or where they are, is a misstep they might not come back from, given their lack of resources and knowledge.

John recognizes Harry's gesture, the raising of his shield, and instantly knows that's not quite the thing. He reaches up and catches Harry's arm, dragging it back down. "No. Avoidance is better than defense." He sucks in a breath and takes Harry's hand in his right, the charms of his new bracelet jingling quietly. He's never done this, but he knows the theory, as much as a man who can barely fathom magic can.

"If this doesn't work, tell me, because I don't know what I'm supposed to do exactly." He tries a few things in quick succession. Picture a cloak, throwing it over-- no. Imagine a thread, tie it around-- that's just as idiotic. The metaphors don't work, so John just keeps it simple.

They cannot see me, he thinks with absolute conviction. And they cannot see Harry either. They'll pay us no mind.

His eyes are closed, his focus set on his task. "If it's working, get us out of here. Lead on."