taxonomites | 052 [text | location: around the island] on the shore just long enough to leave our clothes there

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052 [text | location: around the island] on the shore just long enough to leave our clothes there

Glitch is so very happy to be back on land where he's 100% less useless. Sure it's not the city (or home) but it's better than being on that miserable boat.

In the jungle (the mighty jungle) there is a large hamster idol carved from limestone. It sits up on its haunches and smiles a benevolent hamster smile, and atop its head is a floral headdress. More interestingly: its right paw is definitely a hatch touchpad, and it holds in its left paw the traditional hatch replicator box thing.

Glitch stares at it dubiously, then slaps his hand down and thinks desperately of toothpaste. The box produces a bottle of rum, which gets tucked into the satchel he's fashioned from the sleeves of his giant white pirate shirt. He tries again, this time thinking of ball-peen (...wait, who even came up with that name?) hammer and some nails. The hatch responds with directions for making a shelter with palm fronds and vines.

After some trial and error (and another bottle of rum and some paper umbrellas), the hatch does produce useful things like a length of insulated copper wire, a Hawaiian print shirt and some Bermuda shorts, a pair of pliers, and sunscreen.

"...well, it's a start," Glitch mutters, then hauls everything back to the shady spot he's claimed a little ways from the beach. There he lays the pliers and wire down beside the metal-containing ship debris that had washed up, and set about composing a text to everyone.

NOTES:
- Found a hatch, marked approx. location on map. Temperamental but will give useful stuff (!SUNSCREEN!) plus random items.
- The temple: have not explored, not sure if safe, be careful if you check it out. Do not go alone.
- Swear I heard drumming last night. Might be delusional.
TO DO:
- Work w/tablets. Have more tools & materials now. Power boost? Antenna? Help appreciated.
- Go back to ship for supplies: sailcloth, rope, anything useful. Build raft for this? Volunteers? (~~Not it!~~)
- Build hammock.

That done, he heads back into the jungle for his daily swim. The island is fortunately riddled with cenotes to provide drinking water and places to cool off without getting saltwater sticky. Glitch has found a favorite with a good mix of shade and sun, water crystal clear and deep enough for diving, and just secluded enough that he can get away with skinny dipping.

That last bit is likely inaccurate.

OOC: Oh hey it's another huge note! WELCOME TO THE ISLAND enjoy your naked headcase. He will be out there every day, so go bug him or join in and fret not about continuity. Or bump into him anywhere, godmoding of that nature is go. TABLET FOLKS: there is going to be so much handwaving with this plot I can't even tell you. To the point of "let's congratulate ourselves on how awesome our geniuses and electric lady are" and moving on with end results.

This post can also be used as a log post for non-Glitch related hijinks like setting up shelters, building rafts, and other mingling.
DETAILS ON THE TEMPLE: Think Temple of Doom meets Legends of the Hidden Temple meets The Mummy. There are 100% godmodey deathtraps, the nature and degree of dangerousness is totally up to you. There are also treasures...also godmodey, but a chest stuffed with toiletries is definitely in there somewhere.

DID GLITCH HEAR DRUMMING: Yes. Yes he did, and your folks may have too. ~Details to come~.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mick sleeps during the day in the closest thing to a freezer he can find on the island, which just happens to be yet another idyllic cenote. He goes there every night just before dawn and swims to the darkest possible places.

Then he simply exhales and lets himself sink to the floor, dead weight and dead to the world and...looking rather like death twice warmed over when he resurface just after sundown.

In so many words, he is not a pretty sight with his skin seeming to hang too loosely about his frame and under his eyes, and damn but it brings back memories from the trenches, stories of where the soldiers' feet would rot right off the bone from standing around for too long in too much muddy water. He remembers seeing it for himself, milder cases of trench foot, as it came to be called, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget.

It's small comfort, but at least there's not all that many awake at night to bump into him.

Tired and worn, Josef had been wandering through the edge of the jungle, seeking the coolest place he might find. He had to admit, he was holding up a lot better than he thought he would, but that wasn't say much all things considered.

At length, sometime just after dusk, he found Mick's scent the strongest, but no Mick.

"Where the hell have you gotten off to," he muttered.

It's not the nicest thing to wake up to, knowing you look like something out of the sci-fi double features you used to love as a young man. He can just hear the narrator's voice booming from the speakers. IT CAME FROM THE SEA

DARK AND TWISTED LIKE THE DEVIL ITSELF

AND IT IS COMING FOR YOU

...well, okay, so the inner fan boy can find at least some amusement in there somewhere, and Mick pushes to the surface with a small smile on his not entirely cooperative lips.

That's the worst part about this set up. He can't really feel his face after eight hours underwater.

His nostrils flared, catching the scent once more. Mick was all over the place, that scent that he'd known forever except, standing so perfectly still, Josef couldn't hear a thing.

Until there.

A gurgle and a bloop and he turned in time to see something break the surface of the water.

Something wrinkled and discoloured and downright straight out of a horror movie. He jerked away with a sound that wasn't a scream, dammit!

"What the hell?!'

Something with white milky eyes and skin hanging too loosely off its own frame, lips pulled away over bared fangs and hair hanging in fat strips over a pasty, grayish complexion.

Something that could be roaring, if it wasn't already.

With laughter.

"Don't think I don't know you're laughing, you damn zombie," he said, picking up a stone and tossing it over Mick's head so it splashed into the water behind him.

"I forgot how bad water... Yuck."

Long is one of the very few completely unbothered by the island's heat and light. He soaks it up in the day, dozing in stretches of sunlight like a cat, uncaring of the warmth that would make others toss and turn and wake with headaches. The sun finds nothing to burn in skin already the color of dark, tarnished bronze.

But at nights he wakes-- stretches in the relative cool, breathes in the wet scents of green leaves and flowers. It takes him back to India, in his head. The stone stupas. The scent of acacias and lianas...

Long explores the island at nights. His eyes, although he is not aware of this fact, shine in the dark like a cat's, two tiny golden moons. And he has excellent night vision.

His wardrobe has changed over the course of the glitch. No need for a business suit and ironed shirt on a ship, or in a deep jungle. He lets the West slip away from him and does not miss its passing overmuch (although he does miss restaurants). He wears the remains of the dark robe he had hatched on the ship, and largely goes barefoot despite the jungle's thorns.

Tonight he seeks out Mick St. John. The tablet is an excellent resource and tool, and guides him eventually to the cenote. He picks his way almost noiselessly through the jungle, feeling just as at home here as he does in the cities. More so, perhaps. He steps lightly on the damp earth and damp leaves.

The jungle opens before him, moonlight shining down on the water. Much as he has no real liking for water after the ship ordeal, it is all the same pretty. Long scans the area for Mick-- there, a pale figure on a rock by the water's edge.

He has looked better, Mick St. John has. Long wonders if the vampire is eating enough. But then, that would be why he has sought him out.

Long clears his throat. Politely.

Mick jumps where he sits, turning wide, droopy eyes on the familiar frame. Unlike Long's eyes, his don't glow, but that doesn't mean he can't see perfectly clearly in the dark.

"Long."

He knows exactly what he looks like, and he knows it isn't pretty. He looks his age, if that's even possible, waterlogged skin wrinkling unnaturally everywhere it's bared to the open air. He's put on a dry shirt (Hawaii style print and cut, and man does that take him back) and a nice pair of Bermuda shorts. It's like a time traveling machine, that hatch.

"I... I was just... Hi."

"Drying?" Long asks.... ~~dryly~~ quietly, and pads closer from the edge of the jungle, eyes flicking over St. John as he nears him. Good heavens, he looks like a shirt left to dry in the machine.

"Forgive my saying so, but you do not look at your best, Mr. St. John," Long observes, standing still several feet from the edge of the water, a slender and dark figure, his skin gleaming dully in the moonlight.

Mick laughs wryly at the matter-of-fact observation, shaking his head. Okay, good. Good.

One less person he's scared half to death tonight. Good.

"Call it a side effect of soaking too long in the...exotic, idyllic natural tub. It's nice and cool, though. Perfect for daytime slumbers."

Mayland Long gives the 'tub' a dubious glance. It is altogether more water than he likes in one place. Bathtub is about his limit.

"I will take your word on it," he says after several seconds. "...I suppose that... yes, if oxygen is not a requirement, then.... hrm, well, in any case.

"And how are you faring with, ah, that which is a requirement?"

Tub, bathhouse, gigantic body of water. Same/diff.

Mick glances up, milky blue eyes moving over the still quite impressive golden embroidery on Long's coat. Better that than look too close.

"I hunt at night. Small animals. Insects, bugs, monkeys."

Nothing that the humans would eat if they have a choice about it. He leaves the exotic birds and four-legged animals for the humans.

"I just prefer to dry out a bit before I go out there, you know?"

"Monkeys," Long repeats. "I see. Monkey brains are quite the delicacy in some cultures."

Not so much monkey blood in his experience.

"....do insects even ... have enough to be worthwhile, for you?"

He merely nods slightly at Mick's words of drying out. Long's vanity can quite understand that.

He makes a small, noncommittal sound. He saw that movie, thank you very much. But, Hollywood aside, to each his own. Monkey brains, lightly sauted sheep's brain... Wouldn't have been his idea of good eats even before he got married.

"Every little bit counts. There's some big beetles out there. Snakes too, but they're difficult to find."

Perk of smelling like a bloated corpse is you bring all the bugs right to you.

"I...hatched some equipment," he says, glancing up again to Long's dark face, gesturing at a dry spot close to the entrance. There's a small bundle nestled beside what looks like a fern.

"In case. I got a few more rum bottles than I'd like to pay for, but I guess they can be good for something. Help yourself, if you want to."

Like liquid courage, or something along those lines.

It's Long's turn to make a non-committal noise. He is not, by Western standards, a picky eater-- the man eats and enjoys balut, for goodness' sake-- but... snakes. Beetles. Bah.

He follows Mick's gesture, and nods slightly, folding his long hands into his sleeves again.

"I haven't acquired a taste for rum. Whiskey is acceptable, or baijiu, or various sakes, but..." Long shrugs.

"I do not require anything to drink, but thank you for the offer. Shall we? The sooner done..."

"Yeah. I feel the same way about bugs." He smiles, a touch more lopsided than normal.

It's surprisingly good to have Long here, with his dry observations and crisp politeness. He doesn't feel as awkward as he thought he would at the prospect of having blood donated directly from the source.

"I'll get the gear, you find somewhere comfortable to take a seat."

long is pretty shiny it's true

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It may seems surprising, but Raziel actually enjoys swimming. And he's taken to swimming through the underwater tunnels that connect many of the cenotes, places that anything breathing would drown in but he spends hours under water, sinuously moving through the caverns.

He watches Mick for a long time underwater, swimming around him with small flicks of his legs.

Mick sleeps, and for a little while he doesn't stir. But, while he doesn't dream, some part of his senses remain alert for danger even when asleep.

His survival instincts rarely make mistakes, and whatever it is in the water with him is a danger to be reckoned with.

His eyes pop open, milky white and staring at the other creature.

Raziel flinches back, darting in the water in a way that only a naturally aquatic creature could. He keep watching, curious. "Why do you lie in the water more corpse like than nature intended for you?"

Tiny bubbles of air cling to his skin, not from his own lungs, but from the stirred water. He blinks, eyes widening incrementally as there's a voice. In his head.

In his head.

The sci-fi tropes just keep on coming, don't they.

His mouth opens, closes, then pressing his slack lips together, he pushes off the stony bottom and makes for the surface.

Clearly, this one needs lungs with air to speak.

He swims alongside Mick, body undulating through the water, circling him as they surface like some grotesque dolphin.

Not just grotesque but creeping the Hell out of Mick - and yeah, pot, kettle, but that's beside the point.

He breaks the surface, eyes darting all around to catch sight of the blue monster.

Again, pot. Kettle.

"Because I don't have a freezer. That's why."

Smartass.

"I do not know what a freezer is." He circles him again. "You are one of the young vampires. I saw you, on the ship."

"It's a box. For preserving foodstuffs."

...or vampires, in this case. And, okay, doesn't seem like Glow-Eyes here means any kind of dangerous business. Might as well be friendly. It beats making enemies, first thing out the proverbial bed.

"Mick St. John." His head follows the movement underwater. "I'd offer to shake hands but mine might fall off. Frail bodies, and all that jazz."