Heather Mason (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
foolishwren) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
route_10652011-08-31 11:55 pm
foolishwren) wrote in route_10652011-08-31 11:55 pm
Between the kindness of strangers and the rumble of the road
Who: Aoko Nakamori, Crow Hogan, Harry Mason, Heather Mason, Henry Townshend, Kaito Kuroba
Where: Route 38
When: Nighttime, August 31
Summary: Campfires are interesting places. Even more interesting when the people sitting at one are a detective's daughter, a guy who plays card games on motorcycles, an internationally-wanted jewel thief, an agoraphobic photographer, a ... Heather, and a mild-mannered novelist who's probably the only mature adult there.
But you can't have a campfire without stories, and with such a crowd as odd as this one, there's sure to be a few worth telling...
Rating: PG for spooky stories
Log:
The dog days of summer are a special time of year, regardless of whether or not you're young enough to still associate them with the last days of freedom before fall and academia set back in. And while Johto's pace of life seemed to stay the same year-round regardless of season, there was still a little something in the air on that last night of August.
The sun had long since sunk below the treeline, leaving in its wake a warm night that still held the barest hint of the autumn ahead.
But the fire chased that little ghost of a chill away nicely, small though it was from where it flickered in the center of the little hollow they'd set up camp in, and what the fire didn't do, the sleeping bags would. It was a small site, hardly more than a pine-needle-and-root-floored clearing walled in by thick trunks.
In fact, the fire's flickering light hardly even extends through the gaps between the trees.
... Which is why Heather's got a staticky, softly-glowing Pichu held in the palm of her hand like some kind of squishy, living lantern as she squeezes her way back into the fire's light, stepping carefully over friend, Pokemon alike before dumping a pile of sticks next to the fire.
"Boom. That's enough for the rest of the night, I think. Outta the way, Cooj."
Shoveling the fluffy canine monstrosity that had (along with a few puffy bags of marshmallows) been taking up most of her sleeping bag aside, Heather flopped down with a hearty huff, still holding her father's Pichu and looking around at the rest of the travel party with a wide grin.
"SO! We still gonna do the stories?"
Where: Route 38
When: Nighttime, August 31
Summary: Campfires are interesting places. Even more interesting when the people sitting at one are a detective's daughter, a guy who plays card games on motorcycles, an internationally-wanted jewel thief, an agoraphobic photographer, a ... Heather, and a mild-mannered novelist who's probably the only mature adult there.
But you can't have a campfire without stories, and with such a crowd as odd as this one, there's sure to be a few worth telling...
Rating: PG for spooky stories
Log:
The dog days of summer are a special time of year, regardless of whether or not you're young enough to still associate them with the last days of freedom before fall and academia set back in. And while Johto's pace of life seemed to stay the same year-round regardless of season, there was still a little something in the air on that last night of August.
The sun had long since sunk below the treeline, leaving in its wake a warm night that still held the barest hint of the autumn ahead.
But the fire chased that little ghost of a chill away nicely, small though it was from where it flickered in the center of the little hollow they'd set up camp in, and what the fire didn't do, the sleeping bags would. It was a small site, hardly more than a pine-needle-and-root-floored clearing walled in by thick trunks.
In fact, the fire's flickering light hardly even extends through the gaps between the trees.
... Which is why Heather's got a staticky, softly-glowing Pichu held in the palm of her hand like some kind of squishy, living lantern as she squeezes her way back into the fire's light, stepping carefully over friend, Pokemon alike before dumping a pile of sticks next to the fire.
"Boom. That's enough for the rest of the night, I think. Outta the way, Cooj."
Shoveling the fluffy canine monstrosity that had (along with a few puffy bags of marshmallows) been taking up most of her sleeping bag aside, Heather flopped down with a hearty huff, still holding her father's Pichu and looking around at the rest of the travel party with a wide grin.
"SO! We still gonna do the stories?"
no subject
Nope, you started choking before he jumped on your back. I was watchin'. The Masonator sees all.
[Poor Harry. Having to sit through teenagers (and a twenty-something) tell horror stories and talk about people making out in unconventional locations and now this.]
no subject
Whatever.
no subject
[Cujo agrees with that, because of course he immediately leans over and tries to snuffle all over the Glameow with his melted-marshmallow-covered snout.]
[Heather, meanwhile, does a fist-pump!]
The 'w' word has been used!
Victory automatically goes to meee.
no subject
[Henry makes a little face at this supposed victory.]
What.
no subject
[Heather, on the other hand, is just beaming. She folds her arms and puffs out her chest.]
I win.
no subject
[Henry wasn't one to really...argue for or against the fact that he was scared. He just kind of retreated into his own little world and accepted whatever descriptions folk made about him. Coward, stoner, receiver.]
[But Heather was starting to push at his buttons.]
[Henry didn't even know he HAD buttons.]
Just because you sounded like you swallowed your tongue doesn't mean your story was scary. Or convincing.
no subject
Why'd you jump, then?
... 'Sides, if anyone'd believe me when I talk about ghosts, I'd think it'd be you.
no subject
Oh.
[8C.............................Nom. HE DUN BEEN TOLD. Now he kind of felt bad.]
no subject
[No need to feel bad, though. Heather's just laughing it all off and playfully flicking a marshmallow at him.]
The moral of the story is, ghosts are assholes.
The end.