mother of sorrows
𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑚.
And his name that sat upon him was Death.
✷
LAST DAYS OF ADAM
Do you believe in God?
Hell Followed With Us, Andrew Joseph White.
- I do, please stop, there is so much blood.
Hell Followed With Us, Andrew Joseph White.
ART DECO
© pasta
Michigan, 1963.
The crushing of gravel undertire made Margaret look up from the washing.
Charlie was going crazy, yapping from his chain up out in the courtyard. From the thin, breeze-nudged, moth-eaten curtains she saw a truck; red, streaked with mud. Margaret recognized it from a distance, the color of over-ripe tomatoes rotting in her garden. The woman brushed her moist hands on her apron and steps out the kitchen, trying to wrestle wispy curls of white hair behind her ear.
''Jack! Jack, the new neighbours are here!''
Her husband answered from deeper inside the house, voice blown out by the sizzling TV. ''Who?''
She waved a hand in the air, wondering why she even says anything at all. ''The ones that bought Stevenson's farm.''
Margaret opened the storm door latch and stepped into the stifling summer air, batting away flies and dust. Cows mooed in the distance, just as irritated as her. The truck parked right in front of their house, still running. Inside sat a man. His face was blurred out by the sun's harsh surface, the truck's front window reflecting like a lake. Margaret paused by the steps, half-smiling.
Charlie was still barking, white teeth flashing and eyes set on the truck. She dragged him back by the collar and the dog lowered his head, tail thump-a-thumping against her leg. Only then does the car door open and the man steps out, all smiles. Must be scared of dogs, she thinks.
''Hello, ma'am. I hope I'm not bothering you.'' He's a fairly young man, mid-thirties and tall. Big eyes, white teeth. Black hair to his chin. A fresh, friendly face, just like the ones she sees in weathered, glossy magazines with the pawed ends. Real dentist's office like. ''We recently brought the farm over there and I thought I'd go around meeting the neighbours.''
Instinctively, he looks past to the left - Margaret follows his gaze over empty, barren fields to the red barn in the distance, just a little red dot in a sea of green. She wipes her hands again and nods, nods, nods.
''Oh, I've seen your truck around there. Yes,'' She offered a hand and the man took it with grace, ''Am I glad to hear it. You understand, that farm's been empty since '34. A real shame for it to stay that way.''
The man let out an understanding hum, smiling. ''And we're glad to buy it. It's truly beautiful out here.''
''That it is.'' Margaret paused, looking towards the farm again. ''By 'we' you mean your wife?'' Nosy woman, Jack would berate, but she couldn't resist.
''No such thing.'' The man didn't seem to mind. His accent - where was it from? Southern? ''Are you religious, ma'am?''
Margaret startles a bit, not expecting the question. She gestured vaguely to the sky, her smile fiddly. ''About as much as anyone around here, yes.''
At that the men smiled more, leaning a hand on the truck. His nails were manicured, she noticed, not a speck of dirt under them. ''I don't mean to pry, ma'am. Thing is, a congregation I'm part of is moving here.''
''A congregation.''
''Yes.'' The man said. ''We just deal with charity and services, no great church. I'm afraid our numbers are humble for now.'' He looks at the ground, laughing. It's a very gentle laugh, a barely exhaled 'ha-hah.'
''Oh, that's great.'' Margaret said, and she really did mean it. A nice use for such an old farm, she thinks. ''That's really great.''
The man smiles again. He hasn't stopped smiling since he started talking.
Silence coughs between them. It fixes it's collar, plays with the bone white window sheets. Margaret shifts on her sandals, a bit of her sock poking out from a work-eaten hole.
''Yes. You are very welcome to visit our services, if you wish. Oh,'' The man straightens to his full height, and she notices again how tall he is. Over six feet two, easily. ''Excuse me, I didn't even introduce myself. I'm -''
At that moment Charlie starts to bark again, springing on her hind legs to snap at the man. He startles away from him a few steps back and Margaret drags Charlie back by the collar, shushing him with a raised finger - and yet Charlie continues to yowl and howl, louder than a boiler in the middle of winter.
''I'm so sorry, sir. No idea what's gotten into him, he's never this loud.'' Margaret starts apologetically, but the man gives an easy wave of his hand. His face doesn't flinch an inch, but his eyes are set on the dog.
''It's nothing, ma'am. That's a good guard dog, right there.'' As if with some difficulty, he looks back up at her, giving another so bright smile. ''If you don't mind, I have some other neighbours to visit, but I'd love to pop in again.''
''Of course.'' She says vaguely, waving goodbye as the man walks back to his too-red truck. ''Of course, yes.''
Charlie is still growling, even as he man drives away. Stupid dog, all Jack's fault for spoiling him with ribs. Though, now that the man mentioned it -
Margaret looks up towards old Steveson's farm, up beyond the short distance that separates them; and if she squints just right, she thinks she can make out people...
○
Michigan, 1966.
''I guess after Rachel died, I, I just. I don't know, nothing didn't make sense anymore.''
''I understand, Jonah.''
''Uh. And then the bills. Y'know. I was at my lowest, I hated everyone and everything. I wanted -''
''Of course, Jonah.''
''I needed an out. And I knew this guy, so. So...''
Jonah begins to cry, crumpled over the plastic chair like a puppet with it's strings cut off. Goodnight, show's ended. Fat glops of salty tears drifted down his face and on the squeaky linoleum floors and the nurse in equally squeaky scrubs nods with sympathy that's been stretched thin over a hundred patients. He is crying in a hallway filled with crying mothers, grandchildren, husbands, and the nurse knows he will barely be able to cover the bills of this visit.
She's tired. She doesn't put a hand on her shoulder, but shows her own kind of mercy.
''Listen, Jonah,'' She steps over to the disinfectant-sticky desks where patients fill out signatures or workers hand out pamphlets, and she hands the man a slip of a paper. ''There's a place here, just ten minutes away. The Adam Branch. They're a religious group, but.''
She bites her lip. ''You don't have to be religious to join. They take everyone. And they're free. All sorts of programs from rehab to treating depression. How about you give them a call?''
Jonah took the card, nodding and clutching arms around himself like cradling a dead body. He'll go, she thinks. A lot of them go.
○
Michigan, 1968.
''Hey, Micah, it's Juliet. Um, when you're done with work, can you please call me? Those Adam Branch guys came by again with a bunch of papers and a lawyer. I told 'em we aren't selling, not the fields, not the house. But um, they didn't listen and the lawyer guy went on about how there's some loophole and our land isn't really ours. Um. So yeah. Please call me, I'm really worried...''
○
Michigan, 1970.
Autumn, bitter and sinister, descends over nature, crushing the life out of springy leaves and scattering their empty shells over the waterclogged grounds. Tractors hurry along the fields and portly batches of pumpkins fill the sides of roads. The REPD, usually sleepily breaking up drunken fights of responding to animal fights, gets a call.
''Uh, sherrif? Deputy Rodriquez here. I keep getting complaints about those Adam Branch people throwing protests all over the county. Yelling and throwing a fuss about 'the end.' Just a bunch of bullshit.'' Deputy Rodriquez sits in the phone booth, trying to massage the ringing out of his ears and giving scandalized looks over the vulgar writing etched into the walls. ''But they're destroying a lot of property.''
Silence on the other line. For a moment, the deputy thinks the sherrif can't hear him; he's about to blow dust off the receiver when the sherrif clears his throat.
''The Adam Branch? They've always been harmless.''
''Uh. Harmless, yeah, but this isn't the first time this has happened, sir.'' Maybe here, but not in other towns. Like a drop of water in a lake, endless riples.
The sherrif goes quiet again. Talks after a while.
''Hard to believe they're causing problems.''
''I know, sir.'' Deputy Rodriquez's radio whispers back to life, full of pleads for help. ''How many officers should I call over?''
This time, the sherrif really does go quiet. Over the sound of his breathing and the radio buzzing, there is a shift of papers. Rodriquez sits there, in the grimy telephone booth, waiting.
''Sir?'' No reply. ''We are going to send someone over, right?''
○
Michigan, 1972.
''Hey, John. Paul here. Did you by any chance see Marianne by your house? I don't wanna sound paranoid or somethin', but she's been gone the whole day and it's kind of starting to freak me out. I saw those vans again yesterday and this is all just really odd. Please call me back when you can.''
○
Just a week before September 14th, 1974.
The small, rural county of Ward County, North Michigan consists of nothing more than grey mountains, farms, livestock and tiny towns with old church folk and teenagers whose future is so boring they've ran off to drugs and scandalously short sleeves. The United States are wrestling with the oil crisis, and forgettable counties like Ward County get empty gas stations and pathetic population statistics. God, like the Federal Goverment, had a slip of mind when creating this land - the opposite of Heaven isn't hell, but the empty vastness that fills Ward County.
No one notices the Adam Branch. Not in a bad way, at least.
A religious group that's sprouted off some fundamentalist church down South and trailed it's way up here, settling in the benign boredom and farmers whose backs have been broken by harsh, cruel work. They were harmless. Gentle, at first.
Maybe an extreme belief here or there. Signs of the doomdays. But their pastor's so charming and he cares so much. One church turns into two, turns into seven, turns into twelve... A few complain they've got their land stolen by some big city lawyers, but the majority don't listen. So many of the force visits the services, too. And then soon, the small-town politicians; the ones who remain independent watch on, but they don't mind so much.
They've got some weird beliefs, those Adam Branch people. Women in white veils walk into the grocery stores and stare at the dirtied ground, and they never respond to the cashiers. Folks with good heads on their shoulders turn nervous and panicked, building cellars underground and watch their neighbours with red eyes. Compounds stand in the distance like white graveyards, the bleached buildings packed together and music drifting from their centers.
People disappear. Beloved pets disappear. More and more churches spring like plants from the ground.
The Adam Branch starts to talk about the end of times. Ward County doesn't mind.
And if there is anyone to notice their services have grown more and more obsessive, they don't have the means to leave.
○
Hi, hello! Welcome to the Last Days of Adam, a horror roleplay focused on a tiny North Michigan county and the cult that's slowly isolating it from the rest of the world. The inspiration for the story are Far Cry 5, Outlast and Yellowjackets, with the characters being forced to fight for survival as the cult prepares for the fall. The story is going to have quite a bit of action like Far Cry, but not so much of the silliness and with the oppressive atmosphere of Outlast 2.
This roleplay is going to have subjects of religious horror (specifically a cult that's a mix of Christianity), gore, discrimination, death and serious topics such as drug abuse. While it won't be all gloom and doom, please be aware of this!
But anyhow, welcome! If you have any questions or thoughts, please let me know! I'm super excited to get this off the ground and get some spooky horror vibes out. < 3
RULES
The crushing of gravel undertire made Margaret look up from the washing.
Charlie was going crazy, yapping from his chain up out in the courtyard. From the thin, breeze-nudged, moth-eaten curtains she saw a truck; red, streaked with mud. Margaret recognized it from a distance, the color of over-ripe tomatoes rotting in her garden. The woman brushed her moist hands on her apron and steps out the kitchen, trying to wrestle wispy curls of white hair behind her ear.
''Jack! Jack, the new neighbours are here!''
Her husband answered from deeper inside the house, voice blown out by the sizzling TV. ''Who?''
She waved a hand in the air, wondering why she even says anything at all. ''The ones that bought Stevenson's farm.''
Margaret opened the storm door latch and stepped into the stifling summer air, batting away flies and dust. Cows mooed in the distance, just as irritated as her. The truck parked right in front of their house, still running. Inside sat a man. His face was blurred out by the sun's harsh surface, the truck's front window reflecting like a lake. Margaret paused by the steps, half-smiling.
Charlie was still barking, white teeth flashing and eyes set on the truck. She dragged him back by the collar and the dog lowered his head, tail thump-a-thumping against her leg. Only then does the car door open and the man steps out, all smiles. Must be scared of dogs, she thinks.
''Hello, ma'am. I hope I'm not bothering you.'' He's a fairly young man, mid-thirties and tall. Big eyes, white teeth. Black hair to his chin. A fresh, friendly face, just like the ones she sees in weathered, glossy magazines with the pawed ends. Real dentist's office like. ''We recently brought the farm over there and I thought I'd go around meeting the neighbours.''
Instinctively, he looks past to the left - Margaret follows his gaze over empty, barren fields to the red barn in the distance, just a little red dot in a sea of green. She wipes her hands again and nods, nods, nods.
''Oh, I've seen your truck around there. Yes,'' She offered a hand and the man took it with grace, ''Am I glad to hear it. You understand, that farm's been empty since '34. A real shame for it to stay that way.''
The man let out an understanding hum, smiling. ''And we're glad to buy it. It's truly beautiful out here.''
''That it is.'' Margaret paused, looking towards the farm again. ''By 'we' you mean your wife?'' Nosy woman, Jack would berate, but she couldn't resist.
''No such thing.'' The man didn't seem to mind. His accent - where was it from? Southern? ''Are you religious, ma'am?''
Margaret startles a bit, not expecting the question. She gestured vaguely to the sky, her smile fiddly. ''About as much as anyone around here, yes.''
At that the men smiled more, leaning a hand on the truck. His nails were manicured, she noticed, not a speck of dirt under them. ''I don't mean to pry, ma'am. Thing is, a congregation I'm part of is moving here.''
''A congregation.''
''Yes.'' The man said. ''We just deal with charity and services, no great church. I'm afraid our numbers are humble for now.'' He looks at the ground, laughing. It's a very gentle laugh, a barely exhaled 'ha-hah.'
''Oh, that's great.'' Margaret said, and she really did mean it. A nice use for such an old farm, she thinks. ''That's really great.''
The man smiles again. He hasn't stopped smiling since he started talking.
Silence coughs between them. It fixes it's collar, plays with the bone white window sheets. Margaret shifts on her sandals, a bit of her sock poking out from a work-eaten hole.
''Yes. You are very welcome to visit our services, if you wish. Oh,'' The man straightens to his full height, and she notices again how tall he is. Over six feet two, easily. ''Excuse me, I didn't even introduce myself. I'm -''
At that moment Charlie starts to bark again, springing on her hind legs to snap at the man. He startles away from him a few steps back and Margaret drags Charlie back by the collar, shushing him with a raised finger - and yet Charlie continues to yowl and howl, louder than a boiler in the middle of winter.
''I'm so sorry, sir. No idea what's gotten into him, he's never this loud.'' Margaret starts apologetically, but the man gives an easy wave of his hand. His face doesn't flinch an inch, but his eyes are set on the dog.
''It's nothing, ma'am. That's a good guard dog, right there.'' As if with some difficulty, he looks back up at her, giving another so bright smile. ''If you don't mind, I have some other neighbours to visit, but I'd love to pop in again.''
''Of course.'' She says vaguely, waving goodbye as the man walks back to his too-red truck. ''Of course, yes.''
Charlie is still growling, even as he man drives away. Stupid dog, all Jack's fault for spoiling him with ribs. Though, now that the man mentioned it -
Margaret looks up towards old Steveson's farm, up beyond the short distance that separates them; and if she squints just right, she thinks she can make out people...
○
Michigan, 1966.
''I guess after Rachel died, I, I just. I don't know, nothing didn't make sense anymore.''
''I understand, Jonah.''
''Uh. And then the bills. Y'know. I was at my lowest, I hated everyone and everything. I wanted -''
''Of course, Jonah.''
''I needed an out. And I knew this guy, so. So...''
Jonah begins to cry, crumpled over the plastic chair like a puppet with it's strings cut off. Goodnight, show's ended. Fat glops of salty tears drifted down his face and on the squeaky linoleum floors and the nurse in equally squeaky scrubs nods with sympathy that's been stretched thin over a hundred patients. He is crying in a hallway filled with crying mothers, grandchildren, husbands, and the nurse knows he will barely be able to cover the bills of this visit.
She's tired. She doesn't put a hand on her shoulder, but shows her own kind of mercy.
''Listen, Jonah,'' She steps over to the disinfectant-sticky desks where patients fill out signatures or workers hand out pamphlets, and she hands the man a slip of a paper. ''There's a place here, just ten minutes away. The Adam Branch. They're a religious group, but.''
She bites her lip. ''You don't have to be religious to join. They take everyone. And they're free. All sorts of programs from rehab to treating depression. How about you give them a call?''
Jonah took the card, nodding and clutching arms around himself like cradling a dead body. He'll go, she thinks. A lot of them go.
○
Michigan, 1968.
''Hey, Micah, it's Juliet. Um, when you're done with work, can you please call me? Those Adam Branch guys came by again with a bunch of papers and a lawyer. I told 'em we aren't selling, not the fields, not the house. But um, they didn't listen and the lawyer guy went on about how there's some loophole and our land isn't really ours. Um. So yeah. Please call me, I'm really worried...''
○
Michigan, 1970.
Autumn, bitter and sinister, descends over nature, crushing the life out of springy leaves and scattering their empty shells over the waterclogged grounds. Tractors hurry along the fields and portly batches of pumpkins fill the sides of roads. The REPD, usually sleepily breaking up drunken fights of responding to animal fights, gets a call.
''Uh, sherrif? Deputy Rodriquez here. I keep getting complaints about those Adam Branch people throwing protests all over the county. Yelling and throwing a fuss about 'the end.' Just a bunch of bullshit.'' Deputy Rodriquez sits in the phone booth, trying to massage the ringing out of his ears and giving scandalized looks over the vulgar writing etched into the walls. ''But they're destroying a lot of property.''
Silence on the other line. For a moment, the deputy thinks the sherrif can't hear him; he's about to blow dust off the receiver when the sherrif clears his throat.
''The Adam Branch? They've always been harmless.''
''Uh. Harmless, yeah, but this isn't the first time this has happened, sir.'' Maybe here, but not in other towns. Like a drop of water in a lake, endless riples.
The sherrif goes quiet again. Talks after a while.
''Hard to believe they're causing problems.''
''I know, sir.'' Deputy Rodriquez's radio whispers back to life, full of pleads for help. ''How many officers should I call over?''
This time, the sherrif really does go quiet. Over the sound of his breathing and the radio buzzing, there is a shift of papers. Rodriquez sits there, in the grimy telephone booth, waiting.
''Sir?'' No reply. ''We are going to send someone over, right?''
○
Michigan, 1972.
''Hey, John. Paul here. Did you by any chance see Marianne by your house? I don't wanna sound paranoid or somethin', but she's been gone the whole day and it's kind of starting to freak me out. I saw those vans again yesterday and this is all just really odd. Please call me back when you can.''
○
Just a week before September 14th, 1974.
The small, rural county of Ward County, North Michigan consists of nothing more than grey mountains, farms, livestock and tiny towns with old church folk and teenagers whose future is so boring they've ran off to drugs and scandalously short sleeves. The United States are wrestling with the oil crisis, and forgettable counties like Ward County get empty gas stations and pathetic population statistics. God, like the Federal Goverment, had a slip of mind when creating this land - the opposite of Heaven isn't hell, but the empty vastness that fills Ward County.
No one notices the Adam Branch. Not in a bad way, at least.
A religious group that's sprouted off some fundamentalist church down South and trailed it's way up here, settling in the benign boredom and farmers whose backs have been broken by harsh, cruel work. They were harmless. Gentle, at first.
Maybe an extreme belief here or there. Signs of the doomdays. But their pastor's so charming and he cares so much. One church turns into two, turns into seven, turns into twelve... A few complain they've got their land stolen by some big city lawyers, but the majority don't listen. So many of the force visits the services, too. And then soon, the small-town politicians; the ones who remain independent watch on, but they don't mind so much.
They've got some weird beliefs, those Adam Branch people. Women in white veils walk into the grocery stores and stare at the dirtied ground, and they never respond to the cashiers. Folks with good heads on their shoulders turn nervous and panicked, building cellars underground and watch their neighbours with red eyes. Compounds stand in the distance like white graveyards, the bleached buildings packed together and music drifting from their centers.
People disappear. Beloved pets disappear. More and more churches spring like plants from the ground.
The Adam Branch starts to talk about the end of times. Ward County doesn't mind.
And if there is anyone to notice their services have grown more and more obsessive, they don't have the means to leave.
○
Hi, hello! Welcome to the Last Days of Adam, a horror roleplay focused on a tiny North Michigan county and the cult that's slowly isolating it from the rest of the world. The inspiration for the story are Far Cry 5, Outlast and Yellowjackets, with the characters being forced to fight for survival as the cult prepares for the fall. The story is going to have quite a bit of action like Far Cry, but not so much of the silliness and with the oppressive atmosphere of Outlast 2.
This roleplay is going to have subjects of religious horror (specifically a cult that's a mix of Christianity), gore, discrimination, death and serious topics such as drug abuse. While it won't be all gloom and doom, please be aware of this!
But anyhow, welcome! If you have any questions or thoughts, please let me know! I'm super excited to get this off the ground and get some spooky horror vibes out. < 3
RULES
- Be 18+. Discord is needed, as most of the OOC convos will happen there.
- I shouldn't have to say this, but no bigotry or bullying is allowed. Be respectful of your fellow writers and allow their character to have a spot in the limelight.
- Character deaths will happen, but only with writer permission!
- This roleplay is not first come first serve. Descriptions or real faceclaims only!
- Please be able to write at least 2 paragraphs! Though, if there's action or dialogue or your brain is just running on farts, short posts are totally okay.
- Be able to post at least bi-weekly - though, of course, real life always comes first!
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