#nrpgtask

[never-rpg]

For one week, beginning the day you reblog this post to your character’s blog, any anonymous questions you receive that are directed at your muse must be answered honestly. There is no time limit to when these asks must be answered, but if they were received within the one week window, then they must be honestly answered. You can do this in-character or out-of-character as long as the answer is truthful. This is an exciting way for the rest of the group to peer inside the mind of your muse and it makes for some great reflection and character development for you! 

Participation in these tasks are by no means required. They’re fun things meant to enrich your rp experience here at NEVER RPG, not stress you out. This isn’t homework. You won’t be graded. There’s no test, I swear! To participate, simply reblog this post and take not of when your week will be up!

[exiled-eyes]

Who provokes your curiosity?

On the island? Nearly everyone provokes curiosity in Cecco, though the merfolk and Pan in specific are the main fascinations. Merfolk had always just been a myth, a superstition that had no real evidence behind it, something used to scare young sailors and those who hadn't seen true horrors yet. Now though, seeing them, being able to speak to them? Cecco is truly amazed and in awe of them, though, it makes them wonder what other myths and folktales hide truth.

Pan however, he truly irks Cecco to the very core. A foolhardy, careless, selfish and arrogant self proclaimed leader who shows no remorse for any lost soul under his care. Cecco doesn't understand how he can be so heartless, but how so many fall under his spell and blindly follow him. Surely there's some sort of secret to it?

[wndybyrd]

NEVER TASK 002 :     n i g h t m a r e  !

wendy only dreams of neverland. whenever she can finally force herself into a deep enough slumber, the island plagues her with memories ( at least, she thinks they’re memories ) of everything she foolishly ran away from. memories of elated joy, memories of epic adventure, memories of an incomparable life she’ll never be able to recreate in the mundane of london. the dreams are so real — like she’s experiencing them all over again in that moment, projecting herself back into those precious moments — that, each morning as her eyes reopen to the breaking down, she’s left even further exhausted.

when she isn’t dreaming, wendy is tormented by nightmares. there is no in-between, no medium, no escape. she’s haunted by happy memories she can only relive in restless sleep, or chased by nightmares of twisted messages impossible for her to interpret. the girl’s tired, hollow eyes are evidence enough of how strongly she fights sleep until it finally consumes her. she yearns for rest, even if it’s eternal. 

wendy was drowning. her lungs were so full of the murky water they felt like rocks in her chest, weighing her down as she sunk further into the depths. it had grown so dark, she no longer knew which way was up or which direction to swim towards. this time, however, no one was dragging her under. no hands clawed at her legs or pulled her further down down down. like a stone that had been skipped upon the shimmering surface, she merely sunk. the girl screamed with the last bit of air in her waterlogged lungs, a soundless scream, muted by a choir of bubbles that fell from quivering lips.

but they weren’t bubbles, were they ? they were stars, & she was falling down down down through the clouds, closing in on the ground at rapid speed. now, her scream was ringing through the air, echoing across the island like a bird’s twittering song. this was her song. her wendy-bird song; it was the one she’d sung when the lost boys had shot her out of the sky, when the merfolk had tried to claim her soul, when peter had . . .

wendy was in peter’s arms, suddenly, her pounding heart racing against his. he would never let her fall or drown or die because then there would be no more ‘peter & wendy’. even when his toes touched the ground, he did not let her go. he would never let her run or hide or home because then there would be no more story, & peter loved stories as much as he loved himself. even if, in this story, he had no face for he was but a shadow of that oh-so familiar silhouette. the shape of a villain parading under the mask of a hero, a mask she had adoringly helped him craft. a mask he wore so well it was like second-skin.

then, ripping through the night, she heard her name crowed out. the girl’s head spun & glassy eyes widened as john & michael came into view. she was standing now, somehow, & dashed towards them as the tattered ends of her nightgown tangled at her ankles, teasing to trip her. wendy’s hands were outstretched, believing that, if she could just reach them, enveloping them inside her, the armor of her love would shield the boys from — —          two figures stepped out from behind each brother: shadows mirroring the same wicked smile. in a swift motion, they gave john & michael smiles of their own . . . carved across their necks, their essence leaking out into the earth as they crumpled to the floor. wendy leapt for her brothers, but the ground opened up & swallowed their bodies whole before her fingers could even scrape their skin. instead, she fell against the grass with a resounding ‘thud’, though, the ache in her bones could not compete with the searing pain that stabbed at her heart. 

she wept. she wept & her tears melted into land like their blood had. she wept & shook & cried out. his arms wrapped around her, but they weren’t warm or comforting like she remembered them to be. his arms were the steel bars of a cage. “ stay. ” he whispered, & she knew it wasn’t a request or a wish. the word was a promise. a command. an absolute. yet, despite everything, she knew she would . . . because if she left she would never come back. if she left, there would be no more ‘peter & wendy’, there would be no more stories, there would only be the end. 

[banditnate]

What do you remember about the other place? Do you miss anything?

The boy rubs at his forehead, as if in attempt to jog his hazy memory. He filters through fragmented thoughts, stills of a film long forgotten.

In an effort to brush the nosy questioner off with a simple "nothing," words involuntarily slip past his lips of their own accord.

"I remember my old man," he mutters. "Bastard." The ghost stench of stale beer on his father's breath wafts through his nostrils. He clenches his eyes tightly; even safe in his mind, he's too close.

"...My house." Snapshots of a tiny tenement building roll into view. Paint peeling from the walls. Water leaking from the ceiling when it rained. Three dining chairs around a small, round table, one of them perpetually empty. "--If you could even call it that."

"...And her." She smells of flowers and soap, her long red hair bouncing wherever she goes. The memory shifts to the scent of iron and blood, of hurried footsteps through the grass, panting and running through the trees until he loses her in the forest.

He clears his throat, stinging eyes finding a pebble on the ground much easier to stare at.

"Do I miss anything?" The carousel of nightmares in his brain stops. He pauses, releasing a breath as his shoulders drop. "No, I don't."

honesty week || five days left

[ifyouwaltzwiththewildthings]

What piece of yours are you most proud of creating?

The question brings them a big smile, even a short chuckle. "What an impossible question! I've made so much to be proud of over the years. Hmm..."

As they recall many of their most prized works, they feel that dark pit in their stomach crack open. The vast majority of their work was lost with the fire. So many projects that they sunk hours labouring into with such love and care. Just ashes now. They were most proud of when they solved some puzzles for people by making personalised tools, then seeing them in action... Those people were gone, too. Statues of animals that were bigger than them, ornaments that fitted in the palm of their hands... All gone, all gone.

Their smile faulters just for a moment, you'd miss it if you weren't paying close attention. "Honestly, I don't think I can give a proper answer. Why, we'd be here all day, ahaha," they return to their usual radiant self. "I'd go back on my answer every time I remember something else, I think."

[blackdirtinthestreet]

Do you ever wish of returning home?

Home.

The word gives them pause. "Returning... You mean to the other place, yeah?" As they think, they turn their attention to the world around them. Lush trees, long stretching planes spotted with flowers, full of life, full of death. They attempt to make some comparison to the other place, however all they can recall is a feeling. A deep, dull feeling that makes it harder to breathe. That was everyday, every night.

Was that home?

No, surely not. They shake their head with confidence. "This is home. With the Lost Boys, here in Neverland. I'm not going back, not ever."

Peter gave them this chance, why would they throw it away? It made no sense.

[t-horns]

Will you ever forgive and forget? Even for the sake of Tink?

"For the sake of Tink?" Thorn opens his mouth, thinking for a few moments. "What does that mean, for the sake of Tink? If they were holding her at knifepoint?" He has to laugh, dryly.

"Would that even be real forgiveness, then?" He shakes his head. "I will not. There's no forgiving for circumstances like these. There's certainly no forgetting. Tink isn't worth more than my family was."

"Even if she begged me, I will not. I can't let them go like that."

[heartlcssboy]

NRPG TASK 002: Nightmares and Daydreams

Peter Pan cannot dream, so instead I offer up a playlist about being unable to rest and the waking nightmares he’s plagued by while others slumber. 

includes themes of: insomnia, sleep paralysis, violence, death, gaslighting, manipulation, child abuse, verbal and physical abuse, blood, victim blaming, and probably other upsetting themes that I’ve missed by mistake.

listen to it on spotify.

[tristan-najjar]

What habit is consuming you right now?

Habit? Consuming?

Tristan leans back, thinking. "All the typical ones, if you mean the real... nasty ones," he says with a sigh. But he holds up a finger. "I'm working on it still, though."

After a moment of thought, he nods. "In a more positive sense... I think I'm finally getting the hang of fishing. It helps to try doing it away from the merfolk."

[wndybyrd]

NEVER TASK 001 :     f a v o r i t e   s p o t   !

             “ haunted by the dead . haunted by the living and the graveyard of memories they leave in our head . how terrible it is to love something that death can touch . “

as a child , wendy loved the jewel-like pool that was mermaid lagoon. now, however, the thought of stepping foot in its waters makes her skin prickle & throat close up — though, she can’t fully remember why the sudden aversion came to be. in its stead, she found comfort within the graveyard. 

the girl didn’t realize that’s what it was at first, thinking the stones & wooden markers to be props for one of the lost boys various made-up games. someone had to clue her in on the morbid history behind the secluded site, though that didn’t hinder her from slipping away there frequently. it’s quiet & remote enough, tucked deep in the forest, that she tends to successfully avoid any bother from the boys . . . or unfriendlier creatures laying deep within the island. 

there, in that special, sacred spot, she reads her books & writes her thoughts, or, occasionally, letters to her loved ones ( offered to neverbirds or tucked in glass bottles & sent to sea in hopes they miraculously, magically find a way to their intended recipients ). 

often, wendy reads aloud. after all, within those sad, shallow graves lie children who will never grow up. children whose eternal souls will always be young at heart. some may think it a delusional waste of time, but was she not brought to neverland as the lost boys’ storyteller ? dead or not, lost boys are lost boys; she will give to them her love, eternally.

if only. if only. if only she knew  how many “ wendy’s “ laid beneath her feet, too.

[t-horns]

Will you ever get Tink’s attention away from Peter?

"No."

He doesn't know what more to say to that. It's not going to happen. He's not suffering any delusions. And even if he did, what would happen after that? He was miserable company, she deserved better than that -- and turning Peter's fury on them...

He shakes his head. "No, I won't. She'll never care for me the way I care for her. Why should she?"

[blackdirtinthestreet]

Who do you hope the next person you bury will be? It's going to be someone.

That's right. It's always going to be someone. People live, people die, and Bones puts them to rest in Neverland's soil. It's just how it is. It's natural, it's needed. That doesn't mean Bones doesn't sorely miss and mourn some of those he buries, but...

They shuffle in discomfort, a shallow breath through shuddering lips. "What do you mean? You mean who do I hope is next to die...? Everyone I know, I will bury them eventually. Until I am buried myself..." It's not a day they're afraid of, perhaps it's even a day they're looking forward to, however they just hope it's not too soon. There's so much for them to do while mortal.

Despite their discomfort with the question, names start popping up in their mind. "...I've never buried a pirate," they hum quietly. "I've never had the opportunity. Those pirates that are killed are left with the others of their kind. I wonder what they do for their dead... But I'd be happy to bury one of them." As they look down, they see their hands trembling ever so slightly. Holding them up into the moonlight, Bones peers through their fingers with a blank expression. "It would be fun. A pirate..."

Perhaps the others would be against it. A pirate of all things buried with their precious dead... But the dead are dead, all the same to Bones. All equal in the end.

[t-horns]

What if it never works? What if all of your effort, all your scheming, all of that blood, amounts to nothing?

It's almost impossible to answer. "What am I supposed to say?" He asks weakly, voice husky with emotion. "That I'm prepared for that? That I've known it from the moment I made this my purpose?"

He leans forward, trying to pull himself together. "Sometimes I believe that they're doomed, and it'll all be because of me. Sometimes I think that I'm only hanging from a thread, I'm living in denial. You've caught me on a bad day, I'm afraid." He firms his jaw. He needs to be bold.

"I'm not sorry. Whatever happens... I lived to atone, for surviving where more deserving people didn't. Every loss was worth it. All the blood was worth it." He swallows, then nods. "I'll never see my family again, but if there's any afterlife, they'll know that I didn't sit back and let them go."

[t-horns]

What would be an ideal death for Captain Hook?

Anything.

"In all honesty..." Thorn leans back. "I don't care." Hook is the captain; he knows that. The one with the hook for a hand. Easily distinguished. "The fires were all his fault, he did it. And yet I really don't care how he dies. I just want to know it happened. If it was me that's even better." He takes a deep breath.

"Peter wants him for his games. I don't want to bother with that... I just want to know he's gone, that he's paid for feeling so free to slaughter all my people."

"I suppose something slow would be nice. Maybe a fire, like what he did to my family?" A small smile graces his lips. "But... once he's dead..."

There'd be no use to Thorn anymore. No purpose left.

It leaves him with a dark feeling.

[exiled-eyes]

You seem convinced that you will die on the island, can you even picture a happy life for yourself in the Other Place?

"Truthfully?"

"I don't quite think I could. As much as I hate this island, the fact that there is no reason or rhyme to anything that happens here. . . there are people I care about here. To go back to 'the other place' or home, as I'd rather call it, would feel like jumping ship. Italy is a cozy place, what with the museums, taverns and all, but here, well, Anna is here. Wendy, Charlie- I could go on and list the names of those who are keeping me here, but we would be here for a while."

Chapped lips cracked a slight smile. Truthfully it was the people who primarily kept them here, but there was one other thing that clawed at their mind, every single time they had a moment of silence.

"I should have died when The Righteous Harpy burned. There are many points in my life where I should have died, and after what happened to my- the crew of the Harpy . . . I don't wish to return to the main land. As it seems death follows me, like stench on rot. Unshakeable. Inevitable. To die here, locked away in time, or to disappear in a plume of smoke and ash, would be a better fate than anything the main land could offer me. A husband? Wife? 10 more years to live? 10 more years to remember that I failed to keep people safe, that I abandoned the crew of the Jolly Roger? At least here, there is physical torture to distract me from the mental hell I cannot escape. The main land, the 'other place' cannot provide me anything worth living with that pain."

[exiled-eyes]

was your love for Danik a romantic sort of love?

A pause. Breath stopping within the confined space of their throat. The name alone brings up painful memories, ripping open the poorly done stitching of Cecco's mutilated heart. Invisible. Numbing. Like a thousand frozen swords were pressed against their skin.

"Danik was . . unrequited." To say it aloud, to allow the meaning behind the phrase to truly reach them for the first time, felt as if life itself had slowed down. Though their eyes were shut, they saw memories. A familiar face, housing brown eyes as inviting as a warm cup of coffee on a cold winters day. Plump, pale rosy lips that were hard not to steal glances towards. Rough digits reaching out to ruffle curly locks that always got tangled between his fingers.

"I'd have followed him down, to the very bottom of Davy Jones's locker. There wasn't enough water in the ocean to fill my lungs, nor waves ferocious enough to wear down my body, that would have prevented me from ending my journey alongside him. He was worth more to me than any rum, gold, or coin could amount to. Should he have taken the yawl and tried to escape into the night, I would have gone with him. Even though it would have meant certain death."

Their mouth twitched, parted ever so slightly, battling against themself in an attempt to find the words. Though no sound left their lips, Cecco could hear themself screaming. Like a wild animal trapped in a cage. Scared. Confused. Alone. No matter how many crews they had jumped, how many friends they left behind on other vessels, the pain of being tortured within that damned prison. None of it held a candle to the serrated blades that twisted within them when the thought of Danik arose.

"I used to call him 'il mio mondo', always asked me what it meant . . . swore that one day I'd tell him. It drove him crazy, he'd pretend he hated it, but the corner of his lips would always twitch up as though he was trying to fight back a smile. There was this . . look in his eyes, as if he had a clue, but he never said anything. It could of been love . . . or he could have been looking at me the same way one does for a small pup, or a close friend. I was too blinded by my own emotions to get a read of his. There was no wrong he could do from my eyes. I never got to tell him what it meant though. What he meant. Another secret that will follow me to my grave."