(open) — have you seen a little girl?

[rosae]

<sup>Who: Rose Da Silva / horrormom + you!
What: Catchall — includes general & event prompts.
When: Throughout the month of November.
Where: Various places around Trench, The Tower, etc.

Content Warnings: distressed mothers / themes of missing children / religious themes & imagery / fanatical cultists (from Rose's canon as well as Trench) / event-related warnings in later prompts (sleeper farm, imprisonment, bodies, etc.) / blood</sup>

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MOM ON A MISSION

( Rose Da Silva is somewhere strange and frightening — alien in ways, like some place frozen in a time that's not hers — and her little girl isn't beside her anymore.

Rose has lived this before. And like last time, there's only one single purpose driving her: to find her daughter. The difference is that this time, there are seemingly no clues to follow, no little puzzle pieces left behind. Something within Silent Hill had called to her, guided her through its monsters and nightmares, showed her where to go. Here (wherever here even is; she's heard the name Trench but Rose thinks it must be some extension of that otherworldly place, of Silent Hill) she's all on her own. And so she keeps looking.

Through November, it's what she does: wandering the streets and shops of this place, seeking out information, searching. Like last time, she won't stop. )

^{ooc ➤ Throughout the month, Rose can be stumbled upon just about anywhere throughout Trench. Feel free to wildcard your character encountering her roaming around your district, near your home or business, etc. I've listed some specific scenarios below, but I'm 100% flexible. The titles of each section below link back to the game info about them, for easy reference!}

i. WILLFUL MACHINE
( Rose soon enough finds her way to a hub of activity, stunned by how lively it is in comparison to Silent Hill. No townspeople scrounging through the dust of abandoned buildings for scraps of food, no deadly-quiet spaces in which time seems to hang heavy and tense, before those sirens wail to unleash a nightmare.

It almost seems... like a normal place, here in Willful Machine. The smell of fresh things cooking, the bustle of civilians buying and selling from various stalls and shops. And yet, with that comes a new type of dread in Rose: this place is huge and there are many more people here. It would be much easier for a tiny little girl to stay lost.

Well, she certainly isn't shy about asking questions. You might see her — a well-kept woman in a long tan overcoat and knee-high boots, approaching various stall owners, asking to speak to whomever's in charge. No one really seems able to give her a straight answer on that, but she's not giving up; of course she isn't. Rose keeps looking around, keeps asking. Maybe she winds up at your business, or approaches you on the street as you're browsing. Her questions generally cycle between:

'Excuse me, can you tell me who's in charge around here?'
'Sorry to bother you, but have you seen a little girl? Long, black hair? She's only nine.'
'Hey, do you know where I can get a charger for this? Like an electronics place, or a pharmacy or something?', in which case she'll be holding up the cell phone that's hanging from her neck by a strap. ...This was a Prime Mom Cell Phone in 2006, okay. )

ii. DARCMOUTH
( This place feels more familiar. With its dreary haze, the fog that seems to be a permanent fixture. Like a dream — just on the cusp of becoming a nightmare. Rose makes her way through Trench's fishing district wide-eyed and alert, a perpetual chill down her spine as though in anticipation of some monstrous thing to come crawling out of the fog her way. No monsters come and no siren sounds, but she can't relax, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, shoulders hunched upwards against the November chill, even more nippy out here by the sea. It bites her cheeks and nose, leaving them flushed red.

She wanders the docks, listening to the deep creak and groan of boats slowly moving up and down in the water, trying to ignore the heavy stench of fish and brine. On occasion she has to tuck her nose into the crook of her elbow, swallowing down a gag. If, for some reason, you are also at the gloomy district, you might see the woman who looks severely out of place yet purposeful — searching nooks and crannies, stepping lightly over a mound of fish entrails to peer into the frosted-over windows of a rundown old warehouse, its entrance locked. She's dragging her nails against a window, and then crouching to find a dusty brick, which she starts hitting the window with — though its glass is extremely thick and doesn't immediately bust. Rose doesn't stop, however, because she is absolutely determined to break in and doesn't seem to have any real concern for who might hear her doing so.

Or maybe you hear her doing something else — shouting, running — after someone, the glint of something large and shiny held in their hand (a locket with the Virgin Mary on the front). Maybe you can help stop the thief from taking off with what is clearly very precious to the woman. Rose is pretty fast, but the person who stole her locket knows the ins and outs of this place, taking turns through alleys, around trade stalls, and she has no way of stopping them. No weapon, no powers; all she can do is run.

Eventually, Rose also finds her way to the shoreline, the place she remembers coming up from. Something here... feels different, somehow; it's some awareness she can't quite explain. As though within her spirit something is stroked so gently that it's barely a touch at all, and something inside of her shudders gently in response. She won't turn away from it, no. Rose slowly makes her way down that soft black sand, eyes narrowed and teary against the sharp sea breeze. By now, she's... tired, and she aches in a way she's beginning to grow used to aching.

She doesn't know how long she walks, but at some point she comes across something lying there where ocean meets shore, waves lapping up against where it's wedged into the sand. The woman slows almost to a halt, feeling as though the breath has been knocked out of her. Then she's approaching the item she already knows she recognises, crouching to gently lift it up out of the sand.

Rose gasps, falling down onto the sand, legs tangled beneath her as something racks through her very frame; it's a reaction that physically hurts. She presses the item to her chest (it's soaked through, cold and limp against her), and wails loudly out to the ocean — a name, Sharon.

If you get close enough to see, you'll realise that what she's holding is a brown teddy bear. )

iii. CRENSHAW
( When she hears about an orphanage in this city, Rose immediately finds her way to it through word of mouth, some desperate hope still remaining in her. It's all she has, that desperation, that hope: the two mingled together into an almost tangible presence up under her sternum.

Her daughter isn't there. She looks for her amongst every single lost child currently inhabiting the orphanage — calling for Sharon and then Alessa — but her little girl isn't there.

She might show up there, though. God, she might. Maybe if someone finds her and brings her somewhere safe... And though Rose can't possibly keep watch every day, she does end up visiting the orphanage very often, perched on the cold stone steps outside of it, the bag that washed ashore with her tucked close to her feet. On her lap, she holds a couple of drawings, and she keeps looking over them — one a cheerful, child's depiction of sunflowers, the other a... much more horrific sight. The woman's frowning deeply as she examines them, brushing the pad of her thumb gently over the crayon art, seeming to be searching for something within. Some hidden clue that maybe she missed.

Beside her, a white dove sits, docile and calm, occasionally fluttering her wings and giving soft sounds as she keeps a look out. )

THE SLEEPER FARM ➤CW: EVENT WARNINGS APPLY; SPECIFICS WILL BE IN SUBJECT HEADERS

( She sees what they do — how they take people, and though Rose doesn't know where that may be or why, she knows she has to follow.

She's trembling to her core as she quickly trails the horrible thing that was maybe once a person into the black hole it creates, but she's faced horrible things before, and she will never back down from facing them again. Not if there's a possibility that her daughter is threatened.

She never sees the attack coming, but it must have caught her in the act. She wouldn't have tried to evade it anyway, wouldn't have tried to escape. She has to end up wherever this thing is taking people; there is no other option for her. And so Rose is knocked out in an instant, a willing captive. )

i. THE STALLS

( When Rose comes to again, it takes her a few long moments to try and pull herself from her thick, stunned haze. She keeps her eyes closed, though her other senses begin to pick up on the things around her, and she knows that she's been taken to a nightmare.

The sounds of machinery whir and thud and grind somewhere not far away; the potent (familiar) smells of oil and must and what she recognises as blood greet her as though she'd never left. Rose slowly peels her eyes open and stares at the room she's currently in — not so much a room at all, but a sort of stall, like what an animal would be contained in. Her heart skips a beat so hard that she gives a shaky, pained sound.

The Darkness, she immediately thinks. What those in Silent Hill had run from, hidden from in their Church, tried to keep at bay with their beliefs. Their faith..... their ugly, twisted, monstrous faith. Their fear, their cruelty. She'd helped destroy them and their Church, watched Alessa rip them apart as they screamed.

But it isn't over, she thinks. Those deformed creatures that take people here... they could be connected to The Brethren, maybe working for them. Some of those cultist people could have survived the massacre back in Silent Hill. They could have taken her Sharon again.

It's then that Rose realises she's not alone in the stall. There's someone else — and she calls out to you, her wrists bound together behind her back, shackled. Fuck, if that's not familiar, too. )

Hey! Hey, you awake?

ii. STORAGE

( Or maybe you encounter her after you've escaped from your holding pen and are making your way through the industrial, bleeding labyrinth. By then, Rose has gotten out of her own shackles and grabbed a large wrench she found lying around, holding it to her chest. There's some blood smeared across her jumpsuit and staining the soft blonde of her hair, smudged against a cheek; it's not her own blood, but she's been exploring and brushed across a hanging body or two (or three or four, it's endless, the mutilated bodies in this horrible place are endless.)

If you've had the misfortune of being hung up and are clearly alive, Rose will rush over to you; she'll help you, won't leave you behind. Or maybe you're safely on the ground and happen across the woman exploring one of the countless rooms. Quiet and barefoot, tracking blood-stained footprints across the cold ground, Rose doesn't seem to be searching for a way out. No, she's not trying to escape. Not just yet. First, she has to see if Sharon is here and she's not fucking leaving until she searches every single room.

So she explores dark storage spaces filled with tools or piles of bodies in bags, the wrench held tightly in her hands. She's afraid, of course she's afraid, but something other than fear is what drives her. She's done this before, not so long ago at all; she'd gotten her daughter back no matter what it took. At the time, it felt like it took everything, every single thing, but oh— there's more left in her; she feels it now, a certain anger she's grown to rely on rising up from the well deep within her. And she'll use it to protect anyone who needs protecting, and to kill whatever stands in her way now. )

---

WILDCARD / ETC

^{ooc ➤ Hit me up on plurk (skeletals) / discord (large bat#2354) / pm / Rose's plot post
Respond in prose if that's your preference, and I'll gladly follow suit!}

Comments

[grice]

[ falco nods wordlessly; he hadn't thought to look inside the locket, only take it back and return it as quickly as possible. he could tell how important it was, though— despite the harsh scarlet on his chin getting more attention, prompting him to mildly curl his fingers around the sliding chains to pile them back into his palm. ]

It's just a scrape. [ just a scrape, not a stab or a gunshot wound. one that would heal in minutes, in his case, and he makes a genuine effort to put that sort of reassurance into his tone. it's at least nothing close to boyish bravado. he's not the type to flounder that sort of thing about, modest at the very least. ] You don't look like you have a lot of jewelry, and you didn't trade it yet, so— It must be important.

[ with a press of his lips, and feeling rather talkative as he is social and grasping for a connection of any sort, falco rummages through one of his pants pockets and pulls out the least boy-like charm one could imagine such having: a small, thumb-sized polar bear that's seen better days, holding a yellowish tint after all its wear, but its metallic gold chains and the keyring is shining like gold itself. ]

I have something like that, too.

[ it's not a locket, but it reminds him of someone special, all the same. ]

[rosae]

( The wound looks so fresh that it had to have happened in the process of... retrieving the locket. The implications of that are immensely unsettling, and Rose is quietly stunned at the thought of this boy managing to get it from the thief — what that might have involved.

Gently, she takes the item back from him, cupped in one palm while she stares at the boy, watches what he slips from his own pocket to show her. Rose gazes down at the little trinket for a long moment, trying to work around the lump in her throat. An act of kindness by a stranger means... a lot on its own, but he's just a baby. It aches in a very specific way to learn there are more young people around here, in this strange, horrible place. )

It's lovely. ( She finally manages to say, voice still hushed, almost a whisper. Then— the woman swallows, gently opens up her locket to expose the photo within: a little girl with long black hair, blue eyes, milky white skin. The smile she wears is small and sweet, a little dewdrop of a thing. He's right; the locket is important to her, and Rose shows him why, shares it with him. )

She's my daughter. ( Her voice catches against the word, a little. )

Thank you for bringing it back to me. It's okay that it broke, I can fix it. ( She tries to reassure him on that, offering a little smile. )

[grice]

[ his polar bear is only lovely because of what it represents to him, and it’s not only that remark that brings a soft smile to his lips, but the fact that he had helped with something so dearly important. thank you, yes, simple words that meant the world to him and made his cheeks burn (and he felt them do so much more in this autumn chill). he’d assumed it was dear, but to hold the picture of someone that beloved? falco wished he had the framed photographs of gabi and his brother colt, gifted to him by the admin of south sister island. back home, he hadn’t the condition for a family photo, much less of anyone else.

if her daughter was here— shouldn’t he be with her? the realization and possibility dawns on falco enough to pull the curve of his lips down just a tad, and rather than asking the woman’s name first: ]

What’s your daughter’s name, Miss?

[ he makes sure to get a very good, lasting look of the picture in the locket. ]

[rosae]

Sharon. ( Rose answers softly, the word like a little ghost fluttering from her lips. It's... how her daughter feels, now. Like a ghost, and she's been trying to grasp her—

—....something shifts in the woman's expression, some odd knitting of her brows. A confusion, quietly. She accepts that her daughter is... not usual, but she hasn't had time to at all process what that means. Her little girl... isn't only a little girl at all. And so.... )

...but she might be answering to another name, too. Alessa. She... might be very confused right now.

( Truthfully, Rose has no idea what her daughter's mental state may be at the moment. She worries her bottom lip so hard for a moment that it blossoms an angry, darker red. But then she softens again, looks to him. )

What's your name, sweetie?

[grice]

[ sharon, or alessa— once the names are burned into his memory, with the afterimage of the locket's picture, falco dips his head into an understanding nod. he'd say anything if he heard or saw her anywhere, of course. only falco would know how much his mother cried and held his face months after separation due to an impromptu abduction to another country. ]

Falco . . . My family name's Grice. [ you'll never know if she would run into any grices, either. the tenderness added to speaking with him never ceases to burn his cheeks— dear, sweetie and even the simple kid are still rarities he holds to profound gratitude compared to the less kind (but unfortunately, heard) soldier, maggot or devil. ] What's yours?

[rosae]

( It comes out without her even having to think about it or make the decision to — the use of such things that she'd call Sharon. Sweetie, honey, baby; not meant to degrade, but to protect. Such tender terms, things Rose had been denied so early in life, after the deaths of her own parents. She doesn't know him but that doesn't matter; he's just a young boy. The need to comfort him is there in her like instinct. )

I'm Rose. Da Silva. ( She smiles again, to this sweet boy with his bear trinket. Her eyes linger on the scruff at his chin again; she wonders if there's anywhere around here she can find something to clean it with. The wound may not be severe, but it needs soap and warm water, at the very least.... )

Do you live near here, Falco? Are your parents here with you?

[grice]

[ the grains of the scrape are still ripe on his chin— if anything, the scorching red had perhaps dwindled down to pinkish. the bear he was holding onto was back in one hand by his side, being squeezed between his fingers like he'd hold a hand. ]

No . . . I'm a Sleeper. [ what that had entailed was horrifyingly correct: he washed up on shore, as a squid. he wasn't from here and his parents were long gone elsewhere. ] But I'm staying with someone I know, at least? He takes good care of me.

[rosae]

( She's been able to piece together enough of what the term involves, perhaps what's most important. "Sleeper" is different from the natives of this place.... It's what they call the people that had washed ashore here, for whatever reason.

It means he's like her, an outsider. And that he came here alone. Or— perhaps not entirely alone? Staying with someone he knows... it's a relief to hear that, though the woman's frown deepens all the same. The thought of someone as young as him in this place without his guardians, taken from his home world...

She's frowning at him still (it's The Mom Frown™), eyes fixed on the scrape. )

Do you live near here? I can walk you back — maybe help you clean that up, if you like.

[grice]

[ the infamous Mom Frown™ is a force to be reckoned with, enough that falco can feel the weight of her concern like actual weights on his shoulders— but none of that is negative! strong, though. very strong.

he answers with reddened ears; not just to soothe her, but to have some company in the meantime as well. even though he hardly wanted to give her trouble, trouble would probably be only asking for that wickedly strong Frown (capitalized, it’s important). ]

Thank you, Miss Rose. [ he’s agreeing, ducking his head in some old fashioned sort of thanks— he couldn’t say no to her. ] It’s this way, in . . . [ he has to remind himself, like going through the process of decoding his address all over again (not that it was difficult), ] Crenshaw.

[ ah, well, to clean his mess up too (in which he looks awfully apologetic), ]

—I don’t have any bandages.

[rosae]

( The more severe frown shifts, melts into a little smile at that — the politeness, though it causes a soft ache to blossom in her all the same. There's such a tenderness to him, she thinks: soft, sweet. How he's so apologetic towards her, and it worries something in her; she can't help being worried by it.

It warms her tone in response; her smile in turn becomes just as warm, hoping to soothe him. )

I live in Crenshaw, too. Just found a place— it's small, but nice. Do you want to come there for just a little, before you head back? I think I have some things that could help.

( ...Has she been stealing whatever items she can find, including a couple of first-aid type things? Maybe. )

It's the least I can do to thank you for returning my locket to me.

[grice]

[ aha— not just one, but two stops that have grown helpful. there’s something sweetly boyish about the smile that now spreads and plants itself right on his meek face. the face of one who is plotting something devious.

(it’s nothing devious, and more just chicken soup for the parental soul) ]

I can know where you live, too.

[ you know why? you absolutely know why. visits. and from now moving forward, falco’s sure he’ll want to check up on rose when he can. ]

—I can visit, right?

[rosae]

( That smile that blossoms from the boy makes Rose's heart ache in a tender way, like a thumb gently pressing into a bruise. That feeling simply increases at what he says then; it takes her a moment to process it, the woman's eyelids fluttering a little. Devious that smile might be, but to Rose, it's mostly just adorable. )

Oh. Of— of course you can.

( She's caught off-guard, not in any bad way, not at all. It's... that she didn't expect it, and that she's been adamantly refusing to look at the loneliness that keeps creeping up over the backs of her heels, trying its hardest to make its way upwards and into her chest. She's been going, going, going, nonstop. Not pausing to think or grieve or let herself be still.

But it's there. She's— so lonely, she misses her home, the normalcy of everything before. She misses her daughter, and her husband. She hasn't paused to sit on the wrap-around porch of the house she'd found here, or make food in the small cottage kitchen and enjoy it.

But for him, and people like him.... young ones, here without parents.... mugs of hot cocoa and warm blankets seem like they should be in order. )

Any time you want. ( Her own smile warms right back, and Rose offers her hand to him. He is a bit older than Sharon, maybe too old for walking and hand-holding, but she doesn't think twice about it. That they live in the same district is a relief; she can keep a close eye on him, and Rose fully plans to. )

Maybe our houses are pretty close together, too.

[grice]

[ he’s only just met this woman, and yet . . . everything he’d always hoped for out of any introduction was there, how couldn’t he take it? there wasn’t malice or scorn as far as falco could see, and as the woman offers her hand, he looks down twice— one to realize she was offering, a look up to glance at her with widened, surprised eyes, then a second to make sure it was still there— his lips had unraveled down into a soft part, but rapidly returned to a grin.

he was twelve, almost thirteen, but he had been deprived of his childhood to begin with. he wasn’t embarrassed or flustered— he looked happy. to be fair, falco doesn’t remember the last time someone held his hand. he does remember the weight of his brother’s arms, but that share of memories hadn’t been the warmest.

he was a small boy anyway, with small palms. he takes her given hand the same way he would’ve taken his own mother’s, or sibling, mister connor, mister mandalorian or miss pieck, tentatively wrapping his fingers and not taking his eyes off her. ]

I know how to make bread, and juice— [ and clean after himself, and help with chores and messaging errands; he quickly lists off how he could be helpful to her, in any way, but stops with a beat to add: ] You’re really kind, Miss Rose.

and this could be a good wrap point, OR we can keep going a bit more if u prefer that!

[rosae]

( The hand is small and soft and sweet in hers, and Rose feels her heart swell, feels the ache of loss and the fulfillment of protecting someone intermingled. She gives the boy's hand a soft squeeze, very gentle; she'd only ever be gentle with him. )

I think you're very kind, yourself. And very helpful. You've already helped me so much... I feel a lot less scared knowing you're here, you know. ( Said quite openly like a compliment, the way she'd praise Sharon for her art projects or school achievements — he deserves to hear it, this sweet boy who'd come to her rescue the way he had.

And she walks forwards with him, guiding him out of this dreary, damp place, away from the smell of sharp salt and fish, and from the strange people lurking in corners. Back towards Crenshaw, where things are safer, and towards her home — a Victorian cottage on the corner of a street. A small home, but cosy, warm — and open to him, any time. )

i think we can finish up here to make room for something new! ❤️

[grice]

[ she certainly knew how to say the right things, to pick his confidence up and realize that he’s done something that good for someone? falco’s judge of character doesn’t usually fail him when he believes someone is being genuine. usually. he believes what she says and it makes him brighten up the day in the dreary area close to the docks and on their way to her residence. rose wouldn’t believe how much hope she’s just wedged into this boy’s heart. he’s absolutely radiant. ]

Thank you, Ma’am.

[ rose should definitely prepare for how much he’s going to visit. he might even hang around her cottage than his own.

(until, at least, he doesn’t start to feel well, but that’s for another day). ]