Theea
Yla
to love life, to love it —
The spiced apple cider simmers in a blackened pot over the campfire in the yard, steam curling into the pale blush of dawn. I cradle a warm mug between my hands, the heat sinking into my fingers while the tide murmurs just beyond the dunes. The air smells of cinnamon, clove, and salt—like Leafchange trying to make peace with the tropics.
The house rests on low, stout stilts, just high enough to keep the floors dry when the tide runs high. Heavy chains anchor it deep into the sand, a quiet promise that if the ocean ever tried to take it, it would have to drag the whole beach along. The yellow paint has faded to buttercream, the once-bright blue trim chipped thin by sun and salt wind. Mom’s hand-painted flowers still climb the porch beams in peeling strokes, stubborn against time. I can almost see her laughing as she painted them, swearing they’d fade in a week.
She was wrong.
Near the steps, an old stained-glass window leans against the railing, catching shards of sunrise in its fractured panes. A thin crack runs through one corner, but I don’t mind it—better this, with all its history, than the shattered hole where a window used to be. Beside that are various tools—a folded ladder, a few sets of work gloves, a sledge hammer, nails, wood, and more inside like a broom and dustpan, new bedding, and my meager supplies for the kitchen. I’d asked people to bring what they could too.
I sip the cider, watching the sun climb over the water, painting the wet sand in molten gold. I'm comfortable in my loose black sweater and well-fitted pants, boots laced and ready. I’d asked a few people if they might want to help today. I wasn’t sure who would actually come, but there are four extra mugs set out on the porch rail, waiting for steaming cider. The porch creaks under my step, palm fronds rattling overhead like loose bones. Something shifts inside the house—probably the oven. I’ll need a new sofa and armchair after so much wildlife tore into it. But the bedrooms are only dusty, the bathroom still functional, the frame still solid.
Somehow, it’s held together. Even all alone.
I set my mug down and take up a large sledge hammer waiting beside the mugs. The wooden handle is cool, the weight definitely too much in my palm. “This’ll work on the window, right?” I mumbled to myself, grimacing at it.
Welcome to Theea’s PQ to help restore her childhood home!
Round 1: Post your character’s arrival! Grab a cup of cider and grab your chosen tools. (Or state any you brought!)
No post order
The house rests on low, stout stilts, just high enough to keep the floors dry when the tide runs high. Heavy chains anchor it deep into the sand, a quiet promise that if the ocean ever tried to take it, it would have to drag the whole beach along. The yellow paint has faded to buttercream, the once-bright blue trim chipped thin by sun and salt wind. Mom’s hand-painted flowers still climb the porch beams in peeling strokes, stubborn against time. I can almost see her laughing as she painted them, swearing they’d fade in a week.
She was wrong.
Near the steps, an old stained-glass window leans against the railing, catching shards of sunrise in its fractured panes. A thin crack runs through one corner, but I don’t mind it—better this, with all its history, than the shattered hole where a window used to be. Beside that are various tools—a folded ladder, a few sets of work gloves, a sledge hammer, nails, wood, and more inside like a broom and dustpan, new bedding, and my meager supplies for the kitchen. I’d asked people to bring what they could too.
I sip the cider, watching the sun climb over the water, painting the wet sand in molten gold. I'm comfortable in my loose black sweater and well-fitted pants, boots laced and ready. I’d asked a few people if they might want to help today. I wasn’t sure who would actually come, but there are four extra mugs set out on the porch rail, waiting for steaming cider. The porch creaks under my step, palm fronds rattling overhead like loose bones. Something shifts inside the house—probably the oven. I’ll need a new sofa and armchair after so much wildlife tore into it. But the bedrooms are only dusty, the bathroom still functional, the frame still solid.
Somehow, it’s held together. Even all alone.
I set my mug down and take up a large sledge hammer waiting beside the mugs. The wooden handle is cool, the weight definitely too much in my palm. “This’ll work on the window, right?” I mumbled to myself, grimacing at it.
Welcome to Theea’s PQ to help restore her childhood home!
Round 1: Post your character’s arrival! Grab a cup of cider and grab your chosen tools. (Or state any you brought!)
No post order
— even when you have no stomach for it
