We're glad you like it so far, Sterling and Darkling. However, Darkling, keep in mind that if you are 1000%, that would mean 10 of you, and as we have already discussed, that is frankly impossible due to this ski lodge's limitations (one person per person, please), especially if you are using a bicycle pump as we are not fond of inflated egos. Thank you for your consideration.

The gore/canabalism is not a very big deal (we hope). It isn't as bad as we have made it sound—we are merely being catious and transparent. It's maybe one sentance or two. At most three, although don't quote us on this—mostly because there are far more interesting things we have said that you could quote instead. However, PLEASE RESPOND IF YOU ARE FEELING UNCOMFORTABLE at the idea (or at any others), or maybe if you are okay with it; we'd like to know where y'all are mentally at the moment (for example, we are mentally unstable).

Here's Poinsettia's intro.

._.

After she fills out her form, Poinsettia checks the clock. 10:34, it reads. Horrified, she climbs back into bed because maybe this is all a dream and she hasn’t broken her commitment to waking up before 8:30… She pulls the covers up over her head (which causes her feet to stick out the other end) and snuggles into the downy warmth, resolving to stay in her bed—and in denial—until the next morning when the clock will have reset and she will have uphold her resolution.

It doesn’t work. With a hop and a thud, the pigeon nestles its feathery body into Poinsettia’s uncovered feet, its poky claws scratching and tickling. Poinsettia bolts upright in surprise, throwing off her blankets and wildly dancing across the room, trying to forget the feeling of snuggly pigeon. The pigeon falls to the floor, glaring at Poinsettia, who is still dancing. Realizing the wonderful opportunity, she starts doing the Hokey Pokey in her nightgown. The pigeon joins in.

“...you put your knees in, you put your knees out—”

The pigeon looks befuddled. It doesn’t have knees.

“...and you shake it all about—”

This is easier to understand, the pigeon thinks. It enthusiastically shakes itself until downy feathers fall softly to the ground all around it.

“...you do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around—”

Ah yes, the pigeon muses. These instructions are getting easier, and things are looking up.

Literally.

 While turning around, the pigeon falls flat onto its back, staring up into the sky—or rather, into Poinsettia’s face which looms over it in concern. She picks up the pigeon, who squirms in her grasp, and mournfully stops dancing.

Poinsettia realizes that it is now past 11:00 and she had better get going, regardless of past resolutions or classy dance moves. She rapidly jams a stylish dress, a necklace, a N-95 mask, a cellphone (because of course, Nasty Situations are all the rage these days), a pencil, a pad of paper, and a fit of writing inspiration into a bag. This last object (not the bag) is rather hard to carry, as it keeps waving its tiny fists in a tantrum and crying random ideas out shrilly—“Vacuum! Artichoke! Unhand me this instan—ooh! What about a vacuum artichoke?” Poinsettia ignores these terrible ideas stoically, hoisting the bag and the pigeon over her shoulder and marching out the front door into the forest beyond, still wearing her nightgown, as her stylish dress was packed not put on.

The pigeon hops off onto the ground, motioning her forward towards the feathers lying scattered across the forest floor, rather like breadcrumbs as they lay an inviting trail into the dark leafy depths.

It is long past dark by the time Poinsettia arrives.

._.

Signed,

The Unstable (no, not like radioactive elements who slowly decay, we do it much quicker than that) Pigeon 

Well, I'm not too thrilled with the idea of caniballism myself... 

Are either of you Darkling or Reuby Moonnight? Probably utterly improbable, since both of them signed up for the ski lodge themselves... Or Flamarestii?

TOP

*bows impressively* O Pigeon, might you be Lord of the Shadows and Hex?

ONE OF US HAS BEEN GUESSED! Blow the vuvuzela! Throw the confetti! (and clean it up afterword, please—we cannot abide the mess). One of us is indeed Hex. (Which one?) Honestly, we're kind of surprised Hex was not guessed earlier. The other is not Lord of the Shadows, regardless of possibly hiding in the shadows.

And canabalism is really not the right word—no... eating... happens. It's more of a... disturbing metaphor involving food?

Here's Reuby Moonnight's intro:

._.

Reuby Moonnight finishes filling out her form before the sun rises. Way before the sun rises. As in, around 1:20am. She combs her black hair, as deep as the abyss of space (although please note that Reuby has never actually been to space, so her hair is likely a cheap imitation of the true abyss: rather like those that can be bought in museum gift shops nowadays— at a half-off discount if purchased second hand). She brushes sleep from her eyes, which are as gold as… well, the finest gold (not the pyrite that can be bought in previously mentioned museum gift shops, or the gold-covered chocolate—or was it chocolate covered gold?—that, while deliciously cheap and inexpensively tasty, is nevertheless quickly melted in one’s pocket such that the snack they were so coveting rapidly dissolves into a puddle of goo). Her skin, like fine china (and thus covered in large and intricate blue tattoos, like those delicately patterned dishes that suddenly S-H-A-T-T-E-R on the floor like lost hopes and dreams, forever in pieces as they are thrown sadly into the nearest trash can and gradually forgotten about, their only legacy the cut that their sharp pieces leave on the previous owner until that, too, fades against the test of time) glows eerily under the red light of her alarm clock, which now reads 1:27 am.

After double-checking her sound-proof curtains which keep out the creepy cricket noises, she throws a sketch book, art supplies, clothing—mostly socks, moth-eaten, but one headscarf (sound proof, of course, just like the walls in your lower-school were until they started teaching the second-graders to play the recorder), polka-dotted, and a spare bow tie, neon green and striped yellow—a nintendo switch, and a sarcastic attitude into a backpack. 

Just as she slings the backpack over her shoulder, she feels a sharp pecking at her shoulders. Absent-mindedly she brushes it away and feels… a feather? She turns sharply and sees the pigeon, back again, but this time, the parcel in its mouth is not a harmless, crinkly, parchment. No, it’s a green, spiny, and decidedly not harmless CRICKET!!! Reuby swats the pigeon frantically, then jumps back and spins dizzy out the door, screaming. But to her dismay there are crickets cluttering her porch, roof, and lawn, attracted by the heavy layers of sweet scented wool and cotton soundproof curtains she has strung up around her house. In a complete panic, Reuby speeds down her porch (hopping like she is playing a game of lava monster on a children’s playground), slipping over the winged insect bodies which carpet the ground, and bolts down the street. She covers her eyes and closes her ears—sorry, closes her eyes and covers her ears, although both ways are about as useful as each other (which is to say, not useful at all) in the end—as if sensory deprivation will make the crickets disappear. 

They don’t, but Reuby does, folding in on herself like masterful origami, disappearing with an infinitesimal pop (rather like a mouse on a möbius strip…). Hopefully she will regain substantiality, but if not… rest in peace, dear… 

._.

Signed,

The Uncreative-Feeling and Tired (thus contributing to this rather dull post) Pigeon

Thank you to Reuby and Blueberrii, we are glad you like it! The So-Far-Unguessed Co-Creator is not Jaybells, Writing_in_the_Dark, or Periwinkle. We will be very surprised if they are guessed. Very. And for those of you who will take that upon yourselves as a challenge, may both the force and the odds be both with you and ever in your favor.

In particular, we are quite happy to be humor-ous instead of humor-less, as if we were missing a humor that would be bad for determining our personalities, at least historically. Of course, in modern times we understand that the four humors—blood, phelgm, yellow bile, and black bile—are at least partially nonexistant, but the Ancient Greeks did not, and we must always respect the Ancient Greeks lest they spear our heads with their swords (which would be a most unfortunate experience—especially for the poor witnesses who would have to do all the paperwork! And we imagine our families would be most devastated with all the time the funeral arrangements take up in their calendar).

But without further ado (and without further sword-spearing—as opposed to spear-spearing, although there were undoubtedly some of those too—Spartans), here's Artemis's intro! She appears to be having a pun-derful time getting to the gardens...

._.

Artemis spends a while doing her science homework—which is no joke! In fact, it’s a relatively dark matter—after she fills out the form. The pigeon watches her impassively, and she ignores it, instead concentrating on her imminently due homework until her brain hertz—sorry, hurts, although it is going approximately one cycle per second at this slow homework-muddled rate. She must have gained an electron somewhere, too, as she is feeling kind of negative, deciding to put away her homework and resigning herself to the reality that she is not the best student (no, that prize belongs to electricity, because it conducts itself so well). She pushes her homework away and stares off into space, twiddling her thumbs and feeling generally Bohr-ed—er, no, bored. The pigeon takes this as its chance, jumping up to peck her so that she quickly gets moving.

Before she packs, she finds a quick snack of fission—sorry, fish and—chips and a few pieces of chocolate (going by the principle of e = mc2, which, as everyone knows, posits that energy = milk chocolate squared).

She then throws a large quantity of books (the top book being about Sherlock Ohms and Dr. Wattson—oops, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson), a sketchbook, assorted writing utensils and notebooks, magical headphones, and a silver switchblade (which she may or may not be stabbed with later on), into a bag.

She then turns to the pigeon, who is busy preening itself as if it is a model (despite the fact that, like an antibiotic, no matter how popular it gets it will never go viral). It motions her over to the window, jumping out and fluttering away with the wind, then circling back as if encouraging Artemis to do the same.

Stupidly, Artemis does, climbing onto her window sill and wiggling out, ready to jump. She falls, with only one moment left to think regretfully that she must have misunderstood the gravity of the situation she is now in… and then she hits the ground.

._.

Signed,

A Being Made of Blood, Phelgm, Yellow Bile, and Black Bile, Who Has a Personality

Random guess, Pidgey, are you CelesteOfTheGoldMoon, or Midnight Phantom?

Perhaps... Pancake/Phantasmagoria? (Highly doubtful, but worth a shot...)