deercountry | june catch-all

Entry tags:

june catch-all

Who: viktor and others, open to all with some closed prompts in comments
What: june catch-all, some tdm prompts
When: june
Where: various

content warning; terminal illness, arcane season 1 spoilers

misc lab stuff and various fruits.

[viktor's lab in the willful machine is usually left unlocked when he's working inside. friends or acquaintances have likely been told they're welcome to stop by if they like, either to say hello or to get help with whatever a vaguely sketchy lab could handle. of course someone he doesn't know can just walk in too or knock. maybe there's a sudden downpour and that ajar door is tempting? go for it.

the lab has been slowly filling with all sorts of nonsense on the various tables- lasers! tasers! some weird machine hooked up to a blood gem? it is not unlikely to be walking by and hear some minor booming noise and either a curse in czech or a satisfied 'a-ha!' feel free to investigate.

this month there's something else too, a bowl full of fruit. all the fruits mentioned in the tdm in fact, there to be tested on though it looks more like they're just for guests if people are unaware there's some weird shit going on.]

Just a moment, make yourself at home. [he might say to guest. that would include eating some fruit, right? enjoy. probably not the raw lemon though, that's weird.]

[ooc; if you want to memshare i am game, my only hard limit on memories is no suicide stuff please. self sacrifice is fine! feel free to ask to make sure one is okay. if you'd like a viktor memory let me know any hard limits and what sort of memory you might prefer!]

gaze and time loops.

[having lungs mostly working for the moment is pretty great, in viktor's humble opinion. it means walking around the trench doesn't come with the risk of coughing up blood and attracting beasts and generally having a bad time, along with added perks like not getting so easily winded and going for longer. it also means he finds himself out longer than he usually would, which maybe isn't the best, as it turns out.

for example, making his way home through gaze and hearing the chilling cry of a beast, sighing and trying to make his way around what turns out to be the wrong corner. maybe that's where he sees your character before the snarling of a too close beast starts in earnest.

and then snap! they're both back about an hour, where they passed on the street. the look viktor gives is somewhere between resigned and 'fuck this, actually.'] There is a term for this. 'One of those days,' I think.

[ooc; if you'd like to wildcard or do something else you can pm me here or find me at

dichotomy]

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[that has viktor chuckling, and wouldn't it be a delight to just go, lock the door and neck like teenagers for a while? they deserve it, as far as viktor's concerned, pal deserves it, but there's something to be said for the soft mood being ruined by two unfortunate witnesses to it.

he doesn't look at either though, for a moment. runs a hand through pal's hair before taking one of his with the other, interlacing their fingers. yes, he missed this and it's been... not that long at all. he's getting spoiled.]

Yours is likely the pressing concern. [he sighs, trapping his hand still as his lips thin.] And I could leave, if you wish, but I would like to point out you have had too much time alone with her. If she attacks we are in a place where it is easy to get help, assuming we cannot handle it ourselves.

So. [so. he wants to stay and the look he gives pal says as much.]

[Yes, the ideal scenario would be the ghosts politely excuse themselves for an hour or forever, and they can go to town on this lumpy couch and not have to think about making peace with trauma just this once. Just one time!

Alas. Viktor's hands are another instant relief of that tension Palamedes has been studiously ignoring while on his own, the comfort and (comparative, since there are ghosts in the room) safety of physical contact, like this. 'I have a thing,' he'd said ages ago, sobbing on the floor, and it feels great to have it confirmed that the thing has not, in fact, conveniently gone away. At least he isn't crying this time, exhausted as he is by Cytherea's presence.

So. The much-welcomed cuddle is a pretty big deciding factor in how he handles the rest of this ghost evening, thanks.]

No, I know; I'm not asking you to go anywhere. But.

[But. Cytherea is the 'but,' of course. Not that he expects her to have a particular grudge against him, despite all odds; she didn't care enough about any of their lives to single them out personally in the first place. They were simply in the way, and so why should the afterimage of her loitering in Viktor's new study give a damn about either of them now?

Said ghost studies her nails for a moment, scoffing - audibly! - as if she's fully aware of Palamedes' thoughts, which considering she's most certainly a creation of his own psyche, she must be. Then she looks at them both, and when she speaks, her voice comes out as some unholy mix of Palamedes' and her own, soft and whimsical in the exact tones of someone putting on an act:

'You're going to die spewing your own lungs out of your nostrils, having failed at the finish line because you couldn't help but prattle about why you killed innocent people, as though your reasons were interesting...'

And that makes Palamedes' exhaustion sharpen to a much more furious point, although he makes no immediate move to pick himself up off Viktor's shoulder. He's not feeling very peaceful, as it happens.]

[pal gets a kiss on his knuckles for that, glad he's not going to have to leave- he would have argued it anyway, but still. in truth this unsettled side of pal is one he hasn't seen much of before, simmering anger that, frankly, viktor feels he can sympathize with in many ways.

maybe it isn't so shocking, pal has never been shy about his convictions.] But your concern is noted and I will not do anything rash if I cannot help it.

[he almost makes a snide comment that they'd loop again but dear gods. not putting that into the universe.

regardless cytherea speaks in a perfectly unnerving voice, words that sound like they belong to pal and, in turn, get a rasp of a chuckle from singed. viktor very pointedly ignores that, hand resting on the back of pal's neck, glowering over at the ghost because he simply can't help it.]

... I know this has traditionally not worked well for us in the past but I do think punching her would be very satisfying. [that's making peace, right.]

[I won't do anything rash, says local man, moments before suggesting they start punching ghosts. Palamedes can't help but laugh, a short bark of a sound that he turns his head to bury in Viktor's shoulder before he does something rash to Cytherea's ghost over there. If he's here, holding onto Viktor close enough that he can feel the vibration of his voice and has that presence to anchor to, physically— then he isn't back in that goddamn room, standing there saying those words to Cytherea the first time.

First,] I love you and I appreciate the thought, but you'd have to get up, and I'm not letting you do that.

[Thanks for staying here on the unsettled couch, he's very grateful. Cytherea, for her part, sighs and considers her nails again, as if having lost interest in the pair of them already.

Palamedes is quiet for a moment, pressing his anger down into something manageable and even before he speaks again.]

I didn't know her name until I was here; I could have gone my whole life without having to learn anything about her that might have made her seem like— like a person.

['Yes,' she pipes up then, bored, and the way Palamedes grinds his teeth through the rest proves it to be another recitation of past words, although without the overlaid edge of his own voice this time, 'but this wasn't really about any of you. Not personally.'

A beat.]

I think I'm being called a hypocrite. Do you think I'm being called a hypocrite?

A fair argument. We can put that idea to the side for now. [for now.

he taps an idle rhythm into pal's skin, near the bumps of his spine, like see? i am here. maybe a reminder pal is here too, for him, but that's another matter. no ghost rooms here, just rooms with ghosts, some welcome and some very much not.

pal's lucky he introduced him to grandpa ghost first or this whole experience would have put him off ghosts entirely.

he presses a kiss to the top of pal's head and says,] I love you too, and yes, that does seem to be the intent. Frankly I think your mind or whatever force in the Trench twists these scenarios has eh... has a 'thing' for throwing old words, especially yours, back at you.

[recklessly ahead, remina. he sighs softly.] You are obviously not a hypocrite, by and by.

[Mm, a good reminder; Palamedes relaxes into him that much more, only an iota, but it's something. Better this than listening to Cytherea go through their greatest hits alone someplace, after all.

Viktor says he is not a hypocrite, which is nice, but Palamedes' bitterness instead supplies:] Would it matter? This city can't possibly ride me for hypocrisy, of all things— I won't apologize to a murderer for not knowing her name.

[So like, fuck this town, actually! Fuck this town and fuck Cytherea, who titters airily at them from her table perch and continues not to disappear.]

Well, all I'm saying is, if the goal of this challenge is to make me apologize for anything I've done, I disagree. I won't do it.

[He dares a look over at Cytherea again, for this one, to see if she's going to spring into violence at his refusal; she does not.

So that's a twist. Despite his commitment, Palamedes' steely resolve - falters, somewhat. Uh, what is option two, then...]

Okay. It's lost me. You try, with yours.

[viktor huffs at that, then offers,] Is it the city? You are a man who holds himself to high standards, especially ethically. If we want to really be the eh, the snake eating it's tail, we could ask if the problem is part of you feels troubled that you do not feel troubled by this.

[he nearly snorts again, this trench psychology nonsense is going to be the death of him. still, worth putting out there to be shot down or considered, he supposes.] For what it is worth I support the not apologizing and still think punching may be worthwhile.

[dry, but yes. he's definitely going to support pal not bending over backwards for this loathsome copy of an even more loathsome woman. they'll figure it out. hopefully. maybe peace isn't what the ghosts even want, or the trench, or whatever plays them like this.

he regards cytherea a moment more before exhaling through his nose and glancing to singed, still bent over his notes.]

I've already forgiven him as best as I am able for his... flaws. [he settles for.] I doubt that forgiveness would have mattered to him anyway, that sort of sentimentality simply isn't in his nature.

[There's a good point in there, Palamedes thinks - and in any circumstance besides dealing with Cytherea, he just might feel troubled about not feeling troubled. There would be valid concerns to evaluate if he felt nothing, although in his defense - it isn't nothing that he feels when he looks at her, when her words and vile behaviors crawl their way up into his conscious thoughts.

Just in case the city needs to hear it, he says, bluntly:] I'll hurt her again if I have to and sleep like a baby about it tonight. I won't apologize for that.

[He has a short checklist for what will inspire him to do violence, he'd told Anna, 'it's personal' chief among the reasons there. He's already exercised patience to see if she'll leave; it's lingering concern that she'll lash out at Viktor that stymies his maybe-violence now.

So fuck her, how about this drug man. Hmm. Palamedes smooths his thumb over Viktor's sympathetically, watching Singed ignore them for notes. Hmm...]

What does he want from you, then? Are we both hypocrites in the eyes of the morally questionable? This is going to be a long night if our guests don't realize they're in the wrong.

[it's comments like these viktor probably shouldn't find attractive, but he does. he at least is confident it is not the violence that appeals so much as the conviction, and allows himself to tip pal's head for a kiss.

'love and legacy are the price we pay for progress,' singed chooses to tell him like a reminder, at least in his own neutral tones instead of some unholy mix. viktor breaks the kiss with an annoyed grimace.]

You owe her nothing. [he agrees, refusing to glance at her or singed this time around, fingers tight around pal's.

a sigh and he flops his head back against the couch again, tensing but ignoring the creak of singed's chair as he stands, despite having no weight to burden the chair with. he footsteps tap in an idle circle of the room, as if he owns it, comfortable. so far nonviolent.]

Maybe- [his jaw works before saying,] when I last saw him I told him I understood a matter I have since changed my mind on. Perhaps that is it? I do not know what there is to be said about it, or to reflect on. I had assumed I did my reflection without the Trench holding my hand through it.

[See, kissing him is only going to encourage him to keep saying things like that in front of ghosts who could get violent at any moment. Palamedes is just deep enough in his bitterness that he's just barely surprised, leaning into the kiss with a rush of renewed excitement, like oh, yes - this is the worthwhile thing, not whatever is happening with her.

It makes it some kind of ironic when Viktor's ghostly visitor says what he says at that precise moment, leaving Palamedes rolling his eyes. Are love and legacy not parts of progress? Do they not motivate progress, more often than not? He's not going to get into it with a ghost, not yet.

Like, maybe. He's not working on how to make and install artificial lungs for the pure academic joy of it, after all. He winds his arm around Viktor's waist and watches Singed move around the room suspiciously, like, come and try something, old man.]

Changing your mind is worthy of a haunting, now?

[Dryly, he says it, like that's ridiculous, but ah - fuck, if that's true, then every time he's gotten in his head about how much he hates the Emperor and wondered if maybe Cytherea's rage, if not her methods, was understandable...

Hmm nope, he's setting that aside for now. Watching Singed, yes, that's the activity.]

This could just be simple harassment. God knows sooner or later there won't be any earth-shattering moments of personal growth left to have, but then what would the city do with us? Leave us alone? We should be so fortunate.

Is anything? Perhaps it is simply because it was on my mind. [viktor huffs, glad pal is doing the watching because viktor wants to keep his eyes away from the man for a little while longer. of course he keeps glancing to their other ghost, so maybe it's just covering each other's backs.

it's nice. terrible situation, as so many, but the warm presence of pal beside him makes it a little more bearable.] If it is just harassment what is there to be done? We cannot just wait it out, Chizuru's ghosts-

[he startles because in the space of a blink singed looms over the back of the couch, like a glitch of perception, down to his form going unburnt and familiar yet again. with him comes the distinct chemical smell of zaun, nostalgic and a touch suffocating after being spoiled on clean air for so long.

there is nothing sinister about his look, not mocking or bored, just so plainly neutral it could be any other day, any other conversation. 'the mutation must-' he starts, the words drowning out in inhuman, guttural sounds viktor at least recognizes as rio before he fled, the dim light coming from him the sickly shimmer pink. bright and toxic.

it's a cheap trick, viktor will think later, and yet now he still flinches away full body, nearly falling off the couch in doing so.]

If it's that simple, I should be haunted by another one of you, except one who keeps trying to feed me spicier and spicier foods.

[Ha ha. It's fine enough like this that he can make jokes about it, so there's that; Viktor is on his mind more often than Cytherea, so that theory isn't entirely great, either. They're swinging and missing quite a lot right now, so—]

Wh—

[So what the fuck, how did that ghost get over there that quickly, and what is he talking about now? Palamedes grabs for Viktor with one hand to keep him on the couch, they don't need any slapstick injuries from this ghost incident, and he thinks for some reason that if he's holding onto Viktor, the ghosts just simply cannot touch him, so—! Holding onto Viktor it is, at a somewhat uncomfortable angle, as he leans the opposite way himself to reach with his other hand and grab—

The blanket. The one he brought in to stay the night. He grabs the edge of it now and throws it up without really thinking about it, right up at ghost Singed's face making horrible sounds. Pro tier defensive maneuvers...]

[that gets a genuine laugh out of viktor, before everything goes b grade horror movie jump scare that is. he would have loved ignoring both the ghosts for a moment of spicy food quips but alas, instead he's just glad they are tangled so close and pal kept him from cracking his head open or something equally unpleasant.

another thing he would laugh at, pal's blanket attack, if he wasn't busy untangling to get to his feet and pull pal with him. the blanket does stick for a moment, making him a proper cheap halloween costume of a ghost before it flutters to the ground, singed gone with it.

viktor hates how his heart beats heavily in his chest, cursing under his breath in fantasy czech as he pulls pal close.] Enough, this is just... just a game. There is no deeper meaning than childish antics and prodding at old wounds.

[Well, ten points for the blanket attack, at the very least. Palamedes lets Viktor pull him off the couch easily, staring at the spot where Singed stood as he fumbles back to his feet. It takes him a moment to blink himself out of the adrenaline spike and ease into Viktor's hold, lifting both hands to cup his face as he looks away from the couch to Viktor, properly.

Hey so, what the fuck? That was marginally more shocking than Cytherea borrowing his voice, all things considered. Yikes. They remain untouched, so-]

Well, it's clearly a game we have to win, so how do we do that? I'm already out of blankets.

[Some levity? Barely. In the commotion, Cytherea has left her perch to go over to a chalkboard, where she's begun to write a list of very particular steps, beginning with Step One: Preserve the soul...

They cannot have nice things with two ghosts mucking around in here at once; Palamedes staunchly ignores Cytherea's list to look around for Singed, instead.]

What is she- [you know what? he doesn't want to know what she's writing. it doesn't matter, what matters is figuring this out.] Nevermind. There must be something that can banish them, whether it be within us or- or some exorcism.

[he's holding pal's arm now, using him in lieu of a crutch as his eyes stay on the lyctor. of course then the door to the room slams shut, making him jump again and let out an irritated snarl at the fact he did, turning just in time for singed to walk through them idly. viktor gets a chill, pal gets

(a heaving, writhing creature on the floor for just a flash, just a second of familiar screaming and clouded eyes and the empty, quiet determination filling his chest. satisfaction at a job well done)

something else.

'it is why i parted ways with heimendinger,' he informs them like the conversation of before never stopped. 'they'll despise you for this, if you choose this path.' ]

I don't have to, not anymore. [viktor spits, then once again looks agitated. getting pulled in isn't going to help, he runs a hand down his face and tries to focus.] Maybe there's a way, a... ward, a ritual.

[Well, if only Allen were here and actually the correct kind of exorcist, huh— Palamedes drops his hands to Viktor's shoulders, ready to yank him close and dash out of the way again if either of these ghosts go in for another horror loom. Cytherea's writing - he staunchly does not tell Viktor what that is, for both their sakes - is a dramatic upswing in her usual activity despite just being writing; he wonders if the two ghosts are feeding off each other, somehow. Someone could study this, if they weren't actively being haunted—

Ah, and then Singed physically walks through them, and Palamedes' world lurches into something else, a sight he can't make sense of until abruptly he can and the realization curls sick in his stomach. Psychometry is one thing, he knows how to handle the ghost within the thing perfectly well, but this is something else entirely; the assault on his senses of sights and sounds and feelings that aren't his, that he doesn't want. It's that hollow satisfaction that's the most cloying, the thing that seeps the most insistently past his usual defenses, and he's struck by the abrupt fear that if he doesn't get out of this vision, the emptiness is going to be stuck in him for who knows how long—

—And then it stops, and his awareness comes back up to reality as if from underwater, and Viktor is talking; Palamedes squeezes his shoulders and anchors himself to it, the sound of his voice if not the words. It's probably obvious at a glance that he's had a slightly different experience just now, ah-]

What did he— What do you want me to try?

[Please give him a task so he can think about something other than screaming and glassy eyes and the kind of man that could inflict that kind of suffering and feel such clinical, detached pride; anything will do. His fingers twitch - will he need to bleed real quick, just wondering - and over Viktor's shoulder he can see Cytherea continuing her list, somewhere around step four now of how to pin a soul and eat it correctly, and so he snaps at her:]

Oh, fuck off, that's your mistake, not mine.

[when viktor glances over it is pretty immediately obvious something is wrong, that chill for some reason shook pal more than it did viktor. his grip tightens as if he's the one steadying pal now, lips in a grim line.

not exactly the time to dig into if he's okay, not when everywhere singed moves rattles and the steady sound of chalk hitting the board keeps filling the air.

he glances over to catch what she's writing and- ah. he can guess now, what is happening. what she's doing. it has him pulling pal a touch closer before he tries to push it all out of his mind, pal with camilla's eyes staring at him, haunted by her tragedy. rationality was their best bet.]

I need- [a beaker comes flying at them, viktor turning in time for it to merely hit his shoulder rather than pal's head. he grimaces and continues.] Time. That is what I need. There may be some rituals we can try but I need to look at my notes, I was trying to find any information when Chizuru was-

[this time the entire shelf of books nearby flies at them, singed merely watching with what pal might recognize as that quiet satisfaction.]

[Beakers! Now there are beakers flying around! Palamedes still ducks, gaze darting between Singed and Cytherea and then Viktor's busiest desk beyond. For notes, alright-]

Alright; I can only get you half the room.

[So let's hope this is the correct half with the right notes in it to solve at least one of their problems, he doesn't add; it seems too obvious. He tugs Viktor back with him, closer to the desks and to Cytherea, unfortunately, but she's done nothing but write sick directions on chalkboards so far, so if he had to pick a ghost...

The real world still doesn't feel entirely - there, almost, there's a very swimmy quality to things left over from that vision, but Palamedes is aware enough to throw up a ward that spans from one wall to the other. It's the same kind as his classic first meeting ward, the kind that is markedly not going to hold if he breaks his concentration. Still: it's something between Singed flinging books (what the fuck) and the two of them, and he still has the presence of mind to scoot with Viktor over to the desks before the blood sweat starts to break out.]

Well— [please go fast xoxo] Here's time.

[viktor's mouth is in a grim line but this seems like their best chance, short of getting out of here and hoping allen or someone else can help. he would theorize about the ghosts feeding on each other, especially because singed's bored stare is melding too seamlessly with cytherea's before.

pal's arm gets a squeeze before he's rushed to the desk, flipping open his notes and running through them as calmly and quickly as he can manage.

easier said than done when singed seems to be aiming very much for pal now, even as he stands still, nothing but a lipless sneer. books, beakers, one jar of hope orbs crashes against the ward and cracks, some of the little lights bleeding out.]

There's- [this time a beaker crashes and breaks into pieces, and those sharp pieces get thrown.] -a ritual, for banishing. There are two ways to do it, both involve blood. Give me your scalpel.

[good thing for blood sweat!]

[Holding up a ward that's actively being attacked by jars and sharp things is - easier than it looks, actually, but that doesn't make it easy overall. Palamedes is, after all, bleeding from more pores than is frankly comfortable; but it could be worse. For example, the ghosts could attack the ward themselves rather than Singed just throwing things at it with ghost magic; not that Palamedes knows what happens to Trench-brand ghosts against this kind of ward, but slamming one breed of thanergy against another is probably painful!

So, he's doing his best. He's holding it up, and manages with effort to fish a scalpel out of a pocket of his cloak - which he is only now noticing he never managed to take off, thanks ghosts for the distraction - and hold it out for Viktor.

Now Viktor wants to endorse bleeding, etc etc, got 'em... He'll save it for later.]

And then? —Why does he throw more things at me than at you? Not the point; what's next?

[viktor grabs the scalpel and immediately cuts his palm. if he wasn't busy he'd wonder why they always go for the palm, it's actually a bit annoying of a place to work with. it just feels natural but- yes, focusing. the low glow of the moon from the window turns it pale immediately as he turns to pal.]

Pardon me. [have to be polite when you reach out to take some of your boyfriend's sweat blood on your fingers. he then dips it into his own blood when he says,] One way is the combination of types which- does not seem to be working on it's own. Lovely.

[singed moves foreward, so. him, about to test that what happens if a ghost hits the ward. viktor's next move is to pull his fingers up to draw a circle on his own forehead, just in time for singed to press a palm against the ward.

he stops, mouthing something viktor can't make out before vanishing in a peaceful lull. after only a brief moment viktor turns to rub the same circle on pal's forehead, hastily, eager to free them both.]

[Oh, that's his blood sweat, cool. Palamedes trusts Viktor to know what he's doing, mostly focusing on the ward— he can't help but be curious about whatever this ritual is, much as it turns out to be underwhelming, as actions go.

Still, the few seconds Singed is touching the ward are uncomfortable, in a way Palamedes can't explain; the ward is thanergy held up and made tangible, not any piece of himself. He reasons that Singed walking through them earlier is a good enough explanation as any for why he feels something off now, and then— there he goes.

Palamedes' gaze darts to Cytherea as Viktor smudges his head, and she simply watches. In the moment before she too disappears she tosses the chalk at the two of them with almost whimsical laxness; it rolls toward their feet and stops, and then she's gone. Palamedes glances up, past where she was, and says,] Great.

[But he does drop the ward now, after an extra moment to be sure they're really gone. He's bloody and tired, reaching for Viktor to check him for any errant injuries from those first object throws. Cytherea's writing has all but exploded: the lyctorhood steps still sit in the center on the board, while 'YOU LIED TO US' is scrawled in increasingly erratic sizes all around it on the wall behind.

Well, her drama has to wait.]

Are you alright?

[a tension leaves viktor's shoulders with her vanishing, returning as he looks over pal, similarly concerned some errant book hit him. fuck his sleeve, he pulls it up over his hand to dab a little at the blood sweat, letting out a soft, shaky sigh.]

Yes, fine. That escalated far faster than I assumed it would or could. I suspect our ghosts fed off each other.

[his eyes stray to the writing, though he can leave it alone for now to kiss pal. firmly, with the determination of someone why wants physicality to prove they're alright and here.

when he breaks it he finally slumps back to a seat on the desk, frowning at his sluggishly bleeding palm before his eyes go back to pal.] Are you alright? You seemed dazed before.

[Please, save that sleeve, he can use his cloak for the rest of the blood sweat. He does that hastily, pushing his glasses up and askew in the process and humming irritably behind the fabric. Yes, they definitely fed off each other, what a lovely thing to add to the notes—]

They must have, [he says, half-muffled, oop] But that ritual of yours is handy. Who figured that out?

[He says all of this... into the cloak as he wipes his face and neck free of blood sweat... it's fine. Being kissed as soon as he puts the cloak down is a welcome non-answer to the important ritual lore questions and he leans into it like a drowning man. Good— they're good. Yet again, against all odds, they're good.

So, hm. He comes over to the desk and turns to lean back against it, tsking at the mess of broken glass and books and shiny orbs tossed all over just one half of the room. Weird vibe.]

I saw— something, when he touched us before. His memory? And his state of mind back then drew me in; I couldn't do anything but wait.

[Anyway, completely unrelated question,] Where's Rio?

[sleeve is already fucked, though he does resist the urge to use it to clean his own forehead, unsure if it needs more time or something. he is not risking bringing those two back, not now, hopefully not ever.]

It was from a visit to the archives, which was a headache. I was there with a- a man with cat ears, he helped. I didn't know what would work or not. [thank god it did. all the ritual business is too vague and mystic for his liking, to be fair.

he leans into pal a little, shoulders pressed together with a sigh as he surveys the damage. annoying. his fingers are stained inky with pal's blood and he glances over uneasily when he says that.]

What memory? I can't imagine his state of mind was very pleasant, he is... well, I suppose you've seen. [a beat] Oh, she was sleeping by the tree last I saw. Once we clean up the glass I'll call her in, she'll be pleased you came by.

[and he's just glad he could keep her away from the ghost. he cannot imagine that would have been pleasant for anyone.]

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