deercountry | Arise from the deepest dream

Current Music: Paleblood Moon by Miracle of Sound

Entry tags:

Arise from the deepest dream | Open

Who: Varré and others! Maybe even you!
What: Intro post! Varré's settling in.
When: June, after the TDM.
Where: Lumenwood, mostly

Content Warnings: Gore in the Palamedes prompt, other warnings to be added as they arise.

1. A New Home (Lumenwood)

The house had been vacated after an 'unfortunate accident', and had stood empty for some time. And what a shame that was--it looked large enough to house a practice on the lower floor, with space for a home above. The patchy grass around the dooryard seemed a little unfortunate, until he heard the reason. Blood had sunk into the soil there.

Oh, fantastic! He'd have that cleaned up soon enough, not to worry. Once there's an accord and the keys are in hand, he kneels to inspect that blood-blighted earth, pulling out a small object from a pouch on his belt.

A rose hip from the palace. The seeds are so precious, he won't plant them all now. But a few of them on either side of the door will be enough to test the soil, and find out how blood-soaked it truly is.

2. Overwhelmed (Anywhere!)

Not only is the city alive in ways that seem impossible to Varré, there's richness here that the Lands Between hasn't matched in an age. Oh, the monuments to the gods might have been grander, and Leyndell was radiant with gold from the rooves to the glittering paving stones, and its walls still stood firm. Yet what was the point of it anymore? Who survived to care about the treasure-hoards of old lineages?

So few things were wanted by anyone in the Lands Between--runes, food, weapons and armour, and the tools to keep them from rusting away. Only adherents to the Lord of Blood seemed to care about anything more immediate than survival, though he'd personally gone without. His own wants had been trivial, delayable until the Dynasty was established.

And now? What could he do here? There's too much to take in, frankly. To many options. Too much life.

He stops for a moment to just breathe, absently wringing his hands as he tries to get his thoughts in order.

3. Acquisition (Anywhere!)

With so little to his name, every glint holds the promise of something valuable, an object for barter he very much requires. As he's crossing beneath a bridge, something catches his eye on a portico roof--a faint glimmer of something in the sun. It must have fallen from the bridge above, landing far out of reach. Yet he has some notion that he could reach it, if only he just focus.

A dark smoke rises before him, pouring from his collar and the eyes of his mask, coalescing into... "Oh, good heavens!"

It's a crow, feathers lustrous and well-kept. It flits up to the roof to examine the object, picking it up after a moment of careful consideration. It then hops from the roof and glides down, landing on his outstretched wrist.

A small gemstone glints between the finely-formed teeth lining its beak. "What a dear little thing you are."

Yes, a confident little voice says in his mind. I am very dear.

4. Wildcard

[If there's anything else you'd like, talk to me at CellarSpider#9984 or at

PaleAntiquarian

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Though so much felt unfamiliar here, Lumenwood was sweet relief. The red mist, blood and floral scents mingling everywhere... The screams certainly weren't amiss either. How lovely it was, to know that a city could thrive around a place like this.

Viktor had recommended he seek out Palamedes. While he'd not been entirely truthful with the inventor, anyone who did their work in a place like this was certainly worth talking to. He went to the Lumenarium first, asking after the man.

And what luck--he seemed to have gone to the right place.

"Palamedes?" Oh! Hard at work, isn't he? "I've an introduction from Viktor. He spoke highly of you."

Given the work, Palamedes doesn't often expect visitors at the Lumenarium. Even Viktor slogs through the Lumenwood mists only every now and then, and given the Lumenarium itself is a hotbed for potential corruption, well— it's no wonder his fellow ministers mostly keep to themselves. To have a visitor that isn't a patient (or the rare Viktor showing) is novel, and Palamedes is only half-listening when one of the other ministers mumbles at him about someone looking for him when they pass by.

So it is wrist-deep in the chest cavity of a patient who did not make it that he'll be found. The ministers insist on long gloves up past the elbows, and Palamedes' presently are slick with blood and other flecks drying on the material, bits of his front smeared with more. Much as he personally is, hm, disgusting, the patient on the table is less so: visibly cleaned, face covered with a respectful drape, the hands tucked neatly at their sides. They are very much dead, and Palamedes appears in the process of making their destroyed ribcage appear less so when he blinks and looks up.

Definitely the best time to visit. He frowns, which smooths out at the mention of Viktor, but only just.

"Oh— hi?" Hold on, ah, he remembers, "The masked man with the apples; he mentioned you. I'm a little- I've got my hands full, but what can I do for you?"

He can multitask. This late patient isn't going anywhere.

"Indeed. Varré, surgeon and new arrival to the Trench." He makes a brief bow.

"Ahh, but forget about my wants for the moment--Can I assist?" His gloves aren't to the local standard, but they go to the elbow. One's leather, the other used to be white cloth. It's quite covered in old stains, most of them blood.

Palamedes pauses; a surgeon, wandering in here to see him for something that is not, apparently, getting a job here? He would really like to ask more questions, but this ribcage isn't going to put itself back together, so-

"Sure," he says, and then with a nod at the gloves, "Not in those. They've got spares in the hutch just over there." Some dozen or so feet to his right, a battered old wooden cabinet with slightly cracked glass in its door, gloves folded neatly in pair inside. He offers, with his fingers pressing ribs into place in the meantime, a little smile.

"Sorry, I'm a stickler. Go on and grab a pair, I'll wait for you."

"Of course." He turns to the cabinet, hanging his gloves over his belt. "These were always more fit for the duties of a war surgeon than more refined work." He pulls on the new pair over his sleeves with some difficulty--the leather shirt might be nicely waterproof, but it's not delicately made.

"There. Now, where am I needed?"

"Here; can you hold these in place for me? They— well, they came off." The ribs he's been pressing on, that is; they are indeed being pressed on to try and keep them where they should be, even though this person is long dead. Palamedes adds, "They were attacked by a beast, hence..."

Well, the ravaged chest. "I am - making it tidier. For the family."

"Certainly." He reaches in to grasp the ribs, examining the wounds. Nothing truly extraordinary, but it was still quite the vicious mauling. "Viktor told me violence was common here. But if bodies are being seen to and there are families to receive them, this seems... well. Peaceful isn't quite the word for it. Have you been here long?"

"Sort of. Yes and no? I spent a month and change being incredibly dead in the sea, but besides that - five other, living months. Thank you," this last part mumbled for the ribs being held in place, while he hunches a little to get a closer look at the precise shape of the bone fractures. Reaching in to put his fingertips to each rib in turn, feather light, he makes no incantations or any such thing but the broken pieces do seem to become briefly malleable, then stitch back together.

He does this for each rib, and a blood sweat has broken out on his face and neck by the second or third of the broken set, which he ignores. He has no clean gloves to wipe that blood on, anyway.

When he's on the last one, he glances up again, back into the conversation. "Some of it is... practical; blood summons beasts, pollutes the soil, and so on. But I'm sentimental, so if there's a body to return to the families and let them decide the rest, well— here we are. You said you're a surgeon?"

He nods along, his hands remaining steady as Palamedes sets to work. At first he's focused on the ribs themselves, and for good reason. They're mended. Not simply joined, obviously not healed, yet the body's reverted to a more complete state. It's almost like Those Who Live In Death.

Fascinating.

It's only once he smells a change in the air that he looks up to see the blood. Oh, that makes this all even better! What a strange technique. He'd have to thank Viktor for directing him here. "Indeed, one serving the needs of my Lord. Well--served now, I suppose." He had died, after all. But more importantly...

"I'm quite familiar with blood magic, though I'm afraid my new blood interferes with the method." He'd tried to spawn a bloodfly or two as he'd walked, but the poor things simply dropped dead as soon as they formed. If noble blood still ran in his veins, it had taken on new aspects he didn't understand.

There's surely a- rag or something he could grab, but Palamedes merely squints and then blinks a few times when some of his blood sweat drips down into his eye. It's fine, this is normal - he has to wash his face a lot along with his hands, it's all in a day's work. He's still only half paying attention to what's happening to his own pores, instead saying, "I'm starting to think Lords are better in the past tense."

And then he pauses, glancing up from the last rib, like, ah— that's the thing one shouldn't just say out loud, huh. Oops.

"Sorry. For your— past tense Lord." But anyway, with a nod to all this business he's doing with the bones, "I'm a necromancer, but people make comments about that sometimes. The blood hasn't gotten in my way, really— What was your old method? And could you fold the skin back into place, thanks."

"I'm sorry you had such a deficient Lord," he replies tartly. "I regret that I'm no longer in His service so directly, but there's no way back across the fog unless I'm called." And he'd become convinced that was still a possibility. After all, the Divinity would soon awaken. Then everything would change.

That promise was more than enough to keep him faithful, even when he no longer felt the sweet pain of the sacred within him. "His blood provided the catalyst for power." He took the edges of the skin, pressing them back together as one would to suture a wound. "What I have now is similar, but it's lost that blessed flame."

"Don't worry about me; I wouldn't claim a deficient Lord as mine to begin with." He says it with a shrug and the brief quirk of a smile, like really, it's no big deal, and he's not saying anything gently heretical at all! This is all probably very fine, especially for someone like Palamedes, whose unclaimed Lord who would really rather he fall in line is kicking around the city somewhere as they speak right now.

He's handling it. He's also handling the skin, which gets the same helpful push of necromantic energies as the bones did, although it seems to be taking longer. Dead flesh and osseous matter are pretty incomparable media to work with, after all.

"Maybe yours will turn up," he offers, with a glance up from his skin-work. Not entirely sure how many Lords one city needs, but - it's the polite thing to say. "If nothing else, the people here are remarkably open to different faiths."

There's someone else who's overwhelmed, but in a different way. There's a lot to learn and a lot of monsters to watch out for. He's in his Reaper outfit, given that it's more black and easier to clean blood off of, but he spots another person who looks a little lost.

Maybe he could use a friend! He wanders over, the large scythe on his back remaining firmly attached. He can draw it if this person turns out to be an enemy... this whole place has him on edge.

"Hello there. Is there anything I can help you with?" He's learned a few things, at least!

Oh Lord. Is it something about his mask? Because he's not even trying anymore, yet for some reason he's still drawing in fresh-faced, earnest adventurers. If it weren't for the ears and tail, that demeanor wouldn't be out of place on any Tarnished freshly washed ashore in Limgrave. Although this one didn't seem so hopeless as...

No. No, he wouldn't think about that. "Oh, I'm simply at a loss," he laments, not quite managing to sooth the tinge of bitterness out of his voice. "I've not been anywhere so peaceful or populous in... I can't recall, actually." The Palace was a place of rest, of course, but it wasn't to be mentioned to outsiders.

No. That was no matter, for now. "I'm sure I'll find my way soon enough."

"I see." His tail flicks from side to side in curiosity as he tries to figure out the man's words. "Peaceful and populous? You must be from a very dangerous and wide world, indeed." He likes the peace and quiet, but he misses the hustle and bustle of somewhere like Ul'dah, or even Limsa Lominsa.

Still, he smiles. "I'm glad you seem to be enjoying this, though. Do you need someone to accompany you while you wander in case of monsters, or are you able to defend yourself? I wouldn't want to presume in a place like this." Plus, it's just plain rude. The mask doesn't bother him even though it's odd - maybe the man is simply scarred, or it's traditional where he's from.

The tail draws his eye for a moment. After meeting that odd man on the beach, neither feature is truly a surprise anymore, though it's still odd.

"Indeed. And quite broken." It's a shame no one here has looked familiar. Certainly Luminary Mohg's servants deserved a death that brought them to a place like this, where blood held power over all. But then again, how would he find someone from the Lands Between in all this?

"Oh, I should hope I can. Yet..." He wasn't about to admit the loss of his blood magic to a stranger. It was the Vileblood's doing, it must have been. It had a beautiful scent, but it had severed his connection to the Formless Mother. Or altered it, he hoped. He would have to learn again how to use it.

"Until I've taken the measure of this place, I see no harm in joining another."

"I'm sorry. I hope that someone can help save it..." It's not like he can easily travel worlds - just to one. Probably. He notes the pause, swishing his tail curiously - but he's too polite to ask about it. He should, he's sure, but... it's not going to help any by getting someone angry.

He nods at the assessment, reaching back to pat his scythe. "I'm still new to this place, but I'd hope I could help to slay anything that attacks, if the need arises." He'd prefer to avoid confrontation, but he's not sure if that's an option here.

"Where would you like to go? I've found a few locations around here that seem safe - were you heading to one of those?"

Gaia isn't really fond of Lumenwood (something something all the blood smell in the air, it's kinda ew), but sometimes you just have to go places you're not fond of for the best offers. So here we are. Young teenager wearing a practical outfit for Trench- which is to say long sleeves, gloves, pants and long boots with the fabric in summer weights. She's flanked by a brindle-furred dog and a large crowntail betta swimming through the air. One of them is probably an omen.

She pauses on seeing the figure who's hunched over in the dirt. This could be just someone being overzealous in studying the ground but this is also Trench so it sometimes pays to make sure. From her angle she can't really see the seed or what Varré is looking at.

"Is everything alright?" Gaia calls over. She shows no signs or interest in stepping on the property, much less invading the figure's personal space until she's more certain of things.

"Ahh, yes," he covers over the final seed, patting down the soil.

"If this earth's as bloody as they claimed, then it should grow such beautiful roses." Oh, he hopes so.

He stands, turning to look--Hmm. Well. He's never seen a fish do that before. Is he supposed to take that as normal here? "This city's blessed enough, they should be quite happy here."

Uh... huh. That is the exact weight of the expression on Gaia's face. Varré has been given a label in her mind. If it were a sticker, it would probably have red lines and some exclamation points indicating caution or warning.

But at least the teenager is perfectly capable of remaining civil. "You're trying to grow roses? In bloodstained soil?" Wait, bloody? Gaia's eyes widen. "Surely you're not talking about blood polluted soil?"

Color her very alarmed. For the moment she doesn't even register that Varré called this city blessed. She's already eyeing him over. Surely he didn't touch that soil with bare hands, did he?

Edited 2022-06-06 20:16 (UTC)

"Indeed." Oh, dampen his enthusiasm a little, why don't you. He demurely clasps his hands--his gloved hands, thank you--taking the measure of the girl. He was familiar with that sort of tone. People always found ways to turn beauty into a curse, didn't they? He would have thought someone living here would understand.

"In fact, they'll hardly bloom without it. Bloodroses are such delicate things."

Look it's one thing to find beauty in blood pollution, blah blah, poetic etc etc, creepy roses. It's another thing entirely to grub around in the soil practically begging for beasthood. At least when Gaia's within ten yalms of ground zero. She has every good reason to Be Concerned.

Should Varré be looking to give some credit though, she looks first relieved (at seeing the gloves, okay the man was taking precautions), and then curious when he speaks about 'bloodroses'.

Pay no attention to the start of alarm she has when she looks up at the man's face and sees... please tell her that's a mask. Well if the lips don't move...

"Be pardon? Are you saying you've something that will grow in the polluted earth?" Against her better judgement she does sound intrigued. If this fellow did have something that could do that and you know, not produce a horror monster of thorns and roses... That'd be huge.

Which is probably why she suddenly has an expression that suggests she's expecting there to be a catch to this possible miracle of a plant. But she does take a step forward, trying to shift and get a better look at.... well, those roses aren't going to grow right away, are they. So maybe nothing.

As for a once-over. She's a teenager, so young. Maybe about sixteen or so. It looks like even with her practical clothes she's got a sense of coordination that's made her attire look as fashionable as secondhand and mended clothes can. There's a pair of goggles hanging around her neck and parts of a scarf poke up through her collar in case she needs to completely mask up. But she's also wearing a trace of cosmetics.

Well, if Varré can pick up on details like that. She doesn't look like a fighter, but there's an air about her that suggests she's not entirely naive. Despite her curiosity for instance, caution is still keeping her at a distance.

Yes, indeed, a mask. Grubby and worn, but still smiling faintly. Between it and his headscarves, the only part of Varré that's actually visible is a pair of amber-colored eyes.

"They've grown even in the most fetid blood. I see no reason why they would reject this." They grew up through the blessed reservoir in the Rose Church, windswept outcrops and courtyard execution sites of lordly castles, even the battlefields where his order had brought mercy to the suffering. He'd been fond of them, even before he was joined to the Dynasty. Beauty out of blood. Now they held far more significance.

He turns to follow her gaze, sighing quietly. "In fact, they'd grow best with a little watering. Ahh, but I'm not sure yet if they'll take to Vileblood." And he didn't want to pollute the soil if they reacted poorly to him. Maybe he could find a suitable pot, to experiment...

Gaia is slowly rounding back to her earlier conclusion that this fellow is someone to keep at arm's length. Perhaps further. In fact, whether these flowers were helpful in the way most people would define the word.

Her gaze goes from the point where the rosehips were apparently planted to Varré. "You don't know how they'd react to Vileblood..." Is that the spill in question? Did he plant them without knowing!

"Wait, where did you even get these roses in the first place? Who are you?"

Maul watches as the man's Omen springs to life, retrieving something for him. There's an amused expression on his face as he has his own Omen Venge by his side, a creature called a maalraas that looked big, mean, and rather toothy in appearance. Surprisingly, Venge is actually much more reasonable and the levelheaded one of the pair.

"Is this the first time you've summoned your Omen?" Maul asks.

Edited 2022-06-25 06:48 (UTC)

"My Omen?"

Had he been asked which thing in front of him was an Omen, he would have pointed to the man. The horns were remarkably well-kept and symmetrical, but what else could he be? And the red skin--it didn't have the same shade as the blessed blood, he knew that too intimately to think otherwise. But it was still so achingly close to familiarity.

"I suppose it must be." The crow dropped the gemstone into his hand, then hopped up onto his shoulder, tilting its head to observe the stranger and his equally strange companion. "Is that all the word means here?"

The crow gave his mask an offended peck.

"Not at all. These creatures are no mere animals even if that is all that they look like. They are.....well, it's never been made clear. One part guardian, one part a version of ourselves, one part communication device. There's a lot to what makes up an Omen." As Maul speaks, Venge nods their head alongside him, punctuating each descriptive point as the truth.

"They are also protectors. Watch." He turns to Venge. Suddenly, the maalraas grows and swells until it is enormous, almost the size of an elephant instead of the wolf-sized creature that had been standing there a moment before.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Arise from the deepest dream | Open

For Palamedes

additional cw for corpse

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

1

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

3

no subject

no subject