Arise from the deepest dream | Open

[blessedwithlove]

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

Comments

[megatheorem]

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."

[blessedwithlove]

"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?"

[megatheorem]

"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."

[blessedwithlove]

"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?"

[megatheorem]

"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?"

[blessedwithlove]

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.

[megatheorem]

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."

[blessedwithlove]

"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."

[megatheorem]

"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."