Even the illusion of June is enough to send a stabbing pain through my chest

[butnotyet]

Who: Augustine the First and ____________ (This could be you!)
What: A little bit of everything, including Event threads, and who knows what else
When: Throughout June
Where: All around Trench; specific locations listed in TLs as necessary.

Content warnings for this character: Necromancer with visibility issues (still running a little bit Invisible Man) seeking CR for explicit gore/body horror as a matter-of-fact daily occurrence / being jaded AF about life in Trench and otherwise (look, man, he's older than dirt) / needs more people to be slutty at-or-with (bearing in mind he is, again, currently at-least-mostly Invisible, you/your character's kinks/mileage May Vary, player more interested in vague/FTB/finessing a scene than anything explicit). Also, his omen is his brother, and also a venomous snake, and also really chatty.

Specific warnings for this post: Nightmares featuring a lot of violence, including self-inflicted/suicide; various types of religious imagery/discussions, definitely including "taking the Lord's Name in vain"; invisible nude spying on God (might get spicy).

Comments

[necrosaint]

Harrow can tolerate that.

Harrow can tolerate her nose and eyes and ears bleeding, Harrow can tolerate spitting blood from her mouth as her cocoon starts to fall apart, so long as she can get away just far enough, fast enough, to get help.

Suddenly it doesn't matter where or when or—or any of that—just that her shielding is failing and Augustine is keeping the distraction going long enough for Harrow to escape. Holding it off long enough for her to do—something. Something that matters.

So far, all that something is is close her eyes and break through her cocoon enough to bolt out the door and run down the hall as quickly as possible. She's looking for the King Undying or Gideon Nav, as the most logical people for her to turn to, but honestly, she'd take anyone at this point.

[terriblepurpose]

There are several senses in which the chest Harrow bounces off of in a gauzy red shimmer of hardened shield-light is a close secondary approximation of both other parties Harrow has gone in search of. Light hands touch her elbows as she is delicately turned to slow her wild momentum and put her behind her freshly collided help, who steps back when this is done with quick neatness. He understands how much Harrow does not like to be crowded.

"Harrow," Paul says, with steadiness belying the knife in his hand (which cannot have been there when he spun her, but is now) and the hard, careful set around his eyes, "What is it?"

There are crashes and clatters in this house as a matter of course, these days. Many of them come from Paul and his closest tumbling friends; the ones that don't tend to resolve themselves without intervention.

What that scream was is something else. Whatever has made Harrowhark Nonagesimus flee blindly from a room with blood smeared across her face is something else again.