White Mask Varré (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blessedwithlove) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
deercountry2022-07-17 11:46 am
blessedwithlove) wrote in deercountry2022-07-17 11:46 am
Entry tags:
Denied the peaceful earth | Open | July Catch-All
Who: Varré, a minor pthumerian and others! Maybe even you!
What: Varré returns from the dead, meets a pthumerian, makes repairs, and begins hunting for revenge!
When: About two weeks after the start of the late unpleasantness with Mariana
Where: Lumenwood and around Trench
Content Warnings: Some body horror in the intro, likely some blood and violence in a thread for Shen Yuan, other warnings to be added as they arise.
🏶🏶🏶
Peaceful, shallow breaths are suddenly struck through with a wracking cough. Varré claws at his mask, ripping it away to seek clearer air.
He's crumpled somewhere dark, the night still and close. And despite the heat of the season, it's not been enough to warm him. He lies there, shivering, clutching his mask. He can feel the beleaguered porcelain beneath bare fingertips. It seems like his glove has been neatly cut away.
He looks up to filtered moonlight through innumerable thorny stems, supporting a canopy of dark leaves. His roses. Some of the briars around him look dry and dead, but the rest are beautifully alive. He'd worried for them, the way they'd been mutilated, that his poisoned blood would be too much for them--
He remembers all at once. That horrid attack, that betrayal! He'd given that man a place in a blessed home, and it had ended in sudden, senseless violence. Again.
He rolls over into his side, curling up around his mask, the myriad of cuts through his uniform more evident now. Oh, he's been such a fool yet again, to trust so quickly. Shouldn't be have been chagrined by the betrayer-knight that defiled the mausoleum? Forgive him, Lord, for he'd hoped so fervently that one could still find hearts free from such madness...
But there will be no forgiveness without just repayment. Not for him, and not for that wretched madman. He shakily replaces his mask, breathing deeply before turning over to crawl.
His hand brushes against something in the gloom, half-buried in the dirt. As soon as he grasps it, he knows what it is. A finger. A dead, cold finger, cut from his own hand in the assault. He's miraculously restored now, but as he feels the dirt around him, he finds the remaining three, and his knife as well.
And beneath the heady scent of the roses, he detects a familiar tinge of festering blood yet unspilled. There's magic in this flesh now, imbued by his own death. Oh, he'll make use of these.
He crawls beneath the thorns, out towards the moonlight.
🏶🏶🏶
1. Patronage (Lumenwood, at night)
A sturdy old building set back from the main thoroughfare has undergone a strange transformation in recent weeks. The roses that were planted there have grown voraciously, climbing the walls to the roof. They've even anchored themselves in the exposed supports for the third floor and grown out, shading the street with trailing branches that swing gently in the breeze.
Every branch is covered in dark leaves, wicked red thorns, and dark, velvety roses. All save for an odd patch that's grown from a single stem. The blooms there are paler, tinged with green and pink, and have a scent so strong they can cause lightheadedness, possibly even cause strange distortion to the senses.
A masked man is crawling out from under that patch of pale roses, dirty and still weak from his rebirth. Help him or pass by at the right time, and you might also see something strange sil̙e̹̲̖n͉t̗l̗̝y̱̩ p͈̦̝u̗̠̠l̙l̻̜ it̝s̹̩e̮̼̼l͇͕f ̗̙̘̖͚f͉̻r͙e̙e͇͇̳̣͓͈̹ f̰̠̻̳͈̼̹̦̙͔ͅr̙̼̥̙͕̰̱o̬͕̖̟͔ṃ͔̳̻̥̯̬̫ ̙͎͉͍̘̳̗̻̠̣̪t͙ͅh̫̯̟̖̺̫̠̗̠̰̦̝̳e r͎̠̹̙̖͖̥͎o̯̺̤̫̬̭̞̙͇̙̘̣se҉̞s̪͔̘̹͙̗̞̻̻̼̲̣.
2. Recovering (Lumenwood, during the day)
His legs refuse to cooperate. They hold him for barely a few minutes before beginning to tremble again, forcing him to lean or sit when he's exhausted them. The roses have been coaxed away from the street-level doors to his home, now thrown open to air out the place while he takes stock and makes repairs.
He's taken a seat there beside his operating table, a few clean tools and lengths of thin leather cord sitting there beside him. He's taken off the leather shirt he wears beneath his wrap, leaving him in a woolen blue shirt, marred by cuts and stains. Those he's ignoring for now, in favor of repairing the leather with awl, needle and cord.
He ties off his stitches, tucks in the loose cord and cuts it short with a scalpel. He's free to approach as he is, though one might also see something odd, as he pauses his repairs. He's examining the scalpel, fussing over an imperfection on the blade. An idea suddenly seems to come to him, and he raises the scalpel a few inches higher.
The blade disappears, leaving a coruscating light where the metal suddenly shears away. Varré tenses, eyes wide beneath the mask, but he doesn't seem surprised by this. He carefully pulls the scalpel back, and the blade returns, dripping with rose-red fire.
He bows his head, eyes still fixed on the blade. "Praise be to the Formless Mother."
3. Hunting (Anywhere!)
One might find Varré walking the streets of Trench, or encounter his omen, a toothed crow circling overhead, occasionally flying up to hop along a bridge railing above him, or swooping down to perch on a windowsill, peering inside with attentive little eyes.
"Pardon me," he asks, "But have you seen a Sleeper by the name of Shen Yuan?"
He's polite, but the amber-colored eyes behind his mask are staring just a little too intensely. Something most certainly isn't alright with this man.
What: Varré returns from the dead, meets a pthumerian, makes repairs, and begins hunting for revenge!
When: About two weeks after the start of the late unpleasantness with Mariana
Where: Lumenwood and around Trench
Content Warnings: Some body horror in the intro, likely some blood and violence in a thread for Shen Yuan, other warnings to be added as they arise.
🏶🏶🏶
Peaceful, shallow breaths are suddenly struck through with a wracking cough. Varré claws at his mask, ripping it away to seek clearer air.
He's crumpled somewhere dark, the night still and close. And despite the heat of the season, it's not been enough to warm him. He lies there, shivering, clutching his mask. He can feel the beleaguered porcelain beneath bare fingertips. It seems like his glove has been neatly cut away.
He looks up to filtered moonlight through innumerable thorny stems, supporting a canopy of dark leaves. His roses. Some of the briars around him look dry and dead, but the rest are beautifully alive. He'd worried for them, the way they'd been mutilated, that his poisoned blood would be too much for them--
He remembers all at once. That horrid attack, that betrayal! He'd given that man a place in a blessed home, and it had ended in sudden, senseless violence. Again.
He rolls over into his side, curling up around his mask, the myriad of cuts through his uniform more evident now. Oh, he's been such a fool yet again, to trust so quickly. Shouldn't be have been chagrined by the betrayer-knight that defiled the mausoleum? Forgive him, Lord, for he'd hoped so fervently that one could still find hearts free from such madness...
But there will be no forgiveness without just repayment. Not for him, and not for that wretched madman. He shakily replaces his mask, breathing deeply before turning over to crawl.
His hand brushes against something in the gloom, half-buried in the dirt. As soon as he grasps it, he knows what it is. A finger. A dead, cold finger, cut from his own hand in the assault. He's miraculously restored now, but as he feels the dirt around him, he finds the remaining three, and his knife as well.
And beneath the heady scent of the roses, he detects a familiar tinge of festering blood yet unspilled. There's magic in this flesh now, imbued by his own death. Oh, he'll make use of these.
He crawls beneath the thorns, out towards the moonlight.
🏶🏶🏶
1. Patronage (Lumenwood, at night)
A sturdy old building set back from the main thoroughfare has undergone a strange transformation in recent weeks. The roses that were planted there have grown voraciously, climbing the walls to the roof. They've even anchored themselves in the exposed supports for the third floor and grown out, shading the street with trailing branches that swing gently in the breeze.
Every branch is covered in dark leaves, wicked red thorns, and dark, velvety roses. All save for an odd patch that's grown from a single stem. The blooms there are paler, tinged with green and pink, and have a scent so strong they can cause lightheadedness, possibly even cause strange distortion to the senses.
A masked man is crawling out from under that patch of pale roses, dirty and still weak from his rebirth. Help him or pass by at the right time, and you might also see something strange sil̙e̹̲̖n͉t̗l̗̝y̱̩ p͈̦̝u̗̠̠l̙l̻̜ it̝s̹̩e̮̼̼l͇͕f ̗̙̘̖͚f͉̻r͙e̙e͇͇̳̣͓͈̹ f̰̠̻̳͈̼̹̦̙͔ͅr̙̼̥̙͕̰̱o̬͕̖̟͔ṃ͔̳̻̥̯̬̫ ̙͎͉͍̘̳̗̻̠̣̪t͙ͅh̫̯̟̖̺̫̠̗̠̰̦̝̳e r͎̠̹̙̖͖̥͎o̯̺̤̫̬̭̞̙͇̙̘̣se҉̞s̪͔̘̹͙̗̞̻̻̼̲̣.
2. Recovering (Lumenwood, during the day)
His legs refuse to cooperate. They hold him for barely a few minutes before beginning to tremble again, forcing him to lean or sit when he's exhausted them. The roses have been coaxed away from the street-level doors to his home, now thrown open to air out the place while he takes stock and makes repairs.
He's taken a seat there beside his operating table, a few clean tools and lengths of thin leather cord sitting there beside him. He's taken off the leather shirt he wears beneath his wrap, leaving him in a woolen blue shirt, marred by cuts and stains. Those he's ignoring for now, in favor of repairing the leather with awl, needle and cord.
He ties off his stitches, tucks in the loose cord and cuts it short with a scalpel. He's free to approach as he is, though one might also see something odd, as he pauses his repairs. He's examining the scalpel, fussing over an imperfection on the blade. An idea suddenly seems to come to him, and he raises the scalpel a few inches higher.
The blade disappears, leaving a coruscating light where the metal suddenly shears away. Varré tenses, eyes wide beneath the mask, but he doesn't seem surprised by this. He carefully pulls the scalpel back, and the blade returns, dripping with rose-red fire.
He bows his head, eyes still fixed on the blade. "Praise be to the Formless Mother."
3. Hunting (Anywhere!)
One might find Varré walking the streets of Trench, or encounter his omen, a toothed crow circling overhead, occasionally flying up to hop along a bridge railing above him, or swooping down to perch on a windowsill, peering inside with attentive little eyes.
"Pardon me," he asks, "But have you seen a Sleeper by the name of Shen Yuan?"
He's polite, but the amber-colored eyes behind his mask are staring just a little too intensely. Something most certainly isn't alright with this man.
2
Glancing over at the pale man, he looks at the state of his wounds and what he did to mend them himself. "You look like you had a bad time."
no subject
He gestures down at his torn and bloodstained clothes. "Even the most harmless may become mad killers."
The worst of his wounds were dealt with by the resurrection. His fingers are restored, the stab wounds through his gut were only flesh-deep when he revived, shallower now that he's drained his sacred flask. But he's still covered in injuries. Some of them bandaged and many he can reach are stitched, but the rest are held together only by gauze and rose petal paste. He hasn't really been able to clean the ones on his back--just relying on the roses to do their work, drinking blood and rot.
It hurts terribly, but he's trapped in a state somewhere between mania and calm that keeps his hands steady, though his voice carries a bitter tension to it.
"If you're here for the surgery, I'm afraid I can't provide any aid today."
no subject
"I need no surgery. And if I did, I don't think you're in any condition to be treating others right now."
no subject
"But perhaps you can help me instead--Have you seen a man named Shen Yuan?"
no subject
"Shen Yuan? I don't believe I have."