deercountry | [OPEN] OUTPOST HAVEN [player plot]

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[OPEN] OUTPOST HAVEN [player plot]

Who: Anyone and Everyone
What: Open Post for Player Plot
When: Early August and Onward
Where: Staging Point in Crenshaw and Outpost

Content Warning: None in the main post

[Ooc: This is an open log place for the Outpost player plot, plotting post here and location post here. Feel free to post starters here and tag one another.]

Wall Complete

On one of the days after the wall is finished but before the gate is added D schedules a section of time when only a few people will be at the outpost so a hazardous construction project can take place, just a handful of guards.

When the all-clear is given for construction crews and day shift guards to return the outer wall is practically glowing with heat and the individual stone blocks have been fused together. The ground around it is scorched but there's no lingering fire anywhere despite the smoking and blackened trees and greenery.

Staging Point

On the main floor of the house D has chosen to use as the staging point is an area set up for collecting and preserving blood. Darkblood and coldblood keep easily enough but more care is needed when dealing with vileblood and there's an abundance of dried plants ready to be ground to a powder and added to collected vileblood in the first stage of making the special blood mortar.

In one of the rooms upstairs are scales and measuring devices and glass and metal jars ready to receive the mixture of all three blood types in specific parts along with another plant mixture, the last stage before it's mixed into mortar, which is better done in large batches at the outpost itself.

Tree Clearing

One of the tasks to start off the next step of construction is clearing trees for fifty yards in every direction outside the wall as well as any bushes that are large enough to obscure vision. Felled trees are moved inside the outer wall to be processed mostly into logs for use in construction.

Simple wooden watch towers will be erected at the corner of each wall and wooden stairs in a few other places to allow rapid access to the walls for defensive purposes.

Extra wood and other plant material will be processed for firewood and any other purpose it can serve.

Excavating

Digging and leveling start for both the eventual large basement as well as long trench corridors to run under what will be the kitchen and bath house and clean up area to provide places to run pipes or access the foundation from below. Both buildings share a wall with the already completed bunk house and form the basis of what will eventually be expanded to become a barracks.

Construction

The main focus in this phase is making the place livable for people full time. Getting clean is especially important with blood pollution and corruption still being large issues. There's a bath area to be constructed with six individual bathing areas and a pair of large fireplaces to heat water until more permanent systems can go in. Before plumbing and other things can be done the baths will drain into a set of underground paths and from there to a gravel-filled pit beneath what will be another rose garden.

A kitchen will also go up with a pair of fireplaces and room for people to cook and clean with room for plumbing and more advanced options to eventually be added but for now all food and water will come from storage barrels brought in from the staging point and taken back when they're empty.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

ᴛʀᴇᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ & ᴇxᴄᴀᴠᴀᴛɪɴɢ

[ to clear the trees, the titan that helps slice them from their stumps with uncanny ease is smaller than the one with wings, if any have ever seen it— falco dawns the same bony beak mask, albeit on four clawed limbs made perfectly for maneuvering on the ground. he'll either cut with his talons or bite with his jaws, only requiring some guidance from his fellow sleepers on which trees to go for. need something to soften the fall of the tree you've sent to timber? he's got you! did you think you'd have to pull them all back, too? nonsense. he's got some pulling power in these legs, and could definitely haul away a day's worth of logs in one go.

as for digging, it seems that falco is quite suited for speeding up the process! with the jaw titan being quick on its legs and capable of copious amounts of dirt in a single scoop, they may be able to get the bulk of the cavity done it no time. ]

ᴄᴏɴsᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

① [ the most he could do here is perhaps aid in the building's skeletal structure, or get people and material onto certain levels without the use of an elevator. he can check for stability if pointed in the direction of such activities. but sooner rather later . . . ]

② [ a little less than an hour into any type of endeavor per day, the mass of what looks like a dead titan's body is left farther away from the outpost in favor of making sure the hot steam lifting from it wouldn't obscure the vision of any watchers. falco comes out from the vast deforested plain they've creating, with steam still rising from his frame and scars riding his eyes and jaws. he seems fine and capable of walking on his own, finding a quiet spot to rest and observe the bustle. he's brought a book he's halfway through to read, as well as a notebook to jot down anything interesting.

he feels something wet on his lips right before it pelts his pages— vileblood, fresh from his nose, drips unnaturally fast for one simply sitting there— putting either book down quickly, he does his best to wipe with the back of his hand without thinking of it, wanting to cover it up before anything else. it stains his face and shifter lines with a dark green smudge that smells of flowers— an instant regret that makes the accident seem alarming. the color drains from his face, he cups the bottom half of his mouth, and searches through his belongings in his chosen messenger bag for loose fabric to use. ]

[the form is horrifying in a way - and something sometimes in transformations triggers an unwelcome memory in her - but she finds she's able to swat that memory away (mostly because it has nothing to do with this) and straight up marvel that this is falco making short work of the trees, and just ...don't mind the staring, kid. it's turned into a stare of wow, holy shit that she will shoot over her shoulder every now and again.]

Duty crouches and holds out a clean cloth rag for the boy to use to clean up his blood. Vileblood, not always looked upon the most kindly. He doesn't say anything yet, only offers assistance. His dark eyes watch and observe. What's seen is unable to be unseen.

It was happening. Something to expect, but something his living, young heart still dreaded anyway. His thin, bloody fingers were shaking by the time he lifts them to accept the offered aid, his lips nearly paper pale with a hint of purplish hue. There’s warm remembrance when he sees that it’s Duty, but a soft sadness that pools in his chest because it’s— for this.

“Thank you,” he answers, his eyes only fleeting upward to briefly meet Duty’s gaze before sinking to an absent spot in his lap, as if ashamed of something he’s done wrong. The cloth is pressed to the clip of space between his upper lip and nostrils, soaking the blood that was still dripping, then tipping his head back to stop the rest.

Whatever remains of it is swallowed. A bitter taste of flowers slides down the back of his throat and does him no harm. To anything else, it would stiffen their limbs and strangle the muscles of their heart until they stopped breathing.

"You're welcome," Duty says softly. He moves to sit nearby, not simply crouch, to signal his intentions. There are questions, and undoubtedly they are personal and, to an extent, private. Coming to the outpost, working as part of Duty's team, however, makes it not solely a private matter. He's not sure who looks after Falco, how much they know about his work here or the apparent costs. It doesn't matter. Duty is responsible for those who work for him, and he does not consider a child's life worth the accelerated progress on the outpost. If that is what it is.

"It may be difficult or unpleasant," Duty says, to the point, "but I need to know. What's the health costs of the work you're doing here?" Whether it's making Falco sick or straining an already fatal condition, anywhere in between, Duty needs the information to make his decisions. While he's not one for many words, it's sharper to the point even for him. His tone is still calm and even, no anger, but he can be that calm under any circumstance. He cares, yes, or he wouldn't ask. He wouldn't force the issue.

"I would like to know what and why you're suffering generally, but you don't have to share anything not related to work," Duty adds, still not willing to trample over Falco because of the age and authority gap between them.

Falco knows the palpable gravity used in these investigating inquiries— D had said in his absence, it was Duty who was in charge. He's kept it quiet for so long and had childishly hoped that it may stay that way. It didn't and wouldn't.

"I," he starts, but pauses just as soon, and left extending enough that it could even be considered an end. He's looking for the words, the simplification of an otherwise complicated net of realities that may not string into something comprehensible. The young teen raises his shoulders with the inhale he pulls through his teeth. When he feels ready to add, he does, his voice partially muffled behind the pressed fabric, pulling a finger's worth of space away from the nose to make sure it's stopped. It seems to have.

"It won't make it worse," he starts, sniffing in between his sentence and using the subtle lull to pull the fabric back in full, and begins folding it in a way that exposes another speckless side to clean any wet smudges. He'll have to wash the dryer stains elsewhere. "I just— need to rest, now. I knew where to stop, Sir."

Under favorable circumstances, he's one for self-preservation. He won't recklessly do more. He will rest, and he may not use his vessel for another few days. Then, quietly, as he's done the entire time he's used his voice, dropped to stillness to keep the conversation between them, "It . . . Just happens, to us."

Busy as construction is, Duty waits patiently with seemingly all the time in the world. He watches Falco without enough understanding to make sharing easier. The longer it takes, however, the surer he gets that it's not simply bad it's unduly horrifying. More difficult to judge is whether there is anything he can do about it. So many different universes and rules intersecting so that the rules they are all bound by fluctuate and are not fully known. Three necromancers and a corpse indeed.

He wants a cigarette after those five words. For a moment, they seem to be all the words he will get, and Duty wants to inhale nicotine that cannot harm his lungs for more than the time it takes for one smoke free breath. It's the simplest, easiest, safest way to burn the feeling he cannot do more. It won't last, and Duty knows he cannot leave a boy bleeding after a single morning's work doomed to a horrible fate. It would only be to clear his head.

"I am glad I can trust you to stop," Duty says evenly, no sign of duress, no twitchy fingers, no reaching for a lighter, not a single thing amiss.

The last five words are a tragedy. He closes his eyes and takes a few more breaths. They're an invitation, those five words, and Duty accepts it. "Who is 'us'?" Duty asks. And, "How long does it take?" The Seventh House has nearly perfected dying. Every generation or two has its masterpiece of human suffering for incredible necromantic ability—harvesting their own deaths to whatever ends they and their House permits them. He remembers Cytherea when she first came to Canaan House and Cytherea when she last returned from it in a coffin and all the long years in between.

Not here, Duty decides, not under his watch. He opens his eyes and looks intensely at the boy before him.

"People who have the same ability as me— the giant." Surely he'd seen the massive creature quick on its legs, and sharp with its talons, each black armored curve a monstrous meat hanger capable of denting even the most unyielding of precious stones. The tree trunks were like paper. Duty's next inquiry takes longer, and Falco does look between them with the answer packed at the tip of his tongue, but—

He's too occupied with constraining his lips together, in hopes that it would stop the sharp burn swelling under the bridge of his nose. A shining veil gleams over his eyes, where he begins to busy himself with the cloth. He's never spoken to anyone about it. He fears it. But most of all, he fears for those much closer to him and how it would shatter moments he still had with all of them. Sleeper Squids could be reborn— as well as they could never return. Was ignorance better, in this case? In any case? He's died before, twice now, and here he was (the fear still lingered, regardless).

"Uhm, it's, a little more than a decade—" the boy's voice cracks, high, then settles low with a faint shiver. "Would you tell anyone?"

It was more time than perhaps they'd stay in Trench. Perhaps not. He had to throw it all up to chance. But, the implication still stands: Please don't tell anyone.

Falco's gifts are great, perhaps so great people consider it worth the cost. Duty doesn't know their situation. Trench is much smaller than the world he lived in before. The saints are not, for good reason, allowed home. That kept the children, the sick children, at a distance. Something known but not seen. Not that his decisions and actions forget that. He's briefly been to the Dominicus system when truly needed. The problems he handled were on a much larger scale–millions or billions. He left the rest to others, for good news for bad.

Whatever their concerns here, they aren't what troubled Falco's home, just as Duty's attentions are kept local. He's glad to be able to concern himself with it.

How much of the decade is left? That's the question Falco draws some line, though Duty isn't sure how much general illness can be concealed. "I will not tell anyone," Duty says, "I would prefer not to lie to anyone else who figures it out themselves, but I can."

If Falco dies and people get mad at Duty, he can handle it. The kid has little enough control over his life.

"Me neither," he admits, one of the very reasons why he was even spilling this information to Duty in the first place when he could've easily kept quiet and asked for space on the subject.

"You don't have to lie, but . . . Thank you." At least when it comes to keeping it between them and keeping it close. "I just don't think it's worth telling, now."

Duty inclines his head in acknowledgement. Once aware something is wrong, there's no readily turning back. Solid choice, and he's appreciates it.

"The decade—is that what you have left or had once you got it?" Duty clarifies. The answer changes a great deal.

He looks at Falco seriously, considering the last words. "What would you want, if it were someone you loved?" Duty asks. Answers can shift so easily depending where one stands.

“It’s thirteen years . . . I’m on my eleventh.”

Next year, it’d hit ten. It seemed like quite a bit now, but in the blink of an eye, close to two years have passed. In a few more blinks, he’d be halfway there, then even less. Falco hadn’t liked to think about it too much— it meant that there was a chance in Trench he wouldn’t be able to experience plenty of things that growing up offers. At home, there was already no way out. It was a chance. It could and couldn’t be. Too much thinking would bury him into a spiraling hole. At least it wasn’t the person he’d been trying to protect it from.

If the tables were turned— his answer could change. Conflict rises and bubbles across his features, and he ends up settling with a quiet, guilty but genuine reply: “. . . I don’t know. I’d want to know, but—”

It’s selfish. The boy gathers the fabric in his hands, and rests his chin upon the top of his bent knees, close to his chest.

“I just don’t want to make a possibility a problem for anyone. There’re so many problems already.”

Eleven more years, rounded to ten. That may allow Falco to become an adult in many worlds, it remains a short lifespan all the worse for the knowledge it is coming. Here, where they may not be an answer until that decade is up, Falco lacks any way to know, so he cannot have relief away from home. The ability remains; so too could its cost.

"The choice is yours," Duty reiterates. To go behind the boy's back, even if Duty had not promised to keep it secret, only adds to the problems and makes this one worse than it is.

"Think about what they and you would want," Duty says, "and what kind of relationships you want to have." Life has hard lessons, and many kids have to learn them young. Duty wishes that weren't the case, but as with this issue, people frequently don't get what they want.

"You are not a burden, Falco," Duty says. He holds out one hand, one arm, as an open gesture.

Falco’s eyes tear upward when the palm of Duty’s hand is within range of sight, then his arm, extended— the boy feels something tremor between his ribs with his heart, be it a strain or a simple pull, or a thrum that made the beat seem harsher. With his thoughts running hard and deep through the other’s input, there was a swell.

A burden is the last thing he wants to be for anyone, and the hand that slips behind Duty’s back to tighten his embrace some was a second in which he felt like he could believe it. He didn’t have to be a burden.

Before he had managed to breathe out the sigh he’s kept in, Falco is shuffling enough to lean onto the man’s side and take his gesture for half an embrace. The withheld air shimmers out, shallow, thin like scattered mist, and he asks with a bowed head, “Do you mean trust?”

Duty hugs Falco back and leaves his arm around the kid's shoulder afterward. It's a physical connection Duty never did back in the Nine Houses. No one would presume such familiarity with a saint. The Saint of Duty was always more removed, even from his brother and sister saints, than the rest. Duty, appropriately, did the same. He could not afford to have done differently. Here, this softening is something new, an acknowledgement not only of other people's needs but the luxury of his own.

He also knows and mentally acknowledges the irony to a conversation around trust and secrets, given his personal life. However, he's seen enough of the consequences. Time only calcifies matters and makes the revelation that much harder, feelings that much stronger, and bridging the gap that much more work.

"Yes, trust and relationships," Duty confirms, "It's hard, but it's worth living what you believe, what you want." His brown eyes are warm with reddish sparks, and his heart aches. Oh it hurts, when it's over, but he wouldn't change it for the world.

Falco doesn't overstay his welcome; as soon as his time feels like it has expired, his arms release from the brief press and dwindle toward a return to his sides and lap.

"I'll think it through," he asserts, with an implication that did not point to doubt on honesty with the subject, but a simply deeper reflection from within himself. It was not a matter to be acted upon with urgency, lest he preferred to make unnecessary mistakes. It made him nervous and fearful of the distress it could cause— though he does realize that speaking about it has opened up another path, and it wasn't one of complete silence.

He's reminded of the story Paul had told him, of Eros and Psyche, of a tale that manifested the importance of trust and devotion for love to remain secure under the dull gleam of The Rock's natural cave bioluminescence and mysterious carvings. He does not want to neglect either wing.

". . . Thank you, Mister Duty." —Oh. And about his fabric, held up in gesture and stained with Vileblood, he curtly adds: "And I'll get you a new one."

Each person has their own beliefs. Rarely do they entirely line up with another person's. Duty cares more that Falco acts according to his beliefs than that those actions follow Duty's. They are in a different world, and no Sleeper has been here ten years. None of them may have ten years. It may be that it will not matter what happens in a decade. It matters what Falco does now, the relationships he builds.

He nods, in acceptance. It is in Falco's hands. "You are welcome, Falco," he says. The replacement matters little to Duty. It's served its purpose, but he accepts the offer for what it is.

"You can find me here most days," he tells the kid, "for any reason." He wants this to be the beginning, not the end.

"Of course." His words are short, soft-spoken, but palpably appreciative. If anything, and certainly— he wouldn't forget how this was treated and by who. Falco wishes to rest now, and that is what he'll do: resting the side of his head against the top of his knees and using his arms as a cushion.

He offers a smile to Duty, one of reassurance and albeit weak compared to a sunshiny grin, it's present. With the fabric bunched up in his hand, he allows his eyes to close, and from there, simply rests.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OPEN] OUTPOST HAVEN [player plot]

Wall Complete

Staging Point

Tree Clearing

Excavating

Construction

falco grice | aot | open

[not here but looking]

Construction ②

cw: nosebleeds, something akin to terminal illness

CW topics continue/discussion

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cw: discussion of smoking & fatal illness

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looks like a good place to ~fin~!