deercountry | (no subject)

[It's easy to fall into the meloncholy of the month. The weather is dreary, when it's not downright horrible, it gets dark early. Jon's here, and Martin really thought that would be enough to keep him happy. He ought to be happy. They're here. They're together. They're alive. It's more than he thinks he had any right to hope.

It's not enough, somehow. He misses Sasha. He misses Tim. He misses Melanie, and Basira, and even Daisy. He misses home.

He tries his best not to let it show. Jon has enough problems, without worrying after him. Besides, feeling lonely isn't exactly a new experience.

The shadow of Martin's own corpse follows him as he wanders the streets of Trench. Going to go try to find them some decent tea, he had said to Jon. It's a sickly grey color, with glasses that are fogged over. The rain seems to soak through it just as much as it does Martin himself. He seems completely oblivious to its presence.

Perhaps it's on the street he nearly runs into another Sleeper, or almost hits them with the door as he tries to enter or leave a shop. Regardless, his reaction is the same. He jumps a little, and stammers out an apology.]

Oh! I, uh. Um. Sorry - I'm sorry. I guess I didn't see you there.

Edited 2022-10-12 16:47 (UTC)

Not at all--forgive this one his clumsiness.

[The words are spoken by a rather short, pathologically polite young man in a black gauze hat, who lowers his gaze out of habit and steps aside to allow Martin to exit the shop. Jin Guangyao is partial to this one for its selection of fine teas, and often visits to peruse the selection even if he ultimately ends up going home with nothing.

He has every intention of straightening up and slipping past Martin into the shop, but he pauses at the sight of the shadow that hounds his steps. For a moment he hesitates. He doesn't know this man, and he has already expended a significant portion of his spiritual energy this week interceding on Mike Enslin's behalf with his own draugr. Helping here would leave him weaker and more vulnerable to the other horrors of this place. He does not, in point of fact, owe this man anything.

...he's going to do it anyway, isn't he.

Jin Guangyao closes his eyes, sighs, and turns around. He puts on his most courteous of neutral smiles.] Please wait, xiongdi, [he says, the polite terms of address still deployed even to those who likely won't understand their meaning.]

[It wasn't a bad little shop, really. Lots of selection, even a number of teas Martin didn't recognize that he had shied away from after learning they were made from mushrooms of all things.

No, thank you.

He's picked out a few types that are comfortably familiar, and it's not until he tries to leave the shop that he almost catches the young man with the door. He forces a small, polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.]

No, no. My fault. No apologies needed.

[Like Jin Guangyao, he is about to just carry on without another word when the young man speaks up to stop him, but he pauses, and turns back.]

Huh? Was there something you needed?

[Jin Guangyao can only shake his head and then look past Martin again at the shadow that hounds him. It is clear that he isn't aware of it, and yet to leave him alone with it at his heels will ultimately result in--well. Jin Guangyao has always had an exceptionally vivid imagination.]

This one wonders if perhaps there is something you might need, [he replies, courteous but far more direct than normal, and gestures with a fine-boned hand to the nebulous form behind him. It occurs to him only a moment later that this stranger may not be able to see the thing at all. He adds,] Please forgive this one his bluntness, but I believe you are in danger.

No, no, just came out for a few supplies, that's all.

[Confusion creases Martin's brow as the man suggests he might be in danger. Sure, he's felt a little... off the last little while; wistful and missing home, and those they left behind, but that's probably perfectly normal.

Not that anything about this world feels particularly normal. Still, he remains completely oblivious to the shadow following behind him, and he glances behind, following the direction indicated by Jin Guangyao's hand.]

Danger? From... a tea shop?

Ah. So you cannot see it yet.

[Jin Guangyao frowns past Martin's shoulder and takes in the shape of the thing, how closely it seems to mirror this man's shape even down to the illusion of his spectacles, but there doesn't appear to be any way for him to physically interact with it before it has manifested itself further. What a wretchedly effective means of latching onto prey.]

I believe you have been marked by something that wishes to do you harm. [He says the words as kindly as he can, but there is no mistaking the alarm in his expression, or the way his large eyes keep darting to the figure that still lurks behind him. He won't name the thing he sees as a draugr, because he isn't sure, not for certain. But the sight of it chills him as though he is the one who has been soaked to the bone from the rain.] I think it has been following you for some time.

[Martin's head whips back around as though, perhaps, if he can take the thing off guard, maybe he'll be able to see it, but there's still nothing there. There might have been a time in his life where he would have thought it was just someone having a laugh at his expense, but after everything he's seen and heard and read, it's entirely believable that he's being followed by some unseen threat.]

Do you... know what it is? Or how to get rid of it?

[It starts innocently enough partway through the month. Martin even doesn't question it much the first couple times he walks into a room and forgets what he was doing there, or when he sets something down and has to ask Jon where he left it.

Distracted, he tells himself. Stressed out a little bit by all the changes all at once, and trying to settle into his new life here. It's probably all normal. There's been a lot on his mind lately, hasn't there? No wonder he's feeling a little off. Still, it's unsettling, and it does nothing to soothe the irritability that seems to cling to him this month.

It hits him suddenly one day that he can't remember the name of his boss back home. Not Jon - he remembers Jon. The other one. Ethan? Elliot? It doesn't matter, he decides, the guy was probably an asshole, anyway. That's probably why he can't remember him. Who wants to remember an asshole boss? Who... Who... Did what again? Probably just concerns about spreadsheets and time management and holding meetings that really should have been emails, while complaining that they never got enough work done.

God, how Martin hated him.

The crystal appears on the nightstand and Martin's not sure why, but he assumes it's a gift from Jon. Who else would it be from? They don't live with anyone else, and he's not willing to entertain the idea that something else had managed to get into the house without either of them knowing about it. It looks like an angel, and it's not to his taste, he thinks, but it has to be. Why else would Jon have given it to him? Surely, Jon knows what would make a good gift or a bad one. They are in love, after all.

Storing the memory isn't an intentional move. It still comes to his mind easily. The crystal glows warm in Martin's hands, then cools again as he tucks it away. There's at least one thing he won't forget.

The memories continue to fade one by one as the month wears on, and it's getting harder not to panic over it. Is he dying? Is he losing himself? What happens when he can't remember anything any more? More than once he hides himself away in the bathroom and runs the shower so he can weep quietly in hopes of avoiding alerting Jon. It feels like grief, but he can't remember what he's grieving for. Everything, he supposes.

He wakes from a sound sleep late at night, but he can't remember where he is. Nor can he remember the sleeping form tucked close to him. Is this his house? It doesn't feel like his house, but why else would he be here? And who is this in the bed with him? It's alarming, but he moves quietly to avoid disturbing the sleeping figure. None of this feels right. Why can't he remember? Did the man in bed do something to his head? He has to get out of here. Maybe that's it. Maybe that's the answer. If he leaves, and puts some space between himself, this place, and the stranger, maybe he will start to feel like himself again.

Whoever he is.

God, what's wrong with him that he can't even remember himself.

It doesn't occur to him to change his clothes, but the crystal on the nightstand catches his eye and he tucks it away into his pocket before he slips downstairs, and out into the night in bare feet and pajamas.

He's sure there's answers out here somewhere.]

Edited 2022-10-12 16:48 (UTC)

It's been a long night, another of Duty as bait. His mouth tastes like ashes, and memories take their time settling into his head. It's still hard, that sense of forgetting, but his long life is a blessing that way. It's mostly from a thousand years ago, though the gut punches land hard. Battles, people long dead, a duel people write about for a thousand years, and more private memories they don't know to. It's pain, mostly, that had settled and become comfortable where he hadn't made his peace. It distracts from the pain he can never set down, like a new injury distracting from a long lasting one.

He smokes a cigarette, having parted ways and seen others off. He's exhausted, but he'll manage to get home because he has to. The fight should buy him enough time. Exercise and all that.

Except he sees someone outside in a way that looks wrong. Unless they're coming from being lost in the woods, there's no good reason to be barefoot in pajamas out at this time. They look dazed? Confused? Duty stills in the night when he realizes. He never got this bad.

Instead of approaching, Duty slinks back into the shadows. He summons his omen, whose night vision is better than his, and Cinnabar slinks off. She sticks closer to the draugr victim than Duty does, so as not to draw as much attention to himself. Even so she sniffs around, goes about, and doesn't draw the attention of firmly stalking prey. In fact, she smells strong scent of death and decay that still lingers on Duty. It's around, nearby. Duty draws his rapier and extends his sword. The classic weapons for this enemy.

He stalks and he waits.

If Martin notices he's being followed by either Duty or the Omen, there's no sign of it. He's not sure where he's going, or even where he's supposed to be, but the hope is he'll spot something that somehow feels familiar.

None of it feels at all familiar. What town is this even? He can't remember. He's sure he just has to keep going until he finds something recognizable.

The draugr itself recognizes its victim - easy enough to recognize what remains of the poor soul whose memories it has been feeding on all this time. At this point, as far as it's concerned, it knows Martin better than he knows himself. It waits until he draws close to an alley obscured in shadow, and then it strikes, grappling onto Martin by the shoulders.

Duty explodes into action, closing the gap with a burst of energy courtesy of his last engagement. He uses both sets of eyes for the precision rapiers are known for. His sword stabs between the two bodies to pierce the the head from below and stabs upward through the mouth into the brain. The skull stops its forward progress but not the force behind his attack. Duty leverages it to force some distance between the two.

In his other hand, the length of his spear smashes down into the draugr's arms, bone against regenerative bone. It's not the bone crushing hit steel might make, not does it cut through them like a two handed sword. It gets them separated though, the draugr losing its grip. It flails at him, but Duty kicks it off the rapier's point and further away from its desired victim. His omen comes and stands before Martin, eyes sharp and posture protective. She's grown beyond the natural size of a maned wolf, her body on a scale with the more familiar gray wolf. Those long long legs have grown as much, and she's a large fierce creature.

This part has grown familiar, all the easier for being entirely himself. Duty embeds his spear deep into the joints for limbs and rips them off pulling back both the spear and retracting its length. With less to worry about, Duty takes the time his weapons need to remove its head. No sooner is it in pieces when Duty pulls out a grenade, drops it amid the whole pile, and when it explodes, it burns hotter than a grenade should, urged on by Coldblood magic. The draugr burns down to ash, and Duty slumps slightly. He returns his weapons to their sheath and hook to cup some of the ashes into one hand.

Then he returns to the man and offers both water bottle and ash. "Trust me," Duty says, "You'll be more yourself once you swallow these."

Martin freezes as Duty charges forward, startled and unable to move. He manages to back away as he's freed from the Draugr's grasp, but he's too stunned to go far between the fight with the strange creature, and the massive maned wolf that takes up a protective stance in front of him. He can tell as soon as the battle starts, it's destined to be a short one. The draugr doesn't stand a chance against the spear and rapier.

He should run. He should definitely run. He doesn't, though. He just stands there as Duty dismembers and burns the creature, but he does step back and shield his eyes from the grenade when its dropped into the pile of draugr parts. An actual magical grenade, whoa.

It's not until Martin's savior approaches and offers up the ash and the water bottle that some vague sense of self-preservation kicks in and he hesitates. "Uhhh... Seriously?"

His own Omen comes into existance in a swirl of smoke that seems to come out of his shoulder. She looks a bit like a giant jumping spider; with big eyes and covered in fuzz. She stares at Duty, and the offering of ash and water, as though seriously considering the ramifications of consumption, and whether or not she thinks Duty can be trusted. After several long seconds, she finally voices her opinion.

"It's all right. It won't hurt us, but it might not taste very nice," she assures Martin in a soft voice.

Maybe he shouldn't trust the spider, he's not sure, everything about this is all very strange, but instinct says he can, so Martin reaches out to take both the ash and the water. He leans his head back to he can tip the ash into his mouth, and quickly washes it down with the water. "Ughh!"

"Seriously," Duty replies monosyllabic and waits. He checks out the omen in return. Both his hands are full and not of weapons. Deception's the only threat he can be, and he's partaken in this treatment himself tonight, among other nights. His memories bring all the undead to his yard. Or if not his yard exactly anywhere else he may go.

He nods as the man takes the advice of his omen and drinks. Duty brushes the remaining ash off his hands and accepts the water bottle back. "Let me know when you feel like yourself," he says.

His omen shrinks back to her usual size, the one the maned wolf is known for, and joins them where they stand. Gaze is full of little alleys and confusing directions. "We can find somewhere to sit," Duty says, an offer. If Martin would like. Standing doesn't bother him, but neither does sitting. Soon enough he'll be exhausted to the point he wants to sit too. October for Coldbloods.

The little spider lifts a leg to wave a greeting at Duty as he checks her out. See? She is a perfectly harmless little friend.

Martin - oh, hey, his name is Martin. He remembers that now. The memories come back to him as easily as they were pulled away in the first place. He can remember his home, his coworkers; he even breaks into a grin as he remembers Jon's birthday celebration.

Jon. His hand goes to the pocket of his pajama pants and curls around the memory crystal he tucked away safely before he slipped out of the house. He probably shouldn't stay out too much later - he doesn't want Jon to worry if he wakes up alone. Besides, more aware of himself and his memories and what he's learned so far of Trench, he's starting to realize it's probably not the best idea to be outside in bare feet and nothing but his sleepwear.

"Find - finding a place to sit probably isn't a bad idea? At least for a little while?"

While Duty has never gotten this bad, he's gotten memories back again and again. It's a strange experience, though none of it helps him retrieve memories he arrived without. Those before the apocalypse or the ascension. Shame. He'd eat plenty of ashes or worse for those.

"A little while," Duty agrees. He leads the way toward another alley with a small bench. An odd setting, perhaps, but Gaze is an unusual neighborhood.

"This place messes with memories," Duty comments. "Who, how, why changes." He hasn't researched it all. He has enough to keep up with, but he's curious, really, about memories. The coming and going.

It's a relief and it's overwhelming all at the same time to be able to recall what, not even an hour ago, had been a complete mystery to him. The more horrifying ones give him pause. Being trapped in his flat with no ability to reach out to the outside world for help, while Jane Prentiss and her worms lurked right outside his door, ready to kill him - except not kill him, something far, far worse. The moment the world warped and changed after Jon completed the ritual to bring the Fears fully into their reality. Driving the knife deep into Jon's chest to try to bring the world back to some semblance of normal.

Oh. Right.

Martin sits on the bench and runs a hand through his hair. He's tired. He's cold. He can't help but feel overwhelmed between the things he can recall from home, and this latest near-death experience in a world that doesn't even really feel like his own.

"Yeah - I think I heard about this happening to other people?" It's happened to him before too, he remembers, just not here.

Duty nods. "Several times, several ways," Duty confirms. Sometimes, like with Willow, it's a personal matter, one-on-one with a Pthumerian. Other times, like last month, Pyrrha observed Darkblood struggling, more or less, with memories coming and going. This month, the draugr. The way he's experienced himself in Trench.

"Our memories seem less firmly stuck to our minds," he comments, "Blood magic finds many means to leech them away." Though said calmly, factually, Duty cares immensely. He doesn't like losing more, even as he puts himself at risk of just that to handle the draugr. They've come before and been repelled, pushed back (those that don't succeed). A bit longer, he tells himself. This hard, this long, just a bit longer.

More than once in the short amount of time since his arrival, this place has reminded Martin far too strongly of the Lonely, and he can't help but wonder if his arrival here is some kind of karmic justice. It certainly feels enough like another hellscape.

"Yeah," he nods in agreement, thinking about the memory crystal. "It does seem that way, doesn't it? Is it always like this here? This... bad?"

"No," Duty says immediately and strongly. Trench may seem like a hellscape to some, especially those people who come from objectively better places. He's seen too much of the rest, of the lives people have built for themselves and the relationships formed that could not be formed beyond a place like Trench, a collection point of people from all over.

"There's good and bad," Duty says, "Don't get complacent about either one, and Trench can be a good home."

It's a relief to hear it. This world may not always a nightmare, although from what he's heard and read so far, it sounds like it's more to do with the people you're here with rather than the challenges of the world itself.

"I've only recently arrived," he admits. "It's been a bit of a rough month, so far. I guess I was here before - well, not here here, but in Deerington. I don't remember it, though."

Duty nods. "Some Deerington veterans were glad to see you," he says, more a statement than a question. They're few in number and usually only getting fewer. Even if they were not friends with this man, that familiarity likely pulled at them. Disappointing, on both sides, not to remember.

"That's doubly rough," Duty says, "Not remembering and potentially letting people down." Even if they're nice about it.

"I get it," he shares. "I've lost some memories, possibly permanently." Not from the draugr. No, he killed every last one and ate far more ashes than the single draugr feeding on Martin. Duty's a rich enough meal for that. No, he means before Trench.

"Well, until they found out I didn't know who they were," Martin answers with a tired nod. Then, of course, there came the disappointment, and the awkwardness, and trying to figure out how to move forward with friendships with people who know who he is even though he didn't so much as know their names. "Then, yeah. There's, uh, definitely a lot of let down going on right now."

His eyebrows left as Duty says he's lost some memories as well. "Oh? From Deerington as well, or..."

Those would be difficult relationships to fake: different home universes, relationship in another dimension, and whatever else is there. "None of you did anything wrong," Duty notes. In fact, he imagines it would be harder to find out later, however awkward it is now.

Duty says, "Consequences of dying." Yes he's survived it, both at home and here, but there's always a cost. Whether that cost is required or imposed makes little difference for the memories themselves.

"No, perhaps not." Martin knows none of them have done anything wrong, it's just how things are now. Or, at least he's pretty sure he didn't do anything to lose his memories - becoming a victim of that... thing notwithstanding, of course.

He can't help but think of Jon, lying in his hospital bed, virtually dead. No heartbeat, not breathing on his own, but still somehow clinging to life. No one had expected him to wake up again. He had, though, and miraculously pulled through with no lasting consequences.

"Ah," it's said softly on an exhale. He's sure the experience was traumatizing. "Do you remember how it happened?

Not everything is a matter of doing things right and wrong. Plenty in the world is. Simply is. Martin is hardly alone in losing memories without noticing it. He was unfortunate enough that no one caught it before Duty saw him tonight. Yuan also got nearly so empty, even with Duty's company. They survived too.

"The end of the world," Duty replies, "Then sacrificing myself to save humanity some time after that." Vague answers. He can hardly say more about the first. The second... it's easiest to leave it at that.

The end of the world as a cause of death is startlingly familiar as is a sacrifice made to try to save humanity. The memories of those last moments on Earth, the weight of the knife in his hand as he wept as he committed the one act he wanted to never have to do.

It's the one memory he would prefer not to recall; at least not with such stark detail.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. It's not easy."

Few people would think that the end of the world was easy, surviving it or not, coming back from it or not. Sacrifice is in and of itself a word that implies hardship. Despite those logical reasons, Martin's words ring more personal than that. More true than that. It's not a club Duty wants to welcome people into, but he's long known his world's experiences are not fully unique.

"No," Duty says, voice softer. "It never is."

He's not a touchy person, but Duty lifts one hand to rest on Martin's shoulder. The omen is not there to imply intent to squash. It's a measure of understanding and support. In the dark, two men alone but observed, as ever in Gaze.

The weight of the hand on Martin's shoulder is an appreciated comfort and show of support, and a solid reminder that even here, he's still connected to others, and the world around him. The little spider, still perched on his opposite shoulder, peers around behind his back at Duty, quiet and contemplative.

Martin swallows; unsure he really wants the story, but he still feels like it's important to ask, to see maybe just how much they have in common. "How, uh, how did it end for you? You don't have to answer. If you don't want to."

It's ironic Duty may have learned as much about how he died the first time from someone born a myriad later as from anyone there at the time. "Fire, fear, rage," Duty answers. Does it matter that the fire came from nuclear bombs? Not much. Only that it was quick.

"You?" he asks in turn. Whatever a good end may be, he doubts either of them saw it.

"Uh, fear," Martin answers, taking a deep breath. "All kinds of fear. And bending of reality. It's, uh, well. It was the kind of thing that gets kind of hard to describe?"

It's less that it's difficult to describe, and more that he'd rather not go too deep into the details, and the memories. Not here, and not right now, at least. It's easier to focus on their survival, and that they, as far as he can tell anyway, managed to put a stop to it.

"I think it's okay now, though. At home, I mean. I think we stopped it. I think that's why we're here."

Duty raises an eyebrow slightly. He doesn't doubt that it was fear, nor that it bent reality. Hard to describe, however, feels like a term coming in sideways. It's hard because Martin doesn't want to do it. Or— it's hard because he just got the memories back. Or— it's hard because Martin doesn't trust Duty. Or—

You get the idea.

Duty hasn't forgotten the little spider omen, but he lets this question drop. He gives a nod, though stopping anything, a good end, has nothing to do with why he's here, save to build toward a good end for Trench in Trench. "That's good," Duty says. "This world needs help too."

The spider doesn't have the same reservations Martin has about sharing what happened at home, so she crawls across the back of his neck, closer to where Duty's hand rests on his shoulder. "It isn't always easy to talk about these sorts of things," she supplies. "The memories are new - or they feel new, and they truly are awful. As, of course, one ought to expect from such things."

He isn't sure how he feels about his Omen weighing in, but at least she's trying to be helpful. It's still odd, though, like another part of him is speaking up on his behalf, but independently. Still, he nods.

"Yeah, I've kind of gotten that impression so far," he answers. "We'll try to help as much as we can."

As is so common in Trench, Martin's omen acts on its own, a sign of a person divided within. The omen acts with the freedom or degree of separation or permission someone does not feel themselves. A level of deniability. It's the omen, not them.

If Martin needs his omen to speak for him, that is fine. It's hard, when first getting memories back, to speak of them. Duty knows that. A nod recognizes the spider omen's words. No need to draw out and emphasize the pain in those memories.

"There are many ways to help this world," Duty comments, "How are you inclined to help?" There's no wrong answer. Trench needs help more ways than any one person could give. Let everyone help as best they can, and they will accomplish more together.

How can he help? He's not entirely sure, not just yet, at least. Everything still feels far too fresh and new. He rubs a hand across his forehead as he considers the question.

"I don't know. I was a researcher at home. I guess it's probably best to stick with what I know?" Does Trench need people who can research the things that happen here? Maybe? Probably? Gaze feels very much aligned with Beholding, and there's more than one entity - Pthmuerian, whatever, here dedicated to knowledge. "I'll help however I can, really."

"There's many ways," he says, calm and sure of himself, "Knowledge matters." He motions toward whence they came. He dispatched the draugr easily because he knows precisely what to do.

That's not all, however. "Self-awareness, self-care," Duty says, "are serious business." Taking time to eat a fresh cooked meal, to bathe, to meditate, to enjoy a drink with a friend, it all can help.

Martin nods at the affirmation that yes, knowledge is important. It makes sense. You need to know what you're facing to be able to defeat it. His main focus since his arrival has been on helping Jon, but realistically, given this is the type of threat he suspects they'll see more of, it's probably time to expand a little.

At the mention of self-care also being important, a small chuckle escapes him. He's far better at looking after others than himself, and it's the sort of thing he would get after Jon for. The irony is not lost on him. "Yeah. I think I've heard that. The corruption thing, right?"

Duty nods. Corruption. It's a hell of a way to live, but it's one way to force people to take better care of themselves. Larger consequences.

"Lots of options," Duty says, "Nightwalkers are the pros." Literally, it's their job. They come in every form one can think of and then some. Oh, they're not all for everyone. No one could be.

"Even this," he motions between them. A simple conversation between strangers. Duty's corruption levels are fairly high, even if they aren't visible. He feels the paranoid watchfulness around someone he doesn't know, unable to be disarmed by how seemingly harmless he is. That's one way to end up dead. Appropriate wariness and unwarranted thoughts mingle together, making it harder to tell the difference.

There's something about going to nightwalkers to keep away corruption that makes Martin feel a little uncomfortable. It's not easy to open up to a complete stranger, even if they're supposed to be professionals. More than likely, he's going to rely on the people he knows, and trusts. Like Jon.

"Yeah. There's, uh, other ways too, aren't there? Incense, and some kinds of mushrooms, and whatnot. I think I remember reading something about that before." It doesn't feel completely clear yet, but it's been a long, overwhelming few weeks, so perhaps that can't be blamed entirely on the draugr.

"I'm Martin, by the way," he offers finally by way of an introduction.

Duty nods. He doesn't go to strangers either, but meditation and time at Sanctuary are in his daily routine. Most of the time, that alone is enough. Incense and mushrooms are good in a pinch, but they aren't always on hand. Handling it himself is ideal. Next comes moments like these. "Even this," Duty motions between them.

He notices because his levels were so high when they started talking. Consequence of dealing with the draugr.

"I'm Duty," he says, using the extra word to ensure it's clear Duty is his name. People have all kinds of norms. For some, his name strikes them as odd.

"Nice to meet you," Martin answers with a nod. He doesn't judge the name. People call their kids all kinds of strange things, and really, it says a lot more about the parents than the child. Besides, Duty's from who knows where, and maybe it's a perfectly regular name from there. Or a nickname.

He scuffs his bare feet on the concrete under the bench. He's cold. He's tired. If Jon's awake, he'll probably be worried, but Martin is hopeful he may still be asleep. "I should probably go home. But thank you. For helping me."

Duty inclines his head in agreement. He's glad their paths crossed. In a city like Trench they likely will again.

"You're welcome," Duty says, "I'm around, if you need me."

With that, he gets up to leave, so the energy burst of the battle carries him home without passing out.

[When he first wakes up in the middle of the woods, he thinks it's a dream. Probably the most reasonable explanation, he thinks, given he's sure he was in his bed when he went to sleep. Except, no. If it was a dream, he wouldn't be able to tell how uncomfortable the ground is - the way the sticks and tiny stones poke into his back, or the way the leaves itch against his scalp.

Martin sits up, and runs his hands through his hair to shake free the debris. God, how long was he asleep even? It's dark, but it gets dark early in Trench these days, so that's hardly any indication. Long enough to be stiff and sore from sleeping on the ground, at least.

He stands and stretches to try to shake off at least some of the stiffness when the scrap of metal catches his eye and he scoops it up to take a better look. It looks like a round bit of... something? A piece of a watch? Or a compass? Probably just garbage. Probably nothing important. He steps forward so he can lay it on top of a rock, where it will be a bit easier for the next person who comes by to spot when it starts to glow.

That's... weird. Okay. Maybe he'll hang onto it instead. At least it offers a tiny amount of light.]

Right. Oookay then. Now, which way is home?

[There's the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, but that's nothing new, and it only sets him mildly ill at ease until he hears something scuffling through the brush nearby.

He whirls, and brandishing the bit of compass like a weapon, he calls out:]

Who- Who's there? You better show yourself!

Edited 2022-10-12 16:48 (UTC)

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1. Loneliness Kills (Open)

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2. Second Death (Open) (cw memory loss, loss of sense of self, eventually undead creatures probably)

10/24

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CW: Spider Omen

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CW: references to manmade apocalypse

CW: Apocalyptic discussion continues

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3. Lost in the Woods (Open)