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deercountry2022-10-13 05:17 pm
hearthebell) wrote in deercountry2022-10-13 05:17 pm
The Clock Froze Around Midnight, I Can Feel It In The Room [October Catchall, OTA]
Who: L Lawliet (Lazarus Sauveterre) and CR old and new
What: Catchall for October; includes event prompts and slice of life wildcards.
When: Throughout the month, dates are ambiguous unless otherwise noted
Where: Various places in Trench (flexible unless specifically noted)
[October is a season of change and loss, and in Trench, it’s not really any different. L nevertheless feels a sense of restlessness that manifests in snappishness and irritability; exceeding what usually visits him in the ambivalent season of his birth.
He goes about his business anyway, keeping to his own odd schedules and doings in a mostly solitary routine. He avoids contact with others this month, not least because the typically stoic detective is struggling to discern when his mood will shift and his tears might start flowing and refuse to stop.
It’s better, perhaps, to guard what he’s always known to be raw in a month where he can feel it so keenly and plaintively.]
What: Catchall for October; includes event prompts and slice of life wildcards.
When: Throughout the month, dates are ambiguous unless otherwise noted
Where: Various places in Trench (flexible unless specifically noted)
[October is a season of change and loss, and in Trench, it’s not really any different. L nevertheless feels a sense of restlessness that manifests in snappishness and irritability; exceeding what usually visits him in the ambivalent season of his birth.
He goes about his business anyway, keeping to his own odd schedules and doings in a mostly solitary routine. He avoids contact with others this month, not least because the typically stoic detective is struggling to discern when his mood will shift and his tears might start flowing and refuse to stop.
It’s better, perhaps, to guard what he’s always known to be raw in a month where he can feel it so keenly and plaintively.]
no subject
He's not sure, in fact can't be. He isn't a necromancer, and can only gamble with the cards that have been revealed to him over his time in Trench, the Emperor's dreams, and his dealings with Bone House.
Curiosity keeps him invested in all such matters, more than certainty.]
"Ah."
[He doesn't quite bare his tonsils or dislocate his jaw. He does think of the last time he opened his mouth precisely this wide for someone else, and maybe that's why he doesn't just ask if he can't just spit in her hand. Do the same unspoken rules of intimacy apply?]
cw: weird
Mercy brings up her left hand with the last three fingers held together and slips them past his parted, chapped lips, the blunt edges of his front bottom teeth. They glide across his tongue and press it down, her curled index finger brushing over his cool cheek until the ragged tips of her bitten nails threaten to intrude on the quivering, delicate threshold of his throat. She lifts his jaw with the pad of her thumb to enclose her digits in the wet warmth of his interior, far enough that his teeth dent her skin.
She imagines, for a heady, dissociative moment, the force of a bite that goes all the way to the bone. She lets the thought pass, and strokes the root of his tongue to coax his salivary glands into secretion.]
Show me where you want me to take the blood from. Use your hands. Wrist? [A light scrape of keratin over papillae.] Tongue? Lips?
[The dispassion she speaks in is at odds with the slow, circular caress of her fingers, deliberately teasing at his gag reflex, however much of one he has.]
cw: weird
She might not even be wrong about the concerning strain that runs through him and all but claims him. It's a bewildering sort of docility, a slaughtered lamb's gentleness, the gilded smile of a child destined to be buried alive in the mountains.
He accepts more than he thought he'd have to, through his lips, until her multiple nails make him need to cough. He doesn't, settling for a halting half-breath instead as she teases as his gag reflex, trained down by this point to at least 80%.
He doesn't want to bite her. He doesn't want to snuff the light out. Instead, he does what she asks, sort of, by stroking the narrow beam of her forearm with his own fingertips.
One of them, narrow and tapering, traces a word along her forearm in answer. Y-E-S, it looks and feels like, though he is preoccupied with her hand in his mouth that is stifling and coaxing his ability to speak more plainly.]
cw: weird, ritual blood letting
She watches the flutter of his pupils in the stone-grey rings of his irises as she slips her right hand up his left arm, deftly rolling the sleeve up to his elbow with the folding of her thumb. She angles the limb at a downward slant, puts his fingers on the blanket outside of her knee.]
Don't move. This isn't my sweater. It would be a shame to spoil it.
[She pushes her fingers a quarter inch deeper into his mouth, glancing off the tender bell of his uvula, before she pulls them free with a slick whisper. She examines the clear, shining gloss that spreads between them like webbing when she spreads her hand, then closes them back into a cup she sets beneath the crook of his bared elbow.
His skin splits with the furrow of her brow, venous blood drooling from the new wound to spatter into her waiting palm. Cytherea sucks in a hard, ravenous breath, squirming enough to roll onto her side to watch it trickle.
Mercymorn's expression remains impassive, serene. She bends her slim neck like a reed to observe the flow of blood, her thumb pressed above the wound to help hold his arm still, whatever she had to say about him doing it himself. It's the smaller signs that give her away: the pale colour that flushes her throat, the subtle quickening of her breath, the pebbling against the front of her undershirt.
Predictable physiological effects.]
Ghosts have a ravenous appetite for blood. [She says, with strange lightness.] Did you know that, when you asked?
cw: weird, ritual blood letting
He likes Mercy because, he reasons in the moment, he kind of likes to flirt with death.
He's tapped his own veins many times for the blood that will buy him things, craft marvelously pretty jewelry, allow him to go above and beyond any abilities his natural birth provided him with. Maybe that's not a necromancer's burden; it could be less, a blessing of birth, or more, a price to be paid over millennia. Regardless, his pulse increases as she rolls up his sleeve, because every other time he's taken a blade to his skin, he's been in control, however carelessly he cuts, however he rationalizes that he's never been or never will be beautiful, and so he isn't actually ruining anything.
It's striking, to him, the way he and Mercymorn are from radically different backgrounds and experiences, and seem to understand one another surprisingly well.
She takes just one last opportunity to try to make him gag, and finally succeeds. His hand starts to reflexively go to his mouth to catch spit and anything else that might result, but her prior order keeps him still. He plays enough with scalpels and blood magic to know that a false move can prove fatal relatively quickly, especially when one is already not exactly of hale constitution. He might be better, if his protein intake was what Shoyo aspired to, or if he didn't rely on his veins so often for currency, but he needs time and material to trade for his cases, his hobby, his beautiful gift that set him apart and beyond in his own world.
Beyond, the man, is afraid. The ghost over his shoulder knows that what's about to happen will separate them again, and his agitation and silent, furious screams say as much... but L remains unaware of them, fixated on the redhead and her wispy, pale-as-death companion.]
Whose sweater, then?
[He asks once her fingers are free, once he's recovered from fearing he'd choke or expel. It's surreal to watch the slick glossy fingers wet with his own saliva, but it is, after all, what they agreed on.
They also agreed that he'd bleed. He'd insisted on bleeding, and while he knows what a necromancer can do, roughly, he still expects at least the friendly warning of a blade. None comes; his arm is filleted open by some unseen and deftly sharp force, and the absurdity of it nearly severs him from his awareness of the moment in favor of a spiral towards disassociation. He's pale and his breath comes harsh and shallow, but he still watches, because it's different, and strange, and makes him wonder and think and work in ways that he doesn't usually have to.
It's like wine, for its headiness, or perhaps it's just the blood loss. He breathes more deeply, feeling nauseous and like he can't quite manage to get enough air, as she collects the paleblood that will look red until exposed to moonlight.
Mercy is unwell, or else enjoying this more than she should be allowed. Faintly, he wonders which it is as his blood slides out and away from him, into the cup she has for collection.
He sounds faint and slightly slurred when he answers.]
I knew that the price would be high. I always assume that, you know... I never believe that anything worth having isn't expensive.
cw: weird, ritual blood letting
Mercymorn slips her awareness inside of his blood in her palm like another ghost. She traces down the flickering signs of neglect to their roots. She could brush her fingers over the spongy hollows of his bones and know less about them than she can sift from the stray cells of his marrow. She could cut him open like a tree and count his rings and know less. He is so delicate, so vulnerable. Any little thing could destroy him, and here he is, pliant in the very cradle of her hands.]
God's, of course.
[As if she really does think it should be obvious - she, who has known God for all the time that exists in the universe that matters one bit, cannot be bothered to recall that others have not watched him dress himself for ten thousand schlubby years.
There's enough blood for her purposes now. She knits the slit in his elbow whole with a not ungentle swipe of her thumb. She considers leaving behind no mark. She spins up a thin webbing of scar tissue to seal the wound instead. A durable reminder. A covenant.]
And at least you have some sense.
[Perhaps she is enjoying herself. What of it? Should she not? How long has it been since she got to work properly, to her own satisfaction? How long has it been since anyone has looked at her the way they should look at her, in the crown of her glory?
Subtle grace puts it stamp on her flushed features as she dips her fingers into the blood and swirls. She keeps her hand cupped underneath her dripping fingertips as she lifts them to his chin and taps him there with her thumb, a tiny upward nudge.]
Up.
[A painted ward on his throat, and then she can really work. Cytherea's breathing comes in hard, shallow gurgles; Mercy pays no mind to Lazarus' shadow's raging. He can't stop her. Very little has ever been able to stop her.]
no subject
A man like that, L believes, can do anything. If only for a little while, until all that's been borrowed must be returned.
Wholly unaware of what it's like for Mercy to feel the unfiltered complaints, L believes that he's enduring this stoically for all its unfamiliarity and oddness. He cracks a satisfied half-smile to know that the sweater is John's, appreciating the trophy. He likes reminders in general, which is why Mercy might notice the scar seems to please him, like every other he's acquired in Trench.
He obeys, tilting his sharp chin. Mercy's tone had registered before the word it carried; he'd still instantly understood and reacted almost as quickly, like an instinct.
His eyes remain on Cytherea as Mercy works. He feels a restless sense of unease; it could be attributable to the violent fight Beyond is waging futilely against Mercy's efforts. It could also be because everything about Cytherea strips the gruesome mystery from death and the longer, nastier ways to reach it.]
Does he seem to be suffering?
[His throat bobs under her touch when he speaks, barely even curious. The question sounds like it's an obligation, something a good person would ask for compassion's sake. It doesn't reach his eyes, though; it's likely many things can't, or wander there in some wrong and mocking reverie.]
cw: eye trauma, blood ritual
Mercy paints the ward on Lazarus' throat in crisp, swift lines, using the curve of her smallest nail for the fine detail work. The lashings of mingled blood and spit are like the most delicate strokes of a watercolour brush over his thin, fragile skin. She focuses on spiralling outward from the vulnerable hollow of his clavicle, her expression still placidly focused. Her eyes only flick up lightly at Lazarus' question, a bird hopping from one branch to another, before they return to the matter at hand. ]
God is always suffering.
[ In the clinically cold halls of the Eighth House the portraits of the Necrolord Prime depict an impression of noble and perpetual sacrifice, the Emperor Undying lifting the souls of the Resurrected from the River with hands stripped down to the bone by the ravenous dead, the God of the Nine Houses sheltering his beloved subjects from the slings and arrows of their enemies with his own bowed shoulders. Mercy always insisted on personal approval of each new work out of the cloister cells.
To be God is to suffer. She thought someone ought to appreciate that. ]
But if you mean moreso than he was...this most recent cavalcade of fuck ups does not represent a high water mark in the annals of God's mood.
[ Perhaps this young man will appreciate it, even if not in exactly the way Mercy used to think it should be appreciated. ]
no subject
Mercy infers someone else in the question, who interests L far more, to the angry heartbreak of Beyond's likeness. He doesn't stop her or clarify, merely nods through the giddy shock of being further informed.]
Because he recognizes them as fuck-ups, or because others do?
no subject
Both.
[ She sits back on her heels once more, bringing her hands together now, folding them palm to palm like prayer, like a choirbook. ]
He is sensitive about shortcomings and failures in himself...his own greatest critic - but it's been a hideously long time since anyone but me was critical of him past that. Duty only ever wants to please him, and Patience is indulgence, and she... [ she glances at her own heaving ghost, a shadow falling across her face to almost make her mouth look soft ] ...she never had the heart for it.
He never has, either. Perhaps that's why he loved her more.
[ She opens her palms.
Other spirit magicians require the trappings of the flame and the offering, the invocation paired to the theorem paired to the will. Mercymorn helped invent several of them.
She hasn't needed them in a long time. L's blood and spit flickers with blue spectral fire in the curved cup of her hands, and she is as serene as a shipwrecked figurehead as a salt wind blows the wrong way from the sea. ]
Call to your ghost. Remind him of his name.
no subject
Flatterers are liars. They're not masochists, like those devoted to the truth. We have to consider that its own reward.
[He punctuates his words with a wry smile. Loving the truth means loving the ugly and misshapen things, reveling in the flaws, cleaving to what's real even if it's horribly disappointing. L's a liar himself, of course, a brazen one, but only so much as any mirror, he thinks.
He also thinks that if John hates him, he must be a very good mirror, indeed.
He blinks his owlish eyes at Mercy's instructions. Speaking the true names of any of his would-be successors aloud is as taboo as speaking his own, whether or not it actually matters here. A battle briefly plays out behind his eyes, but he would rather be rid of Beyond than keep his secrets.]
Beyond Birthday.
[The call is more sober command than searching query. There's a distinct undercurrent of disdain, one that L couldn't scrub wholly from his tone. The specter twists as though in pain at the sound.]