Pyrrha | Duty December Catchall

[martyrofduty]

who: Pyrrha Dve | Duty & others
what: Various December happenings
when: All month
where: Bone House, Trenchwood Farm, Sharon's, The Red, Around Trench.

content warnings: see individual starters

Comments

Family Traditions (Winter Mourning) [Closed to Oscar, Billie, & Sharon]

[martyrofduty]

CW, expected across threads: potentially gross food, fighting, everyone dies in the end, impending apocalypse, murder, structures made from preserved fresh meat and bone (cow, sheep), cults, god complexes, etc. Warnings will be posted as they come.

As part of regular parenting, Pyrrha and Duty take to completing a Trench tradition with each of their formally adopted kids: Oscar, Billie, The Fern, & Sharon. The bones are selected appropriate to the child: Oscar from from a beast Duty had to put down, Billie from Trenchwood Farm, The Fern from the same beast whose back resembled a giant fern of bones, and Sharon from the remains of a brutally but efficiently slaughtered blood zealot. Each thought forms slowly and deliberately with focus, the same focus that generally turns them further off from hunting this month.

Once they're done, their eyes light up. Words have been sparser than usual for Pyrrha, as few as ever for Duty. "Shall we?" they ask, yes even to The Fern.

[fogsong]

It would feel like a strange way to bond, one she wouldn't have agreed to, if a memory wasn't what really brought them close in the first place. What helps the most, though, is the fact that Duty has chosen to share this with her; it's not something stolen from one of them.

Still, she hesitates, "You sure about this?"

She's offering him a chance to back out, a chance to change his mind.

[martyrofduty]

Duty nods. "I"m sure," he says. Without any hesitation, he wraps his hand around one of the bones.

At first glance, it's a boring compound. Fluorescent lights. Cheap countertop. Canned goods. A circle of adults old enough they've gone beyond drinking with bottles of booze duct taped to their hands but younger far younger in feeling if not an actual decade or two for them all younger. John, for example, looks physically about the same age, but his eyes are golden and carry more hope, less swagger. The others may not have the same names, but Pyrrha recognizes them all. Augustine looks younger. Mercymorn less spiteful. Most of all, Sharon likely recognizes the one who looks most like Duty—a younger, nearly unscarred Duty. Solid. Imperturbable.

Something twists in Duty's heart, one stuttering beat, before he devotes his attention to watching it all and taking in the details.

Beyond the window, the farther view is blocked by a solid wall of meat. Muscle. Fresh as the day it came off the cow. Some morbid sound absorbing barrier. No one in the memory pays it any mind. However long they've lived within this wall, it's long enough to stop staring at.

The conversation flows around Duty and Sharon. Necromancy, how does it work, how can it save the planet. There are two main threads there, braiding together over each other again and again: the technical (how can necromancy preserve people to get them off the planet, how can it heal the planet, bone magic is incredible but it's not that) and the practical (how do they get anyone to agree to their plan, how to get buy in, how to convince people it works, etc).

The woman Duty recognizes as who he used to be stands up above the fray. "First things first. If they’re going to let us fix the world, you’ve got to make them take us seriously. Get some leverage. If they want to make you into a bad wizard, be a bad wizard. We can write the history books to say you were a good wizard. Or at least an okay wizard. They’re not going to listen because we talk nicely, they’re going to listen because we scare the shit out of them," she says.

In the way of dreams, the way of memories, after everyone stops looking like fish opening and closing their mouths, time shifts slightly. The phone rings. The quiet half-conversation they hear is all about assuring whoever's on the other end doesn't mean violence. Duty cannot hear it but doesn't trust them. The woman he was doesn't trust them. John doesn't trust them either, but standing there with Ulysses and Titania—even dead and young, Duty recognizes them—behind him he's got all the confidence of an evil wizard.

The black suits are Americans, even those that mask their accents to some degree. It's in their voices. They only use the c word once, focused more on their honest to god dead leader they want to prop up like a puppet. What's more nefarious than an evil wizard leading a cult? A cabal of shadowy powers fronting with the best looking zombie in the history of zombies.

They offer a lot of zeroes. It pays to be an evil wizard. It pays to puppet the president of the United States.

They money's ones and zeroes on a screen. Duty reads about the smoke screen of the FTL project—even lacking context, he'd know that much from his own body language in the memory—while they wait for everyone to come back. They graph all the inconsistencies on butcher paper. The story is so full of holes a five year old could see through it. There's no way it works. There's no way this saves humanity, much less the world.

Still, John walks back through the door with a nuclear weapon in a briefcase and billions of dollars Alfred once more explains are a mass hallucination.

Evil wizard vs. 'charitable' corporations. Duty knows how the story ends.

They come back to Trench, and Duty's quiet. A glimpse of the past, before the end of the world. It hardly feels like new information, even as it hits him in the gut, all these people walking and talking when it's been so long. He breathes, mutters thanks to Remina under his breath, and looks over at Sharon.

Though he hasn't shown her a picture of what he looked like, she knows he looks like his husband. Surely she recognized him. He wants her to recognize him.

[fogsong]

It's a lot to take in. There are pieces that fit into the puzzle of his world, things she's picked up from discussions with Duty to her singular chat with John. Necromancy & a dying Earth & a way to leave it.

Other pieces get lost in her head, in the way her focus flits from person to person. She recognizes John even without those ringed black holes for eyes. Others she recognizes but can't put names to them, like Augustine and Mercymorn. It's Duty, and the woman with the commanding presence, that really steal her attention, though.

In the memory, Duty looks... different. He's no less himself, minus a few scars, but it's like the centuries have changed him in little ways that would be hard to put into words for most people. Maybe it's the way his eyes crinkle or the expressions he makes as he listens to the others talk. Or maybe it's how he looks at that woman. In any case, she sees him, recognizes him, and feels strange to have done so.

Some of the words and talk float through her ears but a few things stumble and get stuck in the folds of her brain. Cult chief among them. She wants to berate someone over the idea but this is a memory from centuries ago. So much of what they plan seems a gamble but the world is dying and what do you do when you've run out of options?

The memory comes to an end and it's disorienting to see Duty again before her. She looks at him a little harder, her blue eyes searching for every little change as if to commit them all to memory.

"You have less scars," His husband's body, she remembers. His and Not His.

[martyrofduty]

The memory is committed. Duty doesn't know if it's possible to relive the same memory, but he will complete many Winter Mournings. It may come up again. It may be his only time.

Duty nods to Sharon and lifts one arm slightly. "Couple on here, rest were post-resurrection," Duty agrees. He knows the stories behind each of them post-resurrection, whether he was there or not. They shared with each other far more intimacies than that.

"They're his," Duty motions toward the bone for lack of better direction. Back toward the memory. "My husband's." Once they ascended, they had ten thousand years without any new scars. Trench? He has a new one on his chest from The Reckoning, and in moonlight, John's handprint glows upon his shoulder.

[wapples]

It's a strange tradition; this making of decorations that will show you the memories of others, but Billie does remember it from last year. This place seems to have a lot of weird traditions, he's stopped questioning it mostly. Decorations made from bone might seem a little strange, but supposedly deer antlers are particularly powerful, so he supposes it makes sense.

He looks up as he's asked if he's ready and gives a nod, extending a hand to his companion. "Let's do it."

[martyrofduty]

Pyrrha takes Billie's hand and smiles. "Lets do it," she agrees. Her hand reaches for the Winter Mourning and—

The calendar—a half naked man with sharpie doodles who doesn't look like a professional model—says it's July. It's cold outside, and the kitchen looks and smells like pie. Smudges of flour linger on the countertop, and rolled up bag of flour sits on a shelf in an open cabinet. Some spices are out, along with whipped cream (handmade). A timer beeps.

Domestic as fuck, Pyrrha—apron, oven mitts, and all—opens the oven, removes the pie, and sets it to cool. She takes the mitts off but leaves them near the pie. It's a good scene. She appreciates the many apple cores in the trash too. Beneath them, however, Pyrrha spots an empty box. She shoves it further down and clears out the mail for useless flyers and coupons to further fill the bin.

That's when she eyes Billie. "I think we're expecting company," she says.

[wapples]

Billie looks around the kitchen. He doesn't pay much attention to the calendar, or the contents of the bin, but the pie and the freshly made whip cream on the counter certainly catches his eye, and he might be tempted if it wasn't for her words that suggest clearly the pie is not actually for him, and the fact that Pyrrha is standing right there.

So instead, he looks to her as she speaks, trying to feign indifference towards the fresh food, and tries to focus on the impending company instead. "Yeah - who're we expecting?"

[martyrofduty]

Who, that's the question. Someone she cares enough about—or about meeting—to put in some effort but comfortable enough to prank or pull one over on. That means not a boss or authority figure. It's likely a social situation—friend of a friend or something of the like.

She dips her finger to scoop a tiny amount of whipped cream. "For you, Billie," Pyrrha says. "Until they get here." Then everyone gets pie.

Pie. Why does her mind come up blank? Nothing post-resurrection, nothing she remembers, tells her who she'd make pie for. Her gut simply tells her it's for someone in particular, not merely a social call broadly. That much, she trusts herself on.

The doorbell rings, her phone buzzes, and Pyrrha looks down on the screen for a small video of John Gaius with normal colored eyes (weird) standing outside her door. He's the air of calm and casual, except after ten thousand years, Pyrrha picks up on a couple signals of nerves. She glances at Billie. "You remember him..."

She goes to the door, calm and casual herself, and opens it to John Gaius. He looks at her like he's never known her a day in his life. It's the strangest feeling Pyrrha's had in a long time. One she's never remembered, never felt. "Hey, pie guy," Pyrrha improvises. "Come on in."

They're both relaxed, but the air feels sharp as John Gaius steps into her modest home.

Clever Rabbit (Winter Mourning) [Closed to Bone House Extended & Outpost Crew]

[martyrofduty]

CW, expected across threads: potentially gross food, fighting, everyone dies in the end, impending apocalypse, murder, structures made from preserved fresh meat and bone (cow, sheep), cults, god complexes, etc. Warnings will be posted as they come.

Duty takes to carrying three new bone knives on his person—named Manipulation (for Dorothea), History (for Remina), and Hope (for Argonaut). The hilts are wrapped in friendship bracelets. Wrapped up these form—an image of a chicken shitting; a large eye; and the phrase "Do not give up."

Ask and he will take them out to show you. If you make the connection to Winter Mourning, he'll even offer to enter a memory together.

give me whatever!

[umbraportation]

Nico tends to be at the Outpost during the day at this time of year, he dislikes the cold and snow - both of which are worse at night, so he avoids doing that. Well, it's more than dislike in that if he has to shadow travel out of here that's extra coldness and the teen would like to avoid getting hypothermia or frostbite. That means their paths are more likely to cross in the winter, and he's sparred with Duty enough to pick up on new weapons.

Plus, they are made of bone and he can sense that. Nico looks over at the older individual. "New weapons?"

It's not a surprise, he's simply curious about the addition.

[martyrofduty]

Pulling out Manipulation, Duty spins it around his fingers a couple times without cutting himself to carefully catch it by the blade and offer it hilt out toward Nico. No surprise he noticed the bone.

"Renewable resource," Duty comments on their construction. Especially here, when so many of the dead respawn and return. Anything they lose that gets used is extra, a free resource. That's even if you don't live with a house full of necromancers.

[umbraportation]

He watches the spin of the knife, watching Duty easily do the act when bone and metal weapons definitely have a different weight to them. It makes him curious if someone altered the density of the bone for better balance or if Duty just adjusted that fast to the change. Nico takes the offered weapon to find out for himself.

"Fair point," he remarks with the smallest of smiles. People would look at him with a horrified expression for using bones as a weapon back home, but here some just consider it just a simple way of life. "You make these yourself?"

[martyrofduty]

Duty's glad for the smile. Bone's as normal as anything else in the Nine Houses. It's a reliable source of necromantic power. His spear comes from his own bone. Being bone lets it collapse down. Far easier to carry.

He nods. No need for necromancy for him to make weapons. He's better at using them than making them, but there's always a situation where needs must. Ten thousand years is plenty of time for practice. "Start to finish," he says, meaning the hilt too.

[survivalthroughhate]

Maul's eyes glitter with keen interest when he sees the new knives Duty has. He can always appreciate a good weapon, especially ones that are made of bone or antler given how effective they can be here in Trench.

"Where did you acquire those blades?" He asks with curiosity as he approaches Duty one day after he's done working, already having told Duty he was finished, having lost interest in what was going on after the work became repetitive and boring for him.

[martyrofduty]

Even when he works, Duty spends at least half of his day talking—more like listening—to people. He continues shoveling snow like the rest but recognizes Maul with a nod. His pattern adjusts so that he can fit words in with the work.

"Made them," Duty says. For once, the new weapon isn't from Ruby. Hers usually are more complex than a simple bone knife. This... is the kind of weapon he can make for himself.

[survivalthroughhate]

Maul nods in appreciation. He's made his own weapons before, his saberstaff chief among them. That would took a lot of literal sweat, blood, and tears to get right but it was worth it in the end. His weapon is now as much a part of him as his left arm is.

He comes a little closer, tilting his head to get a better look at the three. "Where did you get the bone for them?"

Do You Play Nice? (Cold As Ice) [Open]

[martyrofduty]

CW: near drowning, freezing

The cold feels like a dream at first. After all, Coldbloods are usually immune to it. The cold doesn't explain the weight on his chest. He cannot check himself directly for a heart attack, but any such attack would be induced, and no one touches him. Not that. It also doesn't match his usual dreams, the ones he's been controlling.

Dream or not, it's serious business.

Duty flails, and the moonlight hits. Ice. Water. Underneath a lake. He reaches for his tea—? No not tea. Nothing is around his waist, not his spear, not his sword, not a knife, not a sharp pointy thing among them. Fine. He punches the ice once; nothing happens. Not a creak, not a crack, not a screech, not a scratch.

Duty swims in one general direction. His eyes watch the ice above him, and he listens and feels for movement in the water indicative of, well, friend or foe. Either's useful.

finally getting this CR

[obeir]

Likewise being a Coldblood, it's immediately alarming to K that he can not only feel the cold, but that it's biting, absolutely chilling him to the proverbial bone. In moments like this, he's fortunate to be an android — designed to endure conditions that could be outright fatal to humans, and it serves him well now as he finds himself inexplicably trapped beneath the ice. His strength is such that he can rend steel without effort, and yet as he pushes at the thick ice overhead, it remains intact. Not so much as a crack. There's clearly something unnatural at play here, something that won't be overcome by brute strength alone.

Left with no other choice, he quickly begins swimming in search of something or maybe someone that can help with his predicament. Just able to make out the murky form of another person trapped in this freezing prison, he heads in their direction and is soon greeted with the vaguely familiar features of someone he's observed on the network before. Username Duty. In lieu of speaking, K offers a wave to convey his peaceful intentions, followed by striking the ice to demonstrate: I can't break it, then gives his companion a questioning look. Any ideas, friend?

welcome!

[martyrofduty]

Duty waves back and considers the ice above them. He wouldn't be surprised if it takes more than one person. Regardless of abilities, that is often the case. That's why finding someone is a good sign. He nods. Same experience.

Time is of the essence. As he sees it, three blood types could be potentially useful: Darkblood, Vileblood, and his own Coldblood. No offense to Palebloods or Warmbloods. He'll gladly accept a creative use of those. Being underwater, Duty treads with his legs, sluggish as they seem, and hold up one hand. He crystalizes a small piece of ice, easy at these temperatures, and holds it up. He points toward himself then at the new person.

Fire. Ice. Either or both could work, but they're high intensity activities. If nothing else, Duty needs his partner ready to haul him up. Preferably, they can work together on the ice for better odds, supernatural and natural.

[obeir]

K's own blood abilities seem to have gone almost dormant from the moment he woke underwater, which he assumes might also explain why the frigid temperature is able to affect him now. He watches the display and nods his understanding, and rather than attempting to replicate the makeshift ice pick, he opts for the opposite — fire. Or, well, as much heat as he can manage to generate here. It seems the best bet. Fire's become the element he's best able to control due to those early days when he'd nearly burned down his and Technical Boy's Trench home on accident. Repeatedly. It was imperative that he learn to master it.

Reaching up, he braces both hands against the ice, far enough apart that there should be room for his companion to chip at the ice inbetween his hands, and then concentrates all of his flagging energy on generating the closest approximation to fire that he can. He exhales a plume of bubbles with the effort, and it's clear he won't be able to keep it up for long — it's unusually exhausting. The ice does become clearer in response to the heat, but doesn't show the slightest indication of giving way yet. This will require both of them.

Snake For Your Health (Pthumerian Illness) [Closed to Illarion]

[martyrofduty]

CW: giant snake (Madame Generosity), references to illness

It's late, but Duty makes himself presentable. A shower. A shave. A clean shirt. The prettiest weapons. The classics (sword & spear), two pistols, and three new bone knives. One is holstered in prominence at his waist. The leather with an engraving of a large snake dyed white. It stands in for the Pthumerian he hopes to reach an audience with tonight. Rested gently in a leather pouch, along with the rest, is the shed skin of a snake he tracked down earlier in the month, when the news of Dorothea and her sightings spread.

He waits for Heartnest on the front porch, standing in the same spot he stood talking with Augustine a couple months before. As Doorway. Nothing special marks the spot but his memory still his. Trench is his home, and he sees it wherever he goes.

When the shrike approaches, Duty asks, "Were you able to source the—" He holds up one hand to mime a small hard shape. He refuses frustration.

[unsheathedfromreality]

Illarion's no less dressed for the occasion, in the splendid and barbaric panoply of a shrike warlord: High-collared coat, fine trousers and polished riding boots, topped with a mantle with woven-in bone and an embroidered veil. (It is the same outfit, in fact, that January's Patron gifted him with the year prior. It seems only right.)

He's prepared for the question on his approach, holding up a gloved hand to display the glint of a tourmaline the size of an infant's fist, a lovely bicolor in apple-green and dawn pink. "Yes. Without wiping out all my bloodstone."

There's a teasing barracks-humor in that, as if he'd even consider trading for a subpar offering merely to preserve his own resources.

"Shall we?"

[martyrofduty]

The gemstone is nearly as stylish as Heartnest's outfit. Except that it isn't possible, Duty would tease him for overdressing for the occasion. That nice of outfit being possible is good to know, but finery hasn't been his priority.

One side of his mouth curves slightly, and Duty nods. "You were a wealthy man," he teases back.

He motions ahead and walks side by side with the shrike. "Never Mind suggested she'd be willing to see us," Duty sets his thoughts aloud because they're difficult to keep in order. He'll talk less once they're with her. "That's promising."

Madame Generosity might live up to her name or have self interest as the next patron. Both are valid. Both they can work with.

"We cannot simply demand she self-isolates," Duty muses, but they will see how she's doing. "I pray," somewhere between a joke and a serious statement, "she's interested in at least one of our ideas."

[unsheathedfromreality]

"Who's richer than the dead?" Illarion asks, a laugh beneath the words. "We will always have more than we need."

He returns the gemstone to a fine velvet pouch as they depart, tucking it away and outward beyond the reach of most thieves. Cellar Door's not the worst of the districts but it didn't do to be reckless, least of all with offerings.

"She is the kindest of the Patrons and most indulgent to Sleepers. More than see us, she'll hear us out in full." He folds his hands together behind his back, sightless eyes trained ahead and distant with thought. "She wouldn't isolate herself. Nor do I think it would work. If the illness could be avoided by hiding, Dorothea wouldn't have caught it."

A supernatural contagion that passed along the wheel of the year, rather than through something as mundane as close contact, might be inescapable. But he hasn't much evidence yet of that, and it wouldn't do to foreclose their options by assuming.

"A blood ward may hold more promise, though I'm not mage enough to suggest how it might be constructed."