deercountry | 15 . JOHNUARY

Lazarus washes ashore. Radiation sickness, torture, secrets, death.
Big Bird washes ashore. Radiation sickness, misery, mercykill.
Mercymorn sheds her skin. M- throws a clock at John's head, then cries into his chest.
Maud'Dib washes ashore. He proposes a deal.
Augustine washes ashore. They talk about lies.
Nico sends a text. It's a lighthearted hiking invite.
D plays chaperone. John and Nico do some silly necromancy.
Qrow keeps watch. They talk about fairytales.
Light suspects something. L is afraid, and hates it.
Asriel does research. John makes a research friend.
Apollonia makes her move. Shouting match gone wrong gone sexual (?)
Kriemhild attacks. Injury, gore, lots of swearing.
Ash starts a conversation. She doesn't know who she's talking to.
Bomb and Tears.
Mercymorn returns.
Asriel's followup. For the first time in a year, John talks lore.
Intense old men hold hands.
John holds hands with another god of murder.
Qrow, puking organs. John meets the Chocolatier.
Martin, a statue on the shore. A normal introduction.

Edited 2023-02-10 02:51 (UTC)

[Qrow thinks, glumly, as he warms his hands against the crackling fire -- he can blame Misfortune for the current state of affairs. Surely, his semblance influenced whatever system of lot-drawing they'd used such that he would be forced to sit awake in the pitch dark of night in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with John Oceanshanker Gaius.

It's awkward, even with the truce of sorts they cobbled together in that library. Qrow disdains immortals, resents gods, and distrusts liars and half-truth tellers, and John just so happens to be all three. It's not so much that he expects John to mess with his own again as that he does not really know where to begin to talk to someone he otherwise has so many reasons to avoid, and on some level he wonders if it would be less painful to just bear the awkward silence until the first glimmers of daybreak release them from this social purgatory. He almost wishes a Beast would find them, if only because it'd be easier.

...No such luck, of course. At least, not yet. But as he looks on over the small gathering of sleeping faces, his own immortal mentor's glasses askew on his face from having forgotten to take them off for the night, he suddenly has an idea. A bad one, maybe, but he commits to it before he has the opportunity to secondguess himself.]

Hey John, humor me. What's your favorite fairytale?

[ For John's part, the awkward silence is refreshing as hell. It's useful. He has too much to think about, too deeply, which means there are two paths available to him: chat about nothing with whoever'll humor him-- Nico's a great kid and good company, for that-- or sit in the dark and dwell. Qrow seems like the kind of guy who can appreciate a good bit of brooding. It's nearly comfortable, sitting here in mutually unhappy distance.

So it's a bit of a surprise when Qrow takes a stab at levity. John blinks up at him, firelight catching on his dark and eerie eyes. Then he tips his head in thought. ]

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Peter Pan.

[ There are stories that matter, myths he could turn over and worry like smooth stones. He's not in the mood for those. This one's easier. ]

They have that one where you're from? Second star on the right, all that?

[In Qrow's opinion, the best brooding is done alone. With others present, talking about nothing helps set him more at ease, especially when there is a need to stay alert.

Being around Oz for so long has taught him the value of stories--even the ones that aren't "important" are ones he can learn something from, in the way it's told, the details that are focused on or glossed over. If nothing else, he can at least bring back the tale for the wizard's enjoyment later on.

Qrow shakes his head.]

Nah, I'm not familiar. [He is, after all, not from any version of John's Earth.] Tell me about him.

whispers and vines.

[ The streets are dark, barren, and spooky as hell. There's little to hear except the wind in the leaves and the ever-present whispering. If anyone lingers out here, it's probably in the name of mushroom-hunting, to save the Patrons' lives.

So anyone who knows John's take on the Pthumerians might be startled to find him out tonight. He stands before an overgrown tree, a pale mushroom catching moonlight in the crook of its branches. His hands aren't on the mushroom: he's examining the dark and veinlike vines embedded in the bark.

The wind rises, a little, and the whispers too. John reels back with an unhappy hah, taps the side of his head like he means to get water out of his ear, and turns to you with a good-humored complaint: ]

Seems a bit on the nose, right?

[ He seems to take this all as normal. ]

the library.

[ As you rifle through old and decaying texts, you might be startled by sudden movement: there is a man in the stacks, a stack of books in the crook of his arm, busy jotting notes in a leatherbound journal. When he looks up, he quirks his brows at you in mild interest. His eyes are glossy oil-black from edge to edge. ]

Finding anything interesting?

[ In his arms are books about Pthumerians, and effigies, and sickness. The means to kill a god. ]

the church.

[ The door in the back throbs with red light, malevolent and inviting. Behind you, someone whistles lowly. ]

They really go in on the aesthetic. You have to respect it.

Bunch of shit, [ is Robby's dry reply. He isn't -- and hasn't -- been gung-ho about this trip, or moving with any dedicated purpose. On the subject of gathering the mushrooms for the Patrons, he's been a shrug and a 'Sure', and it's giving him something to take part with ... some aim.

But it's clearly not his purpose for being here. John can have his fun with the vines, while Robby will take the job of carefully extracting the delicate mushroom; but not without a pause, a sideways glance. ]

Didn't know you were into botany and necromancy.

[ Very funny. ]

I'm a man of many talents.

[ Still, he steps away from the vines, attention dropped and still pointedly ignoring the whispers. ]

Didn't figure you for much of a gardener, either. Fetch quest, huh?

God. [ It's an instant reaction to this being called a fetch quest, because it is, and Robby needs a second to maybe die a little on the inside for what his life has become. ]

Yeah, fetch quest, [ he finally replies dryly. ] Or more like learning experience. Someone else wanted to come, [ and so I did too, is left implied, ] so I might as well enjoy it.

[ He sounds like he's enjoying it. But he's managed to get the mushroom to rest carefully on his palm, removed from the tree. ]

Nevermind might give us something useful again, [ he adds with a shrug. He'll take shit for doing shit. ]

[ ~~hecate~~ out of the ash i rise isn't really sure what she expected from the church. something a little more... familiar? iconography from home, maybe, or at the very least some stupidly lavish show of wealth made to flex on everyone else in the district. (and to be fair, the bloodstones? excellent taste. it kind of makes her want to puke a little, which is the correct feeling in this sort of situation, so!)

what she's not expecting is an ominous red glow, like something awful and old and primal is calling out to her. and what she's really not expecting is the voice that speaks up from behind her. her sword arm twitches, her fingers preparing to grab at her rapier - but that isn't there anymore. she's defenseless and unarmed. she stands no chance here.

so instead of admitting defeat, or even taking a remotely defensive stance, she turns to meet the newcomer and speaks with all the third house venom she can muster in her blackened little heart. ]

I don't know. I mean... The bloodstones are a little gauche, don't you think?

[ God, contrary to popular opinion, is not a total idiot: he catches the little twitch of a warrior on alert. If it weren't for the Pthumerians playing translator, maybe he'd recognize somebody speaking House. If she were a necromancer, maybe he'd catch the thanergenic signature of a body attuned to decay.

As it is, he only thinks she's a warrior. This town has a lot of those. ]

It's a little much, maybe, but at least they know what they're going for. I would've gone more for skulls, personally, but that's me.

[ He steps closer to have a look with her, posture at ease. He looks like nobody: crownless, dressed in simple blacks. It's only the eyes that are wrong. ]

Really? [ it's said with the biting wit, the incisive tone of someone who is about to deliver the absolute perfect comeback - right up until she makes direct eye contact. holy hell, this guy's eyes are jet fucking black, aren't they. well then. ] ...wow. Okay, actually, I guess that tracks.

[ he steps closer, and though she crosses her arms she makes no attempt to either back down or get closer. he's treating her like a complete non-issue, which means either he's a complete idiot or he's smart enough to know what he's doing, and either way she's not going to argue with his judgment right about now.

well, at least not on that front. ]

You... you do know you can wear other colors, right? [ it's said in the tone of someone who isn't even sure if they're making fun of someone or offering advice. ] Even if you're just accessorizing. They won't, like... burn you??

[ Ouch. It's a fair shot: he's been committed to this look for a long, long time now. ]

I sometimes indulge in a bit of bone white.

[ It is briefly unclear whether he's joking. Except that he tips his head and adds, more openly wry: ]

But let's try not to give our hosts any ideas. I never know what they'll do with the free outfits.

[ This is his second January, his second party invite and accompanying overwrought cloak left to decay in a closet. If he keeps passing up the offers, the snake in charge might start getting creative. ]

Fair enough.

[ He tips his head in acknowledgment, patient as Robby looks after the mushroom. ]

I've never been his biggest fan, personally. A few too many mandatory boat rides. And I'd hoped for a little more sense of humor.

[ Deeply unfair that the ravens won't tolerate his Poe jokes. ]

[a book explodes.]

[don't worry, it's not one that john's holding, but it explodes in a spike of thanergetic fission that the lyctor who set it off desperately hopes is trademark enough to recognize her. she storms up toe to toe with her God with her piercing green eyes and her blonde hair flowing behind her. the hoodie she's stolen belongs to some meaningless bitch named anna, but she's filled the pockets with fragments of bone she'd stolen from the wilderness, and now she's here.]

You. Finally. [her voice could be familiar; her stature and build might be, too. it depends on how closely God pays attention to her, but she knows how difficult that sort of thing has been for him. how distant he always stays. but here she storms; this is the closest, physically, that she's been to her God in some time. she prays (to whom?) that this won't be where the closeness ends.]

You take the time to deconstruct me and you won't even say hi once I'm back in town. How typical of you.

Edited 2023-01-18 11:05 (UTC)

Any of them got a sense of humour?

[ Said like Robby doesn't believe it, but he's also not spoken to any of them (well, save Cloverfield). But that's the thing--who would know?

(who would want to know.) ]

[L's spent the better part of the afternoon in the library, dragging Light along with him to make sure he has another set of eyes as well as one of his very favorite brains to bounce ideas off of.

When it comes to the Pthumerians, misunderstanding can be so very close to total enlightenment. It's simultaneously a perfect, balanced order and a mockery of nature and justice, and who better to study with than a man who has been the very same for such a long time, now?

Two such men, perhaps.

L's shifting aside books at a desk, pausing only to rub at his forearm. The skin is doing something strange, puckering so that the hair stands on end. He shivers, but doesn't believe it's due to some draft. Nothing chilling, nothing killing, and so he grunts, straining his willowy arms to pick up a few more books than he should really safely try to carry, putting his crooked back into it. It's not the good kind of pain, but backs don't start to resemble his because their owners are great at stopping when something hurts.

Dark eyes lock onto their almost exact inversions, and later, L will be surprised to hear that what happened next only took seconds. Adrenaline, perhaps, is like that.

L's back doesn't give out, but something has to. He half-drops and half-heaves the armful of books at John as if he's found a snake into the ancient stacks, and he believes that he really, truly could make that argument.]

Edited 2023-01-18 07:28 (UTC)

[ Lazarus throws a stack of books at him.

It is very loud. John recoils with a huff of surprise, which catches into a slightly less dignified noise once he's been smacked on the knee and foot by ancient hard-backed tomes. They hit the ground with a clatter, accusatorily loud in the great abandoned building.

It echoes. Once the sound dies— after just enough pause that it might be reluctant, or might be mocking— John splays his hands in the universal, and perhaps unconvincing, gesture of I won't hurt you. ]

Fair enough.

[ He's standing in a pile of books, now. He doesn't look smug: if anything, there is a grim and tired set to his eyes. An echo of the man on the beach. ]

Ha. At least you have some contrast. Maybe try some silver? A bit more refined, a bit less... [ ninth, she wants to say, but who even knows if he has that context in this place, so instead she just says: ] ...macabre? Yeah, that's the word.

[ he's not charging her way, so that gives her some freedom to move. she arcs around him casually, roughly keeping the same distance even as she rotates to look at one of the less dusty shelves. (removing the blockade; opening the way to the door. she's still ready to run if it comes down to it. if she has time.) ]

Ooh, do we get freebies often? The way I heard it, you either offered your service or your blood, and I'm kind of attached to both.

[ Kriemhild is tired. So very tired. She didn't betray God for revenge, not any that she thought she would truly achieve. If that was all she wanted, she would have stayed at his side. She was just sick of the lies, the hypocrisy, the weight on her soul. She had to run. She didn't aid his enemies and slaughter his beloved flock because she had a grand plan. It was just the only thing she could do.

It's been thousands of years, and there he is, unchanged, glorious godly hypocrite that he is. He burns into her eyes. Her heart beckons her to attempt the impossible, though she knows it will fail. His Annabel Lee is locked away, so he cannot be touched. He's never really touched anybody, not in a long, long time, older than God.

He caused all of it. Turning against him was turning against the universe itself, and killing him would be killing herself, for what would any of them have been without him?

The lances break free of her skin, a dozen, a hundred, corrosive emerald blood tearing from her as she opens her heart and lets rage and grief pour forth. It's stupid. But she has to do it. For Nero. For Apollonia. They fly at him without cease. There is so much thanergy oozing through the veins of this world, she need only prick. ]

Die, die, die, die, die you lying hypocrite murderer wormshit sonuvabitch! I'll rip out your nasty fucking death eyes and piss on your brain, fucknuts!

Edited 2023-01-19 05:54 (UTC)

Macabre. [ He murmurs it, softly amused. ] At this point, I think I've thrown in my lot with macabre.

[ She reorients for an escape route, and he lets her, posture casual as he inspects the walls of their spooky glowing church. It's not like he's ruffled by wariness. His reputation precedes him; so too, apparently, does his vibe. ]

Less freebies, more consolation prizes... Sometimes after a particularly rough month you'll get a novelty T-shirt.

Even then, they'll try to get your blood along the way. I try not to take it personally.

[ He always takes it personally regardless. ]

[ she tactfully resists the urge to say "i can tell." mostly because it'd be hammering the joke a little too far, you know? tear would give her shit for it being easy pickings, and honestly, she'd have earned it. under no circumstances can ash allow tear to have that sort of affirmation. ]

A T-shirt? Okay, look. I'm more of a "buy first, pay later" kind of gal, but I'm pretty sure my blood's worth more than that. [ she huffs a sigh, playing at being dramatic... and stays where she is at the shelf, idly thumbing through indecipherable books. looks like she's not taking the chance to run for it just yet. ] So, what, you've been here for a while then?

[ He'll take it. John pauses to drum his fingers on a dusty bookshelf in thought. ]

Year, year and a half? Let me tell you, it feels longer. If we're being polite, I'd call it 'eventful.'

A year and a half?

[ okay, wow. this sucks significantly more than expected. she sighs, halfway between "i hope you know how irritating that is" and genuinely put out. ]

Right. Okay. Stuck on some backwater planet, hopping between city ruins on the slowest transports I've seen in my life, and they literally try to bleed you for what you're worth. And that's before you got to the "eventful" part. Any tips for a new hostage?

[ John says year and a half in the way most people would say a few minutes, but he can respect the sentiment. He holds up a hand, pauses as though in grave consideration, and begins ticking it off on his fingers: ]

Don't eat anything you didn't watch a human being cook; you cannot win a fight against the magic ocean; and when in doubt, the puzzle can be solved by talking about your feelings.

15 . JOHNUARY

TIMELINE

the last watch

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(for Nico and D)

(in the new town)

whispers and vines

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take me to church

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the library

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Library

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whispers and vines

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