15 . JOHNUARY

[necrolord]

Who: John Gaius and company.
What: All around him, John's friends and loved ones begin to shed their skins. Also: Riteoir.
When: January
Where: Gaze and the new city.

Content Warnings: Tagged in headers as needed. Note all the usual warnings of this character.

Comments

TIMELINE

[necrolord]

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.

the last watch

[bolstafir]

[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?

[necrolord]

[ 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?

(for Nico and D)

[necrolord]

(in the new town)

[necrolord]

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.

whispers and vines

[strongroots]

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. ]

take me to church

[wingstosee]

[ 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?

the library

[hauntedsavior]

[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.

Library

[hearthebell]

[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.]

whispers and vines

[foulhussy]

[ 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!

slides this in because i have no chill about this cr

[anbaric]

[ asriel stuck it out in that barren city as long as he could, every new hint or discovery giving him another reason to keep at it a little longer, but he had to go back eventually. he didn't know what might be valuable, so he's had to cast a wider net than he might like.

that's what happens when he gets an idea in his mind and can't shake it; if he's right, the enemy will likely be ruthless and formidable. a familiar feeling he shouldn't enjoy, but it's a thrill to have a new problem to solve and asriel has never doubted he's the man for the job.

because asriel is certain there is an enemy — possibly several — he just hasn't settled on the shape of it yet. whatever seemed to be peering into his innermost thoughts to perfect its laser-focused torment deserves death, for one.

in short, he could use that drink now.

stelmaria managed to bully him into a little self-care, so he's rested in the meantime, and he goes wherever he's directed because it's not like he has any better suggestions. he'll even show up reasonably on time because he's interested and it's important; sometimes there's a strategy in keeping people waiting, but this isn't one of those times. ]

hell yeah

[necrolord]

[ It's easy to spot John Gaius in a booth, not because he stands out— he's one more plain-looking guy wearing black— but because he's off alone in a corner, given an eerily wide berth by the other patrons. He flags Asriel down with a casual wave, pint of beer already in hand. His attention flickers between the man and his daemon as they settle across from him. ]

Welcome back to town. How was the field trip?

[ His was a nightmare, personally, but not for any reason it'd be quick to explain. ]

enforced handholding go

[anbaric]

[ people have told asriel how this goes — this being unwanted pthumerian interference — but he thought it might be different. he isn't sure what that means. it doesn't matter; he's grasping at excuses. thoughts are hard because it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. that isn't true, of course, but this is clearly not something asriel can will himself out of.

he is instantly, visibly furious. he is offended. he wants someone to blame! the logical parts of him are rapidly dulled in favour of fiercer, baser instincts where fighting something until he can breathe again starts making sense.

asriel does not intentionally reach for john; it's more likely he stumbles into him after standing here suffocating to death, but the effect is immediate when he makes contact.

...

it's just unfortunate that asriel's aversion to human contact is going to make him recoil before either of them can really catch their breath. as he does it, he can feel urgent pressure from stelmaria, who is more keenly aware of the very foreign desire for closeness that he does not like one bit.

for a very real moment in time, asriel considers that dying might just be easier than the alternative. ]

[necrolord]

[ Beside him, John has gone very still. He's reached a hand to his throat, the expression on his face not so much distressed as mystified: there is a slow, curdling realization as his breath hitches and stalls past parted lips.

He jolts when Asriel touches him. It's a small, human flinch of bewilderment, and even as Asriel draws back, John is frowning into the middle distance like a man piecing together a complicated puzzle. His expression pinches as the burn of breathlessness builds, and builds, and builds.

John breaks: he claps a hand on Asriel's arm. Air surges back in as though a switch has flipped. He breathes slow and careful, as though testing the bounds, and then says: ]

For fuck's sake.

testdrive prompt - you take my breath away

[worldcleansing]

[ Work, study, home, work, study, home; Light Yagami aged from a dutiful teenager to a hard-working man. Much of his time is spent in L's presence but not all. His blood magic grows stronger by the day, and he studies even outside of L's tutelage, and there's more time outside of both for his everyday life.

It's just a random day that John catches his eye. It's not L's birthday party, it's not in the library by L's side, but walking casually along the street, coming from the other direction. The shock of seeing him in such a mundane setting dims quickly to the shock that comes from the quick compress against his throat. In an instant, there's something pressing against the sides, an invisible hand that's refusing to let even the smallest bit of air into his lungs. Light freezes in the street, hand on his throat as his eyes instantly go to John.

He's responsible. Be it by blood magic or something more inherent to his home world, assuming him to be at fault is the most logical conclusion. Light manages a step toward him, unsure of what he's going to do when he reaches John, but he doesn't have long to make a decision. ]

[necrolord]

[ John catches sight of him, and makes an absentminded note of it; he ought to keep half an eye to Lazarus's partner, given the living menace Lazarus has turned out to be. Better not to disregard anyone that guy counts as a colleague. They pass close enough that they could exchange a look, a word; John would only have to step a little forward to touch a hand to his shoulder. He doesn't pay much mind to the thought.

Then his throat closes, and John is paying a lot of attention.

He turns, briefly and openly astonished. But he recognizes this— and so his expression hardens into sudden, sharp anger, and he steps forward to catch the man by the arm.

Breath surges back to them. He starts, flatly, with: ]

Hope you weren't going anywhere.

puking organs! cw: emeto, gore, vivid descriptions of living organs, the usual

[necrolord]

[ It hits him on the street, which is just insult to fucking injury. John avoided this, last year, and chalked it up to not looking like an easy mark. That was apparently the wrong call.

He's almost gotten used to throwing his blood around. Ten thousand fucking years of never misplacing a drop, and now here he is, bleeding out into cups for any monster with a box of chocolates. It's shameful.

Anyway: it's a raspberry truffle.

The most embarrassing part is what he does about it, when the nausea hits. He thinks it'll last a moment, like everything does; he thinks it'll pass before he can bother to react to it. He assumes he can shrug it away as easily as he shrugs off Vileblood in his veins, a knife through the heart, anything else that tries to take apart his body. It can only ever hurt him for a little while.

That he spends the next minute hunched against the pale flowers at the edge of the healer's district, vomiting tarry red blood down his shirtfront, really should come as less surprise. ]

[bolstafir]

[It's February again. Qrow, for his own part, is more concerned with not finding himself on fire from a string in the heart for a third time, but surely there's no occasion for that, this year. He and Xerxes have settled into a comfortable routine, and unless Doorway is expecting an I love you out of him any time soon, it's about as settled and domestic as it gets with Qrow.

He's sure something will get him eventually, because it always does, but for the time being, he's enjoying the simple pleasure of just being a bird, soaring through the skies where nobody expects you to talk about your feelings.

And he probably would've just kept flying, if he hadn't caught sight of a certain someone suddenly collapsing and heaving blood into a patch of flowers. It'd be a more alarming sight if he hadn't heard of this curse specifically from Break just two weeks ago, when he himself had been stricken by the cursed food at Madam Generosity's party. There is a moment where he considers not stopping, honestly. He imagines John has people he could call for help, presuming he didn't burn all his bridges in July. It's not like they're friends, either. Despite that little moment in the forest, Qrow is still not quite sure he likes the man.

He thinks all of these things even as he finds himself descending, touching down at a street corner several feet behind john, and he's assumed his human shape by the time his conscious thoughts reach around to how much he would hate for someone he cares about to see him like that. He might hate it more if someone he doesn't like saw him, though, and by the time he's made his way to John's side, the way he's justified going out of his way like this to himself is as some kind of petty victory, like that time he punched him in a library.

It's embarrassing how transparent an excuse it is, but Qrow needs these things for his dignity, okay. He has an image of a grouchy sarcastic asshole to preserve, after all.]

...Lemme guess. Cursed food?

[Casually, like it's conversation. This doesn't need to be awkward, he insists to himself.]

Wait For Me

[gotaknife]

[He tells himself he doesn't like the ocean, but that is a lie. He likes it when it's quiet, when the skies are dark, and it's just the roar of the waves as they break against the icy shore. He rarely ever lingers for more than a few minutes at a time, just a brief indulgence, because really, things are fine.

Things are fine.

The Eye might still have a hold on Jon, even in this different world, and it might be a horrible enough reminder of home, and the horrors they faced there that Martin still leaves whenever there's a statement that needs to be read, but it's fine. It could be worse. They're both alive, at least, and Martin is still determined to help Jon cope without turning into a monster.

Still, he wouldn't complain if things were better. If this world was a little less horrifying. If he wasn't quite so worried about history being doomed to repeating itself here as well. They know it's a risk, though, so they'll be able to avoid it, right? Of course they will, he tells himself.

It's fine.

Martin turns to go, and that's when it happens. His muscles seize as he turns away from the shore, and suddenly he finds himself unable to move.

This is most definitely not fine.]

[necrolord]

[ John doesn't spend a lot of time on the beach, lately. The only person he's waiting for has already come and gone, and anyway the ocean has made up its mind about him; they're not on good terms. He's sure he'll see it again whenever the next assassination attempt comes to pass. He's in no hurry.

Except.

It's been, frankly, a very bad month. Speaking of assassination attempts, he's a few deep, and the ones that don't end in a fight have been the worst of all. He's hurting; he's miserably restless; he itches to be helpful, to be benevolent, to be kindly. Maybe that's sad, an ex-god grabbing at straws, but at least it keeps him busy.

So he's here scooping up baby squid, doing the whole Welcome, child, to your rebirth bit. It reminds him too much and not enough of the old days. He does it like a man twisting his own screws.

He doesn't expect a man still as stone, turned out to face the sea. John approaches at an amble, looking like no one much. ]

Is it that good a view?

sorry this took so long; tea for two

[manyone]

[ Beatrice hadn't been joking when she'd wanted to invite the horrid man who she'd seen accused of so much mayhem over for tea. The small house that she shared with Battler had been prepared--though in a magical sense and not just a physical sense. When John enters through the front door, he finds himself not in a simple living room but instead a strange sitting room where the windows look out over a garden of golden roses and golden butterflies flit from flower to flower amidst sunlight.

A strange goat-headed man in the uniform of a butler or footman greets the Emperor Undying with a bow and gestures that he be followed towards the table next to the windows where brilliant sunlight shines down upon the seated figure of the Golden Witch.

Beatrice stands as John approaches, half-curtsies. The table is laid with a tea service, complete with a teapot from which a curl of steam escapes. ]

Welcome! It's so nice to finally meet you in person.

[ Her voice is sweet, almost sickly in the cloying, welcoming sense of it. John may be dangerous, but Beatrice is equally confident in her own danger--even more so on what she now clearly considers her own turf.

Not that there's going to be any trouble, right? ]

one million years later

[necrolord]

[ This visit is a trip from the very start. The goat-headed butler is frankly hilarious, and whatever God steps into when he walks through the front door, it's clearly a flex. Fair enough; at least his host has style. ]

Happy to be here. [ He goes to take his seat across from her, mild and unruffled. He has come without crown or ceremony, dressed like nobody, ambling in a witch's front door. ] Thanks for having me. Never a quiet week in this town, right?

speed dating!

[necrolord]

[ Well! It's better than choking on nothing or coughing up organs, so John will consider this one of Trench's lesser inconveniences. He is unaware of the blurb viewable through an Omni. ]

No, please. You start.

[ He spreads his hands at the list of questions on the table, looking only tired and vaguely resigned. ]

[slightlytaller]

Waver Velvet was grateful for many things that had come his way since arriving in Trench. Chief of which being that he was himself for the moment...

If, perhaps, with a little extra. As one last smack in the face, Madame Generosity had seen to turn him into a centaur once more in a reflection of Bausphonette's joke from the previous summer. It was possible that he might never be free... But this was okay.

"I'm already apparently attending Idiot University, but I'm sure I don't need you to teach me about the little death. I already know what that one is, thanks."

[aetherweaver]

[He blinks on confusion and - oh. Ah. He hasn't seen this man in a while. He settles into the chair - by practically draping his legs over it - and ignores his blurb.]

Ah. Hello there.

[He looks down at the questions and... hm.]

'What do you think builds trust between people?'