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

(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. ]

[necrolord]

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?

[strongroots]

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. ]

[necrolord]

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. ]

[strongroots]

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.) ]

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?

[necrolord]

[ 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. ]

[wingstosee]

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??

[necrolord]

[ 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. ]

[wingstosee]

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.

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.

[necrolord]

[ God does a double take.

The book goes up in a searing blast of thanergy, and John startles gratifyingly hard, his expression open and astonished. His black-hole eyes skim her over top to bottom, catching on the hoodie, the hair over her eye, the burning Lyctoral void of a half-familiar soul. His lips part to form a name, but it dies uncertain in his mouth.

This makes, resoundingly, no sense at all. But John Gaius has never once passed up an opportunity this plain. He looks into her livid green eyes, inches from his, and begins with: ]

Hi.

[hauntedsavior]

Hi, John.

[she says his name like a curse. of all the things that have changed about the saint of fealty, one thing that has remained constant is her voice. for good or for ill, it may be the greatest hint towards what lies under this shed-skin façade.]

I traveled all the way back to that city they call Trench trying to find you. It's a good thing Mercymorn was there to point me in the right direction, or we would never have reunited like this. [a lie, but what would He care of lies? she stares into the eyes of God and takes one graceless step back, as though her words will only be turned on her if she's close enough.] Then again, you've always been good at making yourself scarce when I need you.

You thought you were finished with me. You thought your little problem child of a Lyctor would finally be gone and you could get back to whatever your plans were always meant to be without us. [she rolls her eyes.] It must be so irritating for you.

[necrolord]

I wouldn't say irritating, [ he hedges, in the voice he uses when he is stalling. Trying to put space between them, for all that he holds still while she steps away. ] Surprising, yes.

[ It's the voice that cinches it. It's when I need you that holds him mesmerized, still looking at her like he means to puzzle out every detail, no matter how light he keeps his voice. ]

But as you can see, [ and he spreads his hands to the nonsense around them, the great empty ruin of a city neither of them ultimately care about, ] my plans are pretty sidetracked right about now. Maybe we can talk this out.

[hauntedsavior]

Oh, now you want to talk it out. You hide the truth of Lyctorhood from all of us—you hide it from me, you hide it from me when you've known for a myriad how much it would mean to me to know what it is I left behind.

[her fists clench at her sides, but she can feel her nose tingling and her eyes welling up as she continues to talk, continues to spiral. they say that anger is just love disappointed, and no one has ever disappointed apollonia more than the man who became God.]

And you tear me into pieces, you turn me into a vapor, and now—now!, you're interested in talking through things? I should commit deicide. I should take your awful fucking crown of bone and turn it into a choke collar. Would that make You care about me? Would that make you see me as one of Your own? Do we all need to have some grand scheme against you to be worthy of Your love?

[she's closed the distance again before she can even call attention to having done it. she is standing at her full height, ready to assassinate her God, and she is crying thin streaks down her face. the whites of eyes that do not belong to her have gone red.]

Why can I never be good enough for you, my Lord?

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.]

[necrolord]

[ 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. ]

[worldcleansing]

[ As often as he may call himself a god, Light Yagami is very much human, capable of being as surprised as the next. His training does stop him from betraying too much shock aside from a quick turn and a tightening of his shoulders; anyone watching might recognize it as a defensive position of someone ready to switch to offense after he understands what's happening.

Neither of them is watching Light.

The probing questions were danced around with expert skills before so all he really knows is that John is an absolute monster. The open, inviting countenance that Light displayed at the party is gone, but his body language does relax once he realizes there's not an immediate threat.

What happened between them? It's a mirror of the question at the party but now, it's a bit more laser focused. Something happened after the last party. ]

Lazarus?

[ And something has happened to John. Though Light doesn't know him nearly as much as he knows a man who'd spent far too long chained up to, it's obvious that he's having a difficult time. Related or unrelated to why L's suddenly skittish around him? ]

[hearthebell]

[John's gesture of placation does very little to soothe or assuage L's reaction to his very presence. Worse, it's a very pure and unfiltered reaction, nearly childlike through its impulsive absence of guile. It's a sign of emotion and a sign of weakness. L, with an apex predator for an Omen, should be better than this, and his reaction is one that annoys and angers him maybe more than it does the Emperor.

His stare is fixed, his breath slow and shallow. With every muscle tense, he spares Light a darting glance at his approach, and he can't tell, in his heart of pounding hearts, whether he feels dread or excitement.

They could kill each other.

L's purpose, direction, and passion have always been wrapped up in his enemies, and he has to admit that the spectacle would be truly thrilling. It would end, though, as all spectacles must. If they devour each other, will L be left to devour himself? The image of a tough and bloody heart on a plate of bone china flashes behind his eyes, and every imagined bite sends lances of regret through his chest.

Better to guard his heart and all the strange, contradictory, absurd things that make it tick, though his desires are so contradictory that it's difficult to determine how one could fully grant or dash any two harmoniously.

Sometimes L can find a way, though. His eyes and mind are so quick that even in the moment of instinctive chaos, he was able to read the gist of the titles in John's arms.]

It's alright, Light. People have dropped worse things, you know.

[Though he addresses his original, great foe, his eyes don't leave the one he found in Trench.]

[necrolord]

[ For a moment, it's simple: Light is nobody and nothing, a bystander, bemused. Lazarus is high and shining with terror. John can see the crackle of adrenaline laid out beautifully before him, the furious and trembling heartrate, the response of a body that knows what it feels like to die.

And then Lazarus hits him with that one.

John actually exhales a hah; his expression opens with incredulity, subsides to something more steadily impressed. Hell. He can't blame Mercy for taking a shine to the kid, at this point; he gets what she saw in him. It must be the same thing Duty saw in his other enemy, the same thing that keeps a revenant single-mindedly alight with resolve even decades into death.

John has to give credit where it's due for bloody-minded tenacity. He'd be a hell of a hypocrite not to. ]

Can't argue with that. [ He turns, pleasant again, to Light. ] My mistake. I must've spooked him.

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!

cw: severe injury, gore

[necrolord]

[ She gets right to the point.

John is slow, which is embarrassing; Vileblood has never liked listening to him. He turns in startled disbelief, and the first lance meets his shoulder with a shockingly mortal and meaty thump— then one punches out his side, spears throat, splinters collarbone, shears off most of an ear. The air is so thick with her blood the lances whistle like falling rain.

It stops like a caught breath.

The blood shudders, taut and vibrating in the air, stilled by some invisible hand. Through the forest of wet green lances held shivering between them, God draws himself clumsily upright. He sloughs off the ruin of his bad side with a wet shrug, cracks his broken jaw back into place, hisses through the sting of fresh poison. The burning rings of his eyes seem to glow through the wreckage of his face: he bleeds a slow dark glitter like distant stars. ]

Can we talk about this?

[foulhussy]

[ This was the point all along, wasn't it? This is what she's wanted, for nigh a myriad, for her entire existence minus that scant handful of years when she had yet lived. Even when she was telling herself that there was yet a grander purpose, a reason for all the pain that she inflicted and took into herself, this is what she had truly wanted.

If it works, so much the better, but hearing her thanergetic lances stigmatize his divine flesh with that wet thump, seeing his blood spill, hearing his bones crack and throat gurgle is a meager balm for her grief, but the greatest that she has yet received.

Yes. As she expects. He halts the assault, he draws breath, he bleeds his awful changed blood but does not die. She hardly looks better. Her clothes tattered, covered in ragged patchwork of wounds that do not bleed, but simply well up with churning emerald blood. Nothing should survive what she did to herself, but they are both things that ought not be. ]

How many lies do you even have left to tell, John? I would have thought you've used them all by now.

[necrolord]

[ It's this again. He knows it by looking at her, the burning furnace of her soul— it's one more betrayal he can't remember, but not a hard one to track. That's the really damning thing, that he doesn't have to hear the story. He can guess at it.

It feels profoundly unfair that he's reaping the consequences of a love he never had. ]

Give me some credit. I'm sure I can find a few.

[ He rubs the skin of his cheek back into place, and shakes the prickling glitter of his blood away into the cold air. There's no helping his tattered clothes, the ruin of his shirt punched through to show the plain brown skin beneath. Like that, the wounds are gone. ]

But I'd rather hear from you.

[ He is stalling. It's starting to feel pointless, already. He knows the broad strokes; he knows where this one ends. ]