Reaper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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deercountry2021-11-02 10:09 pm
no_reload) wrote in deercountry2021-11-02 10:09 pm
Few Regrets (Open)
Who: Reaper (no_reload) & Open
What: Post-death recovery & November catch-all
When: Month of November
Where: In & Around Disaster House
Content Warnings: Will add as they come up.
I. Squid Games
The remains of his body had fully inked and become crystallized. Then the smoke filled crystals cracked, shattered and broke apart to reveal a palm-sized squid that shook off bits of crystal and remaining ink. The black bloody ink did begin to resorb into the squid which seemed momentarily disoriented.
Then it lifted four tentacles and gave a soft hissing squeak to whomever happened to be close by. Another squeak and wiggling tentacles that clearly meant to be indication for picking up.
While he couldn’t communicate with words, Reaper was small enough and determined enough to be close to anyone. He would attempt to cling to feet or legs, and sometimes that meant the risk of getting under foot.
At other times, he would somehow clamber onto raised parts of furniture whether it was a table leg, couch arm or even a shoe and lift two tentacles to the air and wait for someone to pass by before trying to attach himself for a free ride to leg or hand.
II. Bedrest
Since leaving the squid state, Reaper had had a hell of a time adjusting back to his body. He had mostly confined himself to his bedroom, a place he hardly used as anything other than storage previously. Now he was there most of the time, sequestered to the bed as he didn’t have the available energy yet to perform his usual household activities.
After all, breathing was a laboured effort; that’s probably what was supposed to happen when one’s lungs had been vaporized. He could be found in his bedroom, sitting up to make breathing easier and clad in black track pants and a oversized black hoodie where the hood was constantly pulled up over his head, obscuring his bare and scarred face with shadow. The white of his goatee was the most obvious aspect of him to be seen.
"…death has always provided a reset, but you haven’t invested time to knowing how blood effects your abilities either. That was stupid of you…"
Reaper grunted softly as if replying to the scolding and exasperated Irish female voice that happened to be coming from a small laptop-sized device next to him on his bed. His bare hand with its blackened dead looking fingers reached out and patted the device as if he were trying to pat the Irish voice on the shoulder.
"I have this pain again." His voice was strained, nearly breathless.
"Expected. You died, Reyes. You will cope as you did before," the voice said with a touch of exasperation.
"Analysis on point, as always," he remarked with a soft nearly whimsical sigh that turned to a wheeze.
The voice was quiet, a reminder that the person behind it wasn’t actually here in Trench. That old friend had returned to their world and had never returned. He turned the medical device off with press of a button and leaned his head back against the headboard, shifting his weight as if unable to find a comfortable spot to sit in.
Then his chin tipped his head down again. "I know you’re out there."
III. Slow and Steady
Thankfully, the month so far had seemed calm and with little to no effects. He was slow to move around the house, less willing to take up some of his normal activities. He technically was the only adult in the house and that came with certain responsibilities he hadn’t been able to get back into. For one, he tired far too easily, like he was far older than he actually was. Or maybe this was how those of the SEP went out… tired, alone and shuffling around.
He spent much of his time in the house, but sometimes he wanted a chance of scenery. He was ease his way out of the house and seat himself on the ground or on a step. If he was having a particularly good day, he could get himself up to one of the edges of roof and seat himself there, legs dangling.
As soon as he went outside, his Omen, Wraith, would immediately appear. The black peacock would make a show of preening and walking around, shuffling long detailed tail feathers and issuing a low mournful swan song that was not normal for peacocks. Always, the Omen would be on high alert, never staying particularly close to him but clearly on guard to anyone who might know what to look for.
"Careful, his bite is as pathetic as his bark," he rumbled softly to anyone that might stop by to have a look or even appear from the house.
no_reload) & OpenWhat: Post-death recovery & November catch-all
When: Month of November
Where: In & Around Disaster House
I. Squid Games
The remains of his body had fully inked and become crystallized. Then the smoke filled crystals cracked, shattered and broke apart to reveal a palm-sized squid that shook off bits of crystal and remaining ink. The black bloody ink did begin to resorb into the squid which seemed momentarily disoriented.
Then it lifted four tentacles and gave a soft hissing squeak to whomever happened to be close by. Another squeak and wiggling tentacles that clearly meant to be indication for picking up.
While he couldn’t communicate with words, Reaper was small enough and determined enough to be close to anyone. He would attempt to cling to feet or legs, and sometimes that meant the risk of getting under foot.
At other times, he would somehow clamber onto raised parts of furniture whether it was a table leg, couch arm or even a shoe and lift two tentacles to the air and wait for someone to pass by before trying to attach himself for a free ride to leg or hand.
II. Bedrest
Since leaving the squid state, Reaper had had a hell of a time adjusting back to his body. He had mostly confined himself to his bedroom, a place he hardly used as anything other than storage previously. Now he was there most of the time, sequestered to the bed as he didn’t have the available energy yet to perform his usual household activities.
After all, breathing was a laboured effort; that’s probably what was supposed to happen when one’s lungs had been vaporized. He could be found in his bedroom, sitting up to make breathing easier and clad in black track pants and a oversized black hoodie where the hood was constantly pulled up over his head, obscuring his bare and scarred face with shadow. The white of his goatee was the most obvious aspect of him to be seen.
"…death has always provided a reset, but you haven’t invested time to knowing how blood effects your abilities either. That was stupid of you…"
Reaper grunted softly as if replying to the scolding and exasperated Irish female voice that happened to be coming from a small laptop-sized device next to him on his bed. His bare hand with its blackened dead looking fingers reached out and patted the device as if he were trying to pat the Irish voice on the shoulder.
"I have this pain again." His voice was strained, nearly breathless.
"Expected. You died, Reyes. You will cope as you did before," the voice said with a touch of exasperation.
"Analysis on point, as always," he remarked with a soft nearly whimsical sigh that turned to a wheeze.
The voice was quiet, a reminder that the person behind it wasn’t actually here in Trench. That old friend had returned to their world and had never returned. He turned the medical device off with press of a button and leaned his head back against the headboard, shifting his weight as if unable to find a comfortable spot to sit in.
Then his chin tipped his head down again. "I know you’re out there."
III. Slow and Steady
Thankfully, the month so far had seemed calm and with little to no effects. He was slow to move around the house, less willing to take up some of his normal activities. He technically was the only adult in the house and that came with certain responsibilities he hadn’t been able to get back into. For one, he tired far too easily, like he was far older than he actually was. Or maybe this was how those of the SEP went out… tired, alone and shuffling around.
He spent much of his time in the house, but sometimes he wanted a chance of scenery. He was ease his way out of the house and seat himself on the ground or on a step. If he was having a particularly good day, he could get himself up to one of the edges of roof and seat himself there, legs dangling.
As soon as he went outside, his Omen, Wraith, would immediately appear. The black peacock would make a show of preening and walking around, shuffling long detailed tail feathers and issuing a low mournful swan song that was not normal for peacocks. Always, the Omen would be on high alert, never staying particularly close to him but clearly on guard to anyone who might know what to look for.
"Careful, his bite is as pathetic as his bark," he rumbled softly to anyone that might stop by to have a look or even appear from the house.
no subject
It had once been his job, even so. Just like it had once been his job to befriend people quickly, employing this same brazen cheer and just a touch of seduction. He smiled all the more prettily to be called "odd," as if Reaper had paid him a great compliment. "Unique, surely, as I am alone here in Trench, of my kind. And I will enjoy learning what we do and do not hold common, for 'fun.'"
Continuing to feel each other out would be entertainment enough for him. As would teasing out more of what Reaper hid from the public eye.
"A-h-h, then you think his reluctance to kill again--this is no deeply held conviction, only inertia from his upbringing?" It was a familiar story to Illarion. Not one he objected to, in theory; if mere habit could keep mortals from going to war with each other, out of a vague sense it was bad, it would do as well as deeper morality.
Unfortunately, it didn't work that way in practice. At least honest killers and honest soldiers admitted to what they were. The shrike gave a thoughtful nod to his own question. "Yes, that explains more of how he chose to fight your lover. He could not win cleanly and thought he averted greater harm by playing distraction, but it all would have ended if he merely died."
At least, it would have ended that act in what sounded like a long and complicated cycle of revenge. These things never resolved that quickly, not without intervention.
(Don't think about intervening. But how couldn't he?)
no subject
He looked Shrike up and down then made certain to nudge at Wraith the peacock strutting nearby. "And just what are you to be considered so alone? You pay a considerable amount of respect - teasing or otherwise - to Wraith." He had his own guesses, but since they were 'friends', he figured he could ask a direct question and see what happened.
"His mind was addled. Normally he wouldn't dare challenge me so brazenly to combat," he remarked with a flippant turn of his hand. "Lance has been through a considerable amount, but he's not generally so stupid as to jump both feet into a fight." Especially since it was common knowledge that he and Maul were a couple; they were so revenge motivated that it should be obvious taking one of them out would draw the other.
He smirked at the assessment. "So true. If he had died immediately, Maul would have stopped. Like I said, Lance doesn't always use the space between his ears well sometimes." It was also a very obvious trait to fight to stay alive no matter the cost. That was pure instinct.
no subject
There was laughter behind the feigned offense in the question. "Or perhaps yours are merely mammals, or do not exist at all." Which was a real tragedy, said the look on Illarion's face. A whole entire world without elves. (He had learned those were more the norm than not among Sleepers. He still didn't know what to think about it, when humans were nearly a universal constant.) "We are kin to birds--the blood of dragons runs in our veins."
If one got poetic about it, anyway. And then he dropped the act for something more conversational, adding: "Our cousins the sparrows keep the old lines of guard-peacock alive. It has been too long since last I met one."
Thus his greeting to Wraith.
But, ah--he settled back down on the fence with his arms crossed before him once more. There was that; Lance had obviously not been entirely there at the end of the fight, though it was good to know that was not something the man ordinarily did. The information got a thoughtful nod from Illarion; it was all inconclusive evidence for the theory he was building on what morality ordered the young man's world.
The method of its delivery, though, and what it said about Reaper... That was fascinating. Tantalizing, even, as little of it as there was. "You want me to have an accurate picture of him," he observed, at length. "What do you hope he will grow into?" What is he to you?
no subject
Though, he had never read any particular novels where elves were actually related to birds, though it would explain so much about them. He looked to Wraith who was ruffling and settling feathers. "Did you hear that? You're an ancient creature helped along by sparrows."
Wraith offered a regal look, fluffing elegant tail feathers. What a dramatic asshole his Omen was, which... well, that was definitely par for the course. It seemed to him that Wraith was giving Shrike a more appraising look, dropping any malice or suspicion for now.
He could tell that he had Shrike interested and why not? He and Lance had had a complicated and contentious relationship for years. "I expect him to deal with his trauma and overcome it eventually. Or overcome what can. We all bear scars from traumas, big or small. Wouldn't you agree?"