deercountry | o3 . february catchall

[ Jon Sims has been... surviving. He looks gaunt and hollow-eyed, and those sensitive to Corruption or dark forces will be able to sense danger here. He moves with the slow exhaustion of a starving man; he never seems to blink.

Behind his shoulder perches a owl Omen, barely-there, smoke and green glints of Vileblood boiling up whenever it shifts its wings. It has the widest, most uncannily green eyes ever seen. It will not stop staring at you.

Jon, for his part, jumps like a startled cat and regards the list of questions between you with open disgust. ]

Wonderful.

[[ If you'd like Jon to sense your character's secrets, let me know here! If you'd like to inflict traumatic memshare on your character, plot with me and throw info here! Speed dating blurb is here! ]]

Edited 2023-02-15 21:50 (UTC)

[ he doesn't even bother wondering about the owl when it's pretty clear what's holding it together (or not..?), but the way it stares bordering on unsettling manages to be distracting enough that he can't entirely write it off as an oddity to be ignored.

stelmaria settles herself in front of him, putting herself physically between asriel and the others and keeps a careful watch on the weird bird while he pays attention to the man. ]

Blame the Doorway.

[ it's already on his list of grievances. the Omni helpfully provides his blurb, but he otherwise sits there unpleasantly. ~~so like his usual expression.~~ ]

[ Jon makes no move for his Omni, and yet he looks at the man across from him and Knows what it will say. His expression scrunches with fascinated skepticism— and then lingers, because the longer he looks at Asriel, the more mystifying detail he can see.

He has been trying not to do this. The moment has hung silent for too long, and now it's gone stilted and awkward. ]

Quite.

[ His gaze slides to Stelmaria, still puzzled, before he tries hurriedly to get back on track: ]

I suppose they won't let us go until we play along.

Most likely.

[ asriel folds his arms and looks at jon expectantly, but quickly he tires of this because of whatever jon isn't saying but is still reflected in his expression. ]

If you have something on your mind, then out with it. Stelmaria is no threat to you.

[ most people are understandably worried about her — which gives them both satisfaction in a way neither will admit — but asriel is used to having to assuage what he assumes to be the fear that she'll attack if something displeases either of them. ]

[ Embarrassingly for both of them, Jon looks briefly uncomprehending, as though this did not occur to him. ]

No, I— [ But he wants to know; he gets ahead of himself. The faintest prickle of compulsion adds weight to his gaze, building towards an uncanny pressure in the air: ] Your Omen is... different.

[ says man with a malevolent owl hunched over his shoulder like a cartoon vulture ]

[ asriel's brow furrows, and he looks as though he's aware that something isn't right, but he isn't sure what. there isn't an obvious connection between it and jon specifically, despite the strange owl. it seems too obvious, and asriel has a bad habit of dismissing things that seem too on the nose like that out of hand. it's so much easier to assume it's just the pthumerians back at it again. ]

That's because she is more than my Omen; she is my daemon. Every human has one, but in many worlds, they are invisible and internal and simply called the soul. An Omen is only a thin imitation of a daemon; it's the bond that matters, and I haven't yet found an Omen to possess one.

[ that's more than enough of an explanation, surely, but he continues for some reason. it's like expecting to stop at a traffic light and rolling through it instead. ]

We learned an incredible amount just from our experiments. So much that no one had ever tried because people were always too afraid.

[ but could anyone be blamed for not pulling at a thread binding them to their soul? asriel can't relate. ]

It wasn't always pleasant, but I always knew how far we could push it. It turns out I was being incredibly conservative, really, because what I thought was unpleasant back then was nothing like it feels to lose it for real.

[ he's not sure why he says that part because it's not something asriel is sure he would ever share with anyone, to begin with, let alone with a stranger. fortunately, the furious look in his eyes is reserved for the Doorway (for now?) because he's sure that's who's compelled him. ]

In any case, you can't be surprised if the answers you were looking for turn up one day.

[Well.

This ... is unfortunate, isn't it. Qrow doesn't think he ever learned the details, but he does recall, from both major interactions he's had, that this man does not like to be in situations where people talk about themselves in person.

But these are just standard ice breaker type questions, right? As long as they stay away from the kind of stories Jon usually asks for, it should be fine. Maybe? Hopefully. He figures he might as well rip off the bandaid and pick up the first card, ignoring both Jon's profile and his own, at least for now.]

"What are your values in life" ...seriously? That's so corny.

Yes, well. The entire exercise seems to be poorly constructed from a Pthumerian's idea of bonding exercises.

[ And Jon— well. Jon looks cagey and uncomfortable, which is par for the course, but there's a particular miserable hunger and self-denial in the way he sets his jaw. He has Qrow's written Statements; he Knows this even as the rest of Deerington feels to him like a muddled dream. He does not have the full taste and texture of that fear.

It's like an unfinished meal. It is like scenting cornered prey, which is so appallingly predatory a metaphor he can only find it fitting. ]

I don't think we need to indulge the questions.

[ This is when the chair gives him a pop of static— barely-there, not painful— and Jon jumps in pure alarm. ]

[The other man seems notably unwell. Qrow values his own privacy enough not to ask about it, but there is a tinge of sympathy in his own expression. He'd also like to get this over with as soon as possible, even without whatever strain the circumstances are causing here.

...And then Jon jumps in his seat shortly after refusing to answer the question, and Qrow sighs.]

Looks like we do. [He sighs, loudly.] Want me to go first?

[ He should have expected nothing different. As Jon resettles, he Knows it will only continue to worsen the longer he resists. For a moment he looks more cross about this than unsettled by the situation, but Qrow's offer of self-reflection puts him back on-edge. ]

No. No, I— go ahead. Ask me [ he waves a hand to the list, dismissive ] whatever seems least inane. I'm sure they don't care that we go in order.

[Qrow sighs, shuffling through the cards. There's stupid questions about school, about work, about why the leaves turn color, of all things, and then he finally comes to one that doesn't seem terrible.]

If you could spend a day with anyone, who would it be?

[The beauty of this one, as Qrow sees it, is that you can choose to be vulnerable with it if you want, but it's also easy to answer it superficially. Qrow could, for example, answer genuinely about Summer Rose, or he could spout some bullshit about meeting the Grimm Reaper in her prime, and neither would be an untrue answer to the question.]

I— hm.

[ This trips him up immediately. The easy answer would be My boyfriend, but he does that regularly, and thus it doesn't seem in the spirit of the question. There are other, not particularly interesting options: his late grandmother, who raised him; his late parents, who never had much chance to.

In the moment, though, he finds himself being entirely too honest. ]

I've... lost a few friends, recently. Somewhat recently. It was very, um, abrupt. I... I'd like to have more time with them.

[ Sasha James would probably clock him in the head with a fire extinguisher first thing, and he loves her for it. ]

[Ah. His expression gentles a little. Vulnerable it is, apparently.]

Yeah, I get that.

[There are people who didn't make it from Deerington to Trench, who he'd like to see again, if he could. Others he misses for other reasons. Trench is a great place to have time, if nothing else.]

Would you be up for telling me about them?

[ He looks faintly agonized, at this, but doesn't take the chance to back out. Instead Jon inspects the table between them and the provided questions as though they'll hold anything interesting. ]

They were present in the dream. I do remember that, but... [ His fists clench, reflexive frustration. ] I can't quite reach it. It has faded, [ and here he looks up with a wry twist to his voice ] as dreams tend to do.

Tim was a friend before I had many friends to speak of. I, uh... I ruined that rather spectacularly. [ This one clearly hurts. ] I don't think we got on, even in Deerington, but it was... better. The dream was kinder in many respects, which is [ another scathingly wry note ] something of a low bar, given Deerington.

Still. You would have liked him— everyone did. He was terrifyingly charming, when he wanted to be. And he would've taken well to slaying monsters.

And Sasha— [ Here he falters, but something urges him on; maybe it's his nature, now, to revel in the thrill of it. His most vulnerable parts dragged out for display. Autocannibalism, of a sort. ] She was clever. More clever than me, which I wish I'd acknowledged sooner. Were she here, I don't think even the Old Ones would stand much chance.

[He imagines Jon wouldn't be surprised to hear that Qrow felt the same way, about the dream. It was a second chance for a lot of people, and for those of them from Remnant, it was their only chance to live in something like peace. Ironic, given the dangers they'd faced there, but like Trench, it's a gentler place than the world they came from.

A shame that he couldn't have reconciled with this man Tim, though. Qrow gets that, too; one of his main regrets, going into Trench, is that he and Raven never really made peace before the dream crumbled.]

I don't think I ever ran into them, in the dream. The only guy I met from your world was Gerry. I dunno if you remember him? He had similar powers as you, though he said his connection to the....Eye? I think it was the Eye -- his connection was weaker, so he wouldn't be as good at uh, knowing things.

[His expression goes a little soft and sad, then, as he thinks on the young man.]

When the dream crumbled, I thought he wouldn't be able to make it here with us because he was a ghost, already dead -- but dead people wash up here all the time. So he just -- didn't make it because he was unlucky.

[It's a shame. Gerry seemed like he'd been happy, in the dream. He deserved to build a real life for himself somewhere -- a full life, that wasn't destined to crumble. Without being a ghost.]

[ It's spelled across Jon's face, clear as day: a startled and open hope, as he remembers. He'd had impressions and glimpses, dream-fogged and incomplete, but now he can taste the moments like secondhand Statements. Roasted marshmallows, grave dirt, blood and vitreous jelly. Gerry's wiry arm under his shoulder to keep him upright. Gerry squared up against their enemies, bloodstained and trembling, out under a fat red moon.

He'd forgotten. ]

I... I remember him. [ He says it slowly, as though testing it to be true. ] He, uh...

[ Jon hadn't realized until this very moment, how much he'd like that. It's another fresh absence crowded in among the others, a fresh revelation of loss. No wonder he can find it within himself, framed like that. ]

Yeah. [ He collects himself, transparently and not particularly well. ] He always was.

Tell me about it.

[At least this is a friend. At least it's a friend who hopefully won't look at his profile. Shiro looks like someone just dragged him out of bed. All sleep-rumpled. Wearing a robe over his pajama pants.]

[He wasn't even allowed a chance for coffee.]

Hey, at least we know each other already.

[ It would be very embarrassing for Jon to look at his profile. He has no intention of doing so; the results are sure to be something he'd never wished to see, and something which Shiro would not want revealed.

So, obviously, the knowledge beams itself into his head unasked. Jon makes a faint choked noise, his expression briefly faraway and scandalized. It's not that he can see the words SPACE HO or the phrase premium space beef, exactly, more that he Knows what these would look like.

A beat too late: ]

Right. Yes. Perhaps you should... should ask me a question.

You okay...?

[That counts as a question, right? But he is sort of concerned. The choked noise, and the look on his face. More than enough to make someone like Shiro worried about it. And, you know, it is Jon.]

But yeah, we can just do small talk questions, if you want. Probably easiest that way.

Yes, sorry. [ He hurries them on entirely too fast. ] Just a bit— well, it's a ridiculous situation.

[ His tone of offense sounds even flimsier now than usual. But he seizes on the opportunity: ]

Best that we play by whatever rules are being pressed upon us today. Please, you go first.

Edited (icons why) 2023-02-23 02:55 (UTC)

Yeah, it sure is. [It's absolutely a ridiculous situation.] Welcome to Trench. Everything's a little ridiculous.

[He's still worried, though. Since this is Jon - it's literally impossible for Shiro not to.]

Sure... [A beat.] What are your feelings on Bigfoot?

[SHIRO NO.]

[ Usually, his time in Deerington comes to him only as half-remembered glimpses, hazy as any dream. Sometimes, though, he will be spurred to memory by a sufficiently sharp bolt of emotion.

The Archivist blinks. It again makes him look like a startled cat. ]

[ Clear on his face, in real time, is the moment he decides that an apocalypse or two is not sufficient to dislodge some firmly-held beliefs. ]

Cryptozoology is a field granted shockingly little merit, given the existence of actual monsters. I can imagine [ he can half-recall ] any number of frightening experiences in the woods with something not quite human... and yet I find it difficult to believe that such a thing is roaming the American Northwest as a benign feature of the landscape, appearing only long enough to pose for blurry photographs.

[ IN CONCLUSION: ] Bigfoot lowers the credibility of an entire field of academia.

[Shiro... manages to hold a straight face.]

[He manages to keep a steady expression. To not immediately let himself start wheezing, or anything like that.]

[... for all of ten seconds.]

[Then his head has sunk down to the tabletop. His arms have curled around it. He's making some ungodly noise that probably qualifies as muffled laughter. If he looks up, if he sees the look on his friend's face, then he's going to start howling.]

I... I'm sorry - I had to...

[ It's for the best, because Jon's look of put-upon indignation is everything one might expect. ]

Yes, well. If... combat astronauts [ that's what Shiro is?? he thinks?? ] are plagued by any particularly silly urban legends, we'll have to spend some time bemoaning those. It's only fair.

I... I don't think - there's many?

[If any. He really can't think of them. And is wheezing now. But desperately trying to pull himself together.]

S-sorry. Sorry. I just - I couldn't help it. I mean - everything you've told me about. Everything that happened in Deerington and... you don't believe in Bigfoot.

[ It's good to see Shiro unwind for a moment, genuinely. He is at once charmed and so utterly long-suffering. Inside the Archivist are two wolves.

Well, three wolves; even now, he's incapable of letting a subject go. ]

I didn't say I don't believe in Bigfoot. I feel that Bigfoot is an absurd misrepresentation of the concretely real horrors in those woods.

Okay... okay.

[He's calming down now. Covering his face with one hand while he does his best to get the laughter choked back.]

What if I said I met it once?

[ Jon's expression pinches with the intense focus of trying to comprehend something he swears he was told: ]

I thought that was the mothman.

[ No one has ever sounded so unimpressed. ]

Both.

It was both.

[Shiro's deadpan skills remain flawless.]

And then mothman showed up here. To dance on the lamp outside my house.

[... he's not actually joking, there.]

[ Naturally. With a sigh: ]

That one does sound about as I'd expect. Anything I regard as realistic and believable, you can assume this place will provide the opposite.

Would it help, or make it worse, if I said it had its own version of the YMCA song?

[Shiro it would make it worse. It makes everything worse.]

[ Jon drops his face to his hands.

After a moment, and quite unnecessarily: ] Worse.

[Frankly, Shiro is biting his lip to keep the laughter from bubbling out again. He reaches over, patting the air near Jon's arm - like he would consolingly clasp someone on the shoulder. There there.]

I'll spare you the video we recorded then.

[ Jon lets out a long-suffering sigh. Behind him, at his other shoulder, his owl Omen dissipates to smoke. There is a distant sense of a weight lifted, a danger easing off.

When he drops his hands, it's with dry amusement in his eyes, undercutting his effort at put-upon disapproval. ]

I'll consider that an act of mercy.

Mercy is my middle name.

Depending on who you ask.

[Shiro lets that grin slip through - the lopsided, youthful one that makes him actually look his age for once.]

It's not the best place to be, but - I really am glad you're back.

Thank you. I... I know Trench isn't anyone's ideal, but I'm glad to be here.

[ What became of him back home-- well. To be here and human, capable of smiling awkwardly over a magically malevolent speed-dating table, is certainly worlds better than the alternative.

Even if there's a part of him, the kind that coils hungrily in his dreams, that aches for what it had and lost.

The chair doesn't jolt him for it, and that will have to be enough. ]

Even if someone's here to tease you about cryptids?

[He doesn't know about Jon's world, not about the entirety of it. About his friend's fate. Maybe it's better Shiro doesn't. He'd just worry more than he already does.]

[So here he is, teasing, instead.]

[ There's a bit of him that aches about that, in the same uncanny, hungry way: that he has a secret too awful to bear. That Shiro wouldn't smile at him the same way if he knew. It would be so easy for him to learn— this peace might hang on a knife's edge.

But it doesn't cut that deeply, today. Shiro has seen far too much of the Archivist's story already, and still, here he is. ]

Even then.

[Once again, he reaches across the table. Resting his hand in the space between them. In lieu of clasping Jon on the shoulder.]

[The bromantic gesture of it all.]

Then I guess you're stuck with me again.

[Fiddleford studiously ignores the staring owl. Why is it always things with glowing eyes staring at him? It grabs the base of his brainstem and twists in a way where he doesn't know why, but he knows he hates it.

So. As far as he's concerned the owl's not there, because that's easiest. He has other reasons to be annoyed, anyway.]

This, again? I'm tellin' you, if what these overgrown metaphors want is for us to make friends, it'd be easier if they stopped trappin' us places together. It's like tossin' two wet cats in a sack and expectin' them to get along.

[He loves making friends! He loves being around people! He just likes to do it on purpose, for god's sake. He doesn't need a stupid blurb for it, either.

It doesn't help that he has no idea how he got here, and he doesn't like losing time. Or rather, he doesn't like losing time which he cannot account for. Usually if he erases a big stretch he leaves himself a note, or a warning, or something. He knows the simplest explanation is 'Trench bullshit', but it's got him just a little on edge.]

[ Jon is really trying to ignore the blurbs. They are gauche bordering on nonsensical, and plainly constructed of embarrassing tidbits their victims wouldn't want anyone to know.

For this reason, he Knows immediately what Fiddleford's would look like. ]

I, ah...

[ He has gone from plain human bewilderment to a more uncannily still and silent fascination, brow furrowed at Fiddleford as though he can unpick some secret here. There is an awkward beat of staring before Jon catches back up to the conversation: ]

Right. Yes, it's more of the same, really.

[ This is going to be a disaster. ]

I'll say this, at least it's clear what we're supposed to be doin' this time.

[He gestures to the list of questions between them.]

Better than just bein' dropped in a hole and expected to figure it out.

[Not that it makes it any less stupid, but he at least appreciates some amount of straightforwardness. Who knows how many questions he'll have to answer to satisfy the requirements of whatever this nonsense is; at least he has somewhere concrete to start.]

Go on. Ask me somethin'.

[ There are a dozen things Jon would like to ask him, absolutely none of them appropriate: he can see the edges of stories, fire and blank static and staring eyes. He is silent for another moment too long, fists clenched on his knees. This is very normal speed date behavior. ]

Please, you go first.

[Oh, definitely very normal. Both of them are very normal men, doing very normal things, in a normal situation.

He glances over the list of questions. He knows that it doesn't matter if he picks one that seems innocent. The way this place works, in about fifteen minutes they'll be telling each other deeply personal secrets whether they mean to or not. He's come to expect it, even if he doesn't like it. But. Since it doesn't matter, he picks a question at random.]

What do you -- [Oh no he made a bad choice but now he's committed.] What do you think makes leaves change color?

[This is a dumb question for this sort of situation. There's one correct answer.]

[ This is, somehow, the best possible question: it's the only one that could startle Jon out of his hunger. He's immediately too busy looking incredulous. ]

... What do I think makes the leaves change color. [ He hasn't sounded this scathing in a while. ] Probably the loss of chlorophyll. What do they expect us to say, that the leaves start feeling less green?

o3 . february catchall

speed dating!

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