deercountry | [Session 2] 'You wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?'

Entry tags:

[Session 2] 'You wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?'

Who: Albert Wesker and... You.
What: November Catch-All.
When: Early November
Where: The courtyard garden of Arklay House, Lumenwood; the Farmlands beyond Trench; other locations listed in prompts

Content Warnings: Event-typical weirdness, vivisection in one Sleeper Farm prompt.

[Mushabooming - OTA] Through November till the 21st

Winter is clearly on the way, as evidenced by the dropping temperatures, and the streaks of white starting to show in Cypher the Weasel Omen's fur. Given the peri-industrial nature of this place, he doesn't doubt food will be scarce over the winter, something that, with his high metabolism, concerns him.

But the local ecology, or their Pthumerian hosts, or some combination of the two, seems to smile on them and blessed the town with a sudden fruction of mushrooms of all kinds all over the town. He's found a few baskets and when work at the Lumenarium doesn't keep him busy, he's scouring the city collecting mushrooms and putting them up to dry on the porch of Arklay House or strung on long strings in the courtyard garden. Cypher often darts ahead through the streets or along the roadside in the farmland, sniffing out likely specimens.

An embarrassing encounter with a Walking Terror that transformed the surrounding forest into a nightmare of walking trees and moving boulders, as well as his own brief work with the Mold in his world of origins, has him "borrowing" Locrian's balaclava and beaked mask over a sturdier, rougher version of his usual black suits. The Floaters he encounters during a late evening search amuse him more than they have any right to: He's taken to walking right into them and letting them grab his arm before thwapping them into the nearest hard surface and removing the cap.

The Blue Cheeks impress him. Poison isn't his usual method, but the Hunters in Prufrock may well appreciate them, thus he turns up there with jars of the jam for their consideration. And Locrian can always use a jar or two to treat his blades.

Cypher darts ahead through the bracken, pausing to sniff the air and emit a chirp of excitement. "I've got one!" He pounces on a spot and proceeds to dig. His "boss" approaches, face hidden behind a crow-like mask, and takes a knee beside the Omen.

"Allow me, Cypher?" He takes a trowel from inside his coat, kneeling to dig at the spot where the weasel started digging.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Magic Lessons - Closed to Samatoki] Early November

Wesker readily admitted to harboring an open-minded skepticism toward the magickal and supernatural. However, to assure his survival in this place, he'll need to expand his skill set. Thus, when the Black Parade disperses and the weather started to cool, he has a sense that the coming months will try him even more.

He'd crossed paths with a particular gruff youngster, in Never Mind's realm within this realm. Given the confidences they'd exchanged, he can't help feeling a commonality between them. Also, the other's patience in his open transmission gave him some confidence that this one could make an excellent tutor in these things.

And so he drops a line to Samatoki, early in November. "Shall we start the lessons in magic which we discussed last month? There's a Lamp behind my house in Lumenwood. My evenings have been free as of lately, to which he adds the coordinates.

When Samatoki arrives, perhaps some evening, he'll find the fire pit in the courtyard garden lit, the blaze feeding off some bundles of trash and leaves which the master of the house has gathered up. An incense burner hanging from a bare tree branch sends up a spicy-scented cloud of smoke over a heavy work-bench table on which Wesker has laid out the cards of an odd-looking nature-inspired oracle deck, which he pores over while Cypher perches on his shoulder.

"If yer tryin' ter be a wizard, does that make me a familiar?" the weasel asks.

Wesker looks up from the deck, nodding to Samatoki and rising from his bench. "We're about to find out the answer that question. Greetings, Samatoki."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Sleeper Farm - OTA]

I - November 21st - The Stalls

The past few days, he'd been catching himself dozing off at random times, and having to shake himself awake. It comes as an especial nuisance at the Lumenarium. On his way in and out, he spots strange, twisted figures out of the corners of his eyes, as if they watch his every movement.

And then one night, as he walks through Cellar Door after calling on a professional donor, a rather fetching red-haired Nightwalker who serves as a self-described Blood Courtesan whom he crossed paths with during the Black Parade, one night as he's warm with fresh blood and her company, a hook on the end of a chain catches him through the shoulder and hauls him off his feet. He has just enough time to scream when the sound catches in his throat...

...He awakens, shackled to the bars of a stall, laying on the greasy floor, stripped to his shirtsleeves, barefoot. He growls and tugs on the chain, expecting it to snap like a single strand of embroidery floss.

"Huh?" he rasps and tugs again on them. No effect, other than rattling the chains. "Who are they and what have they done to me this time?" He braces his feet as best as he can on the greasy floor as best as he can and yanks the shackles as hard as he can.

"Damn."

II - November 27th - Blood Harvest

Beyond the door with the Vileblood stone, among the tables bearing the vivisected subjects stands lays a tall male figure, limbs strapped down securely, intravenous lines taped into his neck, his torso cut open in the archetypal Y-incision, his rib cage removed, leaving his viscerae exposed like an anatomical mannequin. A living one, his beating heart, his inflating and deflating lungs visible. A haze of Vileblood scent hangs in the air above his supine body.

A tube connected to a vein in his leg links to a slowly filling transfusion jar. He lays quietly outside of the meaty sounds of his organs. Then he manages a low wheezy chuckle before speaking in a low, rasping voice.

"The scientist becomes the experiment. The one crafted to be a god becomes the sacrifice." He says this almost if he mused or meditated out loud.

Wildcard

((Lyrics nicked from "Running Up that Hill" by Placebo - Got an idea for another prompt? Throw it on here or tap me on ye plotting thread.))

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There was something rather soothing about going out to collect mushrooms. On the rare occasions when she had a bit of time to spare, Ariadne would often go out with the palace healers in Valeria, collecting herbs and flowers and remedies. Generally, these outings were accompanied by pigs, digging for truffles. As a girl, Ariadne would get somewhat competitive with the pigs, trying to outshine them.

Possibly in her mad desperation to prove her worth.

Older now, and more comfortable in her skin, Ariadne still found a shivering thrill when she knelt down in the underbrush and managed to find one.

Alastrians didn't need pigs to sniff out treasure, thank you very much.

She dropped the third she'd found into a basket, when a noise and unfamiliar scent caught her attention. Sitting up straight, she turned over her shoulder, catching sight of an omen running straight after her, followed by a stranger in a long coat and mask.

Well, that wasn't at all foreboding.

Ariadne remained still as a statue. Except for her fingers. She flexed them straight. The last thing she wanted to do was fight, but she was always ready. And when you couldn't see a person's face, you had to be ready.

The Omen skids to a stop a few feet away from Ariadne, looking up at her, whiskers wiggling. "'Untin' mushromps, too?" the creature asks, paws clasped before itself.

The Oeman's Sleeper pauses a few paces away, basket on arm, reaching up to adjust their mask, almost as if they're facepalming without actually doing so, and letting out a muffled sigh. "I apologize for my Omen's familiarity. They do this with everyone. Especially young people," the tall Sleeper says, bowing their head, their throaty baritone voice only slightly muffled by the mask.

The tension eased out of her muscles. People who were coming after you rarely took the time to apologize first, especially for the behavior of a weasel.

Another Sleeper.

While that didn't automatically make him a friend, as far as Ariadne was concerned, it just made him a potential friend. Then again, pretty much everyone Ariadne met ultimately fell into that particular category.

"I don't mind," she said, smiling a little at the weasel with his way-too-cute whiskers. "Although I'm not sure I qualify as terribly young." She was twenty, after all.

The weasel sniffs about Ariadne's feet. "Beggin' yer pardon, Miss, but yer standin' on a truffle. Mind steppin' aside to yer right, so I can dig it up?"

The tall Sleeper glances down at the Omen, shaking their head slightly, slowly. "I suppose age is relative, particularly in this place where we are all reborn as cephalopods, to say nothing of the fact that some of us are immortal in our respective worlds of origin," they note. He glances about them. "You've not seen any of those terrible walking fungi in the vicinity, have you? This mask, while useful, is a little close and I probably sound as though I'm talking through a bucket."

Ariadne quickly lifted her foot, taking a step to the right for the Omen. A good truffle was nothing to waste. And he had asked politely.

Unlike those pigs back home.

She'd never really understood why the Elves kept pigs. They were vegetarian, and pigs didn't provide a lot of services, other than disposing of waste and occasionally finding truffles. Really, they were quite rude animals, otherwise.

Shaking her head a little, she glanced back up at the Sleeper. "No, I haven't," she said. "In fact, I've kind of been avoiding them. I think it's perfectly safe for you to remove your bucket, sir."

"Thank ye, Miss," the Omen says and sets to digging, quite happily.

"Small mercies and all that," the tall Sleeper says, trying to keep an amused lilt out of an otherwise elegant deadpan. Reaching behind their head, they unfasten the straps on the mask, before removing it and pulling down the balaclava-style hood underneath. He uncovers his face, a handsome one in a cool, patrician way, though a bit unkempt, given the red mark across the bridge of his nose and the state of his hair which he pushes back from his brow. Tucking the mask inside his coat, he takes a pair of glasses with blue tinted lenses and slipping them on, though she may glimpse his reddish gold, feline eyes.

"I'd been wearing that mask to avoid a repeat performance where the forest turns to a burned out hellscape. At least there's an antidote, however, I'd rather not need to use my sample as it can be hard to find.

"But I'm being rude, rattling on like this without introducing myself." He bows his head slightly. "Dr. Adrian Winters, at your service. The weasel who greeted you is Cypher."

The planes of his face immediately put her in the mindset of the noble Elves in the court of Princess Amanda. Not the ones that she chose to surround herself with, but the ones who had been there for generations. Old money. Old titles. Old bloodlines.

Albeit a little more practical than some of the dukes and earls she'd known, since he deigned to wear some form of protection.

On instinct, she dipped into a curtsy, even though she was wearing her leathers, not a gown. The grace was the same, either. "Ariadne of Valeria," she said. "Although no one calls me that. Just 'Airy' is fine."

Before it could be called an afterthought--although it kind of was--she turned to give Cypher a little bow as well. "Sir Weasel."

She's close in seeing him as an Elf: he'd once compared himself to their kind, in a faery tale retelling of his life. Her curtsey satisfies his ego more than it should. But he refocuses, bowing his head to her. "No need for formalities here. We are both Sleepers, after all," he says. "And since we are on first name basis already, Airy, you may call me Adrian."

The weasel looks up with a smudge of dirt on their snoot, paws still digging. "Oy, does that make me a knight?" Their master chuckles affectionately.

"It's been a long time since I've seen a knight," she told the Omen, the fondness unmistakable in her tone. There were many, many things she missed about Valeria. And while formality wasn't one of them, she had to admit, she often found herself feeling a bit sentimental when it came to remembering the paladins.

Even when she'd been nothing, there had always been a gentleman or two, willing to lay down their cloak for her.

At least, when she was in a ballgown, wearing borrowed jewels.

She turned back to the stranger--well, Adrian now--and gave him a polite smile. "A pleasure to meet you," she said. "I'm sorry to hear you've had an unpleasant encounter with some of the local mushrooms. I've been trying to stick to the ones I recognize from home, as much as possible."

Edited 2021-11-16 16:52 (UTC)

'Does that mean I gets a suit of armor?' the critter asks "the boss'.

"Perhaps for Christmas or what festival the locals celebrate on the shortest day," their Sleeper says, indulgently.

Adrian shrugs, gracefully, tilting his head slightly. "It was a learning experience. Once I found the antidote, the worst I felt was a mild loss of dignity. If you've seen those delicate mushrooms which resemble large dewdrops with stems, collect a few in case you need them. Or keep an eye for them as you're collecting other mushrooms," he says. "They're perfect for dealing with an attack of the walking terrors, and I suspect similar ailments.

"So... dare I ask if you are new to this new world, or if you were one of those summoned into Sodder's Nightmare?"

She had seen those dewdrops. And given them wide berth. But she nodded at his advice, having no reason not to trust him. She would collect them now that she knew they were safe, useful even.

"I was in Deerington," she said, picking up her basket and draping it over her arm. "For...about a year, I think." She didn't think, she knew. But she'd found that precise numbers sometimes threw people off. "I worked at the flower shop, Ring Around the Roses." A name which had never made much sense to her.

Then again, there were plenty of things that made no sense in Deerington. That was, perhaps, the least offensive.

"What about you?" she asked.

Adrian also shifts his basket, sauntering to the shelf fungus on a nearby tree trunk, prying one off with a knife before examining it.

"I fully arrived in the September before the dream ended, and dwelled there til the end," he replies. "Though... I briefly found myself beside an August bonfire. Something happened to me to knock me from my world of origin and I was probably fading in and out of consciousness. Nine months to your year. You're an elder Sleeper compared to me," he notes, almost playfully.

"Your shop name sounds familiar. I believe I passed by it on my perambulations about the town, when I wasn't busy working at F.E.A.R."

Cypher pops up with a truffle in his paws, holding it up to Ariadne. 'For mileye-dy?"

"Only fitting you should have it since you were standing over it," the Omen's "boss" says, indulgently.

Ariadne knelt down in front of Cypher, holding her hands out, cupped together. "I thank you, Sir Weasel, although you should probably know that I'm not a lady. I'm not any kind of a lady." She could pretend to be one, yes. But there was really no need for that here. She'd declared her green skin, it felt a trifle foolish to fall back on dishonesty at this point.

Although she'd been very good at it. At pretending.

Her gray eyes cut back up to Adrian. "You worked for F.E.A.R.? I almost thought about joining up but..." She shrugged. "I didn't think I could do much good."

"Ach, y' ask me, every girl's a lady in 'er own way," Cypher says, placing the truffle in her palms before scampering back to his boss and climbing up the back of his coat to perch on the man's neck, draping himself around it like a fur collar.

"Cypher, for one so small, you are a gallant and a gentleman," Adrian replies, indulgently, and takes a sniff at the mushroom before dropping it into his basket.

"I worked there as in the laboratory, analyzing the samples which the survey teams brought in from the woods or from whatever strange creatures or plants turned up. It was somewhat of a trade: my life depended on a potion which they helped me to blend, and I lent them my service. They were always looking for new people with different perspectives, though I suppose that's moot now that we're past Sodder's Dream into this brave new world. I take it... you're a botanist?"

She was beginning to really like Cypher.

Unfortunately for his owner, any time the word 'laboratory' came up, Ariadne started to get confused. It wasn't that laboratories and science didn't exist where she came from. It was just the fact that the Elves didn't really believe in it. Science was a Human invention and a Human necessity. The Elves much preferred magic, and since she'd grown up with them, she'd learned their ways.

Well, their ways as much as possible. Given the fact that she had no actual magic of her own.

'Potion,' on the other hand, was a word she knew quite well.

"I'm not sure I would call myself anything so formal," she admitted. "I grew up in a rainforest. I understand plants. They just make sense." Far moreso than people, most of the time. "I'm curating a garden in the Willful Machine. For everyone to enjoy. I have my orchard from Deerington there. And I'm hoping to grow useful herbs and spices, if the soil will allow it."

Cypher, meanwhile, watches Ariadne, bright eyes curious and delighted. He can't help wondering if this young lady might be good for his master.

"Close enough: there's often more to be learned in the field than in any amount of books, though they help in their place. And from the sound of it, you have your share of experience," Adrian says, over his shoulder as he collects more shelf fungus. "I'm more adept at studying and finding cures for infectious illnesses, though I've learned my share of plants which can treat the symptoms, if not outright cure them. Though in my world of origin, there was a species of green herbs that could heal quickly if applied properly.

"A garden would certainly help this place and the people within it, particularly a sensory garden: soothing the mind goes a way to helping the body to heal. I hope this chilly weather isn't holding back your plans too much?"

Her eyes brightened in admiration. "You're a healer?"

At least, that's what it sounded like. Ariadne had a great deal of respect for healers. They could literally grant life, under the right circumstances. They could find it in the dust and the dirt. There had been a moment or two, in her childhood, when she considered becoming one. The problem was that a healer had to know when to give up.

Ariadne wasn't good at that part.

Anyway, she served the resistance better with the skills she did possess.

"In so many words? Yes, though as this world's version - a Blood Minister - I'm still a journeyman," Adrian replies, pausing and looking at her.

"Except yer bedside manner needs work, or so sez yer boss," Cypher twits.

"My Proctor, and we both know I'm too accustomed to examining samples and testing potential treatments," Adrian replies. To Ariadne, he adds, "You're intrigued? Have you considered work as a healer yourself?"

"At one point," she said, ducking her head. "But life took me in another direction. I guess the one I was supposed to take." She smiled at him, genuinely free of regrets. "Anyway, I was never all that fond of delivering bad news."

Which wasn't to say she hadn't done it.

But that was different.

"I was apprenticed to the court translator of Princess Amanda Harkin," she continued. "And it was work that suited my talents."

"That's the worst part, having to inform the loved ones of a client that the prognosis isn't as they'd hoped. Finding the proper phrasing, the right words to ease them into the hard news doesn't come easy to me, though I suppose it isn't meant to be easy," he notes. "But on the other hand. there's the satisfaction of treating someone's illness or injury and putting them well onto the path of recovery. So long as they follow the treatment course their condition requires."

"Don't be 'arsh on 'em, boss," Cypher twits.

Adrian tweaks the black tip of the weasel's tail. "Now, now, we both know some clients require a firmer hand than others," he says, indulgently.

"A translator? Mmm, that's deft work, but I can see that in you. But then, like so many of us, you slipped into Sodder's Dream and found a new role?"

Ariadne looked down at herself, wondering how he saw it in her. Was there something about her that gave it away? If she were greener, perhaps. And if he knew of Alastrians. But, of course, no one here did. Aside from the few friends of hers that wanted to know.

At last, she had to give up guessing. Whatever it was, she didn’t know.

“Well, there’s no need for translating here. We all understand each other. So, yes. I’m trying something new with my orchard.”

"Part of surviving in this place involves adapting, and it sounds as though you've adapted well," he notes, taking more mushrooms and adding them to his basket, before moving to another branch of the same tree. "An orchard? Something you found here?"

Cypher lifts his head, sniffing the air. "More truffles under that oak down th' path. Mind if I go diggin' and let you two have some space t' chat? Unless the lady prefers 'avin' me by t' keep sharp eyes on ye both?"

It was hard not to laugh a little bit. Cypher was apparently taking his role as paladin very seriously. But now that the mask was gone, Ariadne hardly felt threatened by the doctor. "Those truffles are valuable," she said. "You needn't stay on my account, Sir Weasel."

Not that it was up to her. But he had asked.

To Adrian, she replied, "It's actually my orchard from Deerington. I don't know how, but it's here now. The same as my apartment. And despite the poor soil, it seems to be surviving as always. I want to turn it into a public garden. Just a place anyone can go if they feel like they need to be in nature for a little while."

"As Milady Ariadne wishes," Cypher says, standing up on his master's shoulder and bowing to her. He clambers down the back of his Sleeper's coat before hopping off and bounding away through the leaf mould.

"He likes you: it's obvious, but I'd say he likes you a lot," Adrian notes, smirking in the weasel's general direction. He can't help but be charmed about the situation, or by the young lady whose presence sparked it.

He raises an eyebrow, curious. "Ahh, so our Pthumerian hosts blessed you with a memory made physical? I've had a similar blessing: the house I'd dwelled in appeared here, along with the library of books on the paranormal and magic I'd collected," he says. "A public garden would be a boon to this place: the cases of Corruption I've seen tell me that the Sleepers and the natives alike need all they can to heal them and bring them balance."

He steps back from the tree, leaving plenty of fungus to spore and respawn on the nearby branches. "Shall we find another spot to harvest?"

He had his own library? Ariadne needed to get to know this gentleman further. She was no expert in magic, nor would she ever be. But she did love learning new things. And books were the second-best way to learn anything.

The first, of course, being stories.

She nodded, slinging the basket around her elbow and gesturing for him to lead the way.

"I really believe in the healing power of plants," she said. "Not just herbal remedies and cures. But just by being there. Being beautiful. Beautiful things can make sad people happy, and bad people good. When you think about it, beautiful things can change the universe." She lowered her eyes, her lashes dark against her cheeks. "At least, that's the way I see it."

Mushabooming

Re: Mushabooming

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject