Project W Subject 013 ("Albert Wesker") (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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deercountry2021-11-07 11:10 am
subject_013) wrote in deercountry2021-11-07 11:10 am
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.))
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.))
no subject
no subject
Whereas others were scoffing a little at the barter system in place, Ariadne actually liked it. Money was a terribly useless things. Bartering created relationships. Partnerships.
And those? Those made a society become a society.
"And I'd like to see your library too. I don't get enough time to read, but I enjoy it." Also, she was remarkably proud of her own literacy.
no subject
He may hold out one gloved hand to her. "There's been partnerships sealed with a handshake where I come from. May we do the same?"
It would be a first for him, creating a business, rather than working for another organization, not a first for having a partner, but this time one who might be good for him.
"I'd be willing to open my door to you. Any time that the lights are on in Arklay House, the door is open," he says
no subject
Even Ariadne's own parents had been as different as could be imagined. But they'd maintained quite a lot, under their watch.
Ariadne hesitated only slightly when he held out his hand. It was, probably, a little too soon after meeting someone to explain what it meant when Alastrians touched hands. Since arriving in Deerington, she'd only allowed three people to touch her hand, and with two of them, she'd been wearing gloves.
So she did as she always did with humanoids and reached out to clasp his wrist instead. "I only hope I can help," she said, bowing her head.
no subject
And if the player might peek around the character's broad, leather clad shoulder for a moment: explaining what it means when Alastrians touch hands wouldn't phase him much. Given what some pathogens and parasites have done to some humans in his world of origin, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd heard of.
"I hope that we can assist each other and that we can benefit the Sleepers and others in this world," he says, clasping her wrist. His touch is cool through his glove, but his grip is firm. "Dare I ask... handshakes aren't a custom in your world?"
no subject
Although, she supposed, it seemed appropriate to be honest, in one respect.
"I...hope it's not trouble for you that I'm not Human," she said, her hand slipping away. Instinct, in case she had to run.
Strangely, she had a feeling he wouldn't mind so much. He was, after all, rather comfortable with his talking weasel.
no subject
A smirk might cross his handsome face. "It's no trouble at all. Rather, it has been some years since I was human myself." He reaches up and taking his glasses by their hinges, he lowers them from his face, revealing reddish-gold eyes with slit-like pupils, more gold than red when he's in this mood.
no subject
She tilted her head as the glasses came down, expecting something...what? Something horrible? Fascinating? Self-explanatory?
But his eyes were none of those things. True, red eyes were rare among Humans. But not completely impossible. Although...looking at them now, they looked more gold than anything else. The color was kind of swirling and bright, like a sunrise or a sunset.
Definitely not horrible, anyway.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," she admitted. "Isn't Human something you're born into?"
no subject
"It is, but in my world of origin, under some very specific situations, a human may at times become something more than human. That is what befell me. I was exposed to a plague caused by strange alchemy involving a rare flower. But rather than killing me, it transformed me, made me stronger and fleeter of foot than a typical human, gave me the ability to heal from almost any injury," he says, replacing his glasses.
"You aren't frightened. Most people are." He notes this with a curiosity of his own.
no subject
That was her theory, anyway. But she figured she ought to put it to the test, considering the trust he'd just shown her.
So she did.
Her form rippled a little. Like an image on the surface of a pond that had just been disrupted by stones. The colors of her body--pink and brown and red--swirled, transformed. And when the ripple of energy was gone, Ariadne was there, just as she had been a moment earlier. Only...different. Skin the green of an underside of a maple leaf, hair blue as candy floss, lips lavender and bright. Still Ariadne. Just more Ariadne than before.
"Are you frightened by me?" she asked.
no subject
The green skin reminds him a bit of Alexia Ashford in her transformed state, but only just. This one certainly isn't trying to attack him. "My... you're birdlike in your colors," he notes, pleased. "A glamour, if I'm not mistaken? Magic... isn't 'a thing' in my world of origin, though something like alchemy certainly is. I'm learning what I can since I arrived here." So many theories slip into his mind, but he pushes them aside. This one interests him, but certainly not as a member of a species new to him. "You're marvelous." It slips out, with a hint of awe and fondness, before he can hold back the words.
no subject
But marvelous?
She didn't know how to respond to that. But lucky, there was enough for her to backtrack. "It's not magic," she told him, absently pulling her hair over her shoulder, palms spread protectively across it. "Sometimes, Humans call it a 'chemical camouflage.' They say that my people used to be lizards."
Truthfully, Ariadne didn't know how to feel about that. She understood the very, very basics of evolution. Enough not to feel insulted. But at the same time, she had difficulty imagining an island filled with lizards who suddenly decided it would be fun to start talking and worshipping the gods.
no subject
He says this with the sense of wonder and awe of someone who's spent their life studying the world around them. But there's also a hint that he can't help an interest in her.
Before things turn too awkward, Cypher bounds back into view. 'Oy! Boss! found a 'uge truffle under a 'uge hoak tree!.' Cypher looks from one humanoid to the other, then settling on Ariadne, looking her up and down. 'Ye changed yer look.'
no subject
It was easy enough to know what to do.
A second wave washed over her, and when it was gone, she was back to her Human appearance from before. Pink skin, brown hair, raspberry lips. And a certain relaxation in her posture that just wasn't possible when she was wearing her own skin.
She'd been taught to hate it. Simple as that.
"Just momentarily, Sir Weasel," she said, giving him a dimpled smile.
no subject
He glances away, then looks back to Ariadne. "Since my Omen has found a bounty, shall we go to collect it? I'd be happy to split it with you."
'Am I bargin' in on something?' Cypher asks, looking from one humanoid to the other.
no subject
A lifetime of conditioning by her mother, no doubt, was the root cause.
She gave him a smile. "That's very kind of you, doctor. I would appreciate that very much."
no subject
'As you wish,' Cypher says with a little bow. He might look to Ariadne quizzically, though his tail wiggles happily before he bounds off a little ways, pausing to give them a chance to catch up.