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

[subject_013]

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.

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[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."

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[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.))

Comments

Mushabooming

[demonicbeauty]

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.

magic lessons.

[deathrespect]

"Hey, man. What's up?" his greeting is casual as ever, though he feels some degree of anticipation at the lessons ahead. Samatoki isn't much of a teacher, but for a homie he will try.

Samatoki rather likes Wesker, even if their meeting circumstances were strange and grim, to say the least. His own Omen, a snow leopard named Daichi, prowls alongside him.

"So what d'you wanna start with? I'm game for whatever you need help with."

Sleeper Farm

[delilahs_death]

[He'd escaped his own shackles several moments before, thanks only to luck and the slenderness of his wrists. Jezebel wandered amongst the stalls with a dazed look, trying to calculate the path to the exit -- until he heard a voice speaking. A familiar voice.

Jezebel strode over to the stall, glancing in:]

Wesker?

Mushabooming

[onerthes]

She happened upon him while he was looking over the blue cheeks. Under her arm was a planter of some sort festooned with grey oyster mushrooms. Vira-Lorr had been trading her services for an ever increasing quantity of planters like these. She couldn't duplicate what the farms could produce, but with enough she could create a sort of long-term stock of additional protein. She'd learned not to take these things lightly.

Walking up as he and his companion were looking down at that one, she raised an eyebrow. "Well, that one's different, isn't it? Magical properties, I wonder?"

blood harvest

[kingofsarcasm]

Stiles found himself back here completely on an accident of his own making. Finding his way through to an exit has been a harrowing and slow experience as the trauma from the last time he was in the Farm is still fresh and crippling.

A while ago he'd found a wolf in the stall he'd had a panic attack in after stepping through the black hole after the Zealots he recognized. But was separated from the wolf not too long ago and now runs through the final level in a panic.

He didn't even notice the door he ran through, but what he does notice is a man he recognizes with his pumping organs exposed. He skids to a halt, feet slipping in the slick blood on the floor and sending him to the ground. The injuries from when he was tortured by the Zealots scream at him and he groans in pain.

At Wesker's feet now, he looks up and the last thing he needed was to see it at that angle. He turns to puke and even when he's done hurling, he's not really able to find his voice, fully dissociating for the moment and unable to move beyond the traumatized and shocked shaking he's doing on the floor, eyes trained on his own sick.

Sleeper Farm II

[survivalthroughhate]

Maul stares at what had once been a humanoid figure, though he's long since realized if Wesker ever was fully human he hasn't been in a very long time, now instead some new hybrid much like Maul's paramour Reaper now was. Still, even he hadn't known the extent to which Wesker could remain alive after experiencing something like this horrific torture.

Maul, for all his toughness, would have long since been dead if it was he hooked up to the table. He just keeps staring and staring, trying to figure out why isn't he dead yet? Death at least would be a relief right now. It would reset Wesker and allow him to escape this dreadful place or at least Maul hopes so. There's been such a small percentage of Sleepers that have died that Maul still isn't convinced they know everything about the side effect of the process.

He manages to move one leg and then the other, coming over to Wesker and standing there. He's got no weapons save his own claws and fangs but even that will be enough to kill him. Perhaps he should. Show some mercy to someone who has been a good ally to him time and again. "Do you want to die?" Maul asks quietly.