don’t make me go wumbo (
grice) wrote in
deercountry2021-12-09 09:21 pm
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🦅 🦅 🦅
Who: falco grice, others, and you!
What: a catch all for the month including a player plot, general prompts and event prompts in the comments, all open!
When: december; date will be in the header if any!
Where: waves hands at too many places
Content Warnings: possession, violence, gore, self harm, child death, war imagery, child soldiers, racial oppression, genocide, forced experimentation, torture, mutilation, gun violence (against children)

see below for open prompts of all kinds! if you have any questions or would like to plot something specific, hmu at
liberos!
What: a catch all for the month including a player plot, general prompts and event prompts in the comments, all open!
When: december; date will be in the header if any!
Where: waves hands at too many places
Content Warnings: possession, violence, gore, self harm, child death, war imagery, child soldiers, racial oppression, genocide, forced experimentation, torture, mutilation, gun violence (against children)

see below for open prompts of all kinds! if you have any questions or would like to plot something specific, hmu at
december 8th and forward — TASTE THE POST-DEATH H/C
he didn’t go “home” right away, didn’t feel like he should. perhaps it was mildly unlike him, but falco simply felt . . . drained. too null and deprived of his usual faith, especially when a look in the mirror as he inspected his newly formed human frame hadn’t changed— he was still branded, still sickly with the silence’s mark hollowing deeper into his essence, his blood. a permanent carrier.
all of that, including the harm caused, had been for nothing.
he had always maintained an impossible and unruly amount of hope for the upbringing he had and the reality he had come from, but jumping to other cases and worlds hadn’t shown him much light apart from the friends he’s made. it was dreary and as dull as the cloudy days that hung over trench every single day. what falco was feeling right now was despondency, a lack of response or a slowness to respond. he can be found either:
in the welcome tents by the boardwalk:
a network sighting:
un: falcogrice
people with infected blood can’t be blood ministers can they?
at the stables:
welcome tents
He sees Falco from the water first. A rather large squid briefly bobs to the surface and blinks one big blue eye at the boy. He's a little close to where Michael left his suit, safely folded behind one of the rocks...but not too close. And he seems upset. So...the squid submerges again, vanishing into the dark ocean.
It's a few more minutes before Michael comes strolling down the beach. He's completely dry, and doesn't look at all cold. In fact, he's practically radiating heat.]
Hey. Everything okay? [Michael obviously not he's crying on the ground]
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Yes, sir. [ nasally, still, but making sure he’s firm with addressing the man astutely— as he should with his elders. ] I just . . . Found my things.
[ it wasn’t even from home, but it was his— admin had given them to him, and just when he had gone through something so closely related to south sister? it almost felt like some little sign.
after a moment and once the boy is able to raise his glance up to michael, he gestures upward with the frames. ]
They’re pictures.
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[Michael hasn't found anything of his own, and anyway most of his physical possessions aren't...quite that sentimental. You get a weirder relationship to belongings in the afterlife, they're not that important.
He wants to be nice, though. He tilts his head to peer down at the picture - not so interested in the photo itself, but noticing the frame.]
Did it get broken in the surf?
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They’re chipped in some places . . . [ but that doesn’t particularly bother him. the frame is something he can change. of course, at least some water is going to seep into the back, and falco makes a face when he realizes that. but how is he going to dry anything without destroying the flimsy, dampened pictures? ] It’s the inside that counts. I can’t lose that, too.
[ maybe if he shakes them— and he does do that, then after a moment of tired arms giving up waving about, he holds one picture out. ]
It’s um . . . My brother.
[ the first one is in fact a sepia printed photo of himself and a young man who share an uncanny likeness. ]
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cw for war/child soldiers and oppression imagery
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boardwalk
[Erwin doesn't know what Falco was thinking, but he saw the end results. It had been... even for someone as used to blood and gore as Erwin, it had been bad. Deeply, deeply unpleasant. Unsettling. Horrific.]
[And then there's the fact that Falco was actually dead, apparently. No rebirth from his titan, no being saved by his healing ability. Just... gone.]
[Erwin would be lying if he said he hadn't spent a few days isolated and depressed about it.]
[But then he'd asked around, and found out that death isn't permanent here. Sleepers who die come back, which means Falco will come back. More questions, more searching later, and Erwin finds himself lingering around the welcome tents, waiting for the boy to reappear.]
[Erwin hears Falco before he sees him. He knows the sound of someone sobbing their heart out; he's made that sound a few times himself. But this is a young voice, a child's, and he rushes towards it.]
Falco!
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Mister Erwin—! [ he knew who it was, and wants his embrace, but, ] W-wait—
[ he’s too frightened to allow it, clasping the frames close to his chest and steadying his breathing. oh, here it came— the guilt. he’s been so far away from their little hut recently that he must’ve worried erwin sick, but then again barely bothered to let him know, he just—
he was just so numb over some things and was only now beginning to feel the gravity of his silence. ]
I’m sorry—
[ it’s what he can squeak out before he’s holding his breath and going beat red trying to suck in his tears. ]
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[Erwin stops when Falco retreats from him, drawing up short and giving the boy his space. He isn't really sure what he was intending to do anyway; he's more used to Falco hugging him than initiating the contact. He's not even sure if Falco would want to be hugged right now.]
[Being uncertain about anything is not Erwin's natural state of being, and he's nearly as distressed as Falco. However, he's also the adult, and in better control of his emotions.]
What happened, Falco?
[He asks it softly, gently. He also lifts his hand a little, in a welcoming gesture; if Falco wants a hug, he'll provide it.]
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I’m sorry I left—! I, [ for all those aforementioned reasons; for not saying anything, before or after, right mind or not. ] didn’t say anything— I’m sorry—
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a network sighting (which will inevitably lead to an in-person checkup đź‘€)
It's inevitable that he'd be losing himself.
The Corruption slowly draws more and more of the demon out, that thing that was always fated to consume him. Peter stops being "Peter" and he's starting to have to work to remember the name at all. But there are still things that catch him there, that speak to Peter and not the other's name.
Like a message on the network from a name that makes him pause and check again. It stirs up memories even if they're thick and glossy and feel far away. A young boy.... dealing with something strange and scary, asking for help. Frightened, upset. A spark of wide-eyed youth underneath all of that — so human. He called him "Mister Peter" like he was someone safe and capable. Peter, who's progressively less and less human right now, taps a response in the quiet solitude of his room. He dredges up his own name from the depths of himself, with some work. )
un: P.G.
Falco?
It's Peter
I don't know much about blood ministers but
( But.... but. Has he been able to find any help with his... condition? He must not have found a solution yet, to be asking about infected blood. But has there been anything...? )
Have you been able to get any help? With it
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Hi Mister Peter
[ perhaps it was both, and perhaps it was one more thing: this guilt he couldn’t unbind himself from. ]
I tried
[ if he were successful, he would’ve added more. ]
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"I tried"
What does that mean?
The discomforting rise of alarm is slow but genuine, something that further grounds Peter to himself, helps keep him tethered a little bit more. There's only one thing to do, ask, but his stomach's feeling weird, tight.
What did he try? )
What happened?
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it was coming out so i went to someone i talked to before to get rid of it
but i couldn’t think straight to call more people
when i got infected all the priests and people in charge on the island said no one should try by themselves i don’t know why i didn’t say so and i forced his hand to
and the exorcism didn’t work
it hurt a lot of people in gaze mister peter, near the cemetery
and now it’s just deeper like
deeper
[ no one was a casualty beyond him and dipper, but that’s a lot for falco as is; the rest even had to deal with his gross ghost slime or mercy killing a child.
that, and the silence made its vessel a permanent one. ]
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cw: nondescriptive mention of child death
cw: my death (also mention of racial persecution)
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boardwalk
Thankfully, this early in the month, this corruption is only a grey tinge to his skin, but he still hesitates to come too close. ]
Uh...h-hey. Are you okay? [He shoots a glance at the pictures on the shore- faces he doesn't recognise, but he can make a good guess mean something to the boy. Good job, detective Varian. ] Are...are you new? Do you need help?
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I got them, [ he looks up to offer the older boy an acknowledging glance— complete with a bright red nose and pink-tipped ears to go along with the shimmer in his eyes. ] thanks.
[ a better look at falco would show that he was more equipped than a new sleeper would be: about two layers of fabric for the cold, and underneath the flaps of his outer cloak shell is a knife, a small firearm, and the neck of a rifle at his feet in the sand. ]
I was just— [ he shrugs, to find the answer, and ends up sniffing hard, ] walking around . . . And found these.
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Hey, that's...okay. I think the ships out there have been dropping things from home into the water. Makes about as much sense as anything else in this place, right?
[He moves to sit next to him- the motion a little awkward with his prosthetic leg, but he gets down. ]
You uh... you want to talk about it? I'm Varian. By the way.
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stables đź‘€
He had a question he'd needed answered by someone familiar with horseflesh. That necessitated a visit to the stables.
The shrike's leaving by way of the stalls, answer in-hand, when the sound of someone startling attracts his attention. An--odd expression--flits across his face, almost a smile, almost hungry, to hear someone alarmed by his presence (December's a difficult month for Darkbloods, doubly so for a Locust Knight); then it's gone, replaced by a look of thoughtful focus. There's something he recognizes in the ((shape)) of the young stableboy over there, and it's enough to get him to amble over and lean slant-hipped against the wall near where Falco's working. (or "working")
He looks for all the world like he's watching the horse's determined attempts to get the cloth, except his eyes aren't focused on her.]
Ah. You were the child in the bird-beast. [Who had a name, surely, though he seems to have misplaced it; his memories of the fight are laced through with the oppressive emotion the Silence had broadcast, distorting recollection of anything but those.
It's uncomfortable. It also has a strange appeal when he feels so little with any clarity. But that's not really the task at-hand, so--]
How are you faring?
đź‘€ đź‘€
—You were there. [ there, he remembered seeing him, remembered a blur that came his way, and that falco had flung him far into the roof of a building. he can feel his palms beginning to sweat on their hold against the broom’s handle, a shine along his temple as his heartbeat rose. ] I’m— fine, [ for someone who had been quite dead and bathing in his own paleblood, he was reborn and permanently haunted, for the more supernaturally inclined. the silence is quiet, now, dormant— but anyone with spiritual, energetic sensitivity would notice that something was not quite right with falco anymore, and the source was that parasitic thing making its home in his neck and deeper into his blood. ] You’ve . . . Recovered?
đź‘€ đź‘€ đź‘€
That very fear is reason enough for him to turn and walk out of here; it pulls at instincts worn thin by the pressures of the month. But there are questions he'd like answered...and to a Disciple's senses, there's a hint of something wrong that reminds the shrike why he'd even been in a position to join that battle in the first place.
A Scholar had tried pilfering supplies for an exorcism and run to that part of Gaze to hide when caught.]
I was there, [he affirms,] and I took little hurt to begin with, never fear. While you--if you will forgive me--do not seem quite so fine as you say.
I am sorry for this. I wish there had been another way, for all of us. [There's sympathy in his tone, quiet though it may be.]
Do you have a moment to speak with me? I would not keep you from your duties, if not.
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At the stables
So here's in that part of the city today, hanging around near the stables like a good Hunter to help keep an eye on the horses. It isn't his favourite area thanks to the whole 'horses like to eat grass' thing so he mostly tries to keep his distance from them, though he momentarily forgets that when he sees a very familiar face sweeping out a stall.
Falco. The kid he had spoken to before, the kid Dipper had tried to help with an exorcism that went terribly wrong, the kid whose body they had pulled out of that horrible bird monster. The memory of that scene flashes in front of his eyes, and before he can stop himself he's stepping into Falco's space and yanking him into a hug that lifts the kid off his feet.]
Dude! You're back!
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Fern—!
[ oh— oh, a hug, how many of these has he had, and how many people has he had the honor of sharing one with? if the surprise hadn’t been an indicator, falco’s pool of embraces was inherently tiny. the broom in his hand is let go of when he finally decides he could, and should return it, caught with shock earlier but soon realizing how it affects him painfully as much as positively. it filled a cracked void in him with comfort he yearned for, and before he could even bring himself to say anything— he’s hugging back, hard, disappearing into the older boy with how small he was and letting his shoulders shudder.
it was one of the sweetest things that could’ve happened. ]
I-I am—!
[ muffled in the front of fern, though, and through very easily dropped tears. ]
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Finn was always someone who never shied away from physical affection, and Fern inherited that quality from him. He'll set Falco back down on the ground, though he doesn't let go quite yet, especially when he catches that Falco is tearing up.]
I'm so, so sorry! Are you okay??
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boardwalk!
Childe peels back the flap of one such tent, surprised to see who he finds. It was that boy, the one from the monstrosity that...
Stepping inside, he takes a seat next to Falco, gently shaking him awake. Once he opens his eyes, he'll see the bright smiling face of a young man in his twenties, bandaged still across his arms, head and chest- though not all from their battle alone. It's been a rough month for him.]
Hey, [he'll say, once Falco wakes,] good to see you back with us again.
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he didn’t remember a speck of detail, but he knew he dreamed, and still smelled greenery, too— it took about three tries for falco to successfully open his eyes from the weight put upon them, coming to with more consciousness. the forth try, of his gaze narrowing and turning over his shoulder goes wider when the strike of colored hair jogs a memory that makes his gut drop.
he pulls in a breath, holds it in, and only begins to slowly breathe out as he gathered scattered thoughts and chose a few words to start with. ]
H . . . Hello. [ he’s being chary with his response to deter an overreaction— especially when childe was being rather considerate with him. he can feel his lips getting dry, but flits his tongue quickly across the bottom to remedy the sensation. ] You . . . Helped Mister Bigby— with a sword.
[ the distance between them would have been the only thing to smudge a clear image of the man, like the one he was seeing now, but it wasn’t too off— a bird’s eyes were sharp when it came to distance, and his titan was no different than a very large, partially humanoid bird. ]
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[He wasn't sure how that would work. The inner workings of Falco's transformation were still a complete mystery to him, and in fact he'd been prepared to introduce himself. If Falco recognized him as he was now, and not as the monster he'd become for their fight later on, then that means he was conscious for every little detail of their encounter. His words also told him that Bigby, who must of been the monster who ripped his heart out, knew each other. He'd suspected that. What an awful thing to experience.]
I wasn't sure if you were going to recognize me or not. After all, I'll admit I wasn't much of a threat until later on. You can call me Childe, for now.
[At least, Childe wouldn't remember someone insignificant in a fight. But that's just him.
He reaches inside of his jacket, and produces a small bag of what looks like nut bars, each with different kinds of nuts bonded together with honey. No two bars are alike, and he hands it to Falco if he's awake enough to receive it.]
Here, take these. It'll help you regain your strength. It's homemade kozinaki, from my homeland of Snezhnaya.
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