December Catchall | "Lazarus Sauveterre" (L Lawliet)

[hearthebell]

Who: Lazarus Sauveterre (L Lawliet) and OTA
What: Attempting to fail upwards by balancing paranoia and gumption. L looks for a place to live sustainably (fail), studies like a crazy obsessive person (success!), makes his really shitty Winter Mourning (fail?) and figures out his omen (success?). Via memshare antics, this is also the log that threatens to cut through some of his bullshit fake identity with some startling realness if that's to your taste.
When: Throughout December in a liberal cloud of invitational acquiescence. Assume a day, it'll probably be fine.
Where: Around Trench
Content Warnings: With memshare things can potentially get dark and sad. Warnings for child abuse (not sexual), neglect and abandonment, depression and suicide, questionable child labor practices and violence. Will add anything additional if needed!



A. Move Often, Move Lightly (Gaze District)

[Many citizens of Trench don't appreciate the overwhelming feeling of being watched in the Gaze District. It's prickly and disconcerting; there are eyes everywhere, in statues and illustrations. Now that L has found his way in, he is convinced that he actually finds this feeling comforting, and will make his home here for the next three days. Four, if the location he's scouted seems secure, but it's better not to take any chances.

There's a small part of him that nudges and insists what chances? He's no one here, after all. No one is trying to find or kill him; no one has any reason to, but old habits and ingrained personality traits don't die easily.

An armful of fur blankets moves through the streets on two spindly legs, clad in a pair of shabby jeans worn under the dark arrival robes he received on the beach, scuffing along in beaten sneakers that once were white. He does this every few days now; it's a new routine, picking up everything he owns and moving it to a new house. Sometimes, it's a new district entirely. It's a system that seems to be working, at least to soothe his unquiet brain, but he's neglected other things sorely, such as obtaining proper consistent rest and meals.

A cart outside of the library is set up with scones on display. While trading is commonplace in Trench, L hasn't gotten the hang of it yet; even handling money was outside of his wheelhouse, always dutifully seen to by his handler. L's interaction with his own fortune was largely knowing that there was enough of it, and calling for what he needed at any given time. Here, it's more complicated, often personal, often subjective.

Easier, then, to wait until the baker tending the cart for hungry scholars turns his back for a moment. A long-fingered hand snakes out from the bundle of blankets in his arms, and L casually takes one of the pastries, hiding it quickly in the furry folds.

In a district full of eyes, he got away with it. That's a rush, of sorts... at least, until he notices you. Did he get away with it? ]

B. The Smell of Old Parchment (School of Mutter)

[It's a common misconception that L loves the romance of study, the waltz of aged tomes and the secret satisfaction of gathering knowledge. One who retains so much information should love academia, or so the common wisdom goes. But to L, it's just another chore, something to get through, so much water for a sponge to absorb until it's dense and heavy enough to have considered its job finished.

There's a real necessity to it in this place. With eight open books in front of him, L has been at it for hours, drinking coffee by the quart as there is a complimentary stand for scholars that he has taken full advantage of. But even if he remembers everything he's read so far about Winter Mournings, Dorothea and the Huntress, and Lockjoint, he's at the limit of his wakefulness. No, he surpassed it some time ago, because he is slumped forward in his chair in a dead slumber, facedown, on an open copy of Legends of Trench: Curses and Causations. This incidentally happens to be the exact book you need. Unfortunately, the way his arms are propped around his head and his hands are clasped securely suggest that he anticipated someone trying to take it from him mid-read. In other words, rousing him may be necessary to wrest it from him.]


C. You Call That a Mourning (Outskirts of Trenchwood)

[He has an antler in his hands.

He didn't get it by himself; that would be laughable. Though this man memorized eight library books recently, he can't take down a deer, and even if he could, he doesn't believe that an art project is a reasonable cost for a life.

However. There's enough reason to look into this, he's judged, and here is his antler, in his lap, come by honestly (if not with a huntsman's prowess.) Sitting with his ankles crossed and his legs bowed open, he very meticulously ties a single leather cord around the base of it.

After a moment's thought, he pulls a pen from his welcome bag, uncaps it, and positions the nib just above the band's lazy, insecure knot. Several scratches later, he has something that vaguely resembles a smiley face, but there's something off about it. The dotted eyes are too small and beady; the mouth is uncomfortably large and wide.

He squints, peering more closely at it, before he realizes that you're watching him. How long?]

Were you going to announce yourself suddenly, in the hopes that I'd put my eye out?

[He looks you up and down, doubtfully.]

I still might.

D. Even Late Bloomers Get an Omen (Farther Shores)

[Flesh is weak. Unsteady and wavering, L had gone back to the Boardwalk hoping for some of the trade-free charity he'd received on arrival, but the day is bitter cold, and another wave of squid aren't due.

The sea, even cold and harsh as it is, feels comforting, and he steps from the boardwalk to walk barefoot in the black sand. A few items have washed up on shore, though it's nothing he recognizes or can think of an immediate use for. Sadly, the ship's bounty is not repeated; chocolates are not among the spoils.

He exhales in a soft puff of steam, crossing his arms over his thin chest and closing his eyes. For a moment, maybe the first moment since he's arrived, he's not distracted by the thrum of other humans nearby, or the squirming anxious notion that something is deeply wrong simply because he has no strong feelings about returning home. He doesn't think about his case; he accepts that his blood type is Pale and glows in moonlight, and as he inhales a cold breath of air, he taps, intuitively and naturally, into something he never has before.

The smoke is startling, even so. He shuffles back, but there's something large and high-contrast in the nearby waves, with a fused body and a black dorsal fin, that's both alien and inexplicably familiar.]

Lycka?

[He's not really asking; he knows.]

...I understand.

E. Wildcard

[Don't see it? Want it? Have at it! Either write your own prompt (I'm easy) or hit me up on Plurk or Discord and we'll figure something awesome out!]

Comments

C

[wannasmash]

"Um, please don't."

That's not a nice joke to make, antler guy. The young man, high school age, stands awkwardly at a respectable distance. He doesn't have a large build, but he is athletic. He's wearing what can only be described as something one would wear to a comic convention: green jumpsuit, bracers, even a hard mask around his neck. However, the make is professional-grade. The mechanical wrists on his gauntlets and the durable metal plating on his shoes indicate function. The jumpsuit has had numerous tears repaired with a fine hand. His cloak, a standard dark waterproof one found in his Welcoming Bag two months ago, has a leather badge hanging out of its pocket with the Hunter symbol for anyone who knows it to recognize.

Contrary to all this, he crooks his elbows slightly, hands loosely placating, as if being mild and polite is all he ever thinks about.

"Sorry--I was deciding whether or not to speak to you. You looked busy, but I have to warn you... This can be pretty dangerous."

His voice starts off faltering, but grows lower and more stable by the end. He's sure of that fact.

[hearthebell]

Maybe it was a little harsh, all things considered... but feeling stuck or stymied has only ever made L tetchier and more unpleasant. Dial it back; this isn't a luxury you have, here.

He knows, probably better than most, that age isn't necessarily an indicator of knowledge or experience. His sharp eyes are drawn to that badge, and all of his recent studying allows him to know the meaning of the symbol and the implications of its carrier.

Hunters would know danger. He elects to give him the time of day, because if he's telling the truth, it can only benefit him to know.

"Dangerous how? Aside from the risk of being caught unawares..."

[wannasmash]

He isn't troubled for his own sake. He's more concerned about this person who is joking about doing something dangerous while preparing to do something else dangerous in a dangerous place.

He really doesn't think this person should have risked being caught unawares around Trenchwood, for one. The surroundings are peaceful, as they're not in the deep forest, but... you never know. Midoriya did his dives in the safety of his own home.

"It's possible to get hurt in the memories, as if they were real."

[hearthebell]

L, for as spindly and frail as he appears, actually does thrive on danger. The notion of it, the closest brushes with it, the dance on a slender razor's edge as he parries with admirable skill.

At least, that's how it was, until the danger caught up with him.

"Really. If I broke my arm once..." he makes something up, to be absolutely safe, "would my arm break? Or would I just experience the pain?"

He aches to feel something sharp and real.

"Is this part of a hunter's duties? Trying to circumvent that kind of harm?"

[wannasmash]

"It might." Pretty gruesome, but Midoriya, who has broken both his arms in one fight, can run with that. "You might even die, right where you were when you entered the memory. It isn't always the case. I've been in ones where nothing happened to my body." If he didn't do his research before potentially entering his own dangerous memories, he'd be failing every teacher and mentor he's had. Asking some very scarred, hardened Hunters counted for something.

He blinks, only just aware that the badge he wore for the sake of the average Trenchie was noticed.

"The organization," such as it is, "was created to keep people safe from Beasts. Keeping people safe is what I did back home. I joined them because I have a lot to learn."

He does not say that they are super cool. He knows they kill Beasts; Beasts used to be people. Midoriya is a hero before everything else. Heroes save people, when they can.

give me the d

[asas]

[ shōyō was a bedridden mess for a couple of days, perhaps nearly a week after getting caught up in dorothea’s curse thanks to a fair amount of broken . . . things. he’d gotten better enough to walk around on his own with crutches to ease off a badly twisted and wounded foot caught in a snare. to be frank, it was hard as is for him to stay put, as active as he was.

from the face down he still looks the part of someone who’s gotten a major asskicking: ugly purple blotches about his face that were beginning to fade to blue and yellow, bandages over cuts that would help close quicker somehow. yeah— he’s not doing his best, but he’s alive after a show he thought for a second that he wouldn’t wake up again to go through and survive.

he really needs to get himself a better knife. maybe learn how to use one.

with most of his life thrown out the window, shōyō still visits the one place he’s grown close with for early morning meditation, and that’s the beach, the shore . . . some place with water. as murky as the ocean surrounding trench was, at least the sound of waves and gulls brought him back to the warm sun and hot sand on ipanema beach, if his focus was sharp enough. he’s scanning for a good place to sit when . . . ]

. . . Lazaro.

[ right when shōyō’s about to sound off for him, picanha does the honors; his common crow omen squawks high and flutters the man’s way. ahh!! ahh!! ]

[hearthebell]

[Close enough, he thinks, like a reflexive call-and-response. Still, only one person says his fake name that way, and it surprises L how something lifts in his chest when he sees that Shōyō, from the ship excursion, is still here... even if he looks somewhat worse for wear.

He stiffens and glances up at the crow omen, as though wondering if he'll be dive-bombed. He decides it's friendly, and that Shōyō must be glad to see him, too.]

You look... painful.

[That's the word he settles on. Bluntly observed. He knows that this world is dangerous, that one can meet a nasty end or splintered and raw mutilation very easily. What's he been up to, that he looks like he went several rounds with a prize-fighter with a grudge?]

What happened to you?

[He addresses Shōyō, but his eyes follow the crow. He knew about omens, perhaps assuming that he just didn't have one, that he was lacking some essence or soul that made them possible. L is used to thinking of himself in those terms, assuming that he is just broken in ways that leave him functional, but also fundamentally lacking.

His omen is here, swimming nearby with no real sense of urgency. She knows that Shōyō isn't a threat, exactly as well as L knows.]

[asas]

Ah . . . A psycho asshole beat me up with a stupid stick.

[ baseball. bat. but he’s not about to indirectly praise the darkblood with horrors that might make him seem grand. no!! no, the best policy for that is disdain (though shōyō does a poor job at seeming like he doesn’t care— he’s boiling under his skin with a grudge).

picanha, more than comfortable, hops right by l’s feet with no hostility in the slightest, as if strutting into her own nest. she does, in fact, make a u-turn from the shore back to the other man, and takes quite the liking to the laces of whatever footwear he’s wearing.

the blow of air and sea water brings shōyō’s attention to the shoreline, where the occasional fin of an orca pops up and glides by the gentle waves and ice. ]

Is that a Killer Whale?

[ crows are common— he’s never seen an orca, before. ]

[hearthebell]

What...?

[That's the kind of explanation that demands more of an explanation. He makes an agitated sound in the back of his throat.]

Who? Another sleeper? Can you describe them?

[L is invested in any description that Shōyō can give, even as he is captivated by the comforting absurdity of Omens. He glances out at his, as Picanha pecks and tugs at his untied, dirty shoelace.]

I think so...

[He stares offshore at the newly manifested being, still unsure. If it is an orca, and it's his Omen, it bodes poorly for keeping a low profile. He hasn't seen another one, either; he'd prefer a common crow, himself.]

I didn't think I had one, in all honesty. I've just met her, now. You're not intruding, [he adds, in case that's what Shōyō may be worried about.]

If you're sure you're OK, I want to know what it's been like to have your crow.

B, but extra

[megatheorem]

[Palamedes is a nightmare when it comes to these meeting chambers at the school. Not in the sense that he takes over one and rules over it with a fussy and particular fist until he deems it time (or Camilla shows up and deems it time) to go home; no, more that he slinks into wherever is convenient and makes it Sixth without bothering to ask anyone who's already there. It's a wonder that none of the scholars have stopped him, but oddities are just fine in the pursuit of knowledge, it seems; his particularities have been left alone.

Naturally, making it Sixth means he's brought window coverings to tack up as needed; he doesn't trust the light fixtures very much either, and has found himself some gauzy, low-hanging covers affixed loosely to the ceiling lights above. It's just — there's so much goddamn paper in this place? So much paper and no one is taking care of it, this school and the Archives are not temperature controlled, and even as he delights in touching real paper with his bare hands (it still feels incredibly egregious), he can't not let old habits die hard.

So: covering all the windows. The lights. He even does something tedious and annoying to the cracks between door and frame, which will be even more so if anyone has to rush out to the restroom or some such. It creates the overall effect of a stuffier and more claustrophobic space, and that's even before Palamedes starts sticking his notes up on the longest wall. Mostly, he ignores anyone else who comes through besides a brief hello; when Cam swings by from her own book collecting, they mutter quietly to each other; but mostly people aren't sleeping on open books. Getting all kinds of oils and who knows what else on these priceless pages, good God—

He taps the end of a pen rapidly against the hard cover of another book he's holding, purely to make a loud noise. Hey. Hello. Wakey wakey.]

You can keep it, but at least put your face on something else.

[hearthebell]

[If anyone can relate to being particular, and accepting oddities as part of the price of good and brilliant results, it's the man slumped and spent over the books spread out before him.

He's dead to the world; his breathing is heavy and a little hard, as though his slumber is the resting equivalent of running a marathon. His way, for better or worse, is remaining awake with willpower and chemical aid until he's reached his body's limit and he simply collapses into himself. There's something cathartic about it, as alarming and even dangerous as it could become; knowing exactly where a limit exists is a comfort, in its way.

He needs this rest desperately and doesn't immediately stir at the sound of the pen rapping against the book's cover. It's a dream of distant birds pecking at the teeth of a leviathan, but the voice does manage to rouse him. Language and the human resonance of vocal cords aren't to be ignored, if only because their close proximity could indicate a sophisticated threat.

Being pulled out of something so vitally needed leaves the dark-haired, pale young man blinking and disoriented. He's not embarrassed that he fell asleep in public, any more than a soldier would be embarrassed if a bullet pierced his heart and he simply died, because there was no other available option.

The vulnerability and confusion are the only drawbacks, really.]

It can't be night, already...

[The intense darkness and redecorating makes him wonder if he did wake up, or he's still sleeping, dreaming of being in a haunted mansion with a very judgmental bespectacled youth.]

My cornea's not curved to a feline degree. I can't read in this light, you realize.

[As though he's been reading this whole time, and not sound asleep on an open book that has left ghosts of ink imprinted on one side of his face.]

[megatheorem]

Great; you weren't before. How long were you asleep on that book?

[Its poor, poor pages, subjected to who knows how many unfortunate sleep side effects— Palamedes frowns as he peers down at it, not willing to try and wrestle it away from the public snoozer. Just to confirm: yes, that is a book he wanted to find, thanks. He'll scour for another copy some other time.

Well, while he's got the floor, he shrugs to indicate the redecorating he's done. It's odd, he gets it, so by way of explanation:]

Light expires paper. It's bad enough that the Archives are organized with a system I can only describe as "drunken idiocy," but for a city with so many unpleasantries, you'd think somebody would want to take care of the books a little more. What is this place without its written record? And even that...

[He shakes his head; even that! It's no Sixth Library, so it sucks. Well. It's underwhelming. After a moment, he frowns again.]

Speaking of taking care, you've got a little something... [Ink. On his face. Palamedes taps his own cheek, like, it's there, bud. The precious printed account, it's there.]

[hearthebell]

[How long, indeed. L answers with his round eyes wandering toward the ceiling, as though hoping to find correct and helpful information written there. It isn't the case; instead his eyes settle, briefly, on one of the gauzy light covers before his heavy-lidded gaze drifts back down to find Palamedes still here. Probably not a dream, then, even though he's sure he could get comfortable enough to fall right back asleep if the other man left.

Probably why he's not leaving. Lecturing pedant, isn't he?]

That's the catch-22 with books, though; they're pointless if they aren't read.

[He's sticking with his story. He was reading, for seven full hours; it was just interrupted by slumping over in exhaustion on the page at the end of that period for an undetermined amount of time. Squinting in the dim lighting, he can even see the paragraphs where things started going soft and hazy around the edges of his eyes.

He regards Palamedes warily, as if trying to decide if there's some trick. That's why he holds eye contact as he rubs at his cheek with his thumb, smearing the ink but not managing to take it off. He tastes it by sucking at the pad of his thumb around a bitten-down nail, and looks immensely disappointed that it isn't leftover food.]

I'll look into it but I should probably save my place first.

[He dog-ears the book, making sure it's good and creased with a thumb that now has smeared ink and saliva on it.]

C

[feudalladyshandmaid]

I could've. Might've been funny.

[Some part of Cassandra believes it, another part of her is really trying to make it sound like a joke, but it's not sticking. This young woman, an adult from the looks of it, stands a small ways away from L in what could only be described as a suit of flexible stone. Black rock, impossibly flexible, shifts and turns with her slightest movement. A multitude of etchings and patterns all across the surface, broken up by a burst of blue, and a large opal over her chest.

She's pretty inhuman, all things considered. Though, she isn't turning into a monster, or whatever the locals have warned about. Actually, she just looks... confused.]

You're making one of those things [She nods - not to him. To the antler.] too?

[hearthebell]

[He thinks about it for a moment, and can't really argue. If humor is really all about what's unexpected and absurd clashing with the mundane and typical, it would be funny to see someone put their eye out with an antler.

He thinks everyone believes so in their heart of hearts. Not everyone would laugh, though; there's decorum to maintain. The appearance of being a good person, who would rush to assist while exclaiming in dismay, and not... laughing. Openly.

His eyes linger on her suit. It looks like sediment, but it's too flexible to be rock, isn't it? Put a pin in that; for all his studying, there's still so much about this place and all of the sleepers' situation that he does not know.]

It's the idea...

[He shrugs the shoulder attached to the hand holding his Mourning. It bobs in kind, making it seem like he's taking it less seriously than he probably should.]

Is... that your intention?

[Where are her arts and crafts supplies, if so?]

[feudalladyshandmaid]

[Even if it's not really funny, which it isn't, Cassandra wouldn't have let someone poke their eye out on an antler. That's just impractical at that point. A waste of effort when you could be doing anything else. And why would she even need an antler to begin with?

It's dumb. This whole line of thought is dumb; why is she even thinking about this? Why is she speaking to this man like this? She's not about to gouge a stranger's eye out, for no apparent reason.

And now he's eyeing her up. She can tell, he's making note of her armor, maybe even her sword... and the Moonstone opal.]

I... haven't thought to make one.

[Yet. She crosses her arms before her, covering her chest. Stop looking at the opal. it's hers.]

I don't know why I would.

[hearthebell]

It's the custom here, I'm told. Part of embracing a new life in Trench...

[He replies softly and mildly. The implication is that if this wasn't the case, he probably wouldn't bother, and even though it is, he's still struggling, going through the motions more than succeeding with an earnest and wholehearted effort.

His brows raise, noting her defensive posture. He curls his shoulders forward, sending his gaze somewhere over her left shoulder instead of her chest. He's not a threat, but he knows enough of any world to understand why a woman alone at night might assume he posed one.]

I've not seen anything like your necklace before.

[A clarification, offered to specify the precise target that drew his eyes.]

c

[sideeffect]

Not really...

[ the bear feels that it's a little awkward that he's been caught staring at the man's handiwork, and his first instinct is to look away. after another moment's pause, he peers back again. likewise, he holds an antler within a large paw; judging by how clean it looks to be, it hadn't been procured through any recent hunting on his own part. ]

[ but even just a simple question like that, riz notes, can be startlingly brutal. ]

That would be bad. [ placidly and matter-of-factly. ] I wouldn't be able to heal something like that.

[hearthebell]

[There's nothing quite like seeing skin an already unhealthy shade of pale blanch whiter, all while its wearer's eyes stretch wide, and he looks to be in considerable danger of swallowing his tongue.]

You... spoke.

[It's not an omen. If it's a bear costume, it's the best damn one he's ever seen. No... it would be clear from looking at the eyes and the mouth. Those are real, sharp teeth. Real, beady animal eyes. And yet, real words come out of its mouth, a slight rumble underscoring them. There's comprehension of the situation in their meaning, and L is dazed, witnessing this. A bear, upright in clothes, and either he's gone mad, or he has to believe what his senses are telling him as he so adamantly insisted to the man with the metal tentacle arms on the ship.]

You're a sleeper, then.

[A conclusion, rather than a question, though he still seems uncertain as he stands. He's a slight thing; it's only exaggerated when he's next to taller and broader men. A bear utterly dwarfs him. His unfinished Mourning hangs from a delicate grasp at his side by one point, forgotten for the moment.]

[sideeffect]

[ ah. ] ... Yep.

[ riz now wears a smile, then, what with the conversation having shifted from his gawking and to more of a greeting. he's accustomed to people's surprise by now (people have thought him to be a furry in costume), so the bear appears to take it well. ]

[ the man stands, and riz is struck by how slight he appears; he may not be an expert on human biology, but he thinks this one looks... skinny. malnourished. probably not the tastiest. he stoops slightly, closer to the other man's height, in an effort to make conversation between the two of them more comfortable. ]

Guess you haven't seen many animals like me, huh. [ referring mostly--rather, only--to the white dwarf rabbit. ] You a sleeper, too?

[hearthebell]

[It's absurd and unsettling to see a bear smile. L's not sure how to mirror it on his own pale features, or if he even wants to. He may be too revolted or unsettled.]

No animals like you.

[He confirms quietly, looking up at Riz. At least he isn't advancing, but stooping down closer, at a heigh less likely to give him an overwhelming advantage. Not that it would matter; a large bear is a large bear, however upright it stands, however friendly its smile.]

I'm a sleeper, yes. What... can I expect from you?

["Being eaten" would be appreciated, as something he can rule out.]

c

[lipochrome]

[ Gideon Nav, a woman who grew up on a bone cult planet, has seen all kinds of fucked-up things being done with skeletons. Skeleton servants. Bones punching their way through someone's esophagus. The works. But a bone with a smiley face on it? That sounds like something she would do, and so Gideon watches this weird skinny guy, absolutely rapt.

She doesn't expect him to talk to her -- and when he does speak, she just shrugs. ]

Nah. Figured you didn't want to be disturbed. [ She leans over, points. ] You could totally give it muscles, though. Right there.

[hearthebell]

[The owlish man squints at the approacher in the growing dusk. He's automatically suspicious, because when a woman seems amused around him and alludes to muscles, it usually means he's being mocked.

Fortunately, he stores the ego attached to the frail-looking body everyone else can see externally. His work and reputation transcend it; his immortality is assured, represented by one solitary letter in a cloister black font. The human being attached to it all is of comparatively little consequence, and what others think of his muscles (or lack thereof) likewise shouldn't bother him.

He's told himself so for years, now. It must be true.]

Muscles.

[He repeats, slowly, with tonal stress. Absurdism can be tedious, but only because people tend to fall back on the same combinations, convinced, in their derivative unoriginality, that putting two unrelated things together automatically births humor. For L, an added touch of irony does in fact birth humor, and when he clears his throat, it's to hide the concession of laughter.]

Right here?

[Indicating, with a slender fingertip, along a point. If it was an arm, attached to the flat, cartoonish face, it would put the shoulder somewhere around the effigy's hypothetical ear. Suggesting a hunchback, perhaps.]

If it has muscles, it might be more of a target for dangerous memories that want to pick a fight. I thought of making it look friendly to avoid such an outcome.

[That smiley face doesn't exactly look friendly. A child could have inscribed it, one who has difficulty articulating what a smile actually is on real-life features. Aside from his age (somewhere in his early-ish twenties, by appearances), L doesn't exactly contradict that notion.]

[lipochrome]

[ Gideon doesn't catch the joke, instead filing it away, in the part of her brain where all cryptic necromancer comments go. Gideon, of course, doesn't know if this man can do necromancy, but pretty much all skinny, mysterious people read to her as necromancer. This person is no exception.

So Gideon opts to take him at face value, nodding when he points to a spot on the bone. ]

Sure. It's not ideal, but it's not like you've got much space to work with.

[ At making it look friendly, Gideon actually laughs. Don't worry, stranger, it's not at you. It's just that the idea of a friendly skeleton is downright comedic, and the idea that this shitty drawing might keep away bad memories is even more so. ]

No offense, but the whole thing looks super demented. If you're going that route, you might as well add the muscles for, like, insurance. [ a beat. ] Or to make it look cooler. Whatever. I'm not the boss of you.

[hearthebell]

[Had L been born into Gideon's world and survived childhood, it's not unlikely that he would indeed have been a necromancer. Somber and pale and more bones than flesh, he's a paradox of dreamy detachment and sharp focus somehow occurring simultaneously.

He startles slightly at the laugh, though a cautious smile tugs at the edge of his mouth. Even with as little time as he's historically spent around others, he doesn't think that it's ridiculing, whatever he assumed preemptively.]

Why would I be offended?

[Blithely asked, as though "demented" is just an everyday thing for him. And, well... that's not far off. He can't remember a time when it wasn't that way.]

If you think it would look cool...

[As though she's being earnest, he squints and begins to place sketchy, uncertain lines that look like vibrating sets of parentheses. A keen eye can probably suss out that they're supposed to be biceps. Very long biceps that must curve, by necessity, along the length of their keratinous canvas.

He's either in on the joke and playing the long game with a straight face, or he's taking "cool" very seriously and painstakingly striving towards some semblance of it. With his odd, blank features that seem to overcrowd his fine-boned face, it's practically impossible to draw a bead on which one it is.]