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deercountry2021-12-18 10:44 pm
hearthebell) wrote in deercountry2021-12-18 10:44 pm
December Catchall | "Lazarus Sauveterre" (L Lawliet)
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!]
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!]