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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!]
c
[ 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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
... Yeah. That's not really uncommon to hear.
[ the bear's ears twitch. in a way, it's both alienating and a relief to hear that this man may not have met others from his world - from what he's heard, his reputation has already been dashed. ]
[ at the question, he tips his head, ]
Well, I've heard us sleepers should help each other... So, at the very least, I hope I wouldn't be a hindrance. [ is he playing dumb as to any other meaning behind that question? it's hard to tell - while his voice is deep, especially for a teenager, his tone remains soft and airy. ] In a place like this, it's pretty necessary.
no subject
[He imagines it's not uncommon to hear, looking that way. It's difficult, truly, to appreciate just how large bears are when one has seen cities full of cuddly stuffed ones in children's prams, photographs from a distance of Polars and Kodiaks.
He nods warily; he's been told the same, about Sleepers, what they're supposed to feel and how they're supposed to behave towards one another. He's been here long enough to experience some of the unprecedented, good-natured kindness that he could never count on in his mundane, but far meaner, world.]
One wouldn't get very far on their own, I'd think.
[What large teeth you have, he doesn't say.]
You're a bear... clearly. But you're sentient, and you can speak. You wear clothes. Is every person like that, where you're from?
no subject
[ he nods. ]
Sort of? [ he's answered this type of question before, so while he does look thoughtful, his answer comes more easily than it might have earlier in his time in trench. ] We're all just animals. Being able to speak and wearing clothing is the norm. Insects are different - they're just like the ones you would see here.
[ there's a light lifting of his shoulders, overly broad as they are, in a shrug. ]
I can't say I know much of fish, or other sea-dwelling animals... I'm a city bear, so I don't have much contact with 'em.
no subject
If you speak and wear clothing, I suppose it's not a stretch to think that you'd have a name and occupation as well.
[L is trying, but it will take a bit of time to tamp down the dissonance here, come to truly think of this creature as a person the way he would another human.]
no subject
[ his tone's hopeful, though, when referring to the future here - he aims to change that soon, rather than just getting by on wayward errands or favors for others. ]
My name's Riz. [ there's a flash of his teeth in a renewed smile. ] How 'bout you?
no subject
Riz? It's Lazarus Sauveterre. I'm also looking for a purpose here. What have you considered?
no subject
Well, I'm a Vileblood, so... [ it is a bit odd, going from zero prospects (in dreading impending imprisonment), to abruptly being encouraged to have, and take, different paths. maybe he comes across like that - somewhat aimless. ] probably trying out as a blood minister.
no subject
[More than he ever would have thought meeting a bear in the wilderness could possibly be. He's still not sure he's out of those woods, yet, but Riz seems reasonable. Even pleasant. A cautious smile flits across L's face.]
I think you're the first confirmed Vileblood I've met. Going by type affinity seems to be the way, if you don't have something in mind already, so... I've made a similar decision, regarding being a night walker.
[It'll be a disaster, and everyone who talks to the odd and staring man for more than a minute or two can see that coming a mile away.]
no subject
That means you're a Paleblood...?
[ spoken musingly. if there is to be any judgment for this scrawny, wide-eyed man attempting such feats, then riz has none. he's likewise brutally aware of being potentially out of his element. ]
I don't think I've met a Sleeper aiming to be a Night Walker, so that's new to me, too. ... [ that riz has the brain of a teenage boy could perhaps be more evident now, what with the contemplative pause in discerning how to politely approach that subject and any of its connotations. ] I don't go by Cellar Door often.
[ --or at all, really. ]
no subject
I don't go by Cellar Door much, either. I don't see a point to it. Maybe once I've joined the workforce in that district, it'll become clearer to me.
[L lives much of his life by trial and error, deductive reasoning that relies on the success and failure of various tests. This will be no different, perhaps to the detriment of all who get caught in the crossfire.]
How much do you know about what blood ministers do, and what's expected of them?
no subject
[ he's almost somewhat surprised this man has yet to see a purpose to it. but if there is one thing about him in particular, even if they haven't spoken to one another for long, it's that he seems practical. sharp, in a way that has riz paying attention to the questions - because intended or not, it does feel as if he's being drilled. ]
[ the bear looks away, down to the antler within his paws. he fiddles with one of its prongs. ]
The "magic" of it still escapes me. I know it's one of the more dangerous professions here because of the threat of corruption... [ and, more casually, ] And that Lumenwood reeks of blood. Maybe humans won't notice it as much [ and that obscuring such a thing is futile; ], but I'm not sure that it matters how many flowers are planted...
[ but that all makes it sound like he doesn't particularly like this avenue of work, doesn't it? and nor does that addendum answer the question. riz shrugs, slows in fiddling with his decorative antler, and looks back over to lazarus. ]
Bloodletting and transfusions are easier to learn.
no subject
He relies on the general truth that most people enjoy speaking about themselves, to sustain his brand of limping conversation.]
I suppose that makes sense... your senses would be sharper [and attuned to the scent of blood, he does not say]. But your strength would also be greater, so... the dangerous aspects of it might not pose as high a risk to you.
[He seems to approve of the choice, deciding that logically, it checks out.]
Is that a concern to you? How easy or difficult something is.
[He's keenly interested, on first meeting others, whether they default to the path of least resistance or appreciate a challenge.]
no subject
[ thus why he's not sure if he particularly likes it. but the corners of his mouth turn upward; it's intended as a pleasant expression, one that's perhaps a little self-conscious. ]
Sometimes. But I'd still like to try.
[ --though he knows, when presented with the easier option for the same reward, he wouldn't exactly take the high road. ]
Maybe not in this case, but ... some things, depending on the species of animal, are just impossible. Whether it's as well as others, or at all.
no subject
You should try, but... what do you mean? What's impossible for a bear?