deercountry | 02 . december catch-all

Entry tags:

02 . december catch-all

Who:

necrolord and you!
What: A necromancer enjoys Bone Season.
When: December.
Where: Throughout Trench.

Content Warnings: Will be marked as needed. Note all the usual warnings of this character.

(1) recruitment: OTA.

There is a man in the Archives. He doesn't look like much: average height, average build, dressed in simple blacks. He chews his lip as he thumbs through some borrowed tome. There's an untidy stack of ancient books beside him, the titles Rituals of Trench: Remembering Our Pasts and Legends of Trench: Curses and Causations glinting in the lamplight. The one in his hands seems to be The Sleeper Condition. If you've come to do some research on the current issues plaguing town, you'll have to approach this plain and faintly rumpled-looking stranger.

He drums his fingers against the tabletop as he reads, and at the approach of any passerby, he looks up.

His eyes are oil-black and horribly, weightily inhuman.

"I don't suppose," he says, by way of greeting, "you've run across much explanation for the squidly reincarnation? All our esteemed authors seem to take the tentacles as a normal fact of life."

(2) recruitment: existing CR.

It is, by and large, a quiet day in Trench. The God of Necromancers can be found ambling from Gaze to the Blood Ministers' District and back again, sometimes with his facepainted attaché and sometimes not. You might even spot him down by the docks, standing out among the brawn and bustle of sailors.

Regardless, he brightens when he spots an even slightly familiar face, and raises a hand in hello.

"Remind me," he says, bracingly, "how you feel about sailing?"

(3) wildcard.

[ Happy to match formatting! ]

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He nods slowly, thoughtfully.

"So the choice was death," he says, and there is no revulsion in it: only gentle, frowning interest. "Death as a kindness for some and not for others, without much chance of guessing whether you're giving mercy or punishment."

At that last speculation, he makes a sympathetic noise. "Could be. But sacrifice can be a powerful kind of magic. Even without a full view of the board."

"Always more boat trips, I'm afraid," he says. He clasps his hands together, a sort of that's that gesture. "I'll be in touch, then. My regards to Camilla the Sixth."

He straightens to go, and gives a slight tilt of a smile under black eyes.

"And don't let me forget: history over tea."

It's a credit to his own laser focused self control, Palamedes thinks, that he doesn't say something immediately hostile when God (actual God) has the gall to speak Camilla's name. Even for his regards, which Palamedes cannot convince himself would serve Cam well in any circumstance, knowing what he knows. He squeezes the spine of his notebook; he gives God a very mild look.

Alright.

"Tea." He manages, despite all odds, a wry little smile. "If Harrowhark humors you, so will I."

"You didn't?" Will looks somewhere between excited and overwhelmed. "I mean, I was there for...a couple years. I wrote a lot of stuff down." He drew a lot of stuff. But that's still helpful, right? He's pretty sure Boat Guy would tell him if it wasn't helpful.

After a beat, he offers, still in the spirit of being helpful: "It's deer-shaped cause it was called Deerington. Also deer are sort of...creepy."

"Then you," says God, looking genuinely pleased, "will be our expert."

Deer are sort of creepy seems like just the sort of expert opinion he can expect in this situation. Perhaps not accelerating the research, but excellent for one's mood. He nods as though this is solemnly agreed fact. Children are incredible.

"I look forward to hearing all about it."

"Oh, nothing drastic." He waves away the idea, pleasantly casual. "Just adding it to my research notes, maybe passing it along to a friend or two. We've got a ways to go before we can crack this place."

He says it in the light, good-humored way of someone discussing a neat little mystery.

"I was never in the dream, so I have some catching up to do."

"I wasn't in the dream world either," the Erune says in response. Then he tilts his head, ears twitching. "But from what I hear of the people from it, there's very little in common between Trench and that."

Though there seems to be more people from the dream than those who came straight to Trench, and Nehan has to wonder why the people from that dream aren't enough for whatever is happening now.

"A similarity in... troublesome things happening, yes. But that's mostly it."

Spoken like someone with experience in it, Mako notes, and leans forward with interest flaring on his face. "Why wouldn't someone give a full view of the board, if it's that powerful? Why not let people make a real choice, if you had the chance?"

That's what they really need to know, after all: why the Moss King would give them such vague information, why he would let them interpret it through their own lenses instead of telling them outright. Mako doesn't trust the Moss King or any of the rest of them as far as he can throw them, but that's the thing that gets him the most, the thing he's stuck on.

[ Ford's not the best at reading expressions, but he can tell when someone's interest in a scientific conversation has changed - largely because he's always keenly aware of the prospect of rejection and teasing and ready to bail out of a conversation at a moment's notice. ]

They are. Particularly...

[ ... Hm. This might require some more context to fully understand. But he can at least give a basic rundown. ]

The Sodder family in particular were an example of this - and Roderick was human. Not even half Pthumerian, just under the influence of their powers.

[ So here's the thing: Gideon has been to plenty of functions that involved getting her face painted like a skull and praying for safety. But she's never been to one that's outside, so she supposes she could give this a try.

Also, the King Undying, Emperor of the Great Resurrection, and Gideon's father, has invited her. It's not like she can say no.

Gideon has applied only the most cursory of face paint: dark circles around the eyes, a couple slashes across the lips, a very fine layer of white. She's standing just off the street, which is apparently what you're supposed to do at these things. Black-and-white confetti rains from the sky, and Gideon catches some in her fist. ]

So, like. What's the point of all this, exactly?

[ Both what's the point of the parade and why did you, specifically bring me here? After nineteen years of no contact, it feels...weird, that he'd try to reach out now. Gideon has a hard time believing that actual God just really wants to be a good father. ]

I've heard bits and pieces.

[ About Julia, and about Ramona; they are by far the most interesting, and if he's to steer the conversation anywhere, it will be there. But the role of humans— not Sleepers, just twentieth-century white-picket-fence types— has been left pretty well blank. ]

But very little about Roderick.

[ The warm interest doesn't fade. ]

Well, now it's getting downright personal.

"Hard to say," he says, as though this isn't the issue that just ruined his whole year (century; millennium; myriad). As though he didn't just fistfight his right hand at the mouth of Hell over maybe, possibly, something a bit related. As though it's academic. "Depends who held the information, if you ask me. Could be they were invested in a certain outcome."

Another beat, and he adds: "Or they thought there was something to be gained in having to piece it together."

[ John has been to really a lot of parades. They kind of lose their spark, after a while. But he has never been to a parade with his daughter, so of course he swept Gideon off with apologies to Harrow— I'm taking her into the city, et cetera, the continued tragedy of his existence is that no one ever laughs when he is incredibly funny— and now here they stand with strangers jostling their shoulders and confetti in their hair.

Honestly best that he didn't bring Harrow, because God has deigned to accept his own black-and-white facepaint. It looks incredible. If asked, he will say cheerfully that it seems like a local tradition, best to play along; and also, mystifyingly, whoop whoop.

He is plainly not used to facepaint, having already smudged a line of black along his brow, but this does not seem to hamper his mood. God rocks on the balls of his feet and considers the bustle around them. ]

Oh, you know. Superstition, tradition, an excuse to eat fried things on sticks. If you spot anything promising, I'm buying.

"You don't think it's possible they didn't know either?" Mako asks, mostly to ask, because the thought kept occurring to him only to be summarily dismissed. Sure, maybe there's something in there: the spirits never communicated particularly clearly with Korra, after all. Maybe it's just a translation error from godlike beings to mere mortals, but Mako didn't keep himself and Bolin alive by reading harmless intent into everything. If there's an angle, he's pretty sure anyone with that much power is going to use it.

And this is the closest he's gotten to someone willing to actually theorize with him about it.

"But," Mako continues, because that line of questioning obviously isn't it, in his own head, watching his companion, "say it was the second one. What could they gain by making us be here? Is there any way to know without, I don't know. Knowing what the other options even were?"

"Oh, always possible," he says readily. "Gods can be just as clueless as mortals, that's my theory."

(It's a very good theory.)

"Either way, there's a few questions buried in there," he observes. "What could they gain from putting the choice on you; what could they gain from the sacrifices you chose; what could they gain from landing you here. Is it the place or the people that are important? How much do they have to do with each other?"

He resumes drumming his fingers again.

"That's why I wish I understood the process better, you know. It sounds like the girl was Deerington, or near enough. Hard to say whether this place was an intended outcome, or just a side effect."

[ All it took was one woop woop for Gideon to decide that she would never ask about God's fashion choices ever again. He's free to work in mysterious ways. ]

But they don't charge anything for -- you know what, okay. [ The fact that most food here does not technically cost money is not the point, even if Gideon at her least charitable wants to think that it makes the gesture a little hollow. He's trying. She still doesn't know why. She can't open the Tomb here, so why butter her up?

Maybe, if she plays along, she'll figure out why. Gideon scans the parade, keeping an eye out for what people tend to be eating. She points at a hilarious-looking fried thing on a stick. ] People seem to like those.

"Ugh," Mako says eloquently, and promptly yanks a notebook from under his stack of books. It's a little black thing labeled Deerington Notes & Theories, vol 2. Flipping past several pages of chicken-scratch, Mako yanks a pen from his pocket and promptly writes every single one of those questions down, murmuring them quietly to himself as he goes. They're good questions, better than any of the ones he's come up with so far. Beifong's voice is practically there in his head admonishing him to think of good questions first, kid, that's how you get good answers.

He caps it off with the words intended or accident? and circles those several times, then flips the notebook around to show his work.

"Did I miss anything?" He asks after a moment after a wave of self-consciousness sweeps over him. His handwriting is a mess, and it's been a minute since, well. Since he got to do anything like this with anyone.

[ Incredible choice. He claps his hands together, nods decisively, and sets off in what is hopefully the direction of the nearest stand. Bit difficult to see over all the bustle and masks and confetti. It's all delightfully festive and deeply inconvenient, which is the true spirit of parades. ]

A classic. Let's see if we can manage it without being trampled. I haven't been to one of these in ages, and they usually make me stand up front. People get very worried when you try to wander off for a hot dog, when you're God.

He watches, eyebrows quirked and gaze patiently attentive, quietly delighted at the notebook; at the title; at the diligent, frowning way the boy scratches each question in. When his new friend flips the book around, he leans in to read.

"Looks good," he says, warm and approving. The handwriting isn't unreadable; he's seen worse. "Volume two, eh? Sounds like you've been at this a while."

[ Gideon wants to say Oh, your life must be so hard, but she is genuinely worried that she might not get the hot dog if she says that. So she'll keep her mouth shut, for now. ]

You just gotta be willing to do a little shoving. [ Gideon demonstrates, which earns her a dirty look from a Trenchie that Gideon happily ignores. ] You probably haven't shoved anyone in what, ten thousand years? Yikes, Pops, you're losing your edge.

[ That's mostly sarcastic. Blowing up one of your closest friends and wrestling the other into Hell is not the fun evening plan of a guy who's lost his edge. ]

[ This does not cut particularly deep. He says, mournfully: ]

God cannot shove the faithful, or they apologize for being in the way and probably get put to death for heresy. It is too tragic to be funny. I mean, it's a little funny, but when that's the cost of a hot dog you start to feel bad.

[ He follows in the path she clears and does not, at least, try to reprimand her for the shoving. They're not there yet. They'll get there. ]

That's the use of skeletons, really. Everyone gets out of the way when you've got an entourage of skeletons. Nobody wants to be responsible for breaking one, I guess.

Edited (repetition my mortal foe) 2022-01-21 16:30 (UTC)

The approval absolutely registers: Mako straightens a little, unconscious and sharp, his shoulders going down. He wants to do well at this, he wants to figure this out. Maybe theories aren't his strong suit but he can do numbers and he can do patterns, and this is like a combination of both of those things.

And, well. There is something about attention on him during all of this that means something, and he isn't going to think about what that means or why.

"A lot happened," he says dryly, in possibly the largest understatement since washing up on these shores. "I was in the dream for 10 months, maybe 11. Time got weird at the end there. Almost a year. The dream was... eventful, and weird, and there were all these notes people who'd been there longer had written. I tried to make sense of them. Not sure how well it worked. It really did run on dream-logic, which is an advantage we have here."

"When our advantages include 'at least reality more or less functions in a straight line,' you know it's bad." This he observes with dry amusement, only a little outwardly bleak. "I'm curious how far the resemblance runs, actually. They say this world was remade by the dream, however unintentionally. Hard for me to tell what's a scar on reality from the wound of the dream, and what's..."

He gestures, broadly, to the books on squid.

"... whatever the Pthumerians brought by showing up after. Might help to figure out where each influence begins and ends. It could give us some clues about those motives."

[ Again: this sounds like an easily fixable problem?? Just make a decree like The Emperor Our God finds it pleasing to shove and be shoved, and then boom, problem solved. ]

I think. [ Gideon says, slowly, because does he really need this pointed out to him? Probably not. ] People tend to get out of the way of skeletons because they're spooky as hell. Like, look at us. We look horrible.

[ That's just facts! Between the shoving and God's sense of direction, it's not too hard to make their way over to one of the food tents. Gideon's still not exactly sure what these are called, so: ] Two, please.

I will give you spooky, [ he agrees, ] which is not the same as horrible. There is plenty of horrible in necromancy, and it mostly involves turning things inside-out.

[ There is a pause as she orders their food. He does step up to offer payment in the form of a shiny rock, because he finds it funny every time. Also because people keep pressing these into his hands when he plays healer, and no amount of Oh, I couldn't possibly will pay for hot dogs.

Once they've been handed their food, he continues: ]

And yes, there's an element of that in skeletons, but they're really very clean about it. I've always been fond.

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02 . december catch-all

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slaps a wrapped bow on this thread

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to see the marching band

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