02 . december catch-all

[necrolord]

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! ]

Comments

[necrolord]

He notes the barely-there wince, and the continuance despite it. The light in Paul's eyes gets him to crook a smile.

"Sea serpents don't worry me," he says, as though mulling it over, "and I have hands to spare."

Puppets; corpses. They're limited by his knowledge of the sea, which amounts to very little. It would have been smarter to snag the souls with the bodies, but he'd been in, admittedly, a bit of a mood when he'd arrived.

He also has the gaggle of over-serious teenagers, which now apparently includes one more.

"I could use a navigator."

[terriblepurpose]

Paul and Sophia rarely use anything so crude as words in their seamless flurry of unspoken communication; when he speaks aloud to her, it's a game. So when he knows whispers into Paul's mind, it gives him pause. His hand flattens on the table.

Maybe he does, Paul thinks. Maybe this is Paul's purpose, here, the reason for his dreams, the path he may step on to see them in his waking hours. He has been lost. Is it so wrong to want to be found?

"If you find no one better suited," Paul says, by way of yes, terribly casual and calm, "I'd like to see some of these waves myself."

[necrolord]

He sees the stumble, the flare of tension. He sees that it doesn't stop him offering.

The God of Necromancers smiles to him then, slow and considering, and he tips his head in a nod.

"Glad to hear it." He clasps his hands together, openly pleased. "I'll do some looking into the logistics and reach out. No time like the present."

[terriblepurpose]

Paul breathes out more slowly than he would have otherwise, a sigh that isn't a sigh. The delicacy of the moment eases for him, some of his rising urgency quelled for now.

He still can't be sure what the other is thinking, behind that pleased expression, but he's made larger decisions on less information than this. You make do with what you have at hand.

"So it's settled. If there's nothing else, I should leave you to the work," Paul says, making to rise. He's still not going to ask for a name, or how and when the other will reach out. If he is any of the things Paul suspects he is, Paul's sure he has his ways.

[necrolord]

He could volunteer an introduction, certainly, but at this stage it might only sidetrack them. It's not an opportune time to spook the boy. He seems to have a funny hit-or-miss record; half his acquaintances balk at the title, openly alarmed, while the other half only go closed and curious. At least on the boat, there may be a measure of reassurance in his authority.

When he settles back into his chair beside his stack of books, it's clearly a dismissal.

"Good to meet you, Paul. I'll be in touch."