Running With My Roots Pulled Up [L Lawliet, OTA]

[hearthebell]

Who: Lazarus Sauveterre (L Lawliet) and open to old and new CR alike
What: Catchall for January! Come see the worst Night Walker in Trench before he gets fired. Watch him publicly shed into a version of himself so hot he could only exist in fan art. Dream with the newly articulated Adonis at the bloodstone in Cassandra, huddle with the handsome hunk at the Snake Den, and aid the temporarily chiseled Chad in fending off Unsnakely. Wildcard option available for those who received all of this, yet still somehow desire more!
When: Flexibly throughout January. Prompt A occurs prior to his shedding, everything else occurs following it (wildcard may occur whenever.)
Where: Respectively, in order of prompts: Cellar Door, Lumenwood, Cassandra, the Snake Den, the Canals in the Willful Machine.

Content Warnings: Most of these are in PROMPT B, aka the Shedding prompt. Skin peeling off, a seizure, blood, bones breaking, vomiting. For PROMPT D at the Snake Den, be aware of some alcohol use and slight intoxication. If anything comes up in tags later I will update these warnings!




A. Working Fingers to the Bone [Cellar Door]

[There was a sort of gentle simplicity in knowing what one would be doing for his entire life from the age of five. It wasn't predetermined, perhaps, but it was preset. A bargain and a promise that he would be protected, and never bored, and therefore that he wouldn't ever want for anything.

He eventually became bored. Chasing it meant he was no longer protected, and at twenty-five years old, that life was no longer his. His new one begs for a source of dopamine that collecting shiny rocks and trading them cannot provide, a lever he can press for the reward of stimulation and a sense of success. The only problem is that none of the primary jobs available to Sleepers are anything he's remotely experienced in. None of them translate to his absolutely unique resume. There was nothing for it but to pick a direction and forge ahead. He was a Paleblood, good at reading people, interested in what they reveal about themselves, a highly intelligent puzzle and problem-solver. Knowing in his heart that he would never truly be anything but a detective, he opted for the title that promised, at least, a never-ending source of intel from the citizens of Trench and other Sleepers, alike. A jackpot, to a man who tended to think about how his service could benefit his whims and appetites, foremost.

You may be at this establishment in Cellar Door to drop off a delivery, or fix something, or to see a Night Walker yourself. Maybe you work here already, or you're job hunting; maybe it's something else entirely. Behind one of the closed doors down the hallway extending from a gently-lit lobby, the atmosphere of tranquil, edifying peace and healing is disrupted by a raised voice, shouting indistinct but very colorful insults. Something smashes and breaks and the door is flung open by a furious middle-aged Trenchie woman. She storms past you on stout legs.

"Never coming back here," she spits at the glum and drooping receptionist on the way out. "I came to see a Night Walker, not a beast!" Trembling, she sniffles, stridently wipes her damp and angry eyes with the sleeve of her dress, and slams the door on her way out.

"Not to worry," the young man behind the receptionist's desk sighs, addressing you. "This is normal. Now. Uh, how can I help you?"]

B. Somebody That Reminded Them of Me [Lumenwood] [CW: Skin peeling off, seizure, bones breaking, vomiting, blood]

[Given his general apathy towards taking care of himself, L seldom comes to Lumenwood, though it would probably benefit him to at least inquire about a vitamin poultice or a sleeping draught. Anyone seeing him today probably understands at a glance why he's finally shown his face in this district; his dry, flaky, peeling face that he has practically scratched raw. Hollow-eyed and haggard, he's at an apothecary shop, scratching at the back of a similarly alarming hand with his uneven, chewed-down nails, speaking in a hurried mumble about how he has incense to trade, he just needs something to keep his skin from drying out further. His omen, an orca whale shrunken to the size of a golden retriever, seems equally agitated, wriggling back and forth beside him before zipping around the room as though trying to shake off parasites making her itch. The suggestion of lotion gets a chuff of frustrated disbelief from her Sleeper, so miserable he hardly believes that it was a serious offer instead of something stronger, medicated or magical. He's halfway through trying to speak a little louder while staying calm, slow and tempered, to ask if anything else at all can be done for his condition, when right in front of you, his back breaks.

His spine is noticeably curved when he stands, taking inches off his height and bending his posture forward. Now, the vertebrae are in pieces under his skin and clothes, and with nothing to support his spinal cord, he's on the ground in seconds, collapsed and seizing. The apothecary shrieks and unties her apron, hurrying out from behind the counter to stuff the corner in his mouth, but the jerking limbs and sickening crunch of bones cracking and sliding around audibly has her clapping a hand to her mouth and sprinting to the shop's washroom past his flailing and thrashing omen to vomit.

The transformation is violent enough that L's shed husk comes away in crepey pieces, trapped under his clothes along with no small amount of sweat and blood. His unconsciousness is a mercy for him, but probably not for you; his torso twists with such force that his shirt tears along the seam in back, and it's possible to see that the bones are aligning and piecing back together, fusing straight and strong. The shirt doesn't actually fit him anymore, too small to button around a toned and well-muscled upper body.; it hangs in tatters, along with pants that are somewhat less useless, now that they actually fit instead of hanging precariously low on his hips. When all those bones were popping and sliding, it happened in his face, too; his jaw is strong and chiseled where it was delicate and childish before, his nose is stately and straight, his undereyes no longer carry the bags of thousands of sleepless nights. When he finally comes to rest in the sticky, stringy mess made by his shedding, panting in torn and bloody garments and spent from the transformation, he is still recognizable as the man who came into this shop... just as if he had won the genetic lottery, instead of lost it.

He wakes blearily and sits, the movement seeming graceful and aristocratic in spite of what just happened while he was unconscious and the discomfort of the bits of husk and grime clinging to his beautiful bone structure and smooth, porcelain skin. "You won't be needing that lotion now, love," the apothecary says, hoarse from her stomach's unheaval but gentle as she unhooks a mop and bucket.

When L speaks, he sounds stunned as the orca omen drifts over, settles her overtaxed head into his lap.]

I don't need anything... nothing hurts.

[He's overcome, drawing his arms closer towards a solid and unfamiliar chest. He doesn't remember the last time that was true.

He startles when he sees you.]

How long have you been here? What happened?

C. Building Castles Out of Snow [Cassandra]

[After he'd gotten cleaned up and acquired some fresh garments that fit his new body well, L had spent hours relearning it, staring at it in the mirror, trying to make it feel as though it wasn't a stranger. He'd gotten his fill, but ultimately failed; it still feels like a stranger, and now, he actually avoids mirrors, looking instead at the sleek and powerful orca omen at his side that has not changed. It stands to reason, therefore, that he hasn't, either, in any real way.

His grooming has not improved, but the habits that pared him to bone, dulled his skin and bent his back take some time to do that level of damage. They're effectively starting over on something strong and healthy; even his fingernails, he'd noticed, were resilient and smooth for possibly the first time ever, and he fumbles as he handles things, at first, as a result. But the most astonishing and drastic change is, no contest, the way he's regarded by women and men alike. He's used to slipping by as a presence that people would rather not engage with, because he is an uncomfortable presence, a cause for pity or distrust or concern. If he's poor, he might want money. If he's crazy, he might try to hurt me. If he's sick, I might catch it. Now he's approached, offered samples from market carts, and smiled at by children who are not immediately yanked away by their mothers.

This, he realizes, must be what it's like for Light Yagami to live his life, every day. Maybe that's the real reason he has been avoiding mirrors.

He's in Cassandra today looking for something real, and true, deeper than the flesh that has turned him into a stranger to himself. He descends the stairs below the Pale Sanctuary, shaggy head bent to hide his features and avoid more attention, his orca omen shrunken to the size of a bracelet so she can swim tiny, tight circles around his wrist. A strong sleeping draught is in his backpack, because he struggles to sleep on demand, but he's here to do just that.

He notices you. Maybe you're acquainted; it'll be easier if you are. If you're not, he relies on the halo effect of his much prettier face, thinking of it as a mask.]

I'm here to dream. Do you know... will a sleeping potion spoil or taint the results?

D. Lowercase Society [Snake Den] [CW: Alcohol use]

[Many factors have contributed to L's appearance at the Snake Den tonight. He'd touched the poster; he has a suit to wear that is somehow as plain and as comfortable as he likes his clothes while still being avant-garde stylish. For the first time in his life he is handsome, and he'd surprised himself by actually wanting to come.

As he's started to get used to his new physique, he's grown to accept it by treating it like a costume. He was born unattractive, and always known and resigned himself to it. He'd heard "ugly" as a child enough times. He hadn't pursued men or women romantically because it would be selfish and irresponsible... but also, maybe just a bit, because a part of him knew he'd be called gross and creepy. He hadn't brushed his hair, or eaten healthily, or slept when he should have, because no one saw him; no one spoke to him in person or called him anything, except for an old man who was already as impressed as he needed to be. What would the point have been?

The tables are crowded. He sits across from you at one of them, drinking something that looks like it's more chocolate than booze. Assuredly, it contains both, because there's an overbright chemical cheer to the way he addresses you.]

Hi!

[Very overbright and chemical. Not a habitual drinker, L is still something of a lightweight even after gaining thirty or so healthy pounds. His omen, a female orca whale, floats beside his chair, turning upside down with a sort of playful laziness.]

Are you enjoying the show? I thought about competing... but no one wants to see someone tie a knot in a cherry stem onstage with their tongue.

[A pause.]

Do you? Want to see it, I mean. You're close enough to see.

[He plucks a pair of maraschino cherries, attached at the stems, out of his drink. He's serious.]

E. Dragging My Roots Through the Snow [Canals, The Willful Machine]

[It's getting exhausting, but handsome as he is now and not as immediately recognizable as himself, L persists in continuing his staggered pattern of moving house every few days to a pre-scouted location. Usually it's an abandoned house or apartment; sometimes, on nights he wants a warm meal and a hot bath prepared by someone else, a hotel. In an attempt to gain at least a tourist's familiarity with all of the districts, he's rotating them right along with his residences, and with his meager belongings in his lap and his orca omen swimming behind him at her full size, he's shivering in the back of a boat that is ferrying him along a canal to his new, and very temporary, accommodations in The Willful Machine.

"Mean ice chunks we get this time of year," comments the boatman, as one of the floats bumps against the small craft's hull.]

Oh...

[L nods, awkward, the small talk coming unnaturally to him.]

Is it ever dangerous?

["The incense helps ward beasties," the boatman says, gnawing the end of his cigar. "Otherwise the current breaks the ice floats up well enough, only thing dangerous is the bloody water if you fill your cup up and drink." He looks over his shoulder to offer L a tobacco-stained grin, but his face quickly drains from rosy to blanched white.

L turns, beginning to stand instinctively when he sees what's spooked the boatman so. He sits again, quickly, when the balance shifts and the boat rocks wildly and his omen breaches and keens a warning. The boatman has leapt out of the craft, desperately swimming through the filthy water in an attempt to escape.

It's clear, at least, why this part of the canal system is not frozen when some of the water splashes overboard. It's actually warm, an effect of the waves of heat rolling off the large Unsnakely leering from the ledge above the boat.]

F. I'm Rootless (WILDCARD)

[I worked so hard on these prompts! My poor tippy-tapping typing fingers...! But your happiness matters more. Throw me a prompt of your own!]

Comments

3

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul looks at the man through the light half-veil over his eyes that hangs from the hood of his loose cream-colored robe, and then he pushes back the hood and veil to look a second time. He doesn't bother to hide his surprise, eyebrows raised towards his dark tousled hair.

But then his eyes fall to the Omen circling Lazarus' wrist, and he shifts to the same gleaming-eyed interest he showed the last time they met. A cetacean; he wonders what that means.]

You found your Omen. [He half-smiles, lifting his gaze.] It depends on the blend of the potion, but unless it's designed to prevent dreams, it won't do much here. Even ones for that purpose don't always work in the Sanctuary.

[He knows this because, as of recently, he serves here as a Disciple from time to time. It's not the only change, though his is more subtle: some sleep, a little impromptu surgery performed by a friend, and a slowly growing sense of belonging have revitalized him. There's also how he holds himself with solemn poise, raising his hood once more to obscure his eyes in a ceremonious gesture.

It's too polished not to be an affectation. Paul is playing at priest as much as he's actually doing it, and doing so with a sly, nearly imperceptible irony.]

So, you've come to seek knowledge under the tree?

[hearthebell]

[Irreverent to the point of being heretical, at times, it didn't occur to L to ask for a robe himself, or dress for this occasion. He's not a man of faith; if his people were, back when he had kin and family, perhaps there were traditions, but they're lost, like so much sand in the sea.

Now that the gods walk among them and he's seen and even created what anyone in his world would consider miracles, is faith even needed, or just an observer's acknowledgment that it's real?]

It took long enough, didn't it? Her name is Lycka.

[He's grateful to turn his attention to the tiny whale, who seems intent on catching her own tail. Were his wrist the same as it was, she might succeed, her length winding easily around the bones, but L has shed to become more substantial overall, in flesh, muscle, and bone. Additionally, an effect he had only been able to articulate later was that it made him look more grown-up, and actually his age. Usually, his narrow, light bones and big eyes make him easy to mistake for someone in his late teens; he's actually in his mid-twenties, and seems to have filled out accordingly since the ceremony. The contrast between him and someone who is in fact a teenager is far starker now than it was when they met for the first time in the woods.]

I've come to seek... truth.

[Whether that means knowledge or not, he leaves ambiguous. He's rootless in Trench, newly and disgracefully jobless, and he neither looks or feels like himself. He can't even be sure that he's thinking like himself, and that's usually his north star.

Lycka's the same, though. Lycka assures him that at least something is reliable, after he literally split out of his old, shabby skin like a chrysalis.

He's satisfied with his answer about the potion, uncapping it and taking a sip. He'd requested a honeyed one so it would go down smooth, nestle him into his dreams with a bit of sweetness on his tongue.]

Are you here to help, or to seek?

[terriblepurpose]

[Seeing known mannerisms refracted in such a transformed body would be worth study on all its own. As ever, Paul's frustration is with the overwhelming choice of what knowledge he could pursue, and the constraints of time that prevent him from being able to make every choice yes. It's something of a relief when Lazarus closes off a wide wing of questions for now by sipping his sleeping draught.

The course is set. Paul folds his hands inside the sleeves of his robe in front of him, inclining his head to the left, towards one of the sleeper's alcoves framed by the many contorting statues of the Patrons. The entrance to this one in particular is framed by Argonaut, wings outstretched, and the ever-fixed shape of the Doorway, and Paul doesn't chose it idly.]

'Two sides of a coin, spinning.' To help others seek truth will guide you to your own.

[When he first began, Paul wasn't sure if he would be able to convince anyone to accept him as a supplicant, but instead...instead he's found slipping into the role of mystic simple, nearly effortless. A priest of a faith with tangible, present gods is not required to have faith, only respect, and Paul confines his impertinence to a register that he doubts almost anyone but Lazarus would even recognize. He is here to help and seek truth, and if it's for his own reasons, who does anything for any other reason than that?]

She suits you. Cetaceans are known for their intelligence.

[He drops the pretense of mysticism as soon as they're in the alcove, if Lazarus chooses to follow him there. It's a lightly shielded space, partially open to the rest of the Sanctuary, but acoustically shaped in such a way that it's quieter inside all the same. There are a few thin bedrolls on the floor, and a variety of blankets and pillows stacked on shelves above them.]

That's not the only change, is it?

[Obviously. But he'd rather hear what Lazarus about it than insert his own opinion just yet.]

[hearthebell]

She's been a good friend.

[A big deal, to someone who embodies paradox and conflict. For a significant amount of time, he'd treated his own omen with distrust and dread, convinced that his own self-destructive tendencies would turn on him and devour him. Yet here he stands, taking neurotic little sips of potion, waiting for the drowsiness to kick in, resolving not to follow his nature and fight it.]

It's... not.

[The draught is a mercy for both of them. L has never been ashamed of the way he looks, he's never felt like it should matter, but it does, doesn't it, when one has to live in the world? He's reminded of it every time he encounters someone and they're kind, and trusting, immediately.

Now, he actually has to earn their discomfort with his personality, and even that's harder. Everyone assumes the best of intentions when they're speaking to a lovely face, whether or not it's deserved.]

It's different. Better... I think I hate it.

[His words are starting to slur. He rubs at an eye with the heel of his hand, picking a bedroll and untying it to lay out. He resembles himself a little more when his strong, straight back curves to accommodate the act.]

People are kinder, but hardly anything is real.

[He doesn't say it, but the inference can be made: he practically sprinted here.]

f, sorta

[forwantofahorse]

[When the unbearable, human brightness and the pressure of his new self become too much, L is always welcome to retreat to a dark, quiet corner of the Snake Den to recover and shake everything off.

Unfortunately for him, this particular dark corner is already occupied by someone who's also feeling miserable. Sayo's practically buried in her hoodie as she glares out at the dancing throng of happy people, barely noticing L at first.

However, when he finally does register, she snorts and says,] I'm pretty sure coming here was the worst decision of my life. Aside from all the other worst decisions.

[She hates how social this place is making her.]

[hearthebell]

[It's been harrowing, truly. L feels like a laptop that's running too many programs, overheating, and his steps carry him away from the dancing and noise towards a wall. It's the closest thing to a refuge in here; he could just leave the party, of course, but in spite of everything? Absurdly, he doesn't actually want to leave.

He reaches back and outward, his intent to rest a hand on the wall behind him for some sensory grounding. It meets instead with the soft cotton of a hoodie, and he recoils at the unexpected stimulus.

Just another person, just a girl, probably here for the same reason he is. She doesn't seem particularly social, or like she's having a particularly good time. Seems like common ground has already been established.]

I wonder how much of a decision it truly was. If it's not like you, it's right to treat it as suspect.

[forwantofahorse]

Generosity is only generous as long as you're capable of saying no. It's just another shackle if you can't.

[Sayo pauses for a few moments, eyebrow raised, then cackles at herself.]

God, that sounded so fucking pretentious.

...I'm using that word right, right? "Fucking?" I'm not used to swearing in English.

[Translation magic, while deeply appreciated and just as deeply fascinating, occasionally results in hiccups like this.]

I'm in the mood to wax eloquent, though. Which is weird, considering that being in a place like this should take all that out of me. Normally, I wouldn't even be talking this much while I'm like... this, yet...

[This doesn't fit with any of her selves, not even Beatrice. All the lights and the sounds and the music should be exhausting her, but instead there's a magnetic pull tempting her to waltz right back in and get to waltzing. It's unnatural.]

...I hate it here, I think. But I don't want to leave. Which only makes me hate it more.

[hearthebell]

[L cants his shaggy head. No matter how much he sleeps on his hair since shedding, or musses it up, it somehow always looks deliberate and styled. Maybe the perfect bone structure is what does it.

A disgustingly adept polyglot, L nods.]

If you want to swear... in English... it came through.

[It would sound stranger by a league if he tried, for different reasons. He just isn't in the habit of using profanity at all.]

I'm in the mood to listen, if it helps.

[Also weird. He has no reason to believe she knows something he can use to good effect, that this time can't be better spent elsewhere.]

So long as it's just one person "waxing eloquent," and not an entire original play, which I understand is next on the talent program.

D

[enblightened]

[How bold a stranger is to approach and sit across from him! Not that he particularly minds, but Bigby is a bit startled to see the man, his brows raised and face confused. His own omen, a black wolf, is curled up at his feet. In his hands, he has a glass of wine, half-finished.

It takes a bit for him to feel intoxicated, but he's gradually making it there. Still, he's certain he must have heard this man wrong.]

I-- pardon, you can do what with cherries?

[hearthebell]

[Bold by tenfold when one considers it in relative terms. Coming out to a crowded club of his own free will is strange for L, to the point of absurdity, but he's hardly the only one defying his nature for Madam Generosity's gift.

The alcohol, admittedly, helps. He's simultaneously himself and not, complete with a much prettier version of his face.]

You've never seen it?

[His eyes, proportioned as though they calculated their size and position meticulously using the golden ratio, widen in amusement and disbelief.]

A knot, in the stem. With my tongue. It's my great talent, if you want to see...

[He rests a cheek against the palm of his hand, holding the cocktail-drowned cherries delicately and eating them one by one.]

Before you answer, you should know that it's probably more impressive than the unicycling torch-juggler, two acts ago.

[enblightened]

More impressive, you say.

[Honestly, he isn't certain how that is possible, but then it is a talent he's completely blind to. Perhaps it is, or this is a drunk man's foolhardy confidence influenced by drink.

Well. Nonetheless, who is he to deny it?]

Very well. I should like to see your talent, sir.

[hearthebell]

It's subjective, of course, but the dexterity and precision required really cannot be overstated.

[He's either serious, or that's a hell of a poker face in the service of playing the long game for the sake of a punchline.

It doesn't take long to figure out that L is really not the stand-up comic type. His weirdness is authentic, and to his credit, typically something he's decent about owning.

Dark grey eyes meet Bigby's green ones. He chews and swallows the cherries, following them with one of the stems. He rolls it around in his mouth for around twelve seconds before removing it, knotted, and triumphantly setting it on the table between them with all the smugness of a child who has just seen and executed a clever move in a game of checkers.]

A

[subject_013]

[Someone might chuckle in their throat at the entire performance, a tall, blond gentleman dressed entirely in black, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. Perhaps L has a distant memory of a calm, stoical Sleeper on the shore, who'd carried him to the edge of the icy water and beyond.]

He's not my type, but his Blood might be.

[He's smirking hard, trying not to laugh out loud at the angry ex-client. If he was an energy feeder the outburst would have produced a delightful if rich meal. He turns to the receptionist.]

I think I'll take his services, if he's up for a donation - and some conversation.

[hearthebell]

["Huh. Mm. Fuck... You know, uh, I never know what he's gonna do, so uh." The receptionist clears his throat, tapping the end of his pen rapidly and anxiously against the sign-in clipboard.

"Are you sure," he asks, slowly and quietly, "that you wouldn't like literally anyone else? He doesn't really do blood donation, so much, he's..." Awkwardly, he pantomimes with his arms, something that might earn an answer like "menacing hunchback chimpanzee" in a game of charades.

"Do it." An older woman, presumably the manager, sweeps behind the desk and signs in Wesker briskly. "A medical leave would mean we could focus on damage control for at least a week." She straightens. "Come with me; there are fifty minutes left to this hour-long appointment."

Implying, of course, that this particular Night Walker works impressively quickly.

"Mr. Sauveterre? Client," she says, with the air of someone who strongly dislikes a person but must remain outwardly polite toward him. A menacing hunchback chimpanzee-looking man, all angles and eyes, is using his foot to nudge bits of a broken vase against the wall. "Donation," she adds shortly, before adding "you'll need the larger phials" and closing the door on her way out.

L starts speaking before glancing up.]

If you witnessed that scene, you should know that she was cheating on the person she was cheating with. A blind neighbor three doors down would know, and in fact had a lot to sa--

[He glances up, now, and looks startled when he sees Wesker.]

...oh.

((I totally dropped the ball on this one. I have had a weird month >.<))

[subject_013]

A pint phial will do: I'm not a glutton.

[The voice of the tall man is patrician, with a British accent, and L might recognize it as the voice of the gracious and psychopomp-like Doctor Winters. He's trying not to smirk at the absurdity of the situation, but there's a hint of a knowing recognition in that expression.]

It was a little hard to miss the commotion. However, nothing wrong in some theatre of the absurd.

[More serious, but still knowing, he continues.]

We meet again, in completely different circumstances. I didn't mark you as a potential Night Walker, but there again, not all of them specialize in certain intimacies.

((I'm just glad it's not dropped, because I love it! Hope things are better now <3 ))

[hearthebell]

[A pint phial, in fairness, looks like it's a good part of this willowy man's volume. Still, he recognizes the voice; it's impossible for him not to, since he retains memories from his first time on these shores in which Wesker was a good deal of help to him, when he just wasn't ready.

At least, then. Is he ready now? He's already straightening, his typical blasé expression replaced with something sharper and more wary.]

It is "again," then. I'd thought so; I'm glad I have a chance to thank you for your help.

[He blinks, seeming legitimately clueless... but in spite of being youthfully convincing, it could absolutely be an act.]

What "certain intimacies" do you mean?

[He's not joking. Maybe if he were better-looking, that would be an accurate impression... but this one is virginal, pure as the driven snow. It's unlikely that anyone has even asked him for that service.]

C

[droptheious]

[Cassandra is Varian's home district, for better or worse. As a diligent scientist, the magical-mumbo-jumbo capital of Trench is not the most comforting of places to live and he definitely wouldn't have chosen it himself, but this is where his home from Deerington wound up, so this is where he lives. He imagines it was a last parting show of amusement from Julia. The name of the district and the connection it had to him probably amused her, too.

He's still recovering from his corruption, and his home is only a short way from the pale sanctuary. Normally he wouldn't step foot in this place, he's not comfortable with putting much into blind faith, but it's supposed to help heal a corrupted mind, so he's giving it a shot. Hoping it will help rather than hurt. The last thing he wants is to backslide. His skin is a little grey-tinged, the last remnants of his corruption when he turns to whoever has spoken to him.

...Yeesh this guy doesn't look great. He blinks. At least the way the guy speaks it makes it sound like a science experiment and that's something he can definitely great behind. ]

Um. I'm not sure really. The sleep tonics I have usually put you out pretty well. I've never tried to sleep here though. Have you tried it in a neutral environment? Like a control experiment first?

[hearthebell]

[L, himself, has tried living in Cassandra. He moves around so much that he's sampled residence in most of the districts, settling nowhere, gaining a recurrent traveler's familiarity with all of them if never quite a local's expertise. While it isn't his least favorite district, likely because his own Paleblooded nature resonates with it, but much like Varian, his nature somewhat contradicts it. He likes process, evidence, and proof; he would prefer the pieces of a puzzle to put together, rather than a perfectly fused picture of what is to come. Probably the reason his gift is not of prophecy, but of interpretation.

The contrast between them gives L some insight into what others usually think of him, on first impression. Grey-tinged skin; the stranger looks like he's
been ill, perhaps more so against his own attractive, healthy glow that no amount of scruffiness can really mar. If anything, L only looks like a rockstar doing it on purpose instead of some wan and scruffy specter.]

Right... you're here for healing, not for a vision.

[He tries not to sound like he pities the guy, he really does, but his affectation is so very flat and monotone that it can be difficult to tell his intent when he speaks.]

I use them habitually, and don't notice an effect in a neutral environment. It's my first visit to this place, though, and I've also never tried to sleep here. It's unwise to leap into trial and error without at least a working hypothesis, in my experience.

[droptheious]

[Varian eyes the (possibly too perfectly) scruffy stranger, before smiling tiredly.]

Giving it a try, anyway. I'm not usually one for all this...mumbo jumbo.

[But he had turned into a monster. He'd learned he can't discount anything in helping him get back to normal. As much as he doesn't like it.

The guy speaks though and it does make his smile wider, more honestly.]

Someone after my own heart. Well, if you need help with that, I'll do what I can. It's...something to focus on at least, and I can deal with the scientific process.

[It's a nice, solid familiarity for him.]

a!!! son what have you done

[asas]

[ shōyō has become a bit of a nomad when it came to becoming a nightwalker. he did what he enjoyed doing, at least (socializing), although it wasn’t all the time he was doing something he loved (sports; more specifically, volleyball, but at this point he’s fishing for crumbs). most of the women or men who came in were fairly . . . touchy, but shōyō would easily get around that offering other much needed services.

(he wasn’t experienced on that front, but he did know how to have fun, talk, and raise someone’s spirits, that if shōyō’s energy wasn’t too much, frequently said to match staying out in the sun for too long).

he was just coming back from grabbing lunch for the other workers when he bounces out of the way of the woman storming off, with only one man at the counter— oh, oh?! shōyō doesn’t waste time in bounding over with his arms full of wrapped bags of food, nearly shoving them onto the receptionist to be able to scramble back with alarm, and hush, loudly: ]

Lazaro, Lazaro— She said there’s a beast in here.

[ shōyō subtly (but also not so subtly) lifts the side of his shirt to expose the hilt of a coldblood-charged dagger (as told to get!!), designed with a saw-tooth edge of obsidian and a white-ice handle. all of shōyō’s body language says he isn’t ready for stabbing beasts, no matter how quick he is to silently ask “should I—?!”, and really— what he should be doing is putting the thought of whipping out a knife at any signal of possible danger to rest. ]

[hearthebell]

[Suffice it to say that the two young men may have chosen a similar career path, but could not have managed more disparate and contrasting results, with personalities and energy that are not equally compatible with the emotionally demanding job.

The receptionist looks completely cowed; he just waves Shōyō through with the air of someone who doesn't even have the energy left for a basic friendly greeting (and, alas, it is only lunchtime.) He stares at the bundle of food, trying to gather up the motivation to lay it out and make it look nice; for now, at least, the wrapped meals remain in their bags and piles.

Back in L's office, he startles at Shōyō's sudden entrance; a piece of broken vase crunches under his foot, which he's using to try to secrete the bits and fragments away into the room's edges and corners.]

Shōyō...!

[His greeting matches the amount of energy, even if it's on a different sort of wavelength. Instead of preparing for a battle with a beast, L's confrontation has ended, leaving him with mixed feelings that are, mostly, dissatisfied.]

Oh, well. There was. It's gone, now.

[From his perspective, the client is always the beast, subject to study and scrutiny and, of course, judgment where it's due.]

I'm glad you got your Coldblood weapon, but... really, it's OK.

[The only thing in danger is his job security.]

[asas]

[ shōyō would probably seem happier to have gotten an honorary L(azarus) greeting, with a touch and flare that only Lazarus can provide and truly nothing short of energetic in his own spindly way, but— things have happened, and he needs to know!! terribly!! what those deets are!

he’ll put his shirt back over his knife with a winded expression that could only mean he’s pushing out a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t actually have to use it. but, more importantly, the athlete pushes his weight to his toes in a slight but curious lean: ]

It must’ve been a fast one! [ granted he’s never actually seen a monster up close, yet. luckily. oh, the mess— he sees it. ] What happened?

B .... C:

[unsheathedfromreality]

[It was the sound of shattering bone that caught Illarion's attention--and once it had, there was no dragging the shrike away from the violent spectacle of Lazarus' transformation.

He'd recognized his erstwhile scavenging companion by voice and ((shape)) when he came through the door, but--after a moment's reflection--deemed the poor human's current state an apothecary's to fix. (If there were any fixing it.) He'd straightway gone back to contemplating which oils might be the mildest to burn around a particularly sensitive nose--

And then the commotion started, played off by a note all-too-sweetly familiar for one of the Unearthed. He lifted his head; he set down the little bottle of lavender essence he'd been holding, and stepped from the cover of the shelves to observe without so much interfering mass in the way. He was far enough out of the way of both thrashing Omen and distressed shopkeep he hadn't needed to move for either one in their separate agonies. Just as well for him and the absolute predatory focus he'd fallen into, trying to catch every detail he could without recourse to sight. (Without recourse until his own Omen invoked herself and settled onto his Hunter's hat to stare at the proceedings with unblinking eyes.)

It didn't even occur to him to help. It will be to his later shame to know that's only half because he recognized what was happening from the jump and knew it not fatal.

Unsurprisingly, it takes him a little while to realize it's ended and stir from his corpse-still contemplation to respond to the question put to him.]

Since it began. [There's no point in lying when the apothecary herself surely saw him standing there, when--from the discomfited glance Iskierka sees her throw him, the uptick in her heartbeat--she's passing her own judgment on his inaction.] You have shed yourself.

Congratulations. And perhaps, condolences. [It's not sarcastic but there's also distinctly odd note in the shrike's echoing tone; to shed oneself was a death of that self, however temporary.] Are you remembering me? Or who you were?

[hearthebell]

[The man's eyes are wide, but not out of proportion with the rest of his face. There's a balance and symmetry to the pretty corrections of the man's previously clashing features, and though he's wet with sweat and blood and his husk sticks to him like a sort of gruesome caul, every part of him has been adjusted, is objectively healthier, more serviceable, and just generally better.

He shivers; his clothes are both wet and torn. What was baggy on him before is tight on muscles he could never have cultivated with his diet.]

That long...?

[His unconscious state through most of the shedding gives him an uneasy notion of time's passage. It could have been minutes or hours. His omen circles back cautiously, nudging him with rough affection; she, at least, is the same, so L supposes this is all superficial, if jarring and unsettling.]

...Moonsight.

[He does remember. He peels away the old skin, disgusted and disquieted. Unlike the apothecary, he at least doesn't look to be in danger of being sick.

He's never looked healthier.]

"Congratulations?"

[Disbelieving, but he rolls his shoulders, circles his neck, marvels at how easy and smooth the movements are. Maybe congratulations are in order, however traumatic the process.

Satisfied that her handsome Sleeper is still her Sleeper, Lycka investigates Illarion's omen, hovering at the undead elf's eye level, while L starts to stand. He's amazed at how easy and painless that is, as well.]

How widespread is this phenomenon?

[unsheathedfromreality]

Minutes, perhaps. No more. [He's intimately familiar with the uneasy feeling of lost time, of how long slipped away without me noticing? Whether due to a lapse of consciousness or an altered state thereof, it never failed to disconcert.

It's reflexive to offer a remedy for that small discomfort. Even if he is liable by his own nature, and curiosity, to provoke more as the conversation goes on.

Or perhaps not. Lazarus is a creature often at odds with the world in his own right, even if he no longer looks it.]

Lazarus, [he acknowledges, name-for-name, and offers out a hand to help the other Sleeper up. It's scarcely necessary, but it is another little gesture to cover over his own lapse in living-like sociability.

Iskierka leans forward as Lycka peers at her, returning the orca's regard. It doesn't last long; at some unspoken command, or perhaps simply the scent of clinging blood and sweat, she drops off her Sleeper's hat and flits for the bathroom. If there are towels there, she'll find one.] Congratulations, that your new form is a healthier one, and well-favored.

[Nothing hurts, he'd said in the initial daze. That, too, was something Illarion was sadly familiar with.]

As yet? You are the first I have directly witnessed, though other Sleepers here and there have begun to change their shapes. There will be many more as the month wears on. [His expression is briefly a smile with a hint of fangs.] And our less cautious ones do not heed advice to take care of their itching skin.

Come. [He'll beckon once Lazarus is on his feet again, aiming to bring the other Sleeper further toward the door of the shop. Part to move him out of the apothecary's way, so she might more easily clean up the mess; part to observe how this change manifests in the small habits of the other Sleeper's body. The mind may be the same, but the body clearly remembers being a far more graceful creature, and that is fascinating.

Would Lazarus revert to type, over time, even if his body did not? Or would that newfound grace persist?]