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

[hearthebell]

I can appreciate a good sport.

[For all that he hates to lose, he likes to think that he abides by rules and codes. Even with Kira, by the rules informally outlined between the combatants, he hadn't cheated, which is probably why he'd lost.]

Do you pose this puzzle to others often at parties? It seems like you've done it before, that is... it's as though there's a sort of ceremony or script to it.

[forwantofahorse]

One more warning, though: if I have presented to you a critical mass of clues needed to resolve what may be construed as a trick of the wording, I will be fully within my rights to present such a puzzle to you within this iteration of the game. I guarantee that for any wording tricks that I employ, I have given you a sufficient number of clues to solve them without the need to interrogate me for more red or poke and prod at the statement until it's more satisfactory.

[At L's question, she exhales, looking up at the ceiling. She's played this game many, many times, she supposes—after a fashion.]

...this may seem odd, but... I haven't played this game with anybody in real life.

But I have written scores of this kind of exchange. The "red truth" was originally literally red text inscribed in my scripts. Having to hold up a card for it is a little ungainly, in my opinion.

[hearthebell]

[He nods his shaggy, but still very cool and intentionally messy-looking, head, staring at the notebook as she speaks.]

Understood... no rule is silly or tedious to me so long as it's consistent.

I'd ask, then, if the doctor has any motivation whatsoever to lie about the bodies of you and your brother. That stuck out to me from the start.

[forwantofahorse]

Good instincts! Accomplices are a core component of many mysteries. But...

[Sayo wags her finger, holding up her page of "red truth." She never figured she'd get this rush in real life.]

The family doctor is not a willing accessory to any- hm. [She pauses, frowning.] Well, there was that incident in the 1940s... and the 60s... And of course just a few years before... Ahem! The family doctor was not a willing accessory to any violent crimes that took place during the time period of this puzzle. Before you quibble about "willing," this also excludes any method of coercion, such as bribes or threats. [But not outright deception as to the nature of the crime, notably.] Furthermore, he has no motive to murder any of the victims.

[hearthebell]

[He nods brusquely; he knows that his instincts are good, maybe so good, sometimes, that they distract from the evidence. He's just done so much work like this that at times, he can almost seem to feel the answer like something in the air or water.]

To commit fraud, you have to knowingly do so, and could in fact be considered innocent if you truly had an incomplete knowledge of what was going on, so... put a pin in that.

How many survivors did he report to, and what were their relations to the the victims, if any?

[forwantofahorse]

The good doctor reported to all of the survivors. His allegiance was to the family head at the time, but Kinzo Ushiromiya, the family's patriarch, was found burned in an incinerator in the boiler room as the fifth victim. Furthermore, Kinzo Ushiromiya did not issue an order to cover up any deaths. Hmm... I hadn't listed all of the names of the victims for fear of cluttering the puzzle, but I'll do that now. The victims are: Shannon, Chiyo Kumasawa, Toshiro Gohda, Genji Ronoue, Kinzo Ushiromiya, and Kanon.

[She hadn't listed the names to make the puzzle easier; with Shannon and Kanon's names being specifically called out, it was an obvious clue to start investigating there. But if Lazarus was dropping the opportunity to scatter the gameboard with red herrings in her lap, who was she to argue?]

[hearthebell]

The smallest detail can be relevant; sometimes, not what people believe, even those who devise or author a mystery.

[A brow might be quirking slightly on his handsome face; it's hard to tell, because it's gone nearly as soon as it's there.]

That being said, my question might not have been clear. I was asking who the survivors were, how many they numbered, and their relations to the murdered victims. Were they all servants or investigators from the outside?

[forwantofahorse]

I knew you were a man of culture. Some may say it's useless to examine every blade of grass and stalk of wheat, but how else are you supposed to find out how the crop circle was made? After all, even the author can't account for every twist in the pattern after they cut their way through. Sometimes mysteries write themselves more than the author does; the writer simply creates the rules of the game.

[Was L trying to make it easier for her? Grinning, Sayo bows at his request.]

Very well! I'll give a list of the surviving dramatis personae.

[With a flourish, Sayo opens her notebook to a new page, where she begins sketching all of the family members in red pen.]

The following are all survivors of the initial murders:

Krauss Ushiromiya, the eldest of Kinzo's progeny and the assumed successor to the headship. Has recently run into business trouble, which his siblings are seeking to exploit to cover their own financial weakness.

Natsuhi Ushiromiya, Krauss's wife. Highly traditional and coming from a family of Shinto practitioners, she is devoted to her family but is also the real brains of her marriage.

Jessica Ushiromiya, the daughter of Krauss and Natsuhi. Rebellious and upbeat, she has no talent for leadership and doesn't want the successorship after Krauss ascends to the position of head, creating tension within the family. She has no motive for murder.

Eva Ushiromiya, the second oldest of Kinzo's progeny. Cunning and cruel, she's had a rivalry with Krauss ever since she was young, and aspires for the headship despite the disadvantages of her gender and status as the secondborn.

Hideyoshi Ushiromiya, Eva's husband. Easygoing and loyal, he is utterly smitten with his wife. Although he's a consummate businessman, an inadvisable move to open his company to public trading has left it in danger of a buyout unless he finds enough money to buy the stock back.

George Ushiromiya, Eva and Hideyoshi's son. Studious and proper, the perfect image of a young gentleman. He was groomed to take over the business after Hideyoshi's retirement and become the next successor should Jessica prove to be unfit, but his relationship with the servant Shannon endangers his position. He has no motive for murder.

Rudolf Ushiromiya, the third of Kinzo's children. Laid back and lackadaisical, his numerous affairs left his relationship with his son in tatters, and he is now on his second marriage after his first wife died due to illness. Due to copyright violations during an ill-advised business venture in the United States, his business is in danger of closure unless he can pay a legally mandated settlement.

Kyrie Ushiromiya, Rudolf's wife. Witty and cold, she has been Rudolf's mistress for longer than he was in a relationship with his previous wife, and secretly resents his dead spouse for stealing her opportunity to marry him. The most intelligent member of the Ushiromiya family by far, hailing from a yakuza family.

Battler Ushiromiya, Rudolf's oafish son. Stupid but earnest, he left the family register six years prior when he found out his father was still having an affair with Kyrie while his mother was on her deathbed. He was persuaded to return to the family after his grandparents died. He has no motive for murder.

Rosa Ushiromiya, Kinzo's youngest by several years. Volatile and impulsive, she habitually mistreats her daughter out of a misplaced anger at her ex-boyfriend, who left without a trace and does not pay child support. A despicable woman, she needs money to pay a lawyer to fight against the currently open case to take her daughter into the care of social services.

Maria Ushiromiya, Rosa's daughter. A bright and cheerful young child who never acts her age, seeming either younger or older than her true age. Has great knowledge of the occult, and fervently believes in the witch of the island, Beatrice. She has no motive for murder and is not capable of such a deed.

Terumasa Nanjo, the family doctor. An old friend of Kinzo's who made his acquaintance in the late days of World War II, he often visits the island to take care of Kinzo's ailing health, and would do anything for the family head.

Hooooooh. There. Impressed?

[hearthebell]

Got it.

[And for all that that sounds simple and flippant, he does; the man's mind is a steel trap.]

I'm not sure if "impressed" is quite the right word, but I appreciate the information... and see, now, why it's wholly irrelevant. That does matter, though, so... I am grateful. Truly.

[His hand goes to his chin, fingers resting on it gently as he thinks.]

I believe that the murdered brother and sister were closer than you had initially implied.

[forwantofahorse]

[Sayo is a superb liar, and when it comes to the core twist in her tangled knot of deception, she's practiced at not flinching when someone strays close to the truth—after spending so long with Jessica, she'd have to be. Still, even though she doesn't show a single tell, she's surprised... and wary. This man may be even more of a detective than she first gave him credit for.

Still, she plays it cool, raising a quizzical eyebrow in the turn the conversation is taking.]

How do you mean? I can tell you that my brother and I had no familial relation to each other by blood.

[hearthebell]

[He quirks a brow at the red notebook.]

It's possible for people to resemble each other even if they're not related. In fact... there was a man who was not my brother or cousin, and we looked very similar. Would you say that with some superficial changes, the two of you could possibly have been mistaken for one another?

[forwantofahorse]

Now that's an interesting hypothetical. [Absolutely not a hypothetical, but like hell she'll admit that.] I'll allow it. If Shannon were to put effort in to disguise herself as Kanon, no other person without prior knowledge of the disguise would be able to distinguish her from Kanon. The same applies vice versa to Kanon.

[hearthebell]

Is that so?

[He asks like one truly bemused and shocked by the revelation.]

Could a doctor be able to distinguish the two, and if so, is there a reason he might not choose to disclose the truth?

[forwantofahorse]

Dr. Nanjo could distinguish between Shannon and Kanon if either one of them was disguised in such a way and he had previous knowledge of the swap, or could closely examine either of them due to his medical expertise. Unless compelled by the authority of the Ushiromiya Family Head, he would have no reason to lie about the state of the bodies. And although I've already said it, Kinzo Ushiromiya is dead.

[Despite having the advantage here, Sayo's almost hoping L will spot the thread. This is just too much fun.]

[hearthebell]

You mentioned that the patriarch, Kinzo Ushiromiya, was dead. Don't family heads generally have heirs? At the very least... command would have passed.

[He shakes his head.]

That being said, when circumstances are of this extraordinary nature, it's common to see typical hierarchies collapse to make way for new and unexpected emergences. If the most clearheaded and calm person is a scullery maid, she'll be heeded if others think it can save their lives.

[forwantofahorse]

Kinzo never publicly designated an heir among his children. Krauss was in a position to inherit, but that was never confirmed by Kinzo himself. It was widely speculated before the incident that whoever solved the epitaph underneath the portrait of Kinzo's lover would be the next Ushiromiya family head, but that was never confirmed by the man himself.

[What a smart cookie.]

That's true! Unfortunately, Shannon, Kanon, Gohda, Genji, and Kumasawa, the serving staff, are all dead. It's a pity; Genji-sama was quite reliable.

[hearthebell]

Never publicly?

[There's a playful gleam in his dark eyes as he sees the red notebook raised, and it plays nicely with his even and symmetrical features.]

What about privately? Illegitimate children are often sources of guilt, with reparations offered posthumously, when the sting of shame or consequence can't be felt.

[forwantofahorse]

[While Sayo is likewise enjoying this game to her fullest, it's taking effort to maintain her poker face at that comment.]

Kinzo never had children outside of his own family.

CW: incest implication

[hearthebell]

[The subtle change in her expression does not escape his notice. His brows raise in comprehension, and he swallows.]

That doesn't make it impossible, does it?

[forwantofahorse]

...no. It does not.

[hearthebell]

[In this time, he's made some connections. Sad ones, unpleasant, taboo and slimy.

He glances toward the toes of his shoes, a full size larger than he'd wear if he had his old body now, the one that's shabby and youthful and complicated.]

I hope you know that I'm not cruel, at least not intentionally so. I don't wish to be cruel, now... we can end this line of questioning.

[forwantofahorse]

[She can never forget the scars on her feet; the ultimate betrayer, the final sign of that bastard's black bile flowing through her veins instead of blood.]

...do you have your answer?

[hearthebell]

[His eyes remain on the ground.]

I have. Perhaps more of an answer than you wanted to lead an investigator to.

Thank you for the game, but it's like I said; we don't need to speak of it more.

[His prettier face or his epiphany of a deeper understanding might contribute, but unusually for him, he is truly invested in not being cruel, even blithely or inadvertently.]