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deercountry2022-01-07 08:43 pm
hearthebell) wrote in deercountry2022-01-07 08:43 pm
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Running With My Roots Pulled Up [L Lawliet, OTA]
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!]
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!]
A
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.
no subject
"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 >.<))
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 ))
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.]
((I'm working through the last of the worst, but things have looked up recently))
I must confess, I thought, perhaps feared our parting would be the end. Not everyone summoned here finds their place here. However... I'm pleased you found your way back here and I hope your path continues. We could use sharp-eyed youngsters here.
[He'll proffer his arm to the younger male.] But shall we continue this conversation in a more private venue? [The better to not have an audience, especially since people's curiosity is likely on fire with the hallway theatrics that just played out.]
[Oh, this is rich. And a bit of a relief. He prefers someone disinterested in the more physically intimate roles that Night Walkers often play.]
A number of people are, it appears, under the impression that Night Walkers are merely high-class courtesans, which leads to some odd situations. I'm more interested in the companionship aspect of their services.
I'm sorry friend, and glad it's getting better!
Right... yes, this is my office. It'll become more private when you close the door.
[He nods at the door ajar, turning from the chest and offering the phial to Wesker with a sort of back-and-forth motion, as though questioning who should do the blood-drawing.]
Those clients don't get referred to me. Or... maybe they have, but they've changed their minds. I don't presume anything. By companionship... do you mean...
[He ducks his head, offering a lackluster high-five with a questioning expression.]
(Annd this was just plain slowness and distraction from tying off threads close to their ending)
Away from prying eyes. Shall I do the honors of drawing the Blood? I serve as a Blood Minister at the Lumenarium, though I'm also in research.
[He sets to making the proper adjustments to the transfusion device, slotting in the phial and drawing up a chair, gesturing L to be seated.]
I mean what it says on the tin: some conversation, something to take the edge off my solitary state in this town. You aren't my type for sexual intimacy, and even if you were... we'll say I have a chronically low libido.
no subject
[He's not kidding. When he rolls up his sleeve, there are no shortages of small bruises from failed attempts to tap a good vein. If practice makes perfect... perfect is taking awhile.]
I've also been told that I'm not a particularly talented conversationalist.
[Why is he even here? one might ask, fairly, at this juncture.]
Trying, though... I can do that. Why do you have a chronically low libido?
[Starting with the nonintrusive, casual questions!]
[CW: Phlebotomy in progress, fictional virus discussed.]]
[He says this as he spits into a bit of cotton and swabs the inside of L's elbow.]
I'm a Vileblood: Our spit is a natural disinfectant and anesthetic, which proves useful in a lot of settings.
[He continues to speak as he continues the procedure, tying off L's arm and fitting the cannula.]
I'm not always the best, either, though I've had practice in that, or at the least making a convincing show of it, as part of my human mask. You can relax your hand now.
[He smirks at this question and glances up from the slowly filling phial before returning his veiled gaze to it.]
Partly it's how I developed: I was always busy with my studies or my work. I finished medical school and received two doctorate degrees - in genetics and in virology - by the time I was seventeen. No time or energy for a love life, and so it more or less atrophied from disuse. Not to say I haven't had some intimate encounters, usually with high class professionals of the female persuasion, though one could count those on one hand.
Then, I was exposed to a highly virulent pathogen which I was researching. I survived, but it left me with a chronic infection. The pathogen itself affected my wiring, as it were, and given its nature, it put paid to the closest forms of physical intimacy, even with barrier methods in use. One microscopic hole in a condom could result in a transmission, and given the ninety to ninety-five percent fatality rate it caused - though some would question its even being a fatality rate - I wasn't about to risk that.
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[And not too different from the work L will be applying himself to at the base camp for battling the Leviathan, though he doesn't know that at this precise moment. Paleblooded though he is, his specific gifts do not involve prophecy quite as much as interpretation and dreamwalking.
He startles and stiffens instinctively as Wesker spits and wipes it on an area about to bleed, but the explanation comes, and he relaxes. His tightened hand unfurls, rests lightly on his knee as Wesker draws his blood, red out of the moonlight, and just listens to the information Wesker gives freely.
Maybe, partly, that's his fault. Palebloods are easy to talk to this month, after all, with a compulsion for honesty in the other types.]
That's... comprehensive. Unexpectedly so.
[The strategy of a man who wants to talk about it more, or else the strategy of one who wants to eliminate all possible follow-up questions and move on.
L decides to linger, wondering how much he should avoid the similarities this discourse has revealed: they both had no time for a love life due to demanding careers that began early in life, as well as high and impressive education levels. Maybe they were sort of destined to get along, but men like that hold their cards close to their chest, in L's excruciatingly extensive experience.]
Now that you're a Vileblood, do you know the status of the virus? How does it affect you in Trench?
[CW: Misanthropy]
[He says all this while watching the level of the phial as it gradually rises.]
Better to be comprehensive than vague, particularly in this matter. If I've overshared, I apologize. And if I sound clinical, it is as I am, as well as an occupational side effect. I'm also accustomed to having to explain my position to people who haven't have no frame of reference for such an experience - or who seem addled by their own hormones.
[He might let out a harassed sigh, and returns his attention to the phial, which is two-thirds full.]
From what my colleagues and I can tell, it's gone dormant. There's no trace of it in my blood, and my antibody levels are normal. The desirable mutations it had caused remain, however, in order to maintain them, I need Blood, via transfusion or drinking it. Which brings me here. [He'll nod toward the phial, before turning to L's face.]
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Attempted murder was unexpected, but ultimately highly appreciated. L comes to life in such circumstances; it's his element, his beloved kind of puzzle where he's free to take everything wrong apart and put it back together whole and logical.]
You haven't overshared...
[He thinks about copying what he's seen other nightwalkers do, and reach out to grasp Wesker's hand to assure him. He decides against it; some can pull that off so much better than others. It would seem mechanical and strange if he did it, he's sure, and he hasn't even tried.]
Are there blood types that do that better than others for you? I'm certainly no doctor, or scientist, but I like to think that my mind lends well enough to the persuasion that an explanation would not be lost on me.
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I appreciate that, and I suppose... as you are a Night Walker, you're given to holding things in confidence. I may be leaning into that... Paleblood folk seem to be loosening my tongue more than usual. [He's trying not to think of how he lost his head on someone. At least it happened over the network.]
I've found every Blood type has a different effect on me. Vileblood has a fruit-like quality, if I was to use nutritional metaphors. Coldblood has a bracing effect, like a cup of espresso, and so I take it in the morning. Warmblood is nourishing, like protein- or carbohydrate-rich meal a plate of ham and eggs with some thick rye bread. Darkblood is rich, like wine and chocolate; I can see why it has an addicting quality, thus... I do try and avoid indulging in it except on special occasions. Paleblood calms me down, dare I say, like warm milk and thus I take it in the evening.
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[And that's saying something, because L's actually pretty good, normally, at getting people to let some things slip, and getting their tempers to flare as a result.]
Your rundown is comprehensive.
[More than he expected.]
Is that typical, or is it different for every Vileblood? Is there any variation depending on the donor?
[Maybe a small part of him really wants to think that if Paleblood is soothing and calming (boring), perhaps he's the exception, the one who manages to have an exciting bouquet.]
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It's an effect of the moon. Much as it pulls on the tides, it pulls on our Blood and affects our moods and modes.
[A thoughtful pause.] I'd have to ask around and see if any other Vileblood has experienced similar sensations. It could be useful networking. Information is often the best currency, especially in a world where barter is the order of the day.
[The phial has filled by now. He'll carefully remove the cannula and pressing a pad of gauze to the mark it leaves, he'll tape it into place.]
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[Things happen, here in Trench. Distractions crop up; projects, for edification or vanity, may fall soundly by the wayside no matter how steadfast an intention might form.]
How do you spend your time, normally? What is a day usually like for you?
[CW: clinical work, blood drinking described]
[He takes up the phial and seats himself across from L, crossing one knee over the other and taking a sip from it.]
Hmm... Almost a hint of white wine there. [Another sip, and he's more relaxed.]
But that's an interesting proposal. I think a survey may be in order, if people would be willing to share their experiences.
[Another sip, a small smile may cross his impassive face.]
But to answer your question further: My days are full. Depending on what's afoot in the town, there are patients to treat in the Lumenarium, Blood to be collected and banked, transfusions to be performed. The Lockjoint cases have kept me busy these last few weeks. I'm also a journeyman at Soma: generally, I get a lot of the grunt work, processing clients, proper disposition of those who have passed. It's not unlike work I'd done as a pre-med student; in some ways, it has me oddly nostalgic.
Nights are a different. A couple of nights a week brings me here to Cellar Door, seeking a donor for their companionship as much as their Blood. One in particular, Saskia, the redhead with the iron will, is my regular. Dare I call her the nearest thing to a lover that I have here, though the majority of the times I've slept with her involved actual sleeping. She seems to welcome it; sometimes sharing another's warmth is the more intimate engagement.
[Another sip.] The other nights, I know a Hunter, a rather quiet sort who tags either Beasts gone completely out of control, or Hunters who have become as harmful as the Beasts they hunt. I'm either tailing them or supplying them with glass grenades salted with my Blood. I know them only as Locrian, but I suspect that's not their name, and I've never seen their true face, only the mask they wear, a corvid mask of the type that a medieval European plague doctor would wear.
CW: blood drinking described]
[Because if L's blood is anything but sweet, he will accept that he knows nothing and put on a dunce cap and start to learn his letters anew.
He cants his dark head and listens, wide-eyed, to the escapades of a man who is indeed living a very full and rich life in Trench. This is only slightly strange by merit of Wesker sipping his blood intermittently throughout the discourse.]
You say that you know this person by a particular name, but... you suspect it's not their real name. I wonder if we know the same such person.
Re: CW: blood drinking described]
Very dry, but there's a hint of tart sweetness if one focuses their taste carefully. Almost like limes or citrons.
If you've seen a tall figure in a loose black leather robe perched on the rooftops late in the night, looking like a corvid humanoid hybrid, then you've seen Locrian. They could be any tall Sleeper working under an assumed name and concealing their identity under their mask.
CW: blood drinking described
Are you sure you haven't seen a particular Pthumerian?
[It's half-joking, but it sounds like Never Mind to L, though what he knows is based more on rumor than experience.]
Re: CW: blood drinking described
I'm quite positive. I've not seen them without the mask, but I've treated their injuries enough times to know they're a humanoid Sleeper, under their leathern garb. [A beat.] Unless Never Mind is given to Hunting whilst shapeshifting to resemble a Sleeper. I'm usually good at reading a person's Blood, but a Pthumerian could fool my senses just for the fun of it.
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[Never something to brighten L's mood, which might be why he gives the Pthumerian a wider berth. Perhaps, also, he is offended that the Pthumerian of knowledge rejected him and he was claimed by another upon his arrival.]
You've given me some clues, at least, about Locrian. Maybe I'll ask around.
((March came in like a lion and ate me.))
[He smirks wryly, then takes another sip from the phial, shifting in his chair and getting more comfortable, more at his ease.]
Good luck go with you on finding out what or who they might be. They've been the definition of elusive for me. No other Blood Minister has encountered them, which leads me to suspect this particular Hunter has made me their regular contact for treatment.
No worries friend!
[As though he's so embarrassed by this, thinks so little of his patron that he can't even place his name. Probably he understands all too well why Cloverfield chose him and blessed the day he was born as the one when everyone else wears masks.]
I suppose I don't have a need to find them... just curiosity. Idle, chaotic and inconvenient without a constructive way to channel it. That's not something. many can relate to... most people are glad to be idle, you know, in any way they can get away with.
Re: No worries friend!
[Another sip from the phial.] No harm in seeking a project to keep ones mind and hands busy. If anything, it's better to keep busy: it makes one less likely to be an easy mark for the tricksters here. And to make oneself useful in this world.
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