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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!]
no subject
[Sayo pauses, scowls, and glares in the general direction of the ceiling as she realizes she's oversharing again.]
Ugh. Whatever the case, just about the only interesting thing that could happen to you there was getting murdered.
Which I suppose happened to me. [After a fashion.]
no subject
[The 1980s, Japanese, older than he is if they go by birth year. In 1986, he was seven years old, and already a working detective.
He knows that they're not from the same world when she mentions she was murdered. That case, surely, would have caught his interest, because those islands are quiet.]
You suppose? You aren't certain?
no subject
[Wait.]
God damn it!
[IF SAYO EVER GETS HER HANDS ON MADAM GENEROSITY SHE IS GOING TO BE OPENING UP A NEW LINE OF VERY FANCY BOOTS]
no subject
[He sounds slightly guilty. It's difficult to say how much of it is affected, how much is genuine, but her distress is so real that even a true sociopath would probably feel something.
Probably.]
I'm paleblooded. People seem to have been more honest with me lately, but... it's in my nature to keep secrets. Especially ones I'd have no reason to want to share.
...not that it's boring.
[He adds that last bit after considering that it could possibly be taken that way.]
no subject
Well, if nothing else, I hope the record of my death was at least entertaining.
[Despite how scornful she sounds, that was also Sayo's genuine hope, oddly enough.]
no subject
No... it's just to say that "not boring" is to "entertaining," as "edible" is to "delicious." It would make poor gossip, for many reasons...
[However pretty his face got, he's still pretty awkward.]
Every life has an intrinsic value; no death is an entertaining one.
no subject
What if you wanted to make your death entertaining? That wasn't true in my case, but someone out there would be twisted enough to think that, right?
[She had been so focused on saving Jessica in those last few moments that her mind hadn't strayed to such thoughts, at least.]
no subject
When you're in certain careers, it's far from hypothetical, after all.]
Lots of people would be twisted enough to think that. I'm not one of them.
[But he knows them, and how they think. He's dedicated so much time to the study that he probably is closer to serial killers than actual friends or family, of which he has none.
Even those who have been kindest to him in Trench probably wouldn't call themselves that willingly.]
no subject
[Sayo sighs, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. She's quiet for a few moments as she walks through the mansion of the memories, wading through the carnage. Stopping dead at the corpses in the garden.
Every time she found a dead body, she thought she'd be numb when she stumbled across the next one. She was wrong every time. Maybe if the roulette let her keep the reins of her fate for that one day, it would've been different.]
Blood on the floor is still blood on the floor, no matter how hard you try to think around it.
no subject
So, you're a writer. Autobiographical, or fiction based loosely on real events?
[It seems the better question to ask, aside from isn't there a point where blood on the floor becomes just blood on the floor, no more troubling than so much paint or ink or water?
He's not twisted, after all, at least he wants desperately not to seem so.]
no subject
What do you think?
[A pause. She laughs, bitter.]
...I hope you appreciate how much willpower it's taking me to play coy right now.
And yes, it is largely out of spite.
no subject
[Mostly, since it seems to upset her quite a lot when he does. He clears his throat, watching her low-key anxiously as she laughs mirthlessly.]
I'm also trying not to compel you to be honest, if that's helpful. I wonder if it's different if I encourage you to lie to me? Should we play that game, "two truths and a lie?"
no subject
If nothing else, she wants to get a look at the interior of this odd man's head. He was interesting as much as he was irritating.]
Fine. But only as long as you go first.
[She extends her hand, which unknowingly to L, has a little gash cut across it, not even visible—especially with the qualities of darkblood.]
Deal?
no subject
[He stares at her outstretched hand, maybe for a moment longer than most people would. The man, is after all, trained highly at sussing out when something doesn't feel right.
He reaches out to shake it. Very stiff and professional; it's the only way he knows how to do it.]
Alright. My name is Lazarus Sauveterre; this is my real face. I'm 25 years old.
no subject
Hm... [she theatrically taps her chin.] Saying that "this is my real face" is an oddly specific thing to bring up, but it's so obvious I'm worried it's a trap.
But then again, you don't have the confidence of someone who has been stunningly handsome his entire life. If you did, you wouldn't be talking in circles with me right now. So I'm forced to conclude that is not, in fact, your "true" face, and that odd skin shedding ceremony has given you the gift of beauty for its duration.
Is that right?
As for myself... [She hems and haws, playing up her indecision.] My name is Shannon, the night that my boyfriend proposed to me led directly to the worst day of my life, and I was raised loosely Catholic but I personally lean agnostic.
How's that?
no subject
Yes... that's right, you figured it out.
[He listens intently to her statements, then answers almost immediately, so fast it might nearly be insulting.]
Your name's not Shannon. You put it first... hoping I might be distracted from it... and it's really nothing like your stage name. You could lie to me, though...
[Said cheerfully, as though she should find it encouraging.]
I'm a human. I like hamburgers. I play tennis.
this thread is getting so fucking stupid and i love it
[Now that it's being framed as a game, Sayo is really getting into it.]
Shannon is the pseudonym my work gave me; apparently it made all of us sound more "refined" and "Western" to add to the atmosphere.
Now then... [Sayo actually has to think about this question. If Lazarus wasn't human, he'd have more tells that this wasn't his true appearance other than how uncomfortable he seemed with how staggeringly beautiful he was, so that's right out. That left the other two statements.
Taking a page out of Lazarus's book, she examines his previous moves more closely. This "not being his real face" and his obvious awkwardness with his new body would naturally lead Sayo to the assumption that he was unathletic before, making "I play tennis" the lie. However, as he was knowledgeable about how to optimally play this game, there was a chance he was thinking a move or so ahead, and intentionally led Sayo to that conclusion to color her perception for this round. After all, giving him even a cursory glance as he is now would reveal the last round's lie to anyone who was paying attention, making it an suboptimal play.
Therefore, the correct answer is...]
...ha. A clever play. The lie is, "I like hamburgers." You intentionally led me to think that your "true face" is unathletic last round to give yourself an advantage in this one, didn't you? You're not the only one who can spin the chessboard around.
[She laughs harshly at that private joke.]
Here are my statements for this round: a clerical error involving my little brother beginning employment at my workplace led to us getting paid twice our normal wages for three years, despite my family not remotely needing any money I entered the workforce at age nine and watched my guardian pay off the social services official so I could stay at my job, and technically speaking I have enough money to retire comfortably if I still lived in Japan and not in Trench.
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So Shannon is sort of still the truth.
[According to his own logic.]
And you're right, again... in spite of my tactic. I don't even eat meat, and I'm in fact better at tennis than most people would guess.
[He pauses to consider.]
Those all sound plausible... much like the statements I posed to you... but two of them seem to contradict each other. The clerical error involving two family members collecting three years worth of double wages, and an early and cold introduction to the workforce, presumably alone. Either of those could have contributed to eventual wealth... but I don't think that both of them could have happened.
I'll say that you'd have enough money to retire... and call that your guardian paid off the social worker. I don't think you have a brother or a proper family.
[He's seen enough orphans to have an idea of how they behave, what they're like, how they give or withhold trust.]
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[There's a fine line. Just like how Kanon is, in many ways, her little brother—that's truth enough. But it also couldn't be further from the real truth.
Her grin widens as she watches L fall right into her trap.]
Aha! It seems as though I finally put one over you. [She smirks, most of her earlier animosity toward Lazarus forgotten with that victory. (Most.)] Kanon and I aren't "real" siblings, but our bond is far, far stronger than what blood provides. I believe I'm fully within my rights to call him "brother." You are also correct in assuming that I was telling the truth about my veritable dragon's hoard of wealth, [although how she actually attained it so far from what she implied.] I was joking when I called you a detective earlier, but considering how easily you discerned that I'm an orphan, I'm starting to think that there may be some truth to what I said in essence if not in actuality. Your deductive reasoning is top-notch.
But the truth is, while I did start my job at the age of s- drat, nine, I didn't realize I'd told the truth about that too- no social worker bumming around a hick town in the Izu Archipelago would've thought picking a fight with an extraordinarily wealthy family over its hiring practices was worth the trouble. Frankly, I count myself grateful that the thigh windows in the uniform were only required after you turned thirteen. Or "thirteen," in my case.
Now then! [She finishes the last flourish on something she was drawing in her notebook and grins devilishly. Oh, god, is that a diagram?] That's enough warming up. While you ponder how to stump me, I have a special challenge for you.
Ahem. On a dreary October morning, the inhabitants of Rokkenjima Island all awoke to a ghastly sight: six magic circles painted on the outside of five doors within the mansion—one on the first floor, two on the second floor, one on the third floor, and one in the boiler room. As the window to the first floor's room was the only accessible entry point to any of the locked rooms, they broke in through there, only to find the dead body of Shannon. Id est, yours truly. Also within the room was an envelope, within which is the key to another room within the mansion. Within that room was another dead body, another envelope, etc. However! When the fifth room was unlocked, an envelope was found with the key to the chapel just off to the side of the mansion. And within the chapel was the body of my brother, Kanon, and an envelope with a key leading to the room where my body was found in.
And finally, it's time for two truths and a lie!
"Each locked room was absolutely perfect, with no way in or out whatsoever until it was either breached through the window or unlocked with its key."
"There are six dead bodies."
"There was no one hiding in any of the rooms."
Since this challenge in particular is... taxing, I'll add a special rule. [She flips the page of her notebook, and shows it to L. It's solid red.] Whenever I hold my notebook like so, "speaking in red" as it were, I speak the absolute truth. No proof or evidence required. In addition, before you make your final choice, you can ask me any question or ask me to repeat something in red, and I may decline or accept your request at my leisure. Here, I'll give you some freebies.
The family doctor examined the bodies and reported each one as dead to the other survivors.
The doors to each room could only be locked or unlocked with the corresponding room key or one of the five master keys found on the first, second, third, fourth, and sixth bodies. The only exception is the chapel door, which can only be locked or unlocked with the key found in the fifth room.
After all the rooms had been unlocked, the survivors searched for any traces of a hidden culprit, and none were found on casual inspection.
[Now that Sayo's been distracted about how furious being made happy against her will made her, the good vibes of the Snake Den have snuck in and made her unusually playful.]
Oh, and before you wonder, this scenario is a hypothetical.
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The game is called "Two Truths and a Lie." It rigs it, to mix the two in individual answers, doesn't it?
[He doesn't like to lose, and though he doubts the girl would appreciate hearing it very much, he stands by being right on the technicality that she and Kanon weren't "real" siblings, however they might have considered each other close enough to be. Obliquely, he has called her a cheater, and he likely takes the game less seriously now as a result.]
Is your puzzle rigged, as well? I think you'll agree that's fair to know ahead of time.
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I suppose that's fair. I can't deny that I'd be similarly ticked off in your position, [Sayo is just as, if not more than, competitive than L,] so rather than playing word games with you, I'll be clear.
[She holds up the red page of her notebook again, clearing her throat.]
In the three statements I gave you, two are entirely, 100% true, and one is entirely, 100% a lie in every respect. There is no trickery there.
However! That does not prevent me from using trickery with other aspects of the red. What I say in the red is strictly true, but it may not be the truth.
[She sighs, tossing her hair.]
Really, normally I wouldn't spell that part out for you, but you'd quibble with me over it if I hadn't.
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[His desire to play a game, in the end, does manage to overcome his soreness at feeling cheated. He reaches a hand toward his face to chew at his fingertip.]
Tell me what you mean by "strictly true", but that it "may not be the truth." Are you referring to subjective truths that are earnestly upheld by an individual, perhaps, but not objectively provable?
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Though if you want to go another round, I'll be far less generous, kyahaha!
[It's odd, giving L an actual tutorial. Wasn't this supposed to be Virgilia's job? She laughs at the thought. Still, it isn't fun playing a game if the opponent doesn't know the rules, and they can always go more rounds after this if he sees through the trick too quickly.]
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[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.
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[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.
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CW: incest implication
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