deercountry | [open] bad doggie!

Entry tags:

[open] bad doggie!

Who: Nehan + OPEN (one thread closed to specific people)
What: Someone (Nehan) died before someone's (Nehan's...) birthday, and not of fun. Featuring the aftermath of said death, an angry squid, and a doctor who's bad at taking care of himself.
When: forward-dated to Jan. 19 and later
Where: Primarily in Nehan's house, but the death thread is set in the wilderness.

Content Warnings: Violence, beasthood, death, paleblood powers, traumatic memories of near-death experiences, some nudity, Nehan-typical self-loathing, mentions of sex, Jan. TDM-style body horror. More TBA as they come up.

a: squid time

[nehan's tub is modest by human standards. large for a man of his (usual) size, but massive for a little squid, almost transparent save for its rainbow-colored insides, the most prominent of which is sunshine-yellow. the squid is absolutely tiny, no bigger than an adult human's hand.

there's a grab bar attached to the wall next to the tub, and the edge of the tub opposite it, clearly for nehan's use when he's an erune, because what will a squid do with those? he cant even reach them. though he's definitely trying, swimming back and forth, and occasionally reaching out with a little tentacle in an attempt to reach it.

but of course, he cant reach it, and that frustrates the squid enough that he jets out a little bit of dark ink. literally farting in anger, this one is.]

b: cant sleep (cw: really morbid jokes)

[the evening after nehan's squid was retrieved from the water and returned to his house, he returns to normal. annoyed as he rises from inky water and having to clean himself, but still, he's a skinny, scarred erune again, without the additions he gained over the past months. an erune that needs a long, long nap, and will head straight to his bed to have said long nap without even drying his hair.

if anyone chooses to stay longer and keep vigil over the once-squid... well, no one is stopping you, not even the omen, who is guarding the door to the basement underneath the stairs, and will not move away.

nehan might not be too much of a host however, when he's bedridden, having gone through a traumatic death and unable to control his limbs well. every time his left arm or leg has a spasm, his expression twists into one of chagrin and irritation, and he clutches at the limb until it stops. he tries to lay under his bedding just to lessen it... but well. that doesn't work as well as he hoped, and it's not proper medical procedure, but when it comes to himself, nehan has never cared a goddamn bit. still...]

... Stay a little longer. Without anything to do, I'll have another death soon, and this time of boredom. [that was a joke. but it's bad and he knows it's bad.]

c: winter mourning's last hurrah (nehan's memories/cw: eventual near-death experience)

[there is a winter mourning in nehan's house, a wreath laying in the seat of an armchair in the living room, and despite looking innocent, it is still active. and if it's touched, instead of dragging some poor unsuspecting bastard into a dream, it drags them into a memory.

the nehan in this memory is an adult, just like the one in bed, recovering from his violent bout with death-- but he's also different. seemingly younger, more filled-out, less scraggly hair, and lacking in the eyepatch and crutch that has become nehan's signature. but his ears have much less fur on them and are tattered at the ends, the shadows under his eyes are darker, and he's sporting fresh bruises on his face, like he's just been in a brawl. or more than just a brawl-- he looks like he's been beaten within an inch of his life.

still, he's walking amongst a crowd that doesn't seem to notice him, in a crowded marketplace in a bustling town with airships flying high above them. he looks like he knows where he's going, and behind him... behind him is another nehan, walking much slower, bearing a crutch and an eyepatch-- the nehan most people know, by now.

he pauses when he notes he's not alone, turning around and ears twitching, then tilts his head towards his younger self as if to say come along.]

d: the days after: achelliac (cw: nudity, self-loathing)

[achelliac's usual clientele may be sailors, but at least they don't turn nehan away. and, as he finds out, some of his fellow customers are fascinated enough with him that he just decides to indulge them with what they want. even if he's here just to deal with the aches of his body that still linger after his rebirth. at least he's no longer suffering from muscle spasms.

the hot springs will deal with what other aches he gets in this place, in any case, that's why he's here-- get himself up to snuff so he can get back to work without problems.

making his way to the pool from the showers is always an adventure in going slow to accommodate his too-thin, too-scarred body and not slipping, just because he leaves his cane with his clothes (he needs a new crutch, a cane just isn't the same...). though he's right at the edge of the pool, he pauses when he sees another man there already.]

May I, or do you prefer privacy? [perhaps he should have asked that before he got naked...]

wildcard
[[ hit me with your best shot-- everything is a-ok and will match prose or action, but the actual boss battle is restricted to certain characters. nehan dies on the 19th, revives as a squid on the 22nd and is returned to his house on the same day, while his headcanon birthday is on the 20th. thanks to #justpalebloodthings, nehan can admit that his birthday is coming up to any palebloods. he is also a paleblood, so people can speak to him more freely as well.

people are free to come and go as they like. snooping is encouraged, but the basement is guarded by nehan's omen. i'm also open to changing the memory in prompt c. if we haven't threaded yet, we can just handwave the first meeting and nehan giving out his address. if you're unsure, just ask! ]]

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Abundantly. I regret I was not alive a few days more. [A true, if dim, regret. He would've at least liked to have seen Nehan as he is now, setting aside anything else his being alive would have allowed them.

He moves closer to the chair where the erune's perched himself. This seems a story told better in closer quarters.]

You have not, [he affirms.]

Hmm.

Come closer, little bird. [nehan sets the ice pack down onto his knee and begins to undo his shirt's buttons, so he can slide one scarred but muscular arm out of his sleeve.] Feel if you need to. There's also a seat across me, if you want to sit down for this.

[He won't pass up that opportunity, though he chuckles softly as he reaches out to rest a hand on Nehan's arm. Even through his glove, his hand's ice cold.]

I am not so warm as I was, [he points out, giving the erune's arm a brief appreciative squeeze to gauge the weight of the muscle. Then he draws back.

To do more is tempting, but not his place.

He takes the offered seat, settling in it human-wise. It'd be uncomfortable if he were alive, but perching on the seat-cushion is uncomfortable to others.]

So. You have a story for me.

Indeed. [he doesn't tuck his arm back into his shirt, unhappy with the way his bruises protest motion. besides, it's not as if there's anything to hide.]

Nearly two years ago, I was shot in the back. Obviously I did not die, but I was not lively either. I was in a coma for fifteen months. When I woke up, half my body was paralyzed.

[then he sighs deeply.]

This form is what I used to be like, before the incident, but it wont be easy to achieve as I am now. Even a few weeks of neglecting the body is enough to be visible, but being bedridden for over a year... that's something difficult to reverse.

[He listens attentively to all of this, slotting the new information in with what he'd already learned of Nehan. It illuminates a few dark corners--to be crippled was worse for the strong (and how well he knew it).

He gives a low hiss through his fangs at the scope of the problem set before him.]

It is being fortunate you did not die after so long, yes. But to return to this...

[It isn't impossible, though he can see how the magnitude of the challenge would daunt.]

Are you wishing help in that?

I think it's... [he shakes his head.]

The reason why I had this body in the first place is because I was forced to be physical before the incident. [the incident, he says, as if he had not been the victim of an attempted assassination, that the bullet just somehow found its way into his body.] I was forced to fight for years in one way or another, and back then, I had use of my full body.

I don't have that luxury here.

Something close to this? Yes, it's possible. But exactly this, the peak of my health? No. Possibly never.

Edited (wow contradicting myself) 2022-01-30 11:27 (UTC)

[Some deficits acquired through neglect were permanent, that much is true. Illarion nods to this, although--]

We are in the Waking World. Much more may be possible here, if you seek it.

Still, I am taking your meaning. You would also not be having time for much else, in the pursuit of this form.

[The difference in Nehan's attitude and outlook, having shed... He knows that shift, from the inside; being alive again had made so much more seem possible and worthwhile. (And given him a distressing level of self-regard.)

Witnessing it in another pulls at him. He wants this change to remain--and if that isn't the world's will, he wants to fix what he can.]

I will still help, with what you do wish to have. If you do not remain this way.

It's my fate to be small and weak-- I know this wont last. [why would it? nothing good ever lasts, for a very, very loose sense of "good".]

But... it's something to come close to, given your goals of fattening me up. Have your fill, if you want, for future reference.

As it is mine to be dead. [Which gives him cause to smile sadly at Nehan's invitation, even as slips off his chair to take a knee before the erune's.]

What am I to make of this license you give me, wolfling?

[Because he is curious, and he will take it, resting his palms on the solid muscle of Nehan's thighs to start.

It doesn't have the same thrill it did, a few days ago. But he's still glad to touch someone.]

Memorize it. I know your memory is worse than mine, but you're invested in making sure I somewhat resemble a living being. You had better remember this.

[a tall order, he knows, when so many people cant even hold a candle to his own memory and the way he just knows. how easy it is for him to remember down to the smallest, cursed detail as long as he perceived it at some point or another. but he cant be the only person doing work here.]

You don't need to worry about making me uncomfortable with the temperature, I run warmer than humans. And warmer now than I do while disabled.

As you request. [He'd learned long ago that being under contract with a person, or people, fundamentally changed the relationship. Commands rest differently on his shoulders, lighter, when he knows there's a whole structure of agreement supporting it.

It's an odd little surprise to learn it again.

Memorize it. His own memory really is much worse than the erune's, worse even than average for those without eidetic memory. But he had given his word he'd do this; he would find a way.

The air around him fuzzes strangely a moment as he focuses his senses, ((feeling)) deep into the world around him and the man before him. He shifts both hands to Nehan's left leg--better to start with what's most changed--and begins there, his touch gentle and curious. There's nothing erotic about it, nothing like the eager hunger he'd shown just days ago, as he encircles as much as he can of the erune's thigh with both hands then draws fingers toward the knee. But nor is it strictly clinical, even as he's feeling and ((feeling)) deep to understand how Nehan's put together.

He murmurs to himself in Shriketongue, now and again, as he works. Noting how a joint articulates, the density of muscle beneath his fingers, where there's bruises (how's he avoiding touching those?)...]

[nehan's thighs are, likely, the thickest parts of him, solid and strong. but when you're a warrior who fights the way he does, they have to be.

the erune's ears flutter as the bird-man takes this oh-so seriously, even going down his leg, but he helpfully kicks off his shoe to give him access to his ankle if he wants it. nehan just wont speak, in case it could break concentration.]

[For all his sense of humor and odd bouts of flippancy, Illarion takes anything he's asked to do, anything he's contracted to do, quite seriously. No half-measures--if Nehan wanted himself memorized he'd be memorized, or as near to it as Illarion can manage.

He takes the opportunity of the offered ankle, flexing the joint and making a note aloud to himself to compare it to Nehan's "normal" state. Then, onward to the right leg, to repeat the same inspection if more fleetingly. The erune's hips, waist, and torso are next to be felt-over and measured with the (cold) span of the shrike's palms and fingers. (He notes the solid muscle and bone of Nehan's back, comparing the ((feel)) of it with what he'd seen of the wound that had maimed the other man.)

Above that requires Illarion be on his feet, and he rises to run his hands along Nehan's shoulders and down his arms. He catches Nehan's left hand in his own, manipulating the fingers gently. Then, setting two of his own fingers in the erune's palm, the shrike requests,] Grip these hard as you can. Please.

[nehan is as silent and placid as a doll until input is actually needed of him, then he looks up with a raised eyebrow.]

With, or without my magic? [perhaps he should have explained this before, but now is as good a time as any.] You may have noticed as I cut you before, magic infused my knife as it did so.

Magic strengthens my body if I call on it-- and sometimes even when I don't.

Truly? [Had he noticed? Illarion's memories of their escape are chewed with corruption around the edges, and the vast and varied powers Sleepers had that were called magic didn't always register to his senses as it was.

He wants to say, I didn't notice, but Nehan's a Paleblood so it comes out,] Did I notice, I do not remember. Corruption weakens my memory.

[So.]

But this explains some things that I had wondered. Without magic, first, if you will. Then with magic.

I used it whenever I cut you, that first time, and during the escape from the zealots' tower. [matter of fact, not really put-out by the fact that his efforts at magic went unnoticed.

he flexes his fingers once, before gripping the cold appendages in his hand tightly. the force he exerts is enough to snap a number of objects save for metal. he manages not to channel any magic into his hand because it's already circulating around his right hand, just in case he must perform some healing.]

Then I will pay more attention, next you cut me.

[He's an inkling that might be sooner rather than later.

The strength of Nehan's grip gets a satisfied noise out of him; the strength of it, and the way healthy muscle and tendon flex to produce it. That's good. That--may be very difficult to return the erune to, but he can ((feel)) the differences clear enough.]

With magic, now. [That might actually damage his hand, if this is the baseline without.

The idea doesn't bother him. It could be fixed and pain is negligible.]

[immediately, nehan releases the magic in his and and places his hand in his lap. he takes a breath, and channels it into his left hand as he flexes his fingers one more time. doesn't look like he broke anything, which is good-- but also tells him that he is indeed weak, if this is his base. someone else from the clan would have broken bones without thinking.

his skin takes on a slight yellow hue, and nehan nods in satisfaction.]

Can you feel the magic? It's right there. [then he closes his hand around the bird's fingers once more. he's broken quite a lot of things with this fist, including faces.]

[Can he feel the magic? Illarion's expression grows more distant still as he reaches for some sensation that tells him there's magic present. Is there a faint indistinct warmth where Nehan's hand touches his?

He can't tell. And--

Then Nehan breaks his fingers. The crunch of shattering bone is unmistakeable.

The shrike blinks once, unperturbed.] Now I certainly can feel it.

[Remarkable, actually.]

Of course you can, now that I've broken your fingers. [his tone over the years hasn't changed-- he's perfected the bland delivery of scathing sarcasm.]

Stay still, I'll be healing you.

[the erune cups the crushed fingers between both hands, skin lighting and the warmth of a cheery, sunny day emanating from them. perhaps a revenant wont be able to feel it, perhaps he will. but the effects of the magic will be clear soon enough, as nehan encourages the bones to knit themselves back together.]

[That gets a faint smile out of Illarion to hear.] It is one way to notice magic, not so?

[He leaves his wounded hand in Nehan's care without argument; he'd expected as much, given the man's his healer. The actual magic is also nearly below his notice, but its effects...

A quiet hiss escapes him.] This is feeling very strange.

[His expression says there's more he could say on the matter. But, also, he'd rather not disturb Nehan at a critical moment. So he waits.]

But not painful, is it? [nehan looks up in the middle of his work, but he doesn't stop his magic. he's comfortable enough with his knowledge of anatomy to knit bodies back together with magic without needing to look. and he knows his patient's body, anyway.]

Is it?

[He's silent a moment when confronted with the question.

He doesn't want to answer truthfully because it doesn't really matter; his comfort with the process isn't an issue.

But,]

It is. If I must guess, it is because what was once dead wakes briefly to mend itself, and dies again.

I do not take any harm from it.

Or perhaps your body is just bowing to what I demand of it. [when nehan believes his magic has worked enough, he looks down at the hand between his and rubs his thumbs over it, inspecting for breaks or tears that he might have missed.]

I know a healer who is kind, and her magic encourages the body to remember how it used to be, accepting the magic in aiding it as it pieces itself back together.

On the other hand, I rely on my knowledge of the body and use my magic to slot things together like the pieces of a puzzle.

[He cocks his head to one side, regarding Nehan sightlessly with one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile.] This is quite the way to say it, wolfling. Though we have before proven I do not mind this, so much.

[Or didn't. Not that he'd mind it now, either, but he's not capable.

He tips his head down, like he could watch the erune rub his palm. The magic's taken; the bones are solid again, the flesh between them untorn and whole.]

It is much the same with our healers. The shape of magecraft is set by how you practice to achieve it; there will always be some who must drug their patients before they grant them miracles, else the pain is too great.

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i swear he's not thinking about eating nehan; this is my Focus icon

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