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! ]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Illarion's shed more than most Sleepers he knows and there's no denying his own rampant curiosity played a driving role in that. (Religious obligation was the other major part.)

Needless to say, he'd been doing a lot of learning through experience.

He stands as Nehan approaches, sending ripples across the pool, and shifts himself over to give the erune a better seat. "Coincidentally," it means he's also on his feet if he needs to prevent a fall (though he highly doubts he will).]

You are looking well enough for one so recently back from death, [he remarks, offering up a hand if Nehan needs it; if not, it's no bother to the shrike.] Though I see, [being delightfully not blind anymore,] I must be sending more food over.

[nehan grumbles. he did eat the contents of the fruit basket and let his omen play with the basket itself, but he wont be admitting that. it's enough that he's already leaning on the man once again for help.]

The state of my body is something not easily remedied by a lot of food.

No, [and his tone's a little mournful,] this is something that took a great while to do, and it will take much time to undo.

[He's a lot more emotive like this (alive); the actual regret he feels to see anyone in Nehan's state is very much there in his tone.]

But a lot of food would not hurt, no?

[Still a gremlin. But at least a gremlin who will play a nice, steady support for Nehan until the erune's settled.]

That entirely depends on the food.

[when nehan finally gets into the pool properly, he sighs deeply, and rests against the edge of the pool. the hot water is definitely a balm to his aching muscles.]

[Illarion settles back down into the water with an echoing sigh, burying himself nearly up to the neck. Much longer out of it and he'd have started shivering; shrikes chill quickly.]

Does it? You are the doctor, not I. What do you prescribe, for one in your condition?

Proteins, carbohydrates and some fat. [he's already rattled those off before he realizes that many people wouldn't even understand what those are.]

For instance, red meat, rice, eggs and milk. The fruit you sent helped as well.

[then he pauses to get his hair wet, scrubbing at his ears with one hand.]

[The scientific terms are only distantly familiar to Illarion; the light of understanding dawns as Nehan gives examples.] So, food to make blood and muscle. Harder, in winter, but not impossible.

[He tips his head with one of those birdlike jerks, watching Nehan's ears with sudden avid interest.

But says,] I will hunt more. Anything you are preferring, or cannot eat?

[the fur nehan's ears have grown unkempt for a while, and in the months he's spent here in trench, he hasn't had anyone to help with trimming his fur or hair, it's difficult to do that by himself, especially with one troublesome limb. his hair is almost covering his eyes and his fur is unruly.

at least, for now, they're wet, and thus the fur is more manageable. but nehan still has to scrub them to make sure no water gets into his ears.]

You don't need to bring me food like you're a hunter-gatherer and I'm your wife waiting at home.

[Hmmm. Mammal fur's trickier to deal with than an elf's plumes, and Illarion's never had much practice trimming it. But that unkempt state will not do...

He makes a note to himself, and gives a huffing laugh at Nehan's jibe.] Perish the thought! If you are my wife and not hunting with me, you are heavy with my child.

[He eyes Nehan up and down in a mock-critical appraisal.] And you are worryingly too thin for me to put a child in, impossibilities aside.

No--if we are being primitives, you are a wounded member of my flock. I hunt for you until you are well; it is what is done.

[where is his knife? hidden in his clothes. it's been long-cleaned of any blood, stripped down and scrubbed and put back together again, but he wishes it still had vileblood contaminants on it, for the wound that he fantasizes about putting on the man. perhaps an onlooker wouldn't even suspect such thoughts from him, as he blandly looks at the person before him.]

No thank you. [his tone is frostier than the coldest, windiest mountain.]

I wont play that role.

Edited 2022-01-19 14:30 (UTC)

[A-ha. That was not taken as the joke it was meant.

Illarion returns the look mildly, not missing the mismatch between it and Nehan's tone.]

Of "wife"? I do not ask. This is what I court women for.

[nehan sighs.]

No. Nevermind that-- this conversation is going nowhere. Find something else to talk about, or do with your free time. I wont accept something dead on my front step.

Find someone else to fuss over and feed. [then he goes back to combing out his fur with his fingers. not the easiest of tasks when he only has one arm to use properly.]

Edited (i am a forgetful binch) 2022-01-19 16:24 (UTC)

[Not the cultural misunderstanding he'd assumed, then--but then it's Nehan.

Illarion should know better by now, but like someone being stubborn has ever kept him from offering help.

He echoes the sigh, though his has more amusement to it.]

As if I am a cat, leaving you decapitated mice out of pity.

[Though, hang on. Watching Nehan finger-comb his hair like is going to bother him more the longer it goes on.

He climbs out of the pool without another word and pads off down the hall with wet footsteps.

He's back inside a minute, carrying a bone comb with wide-spaced teeth.]

This is not fussing over you, [he remarks, as he sits back down on the pool's edge, within touching distance of Nehan.] This is having proper tools for the job. May I?

[the erune's nostrils flare when he sees what the man has in his hand. he was beginning to relax when he was left alone, relieved that the conversation is (possibly) over, but then the darkblood man comes back, and his shoulders hike up.

he eyes the comb warily.]

Do you know how to brush fur? [he's a bird-person, not an erune with fur.]

[~~He's such a bird-person he hasn't even got any weird mammalian vestigial bits like nipples or a navel. Comparative anatomy!~~]

I am no mage at it, but I have brushed human hair often enough, and been honored once or twice with currying a great-wolf for her orc. What I do not understand, I will ask about.

[He studies the erune's head and ears carefully, already knowing the answer before he asks,] You have an undercoat I must be careful of?

Yes. [but given how his fur has grown so unkempt, it's not going to be easy to work with, or around.

not to mention...]

My ears were also torn and ripped at certain points. They have healed, but it's impossible to knit the tears together.

[He frowns thoughtfully at that, slowly setting the comb down.]

So they may catch, if I am not being very careful. Might I feel these?

[He can see them, of course, but that didn't teach his hands what their edges felt like or how not to mangle them.

And he really would not mind the excuse to touch Nehan kindly.]

[with intense suspicion, nehan looks up at the man. he's used to people tugging and ripping at them, his owners leaving his ears in tatters if they're particularly displeased, and they never really fully healed, only a growth of thick, badly trimmed fur now hiding them from view. that doesn't stop him from being defensive when others come to touch them, though.

eventually, he unclenches his jaw.]

Very well.

[That look of suspicion is one Illarion's sadly familiar with by long experience. A shrike got it frequently, no matter how benign his intent--and from the look of Nehan's ears, people who handled them didn't often have benign intent.]

Thank you for permitting this. [There's a certain solemnity to the words; he means them in more than a casual way.

He leans forward, taking one of the erune's ears in both hands and working his fingers through the thick fur to feel where the tears are. He's gentle about it, thorough without fondling anything. The second ear gets the same treatment.

Quietly,] Your ears are not this way from fighting your rivals, I take it.

[nehan handles the touches to his ears with silent, long-suffering dignity. it feels much like the way ives touches them, but more clinical, and lighter-- enough to make them flutter under the man's hand, like he's trying to dislodge a fly.]

I have no rivals. [which, of course, means no. that the darkblood man has the right of it.]

If I had been fighting someone, they wouldn't have been allowed to do such a thing to me in the first place. But I wasn't allowed to retaliate or protect myself from those who handled me.

[He takes his hands back once he's finished his inspection, picking up the comb and simply holding it before him as he listens to Nehan's response.

As he weighs Nehan's response, and his expression darkens like the approach of a thundercloud.]

I see. [He needn't voice his conclusion aloud; he knows very well the evil the erune's describing. There is a wealth of suppressed anger in those two words.

He takes up the comb, takes a handful of Nehan's hair, and begins working on it with the same delicate care he showed the other man's ears. And, blessedly, for the moment, he's silent.]

[nehan scowls the entire time, even as the man is being more gentle than expected. he's determined to hate this entire affair, simply because it's about his ears and there's an undercurrent of understanding that yes, what he thinks happened to nehan is exactly what happened... and he dislikes that.

even if... his head feels much less heavy because his hair is no longer a tangled mess.

but his ears cant stop flapping because he's unused to this kind of attention.]

[It's about all Illarion can do to resist actually grabbing those twitchy ears, like a cat snatching at a piece of string. Self-control honed over centuries does him in good stead, there. To say nothing of the still-smoldering anger--which gradually gives way as he focuses on his self-assigned task of combing out Nehan's hair without causing the erune any discomfort.

When it finally does come to those ears, though... He tries to catch one and hold it still by cupping his hand around it, without actually grabbing on. Then he v e r y carefully attempts to comb that disordered fur.

This is not one of his areas of expertise, but gods spit on it, he will try.

At least until he drops the comb because he has to hold it at an odd angle, very carefully, while trying not to shiver. He breathes out in an exasperated noise at himself.]

Perhaps I am giving you the comb for this part, before I do your ears any worse hurt.

[the erune takes to the brushing of his hair the way a pet that hates being brushed does, with small squirming here and there, and a few grumbles when a tangle is undone. but the grumbles quiet when the man is working on his ears, nostrils flaring with almost every breath.

but he has no control over how his ears move, so they're trembling as the comb brushes over them.]

I only have the one hand to use properly, and no mirror. You should just do it.

[True enough that the situation's ideal for neither of them, but Illarion is better-equipped. The shrike gives a little huffing laugh.]

As you will.

[He takes up the comb again, sparing a moment to flex the fingers of both hands, before setting back to his task. It isn't so different from trying to comb a wiggly toddler's hair and he's been successful at that often enough.]

There is a Sleeper here, [he says, conversationally--once he's got the rhythm of his task,] a human, who advertises his services at this--grooming "non-humans".

[Gods black and white but that term grates with its reminder that humans are the overwhelming majority of Sleepers and the rest of them are just "other".]

He said to me once he is not much interested in prying into others' pasts.

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cw: incoming mentions of slavery

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