deercountry | Fated Leviathan Base Camp

Entry tags:

Fated Leviathan Base Camp - Player Plot

Who: Open to all
What: Fated Leviathan Player Plot
When: Early to late February
Where: The Farther Shores

Content Warnings: Body horror, thalassophobia, violence, death, prophecy, not safe for work text

[Welcome to the base camp log post for the Fated Leviathan player plot. This is intended as a general mingling and sandbox post open to all who are interested, whether you've commented on the initial planning post or not!

For the in character group chat on DeerNet, please head right this way.

For the OOC battle finale planning post, go yonder.

Please use as much of the general information below (as well as any other setting details or any prompts from February's event) as you'd like to create your own toplevels, as well as adding to that information with things your characters might bring or set up. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me, Beth, via

terriblepurpose or by DMing this journal!]

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[Palamedes hasn't slept in a few days. That's — it's not great, from an objective view of his overall health take, but it's very much a situation that could be worse. Camilla is gone, and with her the space she occupies in his heart and every other aspect of his life, but she is not here and so not going to be in danger when this nightmare beaches itself any day now. So: it could be worse, and if Palamedes hasn't been sleeping, it's only given him a ruefully chipper kind of aura. Brittle around the edges, but with the flash of a grin when he pops his head into Paul's tent.

Hi. No one is currently dead. So far, so good. He's taking a break from customizing some blood wards, so kindly ignore any and all smudges that may be variously on his face and glasses.]

There you are. I have— sandwiches? [He is indeed carrying a napkin folded around some food, which he looks down at for a second like he's not sure anymore if they really are sandwiches. (They are.)

(He's tired.)]

How's it going?

[Palamedes' footsteps are a familiar sound to Paul by now, even on sand, and so he's holding a plain metal kettle in one hand as if he's forgotten he's carrying it when he comes to the door. He looks at Palamedes with an expression that moves from dubiousness to concern to concealed concern in the span of three sentences. He knows what's wrong. There's nothing he can do to change it, or hasten the speed at which Palamedes finds his way through it, except step aside and let him into the tent.]

About as well as it can be. [Said with a light tone, a casual shrug.] Come in.

[He occupies himself with getting the water started on what looks like a flat sheet of unremarkable black stone after gesturing for Palamedes to take a chair. He focuses on the positive: Palamedes has sandwiches, which means he thought about eating.]

What kind of sandwiches are they?

[Palamedes shuffles in, eyeing the... dragonfly decoration up there first, wondering about these fascinating decor choices. He holds out the folded napkin and then looks at Paul properly; he's thought about eating, yes, but he has not yet. Baby steps.]

Here; I didn't ask.

[It takes him a moment to sit down, particularly once the sandwiches have been delivered; once he has nothing do with his hands he resolves to sit there and tap his fingers on his knees, restless. Sitting still is a chore, he's always thought, and with the weight of Cam's absence now pressing down on top of the already constant threat of this Leviathan — and his own possible impending death, that one's up there — well.

Sitting still is for suckers. He zeroes in on Paul's sheet of stone, next.]

You know, this is a huge improvement over that hovel you were squatting in before.

[The sandwiches are collected, a set of wooden plates is produced (after some light rummaging and clinking of glass) from a chest, and Paul adds these things to the preparations for tea on the table. The black stone reacts to the metal on top of it by heating it, not unlike a conductive plate, a little obscure novelty of magic Paul picked up along the way.]

Thank you. [There's a ripple of wryness under his quiet answer.] I like to think I've moved up in the world.

[Paul unfolds the napkin concealing what appear to be plain cheese and sliced meat sandwiches on some kind of brownish bread. He nearly starts checking it for poison before he reminds himself that Palamedes would be able to tell, even like this, and sets them on the plates instead.]

You look like you've been busy. What kind of tea? [Paul looks levelly at Palamedes, assessing.] Stimulant, relaxant, fruit-based?

[There's a calm sureness about Paul that's a vast distance from the raw nerve shuddering of him in the depths of the Pale Sanctuary. The material conditions on the ground have changed, and Paul has found his feet underneath him again. It means that he can look at Palamedes sparking like a cut wire from a centered place, clear-eyed, and trust in the knowledge Palamedes will be all right, eventually. All Paul has to do is keep him from shorting out before then.]

[Really, the tent is a genuine improvement, despite circumstances. Palamedes makes a soft sound, amused but not quite a whole laugh, and reaches to drag one of the plates over to himself while still watching the stone. He thumbs at the sandwich not unlike the way one might thumb at the corners of a book's pages, making a quick assessment of its fillings before pinching off a chunk of crust to eat instead.]

Doesn't matter, [he says idly, in response to tea, but then:] No: fruit. I have been putting down wards all afternoon and am already anemic — drinking anything more powerful than fruit will go right to my head.

[Put another tally on his "thinking about health" chart for this one, and then immediately erase for it the "already anemic" bit. That the blood smudging his face is his own was likely obvious already, and no sleep has done him no favors, but despite all that and the crushing weight of Everything Happening, Constantly, there's a steadier set to his features that's pleased with himself. He puts down good wards no matter how frayed at the edges he gets; the exhaustion of a necromantic job well done is a good one, satisfying unlike anything else. Distracting, too, unlike anything else.

He pulls off another crust corner to eat, which is a new record.]

These wards don't need me to keep feeding them anything, [he adds, with a before-you-ask glance, because he knows he would if it were him,] I'm saving that kind for the big day.

[There are no futures even Paul can see where he was going to add fuel to the pale fire behind Palamedes' eyes, but not having to say no to him about it was what Paul was hoping to get out of the question. He relaxes a little, deliberately making sure it's visible in the easing of his motions as he fishes out a sweet-smelling tin of tea and portions it out into a metal tea ball pierced with dozens of tiny holes.]

Am I that much of a nag? [Said in the smiling tones of someone who knows that he absolutely is, and isn't sorry about it, but is still glad he's not having to prompt these reassurances.] All right. Consider me appeased.

[So he'll skip the unnecessary reminders like 'humans need blood and sleep to survive'. Palamedes is one of the few people Paul thinks has a better understanding of the limits of the human body than he does - and if he passes out on the beach, at least he's close to help.

There's nothing left to do but wait for the water to boil, so Paul sits in front of his own sandwich and dutifully picks it up to take a bite. He does notice that Palamedes also took the time to think about him eating, an observation that inspires a certain fierce warmth in his chest.]

...the big day. I think that's the first time I've heard anyone call it that. Perhaps that's what we stick with. It sounds less ominous, don't you think?

Edited 2022-02-06 21:10 (UTC)

[Palamedes hums, eyebrows raised as he does his very best to convey through theatrical expression that, yes, Paul has the tendencies of a nag, and no, he doesn't mind. He's merely saving them time, skipping the obvious questions. It leaves more time for sandwiches and for not thinking so much about how much blood a body can lose before it stops working for a while. That can come later, during work hours.

But Paul says Consider me appeased, and Palamedes can't help but hear Camilla's voice alongside his words, all grudging tolerance and sharp relief and Warden, don't get in too deep. Paul isn't Camilla, of course, they occupy very separate parts of Palamedes' carefully distributed sentiment, but the buoyant reassurance is similar.

It's nice. To be nagged. Sometimes. Maybe bringing Paul sandwiches is its own kind of nagging, but in Palamedes' defense, Paul is doing way more than he is out here, anyway.]

It should stay ominous. It's a nightmare. But if we're going to be wetting ourselves in terror until it's here, it's going to be a very unpleasant camp.

[He takes an actual bite of sandwich this time, making a face at it; room temperature cheese, ick.]

Levity and gravity aren't mutually exclusive. Too much of either and we'll stop being objective, which — well, I don't need to tell you how that goes. You've seen it.

[Paul would never try to be Camilla, couldn't come close even if he did, but he's been thinking about what it means to serve, to make oneself of service, and she's an example to judge himself by. Like Gideon, like Duncan, like Palamedes himself: these are the kinds of people that a person could aspire towards being like, even if they know they'd never get there. There's something in the trying.

So with that in mind, he leans back in his chair, lets himself be comfortable, his limbs loose. He nods along to Palamedes' observations as he eats, and continues to be appeased, bit by intentionally visible bit.]

You're right. I was concerned it would be like that - unpleasant. [He waves the sandwich in a little outwardly referential circle.] Fear is a thought-killer.

[Palamedes won't need an elaboration on why that's not a good thing, thankfully.]

I underestimated them. [A slight, warm smile, relief clear in it.] Did you see what they've done to my posters? They're hideous. I'm going to have to go back and vandalize them in the opposite direction, I think.

[There's something to be said for the motivational power of a bunch of charmingly vandalized posters, Palamedes thinks; that kind of thing would never have gone over well in the Sixth except for in particular circles, so it's been very novel to wander by and see the new additions every few hours. That, and on the more basic, human level: the simple comfort in being able to laugh in the face of a looming dread.]

I like the one with the cat on it. [Oh, to be a little kitten just hanging in there. Something about it.] Perhaps I should help you spruce them up a little.

[Although he's never vandalized something, so he'll have to carefully consider it before the inspiration strikes. Paul can help him make sure whatever he puts up there actually makes sense to other people and isn't just a sleep-deprived mess.

There: levity. The exactly correct amount.]

After this is over, did you have a plan for this camp? Plenty of things come out of the sea here. It's useful.

The cat I don't mind. The libel and bickering is another thing.

[A thing which makes Paul smile, completely unserious in his offense. He'd admit to finding it funny to few people outside of this tent, since there are appearances to keep up, but still. (And in another way, it moves him: the evidence of life, of connection, thriving in the face of potential obliteration, but he knows exactly how sentimental that sounds, so that he will keep to himself.)]

I think we could come up with more creative insults than 'narc'. As if narcissist is even that long a word.

[The tea is about steeped, so Paul sets down his sandwich and pours two handleless cups worth of it, then sets sugar on the table between them. He's short on milk, but he resists the urge to offer to go get some. There is a limit to what he'll indulge his paleblood in. Once he's settled back into his seat, he comes around to the question, enough time having lapsed for him to have thought about it.]

We could maintain at least part of it. It might not be a bad place to hang onto. We could use it for research, too. Not everything that comes out of the sea is terrible.

The libel and bickering is inspirational.

[Is pushing buttons not how one motivates their friends and/or rivals slash rivalfriends? It works most of the time. But ah, it's merely the lack of skill... yes, Palamedes sees the appeal in being the greatest sign-defacer of a generation. Sounds good.

He sets the sandwich down (still with one solitary whole bite taken out of it) to take up the cup of tea instead, and he thinks about terrible things coming out of the sea. Of course Paul gets the idea — to leave some kind of research outpost out here, away from the bulk of the city's interference, closer to the thing that holds more importance for them, the Sleepers, being where they've all washed up from.

That said.]

Do you think I'm good enough to ward away the Emperor? He can fuck up his boat all he likes and leave this place alone.

[Darkblood self love is not giving a shit what sacrilege comes out of one's mouth, obviously. He sips his tea.]

I'm pretty good.

[Given the wretched state Paul was in the last time they discussed the Emperor (or the captain, or God, or the Necrolord Prime, or whatever else), he knows he should probably try to look at least a little discomforted at that blasphemous invocation.

Instead, Paul snorts hot tea up his nose, and has to set his cup down to sputter in completely undignified and somewhat painful laughter. He grabs at the napkin and mops up the mess of his face, and what ended up on the table, grinning with watering eyes.]

Palamedes. [Mock scolding, and maybe a little hysterical, but - gravity and levity, like he said.] It's a ship, not a boat.

[Since that's what's important, after all. Paul settles back down into his chair and tips his head back, looking up at his little paper ornament.]

...he is coming. Eventually. You should know that. I've seen him here. So - [a shrug, because what are they supposed to do about that? Besides blood wards, possibly.]

[Palamedes sips his tea some more, not concealing his satisfied little grin. Levity, levity — and a soupçon of bitterness, for flavor. He's blessedly not even seen Actual God since that boat trip, but after Paul's near breakdown and Gideon's sharing on that very trip that Actual God tormented Harrow to "fix" her — mm!

Mmmm!!

He's earned this, at the very least.]

Generously, it's a dinghy.

[Fact: Palamedes looked up boat terms to make this joke, and it is delivered, and he declares that it is good. The mood is only slightly lowered by the man himself's inevitable arrival, but! Until then: levity.]

I will put myself elsewhere, but only because I know you don't want me to mouth off at him for his weird choices.

[Understatement. But he'll behave.]

[The dinghy comment wrings another laugh out of Paul, pulls him back upright and facing forward. There's a certain tension around his eyes, but - well, whistling past graves might be a thing necromancers do all the time, for all Paul knows. What he does know for certain is that he could not have continued to function the way he had been, and this is better than that.]

Only because I think it wouldn't be fair. [Paul's smile tilts, sharpens.] You're cleverer than he is.

[And better. There are many types of cleverness, and Paul prefers Palamedes' bright, uncompromising curiosity to the oil-slick interest that had brushed over him. Palamedes is better, and Paul hopes the Emperor continues to abide in his arrogant ignorance of that fact.]

Speaking of choices - have you seen that house of his? It's nearly as bad as where I was staying.

[Ah, cleverer than God, he'll put that one on his necromancer business card. Palamedes Sextus, Master Warden, Much Cleverer than God Himself Actually (Take That, Sucker) —

It can be workshopped. He laughs in turn, shrugging as if to say, well, what can one do when one's own cleverness is nigh unbeatable! It happens. He lets the moment settle for an extra second to appreciate it for what it is beyond the exact kind of talking smack about God that Paul cautioned him about weeks ago; just some guys hanging out and having a chuckle in the face of imminent danger. And, you know, he appreciates the endorsement. Coming from Paul, even more so.

So, then: the ugly house, and he gestures emphatically with his teacup, although not so much as to upset the tea.]

It's an eyesore, isn't it! And I'm one of them, so you know it has to be terrible beyond measure if I'm agreeing.

[Not a single House besides the Sixth has good taste, in Palamedes' opinion, which is mostly based on how little time he has to spend thinking about having taste. Just seeing the horrible bone house in his periphery means he has to Think About It, and working out why someone would decorate like that is an unending task.]

If nothing else, at least hang your skeletons everywhere in a way that's nice to look at, right? Have some semblance of order.

[The exception to the rule against mocking God turns out to be 'when it's particularly funny, your necromancer friend could do with a little ego boost, and you're already doomed as it is'. Paul grins crookedly with a closed mouth and leans forward, setting his elbows on the table.]

'Oh, please, don't look at my ghost-haunted hovel and my ship crewed by the restless undead'. [Paul is good at vocal mimicry; it sounds uncannily like the man under discussion.] 'I am but a humble fellow traveler on the sea of life, a simple man with hideously ostentatious tastes'.

[Paul sips his own tea (what's left of it) and affects a disappointed expression, shaking his head.]

As the ladies of court would say - it's utterly gauche. [Bad taste: the true crime here.] What's wrong with an old-fashioned palace?

Edited 2022-02-12 21:13 (UTC)

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Fated Leviathan Base Camp - Player Plot

howdy it's tent time

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