o4 . february catchall

[necrolord]

Who: necrolord and you!
What: Local necromancer is networking. Archives research, healing for lockjoint and self-mutilation, and more.
When: February.
Where: Archives, Lumenwood, streets of Trench.

Content Warnings: Skeletons and mentions of the self-mutilation curse. Note all the usual warnings of this character.

(1) research.

You've probably seen him around, by now. The man is something of a fixture in the Archives: he settles at an unremarkable table and proceeds to drown it in open books, scattered pages, notes, journals. He seems intent on skimming his way through half the library. Sometimes there's a girl, scrawny and dour with her face painted up like a skull, hovering at his elbow. Today, he's on his own.

He doesn't look like much. Simple clothes; bare hands, which suggests he's either confident or reckless, in a town that will titter at anyone who doesn't wear gloves; he looks fortyish and plain. Only one thing about him is remarkable: his eyes, black as oil from edge to unpleasant edge.

Today, he's amassed an odd collection of vials, bloodstones, and shards of bone. You might catch the sudden reek of Beast blood, which is alarmingly toxic to handle even with gloves; you might catch him weighing a huge, inhuman bone in the palm of his hand, looking thoughtful. If he notices your attention, he'll speak without looking up.

"Six months, and I'm still trying to puzzle out the basics."

(2) the skeleton plow.

[ On the 9th, a blizzard blows in. It leaves the town blanketed in a heavy weight of snow, and Trenchies come out with shovels and resigned expressions to scrape the streets clear.

God, who has places to be, finds this a touch inconvenient. He's meant to be in Lumenwood just now, playing Jesus on everyone's frostbite and having a generally pleasant morning. So he claps his hands, watches a dozen skeletons claw their way free of the frozen earth and pop out of the snow ("like daisies," he says to whoever is nearest) and then sets off across town with his helpful new posse.

Each skeleton moves as smoothly and politely as a human servant, with a speck of red light in each empty eye. God makes a little gesture, like a conductor with an orchestra; his servants' fingerbones fuse and spread. Their arms distort and lengthen. They each now wield a broad bone scoop, which looks somewhere between silly and horrifying.

The skeleton army sets to work shoveling snow, heedless of appalled bystanders. ]

(3) healing.

[ Maybe you're still suffering from Lockjoint, Sleeper. Maybe you've begun scraping your own skin away under this month's curse, trying to resist temptation, trying to resist the urge to confess.

It doesn't matter whether all the damage is hidden by your clothing, or whether you think you're doing a good job of masking your pain. Today you're near the gates of Lumenwood - maybe to get help for your own issues, maybe not - and there is a man here, who has just waved away a grateful Trenchie making conversation. He turns, tips his head in hello, and considers you. ]

Want a hand with that?

(4) wildcard.

[ Happy to match formatting! ]

Comments

1- Research

[hearthebell]

[Though L has spent most of time at the camp, preparing for the arrival of the Leviathan, there have been some occasions necessity has dictated slipping away for a period of time. Having exhausted his current literature in his quest to create an antivenom for the neurotoxic creature, he's looking for more, following his typical bizarre (but also absurdly reliable) method for finding exactly what he's looking for.

His arms are already bundled with Chemical Properties of Poisons and Toxins for the Advanced Alchemist by Sergei Yacher, Forceful Fauna of the Very, Very, Very Deep by Plunderus Piddlebus, Comprehending the Old Ones by Nodda Kultisst, and, of course, Exactly What You're Looking For, by Mindful Reckonson. Currently, he's counting his steps and ceiling tiles, alternating and deep in concentration, when his path is interrupted by a table where a man is at work with his own project, one that reeks.

L's eyes have been described, often and inaccurately, as black. In fact, they're dark grey and often overdilated by the low-light conditions he spends most of his time in. The gaze they meet is, in fact, truly black, so much that it startles a rare blink from the scrawny and disheveled younger man.

There's another reason, of course. L's been warned about those eyes.]

Six months? Your reasons must be pressing to inspire that kind of tenacity.

[He adjusts his grip on the books. His searches usually lead him to the large and meaty volumes, an effort to carry with arms so devoid of muscle and fat that his sleeves flap loosely and sadly around them.]

[necrolord]

[ Now here's a kid who would fit in among necromancers. The King Undying takes him in— scrawny arms, big eyes, Forceful Fauna of the Very, Very, Very Deep and all— and waves the young man over to his table, an invitation to set down that load. The gesture is casual, lighthearted, but there's a weary sort of set to his shoulders. He has that energy to him, on the whole: that of an overworked professor, a man never content enough to get a good night's sleep. ]

I don't know about pressing. I don't have an eye to the clock.

[ (This is a lie.) ]

But it's terrible thing, teetering just on the edge of a breakthrough.

[hearthebell]

[There are moments in a man's life when he recognizes that he has a chance to fold his hand and sit out a round, perhaps when the stakes have grown uncomfortably high. He can just toss down his cards and decline continuing; he could just say that he's got somewhere to be to the black-eyed man and haul his books back to camp.

Deal me in, then. He approaches, takes the seat, and sets down his load. Though there's no violence or abruptness in the gesture, the sheer weight, relative to their carrier, results in a startlingly loud sound in the massive archives.

There's a heaviness too, he thinks, to the man. Not a physical encumberment; an emotional one, then? Intellectual, metaphysical? He resolves to find out as much as he can with this opportunity, because while the man has the air of an overworked professor, L's large-eyed apparent youth and frail, hungry frame give him an air of vulnerability and occasionally daftness. It might be his best weapon, next to the sheer power of his brain.]

Isn't it? A terrible thing, I mean...

[The sentiment, and its presentation, are wholly authentic. This is in fact a situation L can genuinely empathize with, and was even before he started working on an antivenom for a beast he's only seen in a dream. For a moment, he remembers what Paul told him about not denying their association, should it come up, because they've been seen together often enough that this man would be likely to realize it.

Bet modestly at this juncture. Don't fold; don't bluff. He smiles palely in the dim light, canting his shaggy head.]

Do you believe you're approaching one, at least?

a lich plays dungeons and dragons. [OTA with Ford Pines]

[necrolord]

[ By this point in the afternoon, John's books and notes have been pushed aside. His collection of bone-bits and bloodstones and, occasionally, vials of deeply dangerous material have been carefully rearranged into the center of the table. Across from him sits an older man, grey-haired and stocky, in a long traveler's coat and glasses. They regard each other in silent, focused intensity, the air between them expectant.

The King Undying, Necrolord Prime, Scourge of Death, etc, reaches into the space between them. He picks up the vial of Beast blood, which roils unpleasantly in its glass confines.

Then he leans forward to set it down with a decisive click, onto... their haphazardly drawn grid. ]

Right, so. If I move here, that shouldn't provoke an attack of opportunity. [ He drums his inkstained fingers on the tabletop, intent as a man studying genuine battle plans. ] I have to be honest, swinging a sword has never been my forte, even in fiction. Can I cast a spell?

[cryptograms]

Right! That enemy has already used it's reaction for this round, so it's only the other one you need to worry about.

[ Ford, who has been contemplative and focused just a moment ago, brightens up like a child that's just been handed a puppy when John asks his question. It's always been a challenge to find people that want to play tabletop games with him, let alone someone that seems like they're actually invested in the rules and setting. ]

You have some spells on the back of your sheet. Using them isn't too different from melee attacks, but you need to be mindful of your range, line of sight, and remaining spell slots.

[frogfear]

[This is brand new to Willow too, and it's a safe bet that she's here more to hang out with Ford than anything else.

She leans forward over the table to study the grid carefully.]

I'll... use my range attack, I guess? To hit the other one? I should be able to hit him from here, right?

[forwantofahorse]

Er... wouldn't it be better to provoke their attacks of opportunity here, actually? Judging from previous rounds, these enemies have more dangerous abilities to spend their reactions on...

[Sayo was watching from a distance, before gradually inching closer and closer (in a stealthy fashion) as the combat drew on. She'd heard of this D&D thing, and even thought it'd be fun to play, but this is... extremely different... from what she knows of it in 1980s Japan.]

[onekindsoul]

[Don't mind Ruby as she butts in here.]

Yes! But only if you use your bonus action to cast shadow blade! AND THEN SWING YOUR SWORD AT THEM!

[themuseabandonsyou]

Orpheus has passed this man in the archives a few times before. He's generally been friendly, in his way, waving or nodding in greeting those times their eyes have met, but usually he's been too busy scurrying around looking for bits and pieces of knowledge for his own projects to stop and properly introduce himself.

Today, though, he overhears the man lament how long his efforts are taking, and slows to a stop, setting the pile of books on beasthood in his arms down on the table.

"Oh?" he says, frowning, cocking his head to the side slightly. "The basics of what? Maybe I can help?"

He sort of doubts it - Orpheus is aware that he's no scholar, struggles with understanding the breadth and depth of a lot of what's going on at the best of times - but if there's a chance he might be of use he has to offer, right?

(Unrelated to any of this, scars of varying age stand out against pale skin underneath his clothes, covering his back and sides and encircling the joints of his legs and neck and one of his arms. He limps slightly, a fresh and still-bandaged burn covering one of his legs from toes to knee. But he's not thinking of any of that, right now. Why would he be?)

[necrolord]

The man at the table looks up at him, and his expression softens slightly to see a familiar face. He sets to drumming his fingertips on the arm of his chair, instead, absent and thoughtful.

(He notes the limp, and notes the burn beneath the bandage. They'll get to that.)

"Our lovely new home." With a free hand he gestures: to the Archives, to Gaze, to Trench. "And the nitty-gritty of how it all fits together. I always thought I had an eye for blood magic," understatement is very funny to him, "but I've yet to crack the local variant. The squids are still beyond me."

[nilheality]

[So there Nil was, trudging through the difficult snow, forcing her way through despite her new powers of flight. She had long since decided that while that was something she could do, it wasn't especially something she should. There was something about the process of walking which made her feel connected to her human self... even if the difficulty of the situation was starting to grate.]

[Her attention is broken by the sounds of... shoveling? Her optimism of seeing a crew of people making the pathways accessible to all was broken when she saw who was doing the shoveling. Not only was it bizarre, it was grotesque, and probably an affront to the people that those skeletons used to be.]

Necromancy... [She mutters, looking around to see if there was a master to these ensorcelled bone men.]

[necrolord]

[ Necromancy! It might take her a moment to place the culprit, because he looks like nothing much: just a middle-aged guy in a black coat, following behind the skeleton cleanup crew and chatting with bystanders.

Then he spots her, tentacles and all, and his gaze hangs on her for a beat. There's no revulsion in his all-black eyes: just a faintly bemused interest, a crinkling of the brow like he's looking into her and puzzled by what he sees.

Once that moment has hung long enough to go awkward, he tips his head in hello. ]

Don't mind us. My friends here are lending a quick hand.

3, cw: self mutilation

[dynatox]

[ There's a bandaged-up gash on Terry's right arm; a quick and easy way to relieve the pain. It was such an impulsive choice that he completely forgot it would come out so ugly and green and putrid. Rotten. Like him.

The sight of his own blood hasn't bothered him in almost fifty years. He hates this place for giving him a reason to be squeamish again.

That more than anything drives him to Lumenwood, but it's easier to show up than it is to actually ask for help. ]

Thank you, but - it's fine.

[ It isn't fine, and saying it is makes whatever pain he'd relieved with that wound come back and then some. He can handle pain, he doesn't even mind it really, but there's something about this that makes him clutch at his chest.

It's like something's trying to get out, and god, he doesn't want to let it. Though he regretting wounding himself once the pain died down, now that it's back he remembers why he'd rather bleed. ]

Actually, do you have a knife? Or...or anything sharp.

[necrolord]

[ Hey, he's not in a hurry. John has seen his share of martyrs, most of them literal. This is nothing, by comparison. ]

I could scrounge something up.

[ He doesn't look horrified; just brings up a hand to rub at his chin, thoughtful. ]

Seems like a messy way to treat the symptoms, though. I could give you something a little more elegant— though I'll warn you it might hurt worse.

3 - lemme know if this works!

[shiro2hero]

[Passing through Lumenwood is a detour. It's the long route. But he deserves the hike today. Deserves the long slog through the snow and ice. It's freezing, and he'd left his heavier coat at home. Even left Kristoff's vest behind. Why not? the guilt deserved it.]

[His right arm aches. It has to be from the stunt with the bike, right? There's no other reason for it. It's tucked securely in a pocket, the fabric taking up most of the weight. His eyes are on his feet. Picking a slow path through the snow.]

[So the greeting, the question, catches him completely off-guard. He jerks to a halt, stunned, confused.]

What?

[necrolord]

[ Oh, fantastic, that got his attention. Shiro might regret giving it a moment later: God quirks his eyebrows and wiggles his fingers in what is obviously a pun. ]

A hand. You were holding yours like it might be giving you some trouble.

[ He gestures, as though Shiro is telegraphing his pain for all to see. He isn't, really, but most people just blame themselves when they get caught out. ]

Call it healer's intuition. It's been a slow day and I'm looking for someone to indulge me. Got a minute?

1 - Research

[frogiturgy]

He hadn't come in for conversation.

...That was a lie. Perell was always up for a chat, but often times found that few people were interested in the nitty gritty details of realmic theory or the ways the ebb and flow of thaumic energy were influenced by both the material and spiritual planes. Tipping his hat up briefly, Perell regarded the stranger in quiet interest for a moment before setting his books down.

"Only six months? It took me six years to get the energies controlled enough to feel comfortable venturing out in public without worry.-- and several decades to even feel close to mastry."

Unbidden, he sat-- a plain looking bespectacled man who looked like a ragged 40-something with his worn hat and scruffy moustache. Perell leaned back, glad to take the weight off of his aching body that had stiffened from jointlock.

"Six months is nothing. Why don't you tell me about it like you're talking to a frog?"

He was a fool-- but, he also had time.

[necrolord]

Oh no, this is hilarious.

No one talks to God like this. Well, okay: back home, no one talks to God like this without adding a hurried respectfully, Lord at the end of whatever exasperated thing they've just said. Here a lot of people talk to him however they please, which is honestly a little refreshing, and this is still the first time he's had a guy invite himself to the table and tell him he's being an idiot.

There is the briefest moment in which he looks genuinely impressed. Then it breaks to amusement, and something assessing just beneath.

"What kind of frog?" he asks, smiling. "A rubber one? One of the colorful little jungle ones that can drop an elephant? I need to set the scene, here."

Research

[brokebitchmountain]

[ Zhongli is not an expert on any of the happenings here by any means of the word. So in order to really gain more of an understanding he often frequents the library from time to time to do some reading.

Not needing to sleep or even eat he's often there for long periods of time, wandering the stacks in search of his next book. It on such a day that he happens upon the other man, his own curiosity getting the better of him. ]

That is quite extensive research. Have you tried asking others for assistance? Perhaps there is someone here with the knowledge that might help speed up the process on finding an answer.

[necrolord]

Oh, I have a couple helpers.

[ His tone is good-humored as he looks up to the newcomer. God's eyes are dark and difficult to read. ]

They had more interesting places to be today. But you have a point: I'm still behind on a lot of the context. I never saw the dream, for one.

Research

[the_obedient_servant]

[They raise their eyebrow, studying this man. At least he seems dedicated to understanding, which in Chara's mind makes him more of an asset than some.

And if John were to look at Chara, they would see their soul so deeply stained with death, both their own and the civilization that has fallen at their hand. And so much power that it's just barely recognizable as human. But it is, with a faint glow of DETERMINATION that overrides any violence they might carry.

And for now, they have a cup of tea and an old book about Darkblood and it's connection with time and space.]

Not a fan of Trench's local spin on blood magic?

[necrolord]

[ Well. Now there's something interesting. This place is just oozing fucked-up children, apparently, they keep crawling out of the woodwork every time he looks up. ]

I'm not giving it a review just yet. I'd need to understand what I'm looking at, first.

[ He nods, approving, to the book in their hand. ]

That's the goal, anyway. Same for you?

not here. cw: gore, extreme violence, self-harm via bug monster

[necrolord]

It builds and builds and builds.

John spends a lot of time thinking, this month. He thinks about sea monsters and the familiar weight of a ticking clock. He thinks about his scant handful of faithful, if anyone could still bother to call them that, waiting out on the bare sand; he thinks about a teenager's order to stop fucking with them. No one's come to beg salvation, not even Harrow. He's a fact of the universe to them, the cosmic backdrop to their shitty lives; he's a reliable deadbeat.

He thinks about the look of yellow eyes under fizzy Drearburh lights. He thinks about the little flower ritual everyone held back in September, the one where he was told to leave the past behind.

He hopes some whimsical little elder god comes up to tell him all about second chances. He'd take its tongue out piece by piece.

"Do you know what I want?" says John aloud, one day, to no one in particular. Well, no: there's someone he could talk at. He used to talk at her all the time. "Humor me, here, it'll help me gets my thoughts in order."

He's in his study. It's the same dull, paper-cluttered little room as ever, but today he can't bear to look at the chair: it tangles some foreign agony in his throat, in his chest, and it's becoming a genuine nuisance to pry the pain out with every breath he takes. So he paces, instead, and lets a throbbing ache settle into his sternum.

He wonders which god sent this one. Mother Mercy, right? Hell of a name. He should chat with her, sometime. They've got a lot in common.

"We're being asked to confess," he says, to the smoke that has started to simmer in his footprints. It bubbles and drips upwards, like the tell of those parasites, the ones that embed in the soul. "Bless me, squid gods, for I have sinned."

The smoke coalesces. It takes a shape.

"I want," he says, his back turned to the shape, "to stop fucking pretending. Wouldn't that be wild?"

His Omen settles into the air with the dull thrum of insect wings. She hangs spindly and unnatural behind him, so tall she has to fold in on herself or else her bony antennae would scrape the ceiling.

"Beloved," he murmurs, and it's the worst thing he's said since arrival. He is eons past caring. "Let me tell you about it."

He tells her:

"It's all coming apart."

He tells her:

"I still can't believe they pulled it off."

He tells her:

"I miss you."

And then she kills him. Not really, because she just puts her sharpened phalanges through the wet cavity of his chest, and whatever, that's nothing. That's foreplay. He removes her arm, but she's got three more of them, today. She puts another through his throat, and he makes a sound around it. It's a bad one.

More gurgle than voice, he tells her:

"I can't just walk away."

She tries to carve upwards through his face to his brain. The sound he makes is not related to a laugh. It is not exactly a scream. He wants to say: Ha ha, time to safeword.

He takes her apart. It's not easy; she gets mad when he does this. Back in your Pokeball, he tells her, but not with his tongue because she's already mostly pulped that.

It takes a little while. None of it kills him.

When his shadow is shoved back into the place where he keeps her, he sinks to crouch back on his heels. The room is painted up like galaxies. Blood hangs in the air like glitter. Kill God, throw a rave, he wants to say to nobody. He even has enough working tongue for it, now.

But he says nothing.

He makes the mess go away. It collapses to colorless dust, and this he rubs out of his eyes, absently, alone in the rumpled office. The chair— the bad one— has fallen over, which is very funny. He almost laughs.

"I am sorry for these and all my sins," he says aloud, in the rote way of a man with a script. No one answers.

3. Healing

[foulhussy]

[ That damned curse is wearing Kainé threadbare. She was never very good at taking care of herself. The desires she kept locked away festered and poisoned her heart and body.

The woman that approaches the gates of Lumenwood is obviously corrupt. Her skin is ash pale, and a strong scent of flowers follows her. She hums to herself, and perhaps more ominously, the muted sound of bells ring as she moves. Beneath her clothes are several cuts, in varying degrees of freshness.

She scowls at the man, who looks about as trustworthy as a snake oil salesman. ]

Damn, didn't know a real person could be that shady.

[necrolord]

[ Wow, he came out here to have a good time. The Necrolord Prime looks genuinely impressed by the audacity. ]

You kidding? I don't even have the skeletal minions out clattering their bones for ambiance.

[ He wiggles his fingers as though to demonstrate the extra-shady ambiance. ]

Nothing more trustworthy than a good skeleton.