deercountry | o4 . february catchall

Entry tags:

o4 . february catchall

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! ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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.

[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?

Edited 2022-02-08 18:12 (UTC)

'Approaching' is relative.

[ This he says with good humor, and he nods approval as the young man folds himself into the chair across from him. ]

It's a thorny one, let me tell you. Squids and blood and an ocean that thinks, and they're all interwoven.

[ He takes up drumming his fingers on the page of a book, one denoting the most commonly observed abilities of coldblooded Sleepers. Those are the commonalities in his titles, today: anything on blood types, anything on Sleeper physiology. He's been chewing his way through a whole wing of the Archives like this, and there's still plenty more to go.

He nods to Comprehending the Old Ones, there in the newly-placed stack. ]

Looks like we might have overlapping areas.

Isn't nearly everything?

[He does his best to match that mood, a casual parry. Two intellectuals, not in competition, meeting for the first time; that's all this is, on paper.

From the moment he took his seat, he has been, as subtly as he can, glancing over the titles on his companion's spines.]

I'd considered the same, but it's rare to meet a sleeper in these archives who isn't trying to learn some greater truth about their place in Trench. It's the first and most intuitive place to go when your life takes a turn like this... everyone's probably tried to crack the truth open at least once.

[It sets a broad and deliberate baseline: L means to establish, with those words, that this is not an unusual or notable pastime, even if the details might vary slightly or occasionally carry more of a specific focus.]

Are you coldblooded, yourself? I've come to understand that for the softer blood types it's prudent to acquire a weapon made with it, so... I've been asking around.

Edited 2022-02-09 01:35 (UTC)

[ He tips his head in acknowledgment of the point, and seems to accept the we're all colleagues talk well enough. To the oblique request for a bit of his blood, he looks faintly amused. ]

Afraid not. [ He quirks the wry edge of a smile, here, one which does not meet his black eyes. The King Undying spreads his hands as though to demonstrate his noted lack of muscles, faux-mournful. ] I'm not much the sword-swinging type, either. Though I wish you luck in the search.

Thank you. Someone's giving me training advice, so... someday, maybe.

[It's Gideon, actually. At least, obliquely. It appears that a trend is fast being set for their communication style.

He looks down on the sword-swinging types; he has something better.]

In your studies, which Sleeper blood type have you found to be closest to beasts' blood? I couldn't help but notice that you're working with it.

[He rubs at the side of his nose, almost a compulsion. His omen, an orca whale, is shrunken down to swim tight circles around his wrist.]

[ For an instant, he is captivated by the movement of the Omen. Would be nice if his were content to exist peacefully out of her little metaphysical box, but, well. She's too much what she is. ]

You know, there seems to be a common take on that. [ He leans in, a little, to drum his fingers across his reading again. ] Vilebloods seem to get a bad rap: it's right in the name. And, sure, there are similarities. They both smell awful, for one. But I'm not convinced it's a tidy link.

[ He leans back again, thoughtful. ]

It's Beasts' blood that interests me most, you know. If we could get a real grasp on the mechanics underpinning Corruption, that could do everyone some good.

[ He'd expected an analogue to a planet's soul-death, to thanergy flip and resulting mutation of everything in the vicinity. He hasn't found one. ]

The common takes can be the ones I miss the most, ironically enough.

[His own wry bit of self-deprecation. A bit of a shut-in, this one, and he looks every bit of it.]

An approximate link might be enough, for my purposes... but it sounds like you have a much bigger picture in mind.

[Careful not to overflatter, or simper. He's not as good at this as Light Yagami; interacting like this, one on one, even in situations that are totally without agenda and unthreatening, can be taxing and challenging for L.]

Not being a sword-swinging type... how did you come by this blood? A source would be useful to know about, considering a beast is less likely than a Vileblood to volunteer a donation.

[ For a moment, the King Undying quirks his eyebrows up, cognizant that the questions now border on prying. He looks at worst amused. ]

I have some very capable sword-swinging friends. [ He says this as though it's the answer to the question. ] Good grounding when you're all tangled up in the big picture.

[ He holds up the vial of Beast's blood between thumb and forefinger; it roils unpleasantly within the glass, as though itself alive. ]

Can't promise a consistent supply, but if you fill me in on your project, I'll part with this one. With the obvious caveat of, you know, don't touch it. Pretend you've signed a waiver.

[L understands, now, what Paul means about him being difficult to read. He remains convinced that no one is truly impossible, but the black-eyed man is definitely a challenge.

It might bode poorly that both of them think so, that everyone might well think so.]

Oh, you're willing to part with it? That would be helpful.

[He rests his cheek in the palm of his hand; both are shadowed in charcoal, as if he's spent a lot of time recently writing or drawing with poor technique.]

There's a creature approaching Trench. You're probably aware of it by now.

[It's no secret. The campsite is not hidden, anyone is welcome to help. Additionally, L is already aware that this individual has pried a future, unknown debt from Paul in return for his promised and highly valuable help during the "ceasefire."]

I also have sword-swinging friends who are likely to be in close combat with it, so I've taken it upon myself to protect them in a way I'm able. The creature weaponizes a neurotoxin not unlike the one in box jellyfish spines, and I think that an appropriate immune response could come from beast's blood, as opposed to, say, a sheep. The goal is a prophylactically applied and water-resistant antivenom... ideally, it could begin counteracting the venom immediately upon contact.

[His work isn't a secret, either, though L doesn't typically spend time explaining details if he thinks that time could be better used. He doesn't pepper the explanation with passive-aggression or condescension, considering it a preemptive peace offering.

Notably, however, he does not mention how he knows this.]

I could actually sign a waiver, if it would reassure you, Mr...?

[Paul had mentioned that he didn't even know the guy's name. L's not confident that he can easily learn it, inferring that even Palamedes doesn't know, or at least is not willing to divulge it to Paul.]

[ He nods, as though this is all very right and expected. As though they're discussing an inconvenient weather pattern. To the explanation, he looks genuinely attentive, genuinely interested: God rubs his chin like he's mulling it over. ]

Decent use of time. Keep it, then. But if you don't make much headway, try Vileblood: there's something going on there with toxicity neutralization. Most are immune to stuff that could drop an elephant. A thimble of Vileblood's the folk cure for parasite infestation, even the really nasty kind— but any more and you'll be treating a corpse.

[ He waves away the question under the guise of waving away the offer, wholly unrepentant. ]

You seem like a guy who knows what he's doing. We'll keep it an imaginary waiver. You need a hand with it, though, come and find me: I could use a break from books about squid.

[He's unsure how much of the man's affable approval is polite and how much of it is entirely earnest. Either way, he can't shake the feeling that he's being subtly toyed-with. Then again, that could wholly be the bias that Paul instilled in him when he gave him the rundown of his situation.

He nods, seeming newly invigorated and encouraged. It's not entirely an affectation; he is. An angle has been suggested that he had not considered; like most, he has the blood types and personalities he gravitates towards, and it's overwhelmingly Palebloods like himself and Darkbloods, like Palamedes, Illarion, and, so far unknown to him, the Emperor.]

It's an avenue to try, certainly... and it seems promising with that rationale. I'll be sure to approach some Vilebloods about contributing to the cause.

[Surely some of them are hanging around camp. He'll put out a call.]

Thank you for the invitation. Who should I send my omen for if it comes to that point?

[He was either too subtle about fishing for a name, or the black-eyed man saw through the effort. L thinks it's telling that he doesn't even seem to want to give a fake name, which is easy enough; it's what L himself does, to keep his secrets while avoiding standing out too much.]

[ Give God this: he seems to have zero qualms about standing out. ]

I guess 'the guy with the squid books' won't cut it. [ He looks, again, amused. ] I'm more of a titles guy. Makes introductions a bit awkward, but you know what they say about old habits.

[ Before they can unpack that, he adds: ]

You know Paul? [ There is no weight to the way he says it. He says it like a foregone conclusion, the little convenience of a friend in common. ] He's helped me a bit with the boat I've got in harbor. To him, I'm the Captain.

[ This is also a lie. It'll be an interesting one when it trickles back to Paul: there's some slim chance the kid will take it as a kind word, an open door, an offer to recognize navigator instead of Duke. There's a bigger chance he'll take it as advice to get back on his knees.

(Not in a creepy way, yikes, he's like twelve.)

God takes up drumming his fingers on his book again, and says: ]

Kids with an interest in blood magic call me Teacher.

[L hates giving; really, there's always something he receives in return, usually overwhelmingly in his favor. Palely, he rises to the Emperor's amusement, even if he doesn't quite match it.]

Awkward doesn't bother me. Empty spaces in universal grammar tend to.

[He was prepared for this thanks to Paul; he knows to keep his surprise tempered when he's asked if he knows the other. Who he's been seen with, who he is dream-mentoring and, by this point, Bonded with.]

Yes, we're acquainted. I think highly of him.

[There's a scale in L's mind, constantly tipping and teetering, screaming when he gives more than necessary, even as he understands that it's suspicious not to volunteer some things. Why would a friend of Paul's not volunteer a positive opinion of his character?]

I've met another here who goes by different names, depending on the person addressing him. Is that what you prefer, or something like it?

[L named Illarion "Moonsight" after a moth's transverse orientation. He's very grateful that he was able to choose; a title asks more of one, a sort of implicit respect or reverence. Is that why it's difficult to come around to it? He thinks it might be; he's not, after all, offended at the implication that he's a "kid." He understands why; he's found it useful at times.]

I never like to presume that others care, particularly, but I'm Lazarus Sauveterre.

[As pretty as a chocolate coin, and worth just about as much for how honest it is.]

Edited 2022-02-10 05:47 (UTC)

[ He tips his head in agreement. It's the gesture of a man casually pleased to be right, content to throw in with I think highly of him. If there is any hint in him of something amiss, it's in those unreadable oilslick eyes. ]

Have you? Glad to hear I'm not the only weird one.

[ He considers this. Decides to hammer home whatever makes it back to Paul, just in case. ]

What they call me back home is a bit starved for context. 'King of somewhere very far away' doesn't have much of a ring to it.

[ He smiles. It does not reach those eyes. ]

Good to meet you, Lazarus.

[He catches it, because how could he not? The irony is that it's elusive; he can't be sure what he's caught, just that it was there, and he could have touched it. Was he too slow, or was it a trick of the light (or its absence), after all?]

Hardly. It's a world where there are no shortage of gods or kings, I've found, so it takes more to stand out.

[A subtle little goading challenge, maybe. A certain type of person can't stand the idea of being ordinary; they would rather be disgusting, horrifying, or monstrous, before the cardinal sin of being boring, and he's curious to know if this man is one of those.]

When "starved for context" goes for almost everyone here... doesn't it lose some meaning? A king is still a king, whether he travels or dies. Why not here, if the title is what stands in the place of a subject?

[He waits. He wants something in return for his name before he commits to a "good to meet you, too."]

[ He smiles like it's funny. There's a wry edge to it, but he doesn't rankle. He doesn't rise to the bait. ]

Maybe we ought to form a club.

[ A king is still a king, says Lazarus, and the smile is very wry now. ]

I once heard a take on that. Something like 'a king with no subjects is only a man.'

[ Once here means a week ago, maybe two. It was a good line. He had a nice long time to contemplate it from the uncomfortable hardwood of his study floor. ]

[L laughs, suddenly and harshly. It echoes startlingly in the quiet archives.]

I'd never be admitted. I'm so terribly ordinary.

[He says so with the confidence only accessible to one who's quite extraordinary. You could just never tell by looking at him; human, brittle, probably not set to live very long based on the way nature and habits have shaped him.]

A king with no subjects still had them, once; it's a matter of remembrance, identity, and legacy at that point. Unless it's not the title that matters, but the act of ruling, in the present?

[His smile is soft and tempered.]

That truly is exclusive. A hundred kings gathered in a single hall could be wholly equal, if it is not their hall... but should no lord emerge, conflict certainly would.

If it did, would you win?

[He frames this so lightly as to sound reckless, the kind of question someone clever, but far duller than him, might dare to ask.]

Edited 2022-02-11 07:01 (UTC)

[ Now it's his turn to laugh: barely-there, a little huff of a hah. ]

If I had to fistfight a hundred kings in somebody else's hall?

[ This bait doesn't stir him, either. It's just the same: the confidence of the extraordinary. ]

Not sure anybody wins, there. Not even the guy who owns the hall.

[He holds up a finger, a single pale pinnacle raised toward the rafters in the drafty archives.]

I never insinuated, let alone said, a fistfight. I know that you don't swing swords; I know you understand that brute force is not the only kind of conflict that could win or lose a title.

[He asks again, levelly.]

If it came to conflict. Would you win.

[ The King Undying looks back at him, and he is all amusement. ]

Well, no one likes a braggart. [ This he says demurely. It is, without question, the tone of a guy fucking around. ] Are the other kings just somebody's landlord with a crown? I like to think I'd have good odds. If we're including gods and Pthumerians on the roster...

[ He wiggles his fingers like tentacles, then spreads his hands in a little what can I do? gesture. ]

Then it's anybody's game.

[So, to draw even with your abilities, only gods and Pthumerians pose a threat to you.

L's dark, not-quite-black eyes are steady and attentive even as he considers this. Either it's actually the case (supported by Paul's fear), or this man believes that no mortal could ever contend with him, and wouldn't see the one who could coming.

Don't get ahead of yourself. Hedge.]

Good kings aren't concerned foremost with being liked, and if it's true, it's not bragging, anyway. Just accurate, factual reporting, inevitable slight bias notwithstanding. But it's interesting that, regarding your own odds, your go-to theoretical king-killer is by necessity a god.

Edited 2022-02-12 02:18 (UTC)

[ He cracks a smile. ]

Well, you did say we've got a surplus in town.

[ It's at this point he palms the vial of Beast's blood to hold it in an open hand. He offers it out, the glass rolling slightly in his splayed palm. ]

Guess we'll find out soon if Paul's sea monster ranks with them. I'll be around if you need me.

[His answering smile is slightly skewed, as though seen through a piece of broken glass. He accepts the phial with a deep nod, almost like a bow.]

I'll send Lycka for "The King of Somewhere", unless you'd like to, last minute, amend your call.

[If it sounds flattering and subservient, it's still highly and shrewdly deliberate. L has decided that if this man sees himself as among the gods, that is the one thing he will never call him, on threat of pain, dismemberment, or death.]

[ It does not touch the faint amusement written in his face, or the inscrutable edge to his dark eyes. ]

I don't know, The King of Somewhere has a certain something. I think I should take it.

[ He wonders what his new friend will have learned about him, the next time they meet. It'll be an interesting conversation. ]

If you need a fallback option, there's always 'the guy with the squid books.'

[ There's always Teacher. ]

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