deercountry | 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

[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. ]

Would you believe that in Shalish... an ancient language I've been studying here in Trench... there's actually a single word that means exactly that?

[That's a lie. Technically it's two hyphenated compound words.]

You must have known, Tisketkenchak-Folgraboto.

Edited 2022-02-13 05:43 (UTC)

[ God blinks at him, momentarily perplexed. Then he exhales another little hah, and this time the smile does reach his eyes, which crinkle at the edges. ]

You know what? That is obviously exactly what I was going for. Love the contribution. You'll have to give me the full rundown next time, when you tell me if the Beast's blood panned out.

[L's achieved a goal he didn't even know he was trying to, with that.

He's also given this man a slightly ridiculous name, firmly rooted in Trench. The literal translation is "one who reads squid books", but a more nuanced and skilled translation would probably be akin to "squid scholar."

A scholar is not inherently a god, a king, or even indeed a teacher. It actually delights him, in a quiet but electrifying way.]

If I survive, I'll surely tell you all about it. We'd better both get back to our tasks, since time is of the essence.

[He borrows a cliche in return for the sensational and unexpected Tisketkenchak-Folgraboto. Short and sweet is better for a first meeting with someone who could yet be a useful ally or a fearsome enemy; besides, they'll meet again sooner than he thinks.]

Edited 2022-02-14 04:05 (UTC)