deercountry | o4 . february catchall

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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! ]

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Alright.

[ He accepts the hand up and follows along, and this is one of those rare moments where he actually feels his age, like his knees are going to give out any second.

He knows it's just the pain, but lord if it doesn't dig right at his insecurities. Next thing you know the neighborhood kids'll be helping you cross the street, Silver. ]

I'm sorry, I'm usually in much better condition than this.

Oh, I believe it. There've been folks limping up to me half-dead all week.

[ He says it breezily, like the man's condition is nothing more surprising than a sprained ankle. And, sure, he's seen a handful of rougher cases. This still ranks.

The forest swallows them immediately. The trees are dark and tangled; the snow is largely untouched. It's darker than it should be, in here, and all sound from the district comes strangely muted. Everything prickles with a foreboding, oppressive chill.

He stops in a little clearing, the ground blanketed with snow. The atmosphere is solemn and pristine. ]

So, two options. Or you can walk away, obviously, this isn't a kidnapping; door's always open. [ He gestures to the trees as though to demonstrate just how open the space is. ] I can patch up the arm, and that'll hold you for a little while. Or you can tell me what you want to do to this guy, and I can even give you a decent punching bag for it.

[ He does not mean himself. This is probably not apparent. ]

[ He thinks about it. He wants to just patch his arm up and go, but then he'll be in this exact same situation, potentially worse off, soon. ]

Is this - confidential?

[ Like he's visiting a therapist or a priest. The former he has no experience with, the latter none at all, but right now he's willing to try just about anything so long as it doesn't endanger his ambitions here.

If everyone knew what went through his mind on a regular basis, he doubts he'd find many students. ]

[ He quirks a little smile. He'd so dearly love to say It's between you and God.

But that would sidetrack them, so he says instead, quite gently: ]

It won't be my first time taking confessions. There have been some pretty brutal ones, over the years. I don't startle easy.

[ He drops to sit on one of the fallen trees ringing their clearing, kicking thin snow off his shoes. When he looks to his new friend again, there's the weight of a promise in his voice. ]

I'll hold it in confidence.

I don't want to kill him, or anything like that.

[ Well. Not yet, anyway. Terry's been known to be brutal in a fight, but he likes to think he left the part of himself that could take another man's life back in Vietnam. It was war, and war is different. ]

But I'd like to show him a really bad time. Catch him in a real fight and beat all the arrogant alpha-male out of him until he knows what a loser and a failure he is, and everyone else does, too.

[ He clenches his fists as he paces around, suddenly alive with pent-up rage. There's a certain grace to the fluid way he moves around, not at all like the feeble man who had to be helped to his feet a few minutes ago. ] That's not so bad, is it? I've been a peaceful man for thirty years now. Surely this one little distraction doesn't define me.

[ John knows that grace. He knows the lithe energy in fury, the sweet fire of it. It's been the only thing to keep him going, sometimes. He'd be a hell of a hypocrite to damn the man for it. ]

If wanting to hit a guy were enough to damn you, Hell would be pretty crowded. Peace is a choice you make. Sounds like you've been making the hard one for a while now.

[ He slouches there on the tree, his posture a quiet and unremarkable curve, as though to balance out Terry's angry prowl. ]

And it's not even about slugging the guy, right? Not down at the core of the thing. It's about having to smile to his face.

Yes. That's it.

[ Except that's not it, and as a punishment this damned curse takes away whatever energy his last confession gave back, nearly sending him back down to his knees again.

He manages to steady himself against a tree and stay upright. The disadvantage of being so tall is that getting knocked down really sucks. ]

...No. No. I want to see him hurt for all the grief he's given to a man that had enough grief already. [ Johnny would say Kreese gave him grief first. And he'd be right about that, but objectivity's not Terry's strong suit when it comes to his Captain. ]

[ John watches patiently as his new friend wobbles, steadies himself. He inclines his head in patient acknowledgment at the caught-breath delay before this next admission, this confession.

He does not say: Oh, so it's about a boy.

But it's a near thing. ]

Now that I can understand. [ He says it with level acceptance, something akin to resignation. Of course the fire is vengeance. It's always love that makes hate bloom most vicious. ] Would it help to tell me about him? The man with all that grief.

I suppose.

[ He told Johnny that he didn't like talking about Kreese behind his back, and that was only half a lie. It might make him feel a bit guilty but he also feels that he alone has the right to do it. ]

His name is John Kreese. We met when we were soldiers, some fifty years ago now. He was...strong. Harsh, too, but it was a harsh world. [ He takes his hand off of the tree, standing steady on his own again. ]

He saved my life. And I don't mean that in the sense that he pushed me down before a bullet whizzed by or caught me by the back of the shirt before I fell in a pit. He fought to the death for me against a man twice his size. [ Terry would have been just as loyal if it was some small gesture that saved his life instead of the grand one that it was. It's in his nature. But he wouldn't feel quite as strong in other ways, and it's those other ways that make him go to bat for John again and again despite his own conflicting emotions. ]

I don't deny that he was hard on Mr. Lawrence [ Is there any point in keeping Johnny's identity a secret when they're the only two going on and on about Cobra Kai? Probably not. ] but to see him stand here and call John Kreese an 'asshat' behind his back when he's lived a very comfortable life in comparison -

[ He shakes his head, his eyes wide and full of rage. ] I can't stand for that.

[ He listens. Sitting on his fallen log, looking like nobody much— black clothing somehow cheaper and lighter than the black of the bark, absently tracing the grooves of the wood— he just plays audience, or confessional priest.

He fought to the death for me, says his new friend, and John nods a deep and tired understanding. He gives no reaction beyond a flicker of raised eyebrows at Mr. Lawrence: he does, actually, keep an eye on the network. And Shannon talks. ]

So. The only man here who could recall him with you, and it's only ever disrespect.

[ They are oceans and worlds away from John Kreese, wherever and whoever he is. He wonders whether there's been time, yet, for love to curdle into grief. ]

I see why it'd be tough to stay civil.

I've had plenty of preparation for moments like this. Moments where I want to lash out and...shouldn't.

[ He was rich, he could get into a couple nasty bar fights even if he was in the wrong. A little bribery here and there, sprinkle in that tragic veteran past and he could nearly get away with murder.

At some point he decided he didn't want to be that way anymore. Now he's not so sure. ]

But just because I can hold back doesn't mean I want to. I'd like to kick him down, make him bleed. [ He clenches his fists, remembering the way he made his own knuckles bleed his first day here. It's tempting to punch one of these trees. ] Sometimes you just have to let it all out, you know?

[ He nods. Considers. Rolls his shoulders and flexes his hands, as though warming up from a fight. ]

I did offer a punching bag.

[ There are a few reasons he likes this clearing. One is: a lot of stuff has died here, over the years.

Across from them, at the snowy treeline, something moves. Something claws its way up and out of the snow in a messy little shiver of frozen dirt. It assembles upwards from a few stray chips of bone, the rebirth of some Beast's leftovers.

The skeleton has a speck of red light in each eye socket, and it clatters its way towards Terry, leaving slim footprints in the snow. ]

You're welcome to smash my buddy, here. He won't mind.

I shouldn't -

[ And that's really what he thinks. He shouldn't. If he indulges this then that's just one more step down the ladder of recovery he's worked so hard to climb.

But thinking only does so much good when there's a fucking re-animated skeleton coming right at you. There is no 'fight or flight', that's not the Cobra Kai way, it's 'fight or else'. He steps back and winds up a spin kick - his signature move, and no joke with legs as long as he has - and delivers it with considerable force.

There's something pleasant about the sound of bones snapping. He smiles a little, despite himself. ]

...How are you doing that? [ He's not desperate for the answer: weird things happen here and that's that, as far as he's concerned, but curiosity is a good distraction from bloodlust. ]

[ The skeleton shatters in an incredible spray of bone chips onto snow. John lets it drop for a moment: then it begins to reassemble, piecing itself back together as good as new. ]

Magic.

[ He quirks a little smile in reply. The skeleton shakes itself down and moves forward again, faster this time, grappling for its target. It's all for show: ultimately, the thing is harmless. ]

Looks a little spooky, I know, but that's just our style back home. Meshes well with the local decor, honestly.

And it doesn't...feel pain?

[ He's not sure if that's a relief or a disappointment. Mostly the former; it gives him permission to let loose without feeling guilty. Or...feeling guilty about how guilty he didn't feel. It's complicated.

Terry steps out of the skeleton's way and strikes with one fist. ]

No pain, no soul. It's just bones.

[ Bones shatter, but the construct recovers more quickly this time. It pulls itself back together to come for Terry again, scrabbling at him with bare-boned hands. ]

They make for guilt-free target practice.

I used to do this all the time.

[ And the skill with which he delivers the next punch suggests that either it's something you never forget, like riding a bike, or he's been sneaking around practicing in his home gym alone and telling himself it's just staying in shape, that's all. Shameful, like he's hiding cigarettes in high cabinets. ]

I gave it up, along with the rest of my vices. Well, until recently, anyway.

'Recently' being our arrival to the squid dimension?

[ The skeleton shatters and reforms, shatters and reforms. He's always found it beautiful, the way the fragments mend themselves back together. ]

I couldn't fault you for that. It's been a hell of a transition.

No. [ He shakes his head. ] That friend of mine that Mr. Lawrence has so much disdain for came back shortly before I got here. And he wanted the old Terry Silver, not the one that had...learned to practice restraint.

[ Repression is a more appropriate word. Caged again, waiting for someone to let him back out. ]

The old me was trouble, but... [ But some things are worth the trouble. ]

Mm. I see the problem.

[ The skeleton charges again, grapples again. It is mindlessly violent without bite, mindlessly provoking. ]

In a place like this, there might be something to be said for a little loss of restraint... in moderation, mind.

Of course. Moderation.

[ Not his strong point. But that's not what this place wants him to confess, so he can go ahead and keep it to himself. ]

Thank you for this. [ He says as he lands another blow, and another. He's finally starting to tire, but he's more than happy to meet violence with more violence. ] I needed it more than I knew.

[ He gives a faint smile, still sitting among the snow. The skeleton will fight and fight (and shatter, and shatter) until Terry begins to slow, and then for a little longer still. ]

Happy to help. Not a lot of folks have need of a healer with a skeleton entourage.

[ With a final blow, the skeleton drops to pieces and stays down. It crumbles away to shards, then to dust, then to nothing in the snow. John leans forward, and then he rises at Terry's back. He offers out a hand, palm-up. ]

Want me to have a look at that arm, now? Then we can call it a day.

[ A moment of hesitation: ] Alright.

[ He holds out his injured arm. With all the movement, the bandages he attempted to put on have already started to come loose. ]

It's...the sort they call 'vileblood', I'm afraid. [ Said like he believes every nasty rumor about Vilebloods that he's heard on the tongues of the locals. It is vile, he thinks. It looks like poison. Like disease. But it's not his fault; he didn't choose to have it. ]

[ For a moment, his brow creases in genuine surprise. ]

I won't go drinking it, then.

[ John steps forward, and his touch is gentle: he takes Terry's arm in steady hands, smooths a finger along the edge of the loosened bandage to draw it free of the wound. ]

This doesn't look too bad. An easy fix.

[ And it is. He closes his palm over the gash, and what happens next can be described only as magic: it is an intense, burning flare of invisible power between them, a sudden citrus tang to the air. The skin and muscle knits together. The blood dries to nothing and flakes away. ]

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o4 . february catchall

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SORRY THIS IS SO LATE

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