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

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. ]

o4 . february catchall

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SORRY THIS IS SO LATE

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