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

[necrolord]

[ Well, he wanted a take and he got one. God files it away.

To this, he snaps his fingers. ]

Ah, but there's a workaround. Anybody can take the confession. It doesn't matter who you talk to, so long as you get some of it off your chest.

[foulhussy]

[ She silently calculates her need to purge her corruption, with how little she trusts this man to know any of her secrets. ]

And? Not like I'm gonna act on them. This crap will just come back.

[necrolord]

Eventually. But you wouldn't have to deal with healers waving magic bandaids at you every twenty minutes. You think we're insistent now, wait til the third round.

[ He tips his hand to her, a little gesture of Your move. ]

Bandaid or gossip. What'll it be?

[foulhussy]

[ Almost spitting the words out, filled with spite: ]

I wanna fuck my roommate.

[ There's a lot more, but she can't go admitting to things like love now, can she? ]

[necrolord]

[ He whistles lowly, a little whew like he's impressed. He murmurs something, sotto voice. It sounds dangerously like my god, they were roommates. ]

I see the problem. That's a brutal one. Is this more of an 'and they're not into it' or an 'I'll ruin the friendship'?

[foulhussy]

[ She does not comprehend your memes, you smarmy fuck! ]

Nope, that's all you're getting.

[ She can already feel some of that pressure draining out. ]

[necrolord]

Fair enough.

[ He splays his hands as though accepting defeat. Then he leans in over his chair and offers one, palm-up, to her. ]

Want to see me take a crack at the surface damage, now?

[foulhussy]

[ It's impossible for Kainé to overstate how little she trusts this man. The unctuous smugness with which he carries himself makes her want to punch him in his face several times.

But... she knows that she's in a rough position, and if she leaves these injuries, they'll just make it harder to deal with her corruption. ]

Yeah, do it.

[necrolord]

Alright.

[ He extends the hand. The moment her fingertips make contact with his, he lights her up: it's a breathless pain like holy fire, a sudden disorientation of change. He seals the cuts. He wipes away the blood into a gentle film of dust. He mends the damage, and sits back contented once it is done.

It doesn't take longer than a second, and it doesn't look like much of anything except a settle of satisfaction in his shoulders. ]

Little better?

[foulhussy]

[ Kainé barely suppresses a cry of alarm from between gritted teeth, feeling him reach into her body and change it, renew it with agonizing divine fire. Spooky magic bullshit at its finest, even when its helpful. ]

...Yeah. Can't give it a rest with the shady wizard shit, huh?

[necrolord]

[ God says, with utter solemnity: ]

I'm afraid 'shady wizard shit' is more or less my brand.

[ He rises from his chair, and offers her a hand up, knowing she'll decline. ]

Still, if you need someone to take another look, you'll know where to find me.

[foulhussy]

[ She does indeed decline, getting dizzily up to her feet. ]

Yeah, yeah. Catch you later, fucklord.