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! ]

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[Though L has spent most of time at the camp, preparing for the arrival of the Leviathan, there have been some occasions necessity has dictated slipping away for a period of time. Having exhausted his current literature in his quest to create an antivenom for the neurotoxic creature, he's looking for more, following his typical bizarre (but also absurdly reliable) method for finding exactly what he's looking for.

His arms are already bundled with Chemical Properties of Poisons and Toxins for the Advanced Alchemist by Sergei Yacher, Forceful Fauna of the Very, Very, Very Deep by Plunderus Piddlebus, Comprehending the Old Ones by Nodda Kultisst, and, of course, Exactly What You're Looking For, by Mindful Reckonson. Currently, he's counting his steps and ceiling tiles, alternating and deep in concentration, when his path is interrupted by a table where a man is at work with his own project, one that reeks.

L's eyes have been described, often and inaccurately, as black. In fact, they're dark grey and often overdilated by the low-light conditions he spends most of his time in. The gaze they meet is, in fact, truly black, so much that it startles a rare blink from the scrawny and disheveled younger man.

There's another reason, of course. L's been warned about those eyes.]

Six months? Your reasons must be pressing to inspire that kind of tenacity.

[He adjusts his grip on the books. His searches usually lead him to the large and meaty volumes, an effort to carry with arms so devoid of muscle and fat that his sleeves flap loosely and sadly around them.]

Edited (Edit because there was a reputation drop in a previous thread!) 2022-02-07 22:14 (UTC)

[ By this point in the afternoon, John's books and notes have been pushed aside. His collection of bone-bits and bloodstones and, occasionally, vials of deeply dangerous material have been carefully rearranged into the center of the table. Across from him sits an older man, grey-haired and stocky, in a long traveler's coat and glasses. They regard each other in silent, focused intensity, the air between them expectant.

The King Undying, Necrolord Prime, Scourge of Death, etc, reaches into the space between them. He picks up the vial of Beast blood, which roils unpleasantly in its glass confines.

Then he leans forward to set it down with a decisive click, onto... their haphazardly drawn grid. ]

Right, so. If I move here, that shouldn't provoke an attack of opportunity. [ He drums his inkstained fingers on the tabletop, intent as a man studying genuine battle plans. ] I have to be honest, swinging a sword has never been my forte, even in fiction. Can I cast a spell?

Orpheus has passed this man in the archives a few times before. He's generally been friendly, in his way, waving or nodding in greeting those times their eyes have met, but usually he's been too busy scurrying around looking for bits and pieces of knowledge for his own projects to stop and properly introduce himself.

Today, though, he overhears the man lament how long his efforts are taking, and slows to a stop, setting the pile of books on beasthood in his arms down on the table.

"Oh?" he says, frowning, cocking his head to the side slightly. "The basics of what? Maybe I can help?"

He sort of doubts it - Orpheus is aware that he's no scholar, struggles with understanding the breadth and depth of a lot of what's going on at the best of times - but if there's a chance he might be of use he has to offer, right?

(Unrelated to any of this, scars of varying age stand out against pale skin underneath his clothes, covering his back and sides and encircling the joints of his legs and neck and one of his arms. He limps slightly, a fresh and still-bandaged burn covering one of his legs from toes to knee. But he's not thinking of any of that, right now. Why would he be?)

[ 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.

The man at the table looks up at him, and his expression softens slightly to see a familiar face. He sets to drumming his fingertips on the arm of his chair, instead, absent and thoughtful.

(He notes the limp, and notes the burn beneath the bandage. They'll get to that.)

"Our lovely new home." With a free hand he gestures: to the Archives, to Gaze, to Trench. "And the nitty-gritty of how it all fits together. I always thought I had an eye for blood magic," understatement is very funny to him, "but I've yet to crack the local variant. The squids are still beyond me."

[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)

[So there Nil was, trudging through the difficult snow, forcing her way through despite her new powers of flight. She had long since decided that while that was something she could do, it wasn't especially something she should. There was something about the process of walking which made her feel connected to her human self... even if the difficulty of the situation was starting to grate.]

[Her attention is broken by the sounds of... shoveling? Her optimism of seeing a crew of people making the pathways accessible to all was broken when she saw who was doing the shoveling. Not only was it bizarre, it was grotesque, and probably an affront to the people that those skeletons used to be.]

Necromancy... [She mutters, looking around to see if there was a master to these ensorcelled bone men.]

[ There's a bandaged-up gash on Terry's right arm; a quick and easy way to relieve the pain. It was such an impulsive choice that he completely forgot it would come out so ugly and green and putrid. Rotten. Like him.

The sight of his own blood hasn't bothered him in almost fifty years. He hates this place for giving him a reason to be squeamish again.

That more than anything drives him to Lumenwood, but it's easier to show up than it is to actually ask for help. ]

Thank you, but - it's fine.

[ It isn't fine, and saying it is makes whatever pain he'd relieved with that wound come back and then some. He can handle pain, he doesn't even mind it really, but there's something about this that makes him clutch at his chest.

It's like something's trying to get out, and god, he doesn't want to let it. Though he regretting wounding himself once the pain died down, now that it's back he remembers why he'd rather bleed. ]

Actually, do you have a knife? Or...or anything sharp.

[ Hey, he's not in a hurry. John has seen his share of martyrs, most of them literal. This is nothing, by comparison. ]

I could scrounge something up.

[ He doesn't look horrified; just brings up a hand to rub at his chin, thoughtful. ]

Seems like a messy way to treat the symptoms, though. I could give you something a little more elegant— though I'll warn you it might hurt worse.

[ Necromancy! It might take her a moment to place the culprit, because he looks like nothing much: just a middle-aged guy in a black coat, following behind the skeleton cleanup crew and chatting with bystanders.

Then he spots her, tentacles and all, and his gaze hangs on her for a beat. There's no revulsion in his all-black eyes: just a faintly bemused interest, a crinkling of the brow like he's looking into her and puzzled by what he sees.

Once that moment has hung long enough to go awkward, he tips his head in hello. ]

Don't mind us. My friends here are lending a quick hand.

[He had the air of a charming and dapper fellow. The type of person that would welcome you to tea and encourage you to wait because the sunset is so lovely across his own personal lake. The kind of gentleman whose mansion was refined and dignified and also covertly housing a murder room.]

[Nil was suspicious from the outset.]

How... generous. [Her tone is stiff and polite. If there was one thing that she learned it was to not upset powerful mages. Especially ones who are keen to put on a good image with free public service.]

[Even if that public service wasn't technically making somebody else do it...]

[ The mansion is just across town, actually, and it is decorated with an elaborate amount of human bone. ]

Not a fan, huh?

[ He doesn't seem offended. He just rubs at his chin and considers her while the skeletons toil in the background. ]

We'll be done soon enough. There's nobody in there, if it helps: just bones.

[It did not, but she was still going to be polite. For now. During her exile one of the tasks she gave herself was to bury any of the adventurer's who had met an unfortunate demise on her floor. Though their deaths may have been traumatic, they were deserving of a restful sleep.]

[From dust we rise, and to dust they should be allowed to return.]

[Still, he had opened the dialogue.] In my opinion, the dead should be allowed to rest. I think this is desecration.

[But she did admit other cultures and peoples have differing opinions. Some saw the body as just the vessel for the soul, and that which remained was nothing but hollowed shells. She's still willing to give this man reasonable doubt.] Respectfully. Sir.

[ He is deeply accustomed to a life of tacked-on Respectfully, my lords in strained tones of voice. This is humorously familiar. He quirks a little smile that does not reach his black eyes. ]

Were I pulling bodies out of graveyards, I'd agree with you. But these folks hadn't been laid to rest; I built them out of bits left behind here or there. You'd be amazed how many folks have died messily on these streets— human and Beast and every step in-between.

[ He turns to look back at them, thoughtful. ]

Figured I'd give them a job and then somewhere better to stay than out here under the snow.

'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.

[Nil's posture shifts slightly and she looks over to the skely man tending to the snow. She lets out a soft sigh. It would make sense that they weren't full and complete. Trench did seem like the type of place where death loomed constant. She didn't have to like it, but it was there.]

I see. [There is audible disappointment, but she's not going to continue to press the argument.]

Then, if I were to make a request, may you please see that they are given a proper rest when their work is finished? I think that would be only respectful.

[She is well aware that she had no leverage to ask such a thing, but if nothing else she wanted to ask.]

[ He turns back to consider her again. Something shifts in his face: a softening around the eyes, something tired and not unkind. ]

I will.

[ He says it soft and somber, and seems to mean it. ]

I appreciate that you're looking out for them. We'll put them to bed once they've done their bit to help.

[She looks to the eyes directly for the first time, unsure of the intention but gracious that her words were heeded. She may not like necromancy, but at the very least he understood. Maybe.]

I thank you. Our lot on this world is short and sometimes abrupt and terrible. But we should all be given the chance to sleep when our time is finished.

That is what I believe anyway.

[A polite smile comes to Nil's face and she extends a bow: a polite and practiced ones she's offered nobles and leaders who were deserving of the gesture.] My name is Nil, if it pleases.

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.

[ Very polite! He nods as though this is all well-said, appreciative of the bow. ]

Lovely to meet you, Nil. I do respect a person with values about skeletons. [ Does he, though. ] The perspective on death is a bit different here than home; I'll keep it in mind.

[ This is, notably, not an introduction given in exchange. She'll have to forgive him the impoliteness. ]

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.]

[She will accept that, if nothing else because... pfhah, mages.]

[She will take the words in consideration, though, noting that in addition to his name he is not doing much to elaborate on his perspective.]

[She will take advantage of this.] That is fine. We all come from different places and backgrounds. I suspect our views differ quite a bit.

[But she won't press because frankly she doesn't really want to know what sort of mentality would make doing this okay.] Thank you for your willingness to respect my wishes. I will also take some time to reflect and discuss this with others, to see whether or not my views are unique when it comes to the remains of the dead.

There is much I have yet to learn. If you will excuse me?

[ 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. ]

[ This is delightfully formal, and he isn't even mad. Whether or not my views are unique is a hell of a quiet snipe at him, and he lets it pass with good humor. ]

Of course.

[ He lifts a hand in farewell, and turns back to his skeletons. ]

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Page 1 of 10

o4 . february catchall

1- Research

a lich plays dungeons and dragons. [OTA with Ford Pines]

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3, cw: self mutilation

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