don’t make me go wumbo (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grice) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
deercountry2022-03-02 12:48 am
grice) wrote in deercountry2022-03-02 12:48 am
like, zoinks
who: falco grice and you!
what: a march catchall! a couple general open prompts are available along with some closed, perhaps open event prompts will be added in later! please refer to falco’s corruption page for a rundown; he’ll be experiencing low to mid levels of corruption throughout the month! if you choose to have your character injured in the trenchwood prompt, falco will be healing them with his blood!
when: throughout march!
where: throughout trench!
content warnings: child soldiers, possible gun violence, self harm (for healing purposes), possession, parasitism, slime, corruption, will add more as they come!
ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴇɴᴄʜᴡᴏᴏᴅ
[ helping with general beach cleaning once he’d retrieved the injured, dead, or pieces of them after the leviathan’s passing was what falco had busied himself with for most of the first few days after the surfacing. he’d managed to get enough rest to function, though just as any his spirits weren’t quite high. plans to shadow more blood ministers were put on hold when falco began to exhibit a mild flu— just the spring season rolling its way in, perhaps, even though the boy had never had allergies in his short life. one can find him trekking through trenchwood for new herbs, roots and leaves that could be used for oils, mixes and healing agents.
any approach made toward falco will be heard eventually, whether by his own ears or the alarming shriek of his pygmy falcon omen from farther off. he’s usually quite the tame boy to approach, but on this day— the words that press into his thoughts and influence his actions are a slithery: yoͦuͧ can’t ǝʌᴉʌɹns if you don’t вⷡiͥᴛⷮeͤ.
he doesn’t hesitate to lift and aim his rifle at the direction of his approacher, and in worst-case scenarios— he fires and reloads with alarming precision, not counting the shot, which either hits or misses by the push of the breeze. he hasn’t learned that overnight— he’s always known during his stays across the universe, now in trench, learned since he was eight, when the weapon barely fit in his arms and he’d still be forced to carry it across bumpy terrain, mud and rainfall with a backpack and helmet in tow. his place as a warrior candidate was not earned without merit. despite not using most of his capabilities, he was a trained child. training is all it takes to make a dent.
the startling contrast, of course, was that falco would never shoot first, if one knew him well. with the way his heart bleeds for other’s, it’s easy enough to assume he would never shoot at all. he’d never want to enough to take initiative, at the very least. here, for a split second and then more, the look in his eyes is sharp and as at the ready as a dog baring its teeth. it doesn't last; what comes over him after realization snaps his attention in two is utter terror. ]
Oh . . . Oh, no.
ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ
[ alternatively, one may find him at the bare coast of a beach that was once a battlefield, now a graveyard for beastblood remains. it's hard not to step onto the black sand and realize the floor is not naturally smoothed from the ocean's winds. there're man-made lines there, and there, and everywhere for a wide stretch of distance, circumference. look closely, and there are words— words upon words upon words, upside down, right sided, sideways, sometimes even overlapping:
the young teen with sandy blond hair and his black hood blown back has a stick in hand, focused on this activity and he’s writing it all with an unfit, too casual swing to his aura. those with a certain predisposition to recognize the energy of an entity would feel it like a flash: fear. it makes your gut drop the more you read and repeat the words. it gains strength the more you give it attention. falco himself seems to be oddly himself, at least, sniffy through his stuffy red nose and lifting his head to greet those who approach him. he’s a little . . . twitchy, pale and flaking, perhaps even slightly thinner, but he does seem happy for the visit. his purple tinted eyes (that’s wrong) say so— ]
Ah— Hello, [ sir or ma’am (or nothing, if you’re around his age). ].
[ a bow of his head, a soft, shying smile— he thinks you’re regarding his drawing, what he knows is a rendition of perle, but something isn’t right. starting with the fact that he didn’t draw perle at all. ]
what: a march catchall! a couple general open prompts are available along with some closed, perhaps open event prompts will be added in later! please refer to falco’s corruption page for a rundown; he’ll be experiencing low to mid levels of corruption throughout the month! if you choose to have your character injured in the trenchwood prompt, falco will be healing them with his blood!
when: throughout march!
where: throughout trench!
content warnings: child soldiers, possible gun violence, self harm (for healing purposes), possession, parasitism, slime, corruption, will add more as they come!
ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʀᴇɴᴄʜᴡᴏᴏᴅ
[ helping with general beach cleaning once he’d retrieved the injured, dead, or pieces of them after the leviathan’s passing was what falco had busied himself with for most of the first few days after the surfacing. he’d managed to get enough rest to function, though just as any his spirits weren’t quite high. plans to shadow more blood ministers were put on hold when falco began to exhibit a mild flu— just the spring season rolling its way in, perhaps, even though the boy had never had allergies in his short life. one can find him trekking through trenchwood for new herbs, roots and leaves that could be used for oils, mixes and healing agents.
any approach made toward falco will be heard eventually, whether by his own ears or the alarming shriek of his pygmy falcon omen from farther off. he’s usually quite the tame boy to approach, but on this day— the words that press into his thoughts and influence his actions are a slithery: yoͦuͧ can’t ǝʌᴉʌɹns if you don’t вⷡiͥᴛⷮeͤ.
he doesn’t hesitate to lift and aim his rifle at the direction of his approacher, and in worst-case scenarios— he fires and reloads with alarming precision, not counting the shot, which either hits or misses by the push of the breeze. he hasn’t learned that overnight— he’s always known during his stays across the universe, now in trench, learned since he was eight, when the weapon barely fit in his arms and he’d still be forced to carry it across bumpy terrain, mud and rainfall with a backpack and helmet in tow. his place as a warrior candidate was not earned without merit. despite not using most of his capabilities, he was a trained child. training is all it takes to make a dent.
the startling contrast, of course, was that falco would never shoot first, if one knew him well. with the way his heart bleeds for other’s, it’s easy enough to assume he would never shoot at all. he’d never want to enough to take initiative, at the very least. here, for a split second and then more, the look in his eyes is sharp and as at the ready as a dog baring its teeth. it doesn't last; what comes over him after realization snaps his attention in two is utter terror. ]
Oh . . . Oh, no.
ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ
[ alternatively, one may find him at the bare coast of a beach that was once a battlefield, now a graveyard for beastblood remains. it's hard not to step onto the black sand and realize the floor is not naturally smoothed from the ocean's winds. there're man-made lines there, and there, and everywhere for a wide stretch of distance, circumference. look closely, and there are words— words upon words upon words, upside down, right sided, sideways, sometimes even overlapping:
ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ s͛iͥleͤncͨeͤ ᴛʜᴇ
ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ s̶i̶l̶e̶n̶c̶e̶ ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ ǝɔuǝʅᴉs ǝɥʇ
ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴛⷮhͪeͤ s͛iͥleͤncͨeͤ ᴛʜᴇ sɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ
the young teen with sandy blond hair and his black hood blown back has a stick in hand, focused on this activity and he’s writing it all with an unfit, too casual swing to his aura. those with a certain predisposition to recognize the energy of an entity would feel it like a flash: fear. it makes your gut drop the more you read and repeat the words. it gains strength the more you give it attention. falco himself seems to be oddly himself, at least, sniffy through his stuffy red nose and lifting his head to greet those who approach him. he’s a little . . . twitchy, pale and flaking, perhaps even slightly thinner, but he does seem happy for the visit. his purple tinted eyes (that’s wrong) say so— ]
Ah— Hello, [ sir or ma’am (or nothing, if you’re around his age). ].
[ a bow of his head, a soft, shying smile— he thinks you’re regarding his drawing, what he knows is a rendition of perle, but something isn’t right. starting with the fact that he didn’t draw perle at all. ]
no subject
he only delays his words and turns his head into his shoulder when his nose tickles, and the tickle comes stronger until his features contort— and out comes a sneeze. augh. ]
I’m waiting for someone. [ a wet sniff fixes his nasally voice, somewhat. he’s sure to wipe his nose dry with a pocket kerchief, but turns to bow his head to her politely once he’s done. ] It’s been a while, Miss Ange.
no subject
.. still odd, she thinks, though Ange decides to not get into it right away. Maybe it's better to focus on the other stuff he's saying, and maybe through that end up being able to draw out some more information. ]
Sure has been. [ To Ange's credit, she manages to sound pretty casual, especially when that frown on her face clears up - her expression fading more into her usual pokerface. Like she's not worried in the slightest here.
Though she definitely is worried. ]
How have you been, all this time..? I know this place isn't great, but how has it left you feeling by now?
no subject
[ he manages to say so without too much hesitation; despite the horrors of trench, sleepers were fairly united with their friends and fellows (he can’t say everyone gets along with everyone, but the grand majority had their circle to flee to for support).
he still even thinks that it’s not so different from home. they all had their unique brand of horror, but horror it was, all the same. ]
It’s hard to get through the downs even when you’re not alone, sometimes.
no subject
[ That short noise is the first reply he gets, followed by a slight pause, like Ange is considering what he's saying. She understands it, honestly, but she's more just thinking of what she ought to say about it.
Especially since a 'sure sucks' kind of rumination on the fact might not be the best option here.
Instead she squats to be on a more even level with where he's drawing. ]
Does doing stuff like this help?
[ She gestures at the writing in the sand.
.. honestly, she's not sure if that's the best coping method, but she might as well ask about it, right. ]
cw possession (of a child)
[ he comes to smile, just that much after that in agreement. it’s in his name, after all. apart of being completely bird themed, there’s no way he couldn’t dislike avians. she’s helped him. she’s not helping it, though.
there is a shift, although it may just seem like a simple continuation of conversation. it’s the actual question that falls from his lips and makes him seem strange to look at, to listen to: a boy. just a little boy, smiling weakly at the girl as he attempted to keep the earth he stepped on strong. perhaps he could’ve asked “what do you do?”. instead, his thoughts are persuaded, his tongue is guided, and part of his conscious self is not completely conscious when he asks: ]
Why don’t you read what it says?
[ the suggestion comes from a boy’s curios voice, but a dreaded presence. one you wouldn’t know if it was looking right at you, with how many eyes, limbs, slime, coaxing and warm like a warm bed on a winter day but like a slab of digging needles by the time you’ve decided to lay.
the only concrete semblance between the silence and falco is a color— a color that’s in his eyes, and runs through his vileblooded veins. ]
no subject
But she has no idea what that more is. It could be anything, after all, especially in a place like this.
And she is even less sure what it has to do with Falco. Is he under the influence of something? Is it some monthly effect? There's so many possibilities that she can't even start to guess. ]
I have.
[ Something about being asked to look at it, even by Falco in his regular voice, makes her want to look at it again even less, so she doesn't.
She still remembers the words written in the sand without having to look, after all.
Instead she keeps her gaze trained on the boy - like that might help her somehow figure out more here. Or at least anything. She's grasping at straws, so getting more information as to what weird thing is going on here is the top priority right now. ]
But I don't understand what it means.
no subject
[ was this beginning to sound— garbled? in tongues? words that in a blink, in a second’s worth of returning in memory is not the same as it was heard the first time. it carries the same weight of what lurks in the sand by name. falco too, seems to be closing the proximity between them. nothing seems hostile about him— only that he looks sick, chalky white and ill fed, veins an easy show in his eyes and across ashy skin, but not a dark green hue that his blood is to provide.
it’s clearly a brilliant shade of purple that invades the iris and taints the sclera. with each passing moment, it seems that the boy’s features twist to cry, to shed tears, but their thick and unnatural— when one bead finally drops, it strings in the air. it’s slime. ]
s,ʇᴉ everywhere when you cover your ears.
[ when you’ve had enough. when you’re desperate. this it is inducing thought without reading its own name, because that’s not how it works. it’s easy to imagine the quiet. it’s silent after you die. it’s silent when worlds cease to exist.
the more thoughts roam around its meaning, the more it feels grand despite being so small in this vessel. well, this vessel could be grand, too. the name holds a power as entrancing as a spell, but the same fear a civilian would have to touch a gun. ]
no subject
[ She knows this isn't Falco speaking. She's not saying his name because of that. Something that speaks like this, almost oddly garbled around the edges, like the boy in front of her is speaking in tongues - it's something that's way beyond Falco. It's something hiding behind the boy's eyes.
But she knows that the boy himself has to be in there somewhere too. Unless that was whatever is speaking now masquerading as him for a moment.. but Ange doubts that. Why would it mask itself, only to reveal itself a few moments later like this? It wouldn't make sense.
So she calls out instead to whatever is left of him in there, even if it might be pushed back by something else. ]
I don't know what sneaked into your body, but you have to force it back.
[ Ange stares at the boy, at the thing in front of her - her facial expression a perfect pokerface, despite everything she's seeing and hearing here. ]
no subject
Stop ignoring ʇmeᴉ. [ the incoherent edge of alien words loses its prominent sharpness, but it’s still not quite . . . there. with a little hand splayed across his chest, it seems like— it might be trying it’s best to imitate her language. pronouns. that might make it more easily heard: ] This is mine— I found it.
[ no. it’s just a baby. ]
no subject
For a moment it seems like she's still ignoring the entity. That she's opting for the strategy of just staring at Falco's body, like just the silence might will a response out of it that is the boy's own, rather than whatever exactly it is that she is speaking to right now.
But then she lets out a sigh, like it's the most bothersome thing in the world to have to talk to something this odd, rather than something actively frightening. If there's anything Ange has practiced over the years, it's seeming totally unaffected in the face of almost anything. ]
No. That body already belongs to someone.
[ Maybe if it was someone Ange actively disliked, she might have let it keep the body.
But even if Ange might not be super close to Falco, she thought he seemed endearing. Not the type of person who deserves to have something like this in their body. ]
Are you telling me that's the best thing you could find in a gloomy place like this? No monster crab to haunt? No corpse to reanimate?
no subject
and the silence does not have the same professionalism of a poker face. that’s mockery— ]
—Giant is better!!
[ falco just turned thirteen. his voice is naturally cracking all over the place, without the freaky eldritch touch. not only does the demon care bear look cute? it squeaks like a chew toy when you squeeze it. ]
no subject
[ Oh gosh. Yeah, Ange feels like this is exactly cementing her point over here. Why would some sort of entity stick to a body like Falco's? He's still so young, and it's not like there aren't plenty of other people in this place.
It's got to mean that it's too weak to take over anything else, at least in its current state. ]
What do you even mean by that?
[ Sorry, Falco. You're adorable and all, and seem like a good kid, but Ange would hesitate to call him 'giant' in any way.
Especially while he's sounding like a squeaky toy. ]
cw for attempted self harm and eventual emeto
[ it might seem more like empty threats or even a joke at this point, but one certain thing was how the silence isn’t actually lying. with movements erratic, falco’s arm flings sideways and then awkwardly to his hip, pulls out a knife and— tries to position his other hand beneath it. he stops, stares, swallows too much, dribbles something oozing and thick at the corners of his lips. one more inhale in and seems like he’s about to drill the blade right through his palm—
but that’s not what happens. what happens! both his hands, with the blade discarded in the sand, fling downwards to grip at his knees and throw his head down.
and just make the grossest sound that could come out of a boy, that could come out of anything alive, spilling a putrid sulfur smelling goo with a deep purple sheen. no food, no bile, just slime that splatters into the sand and dribbles from the boy’s mouth. ]
no subject
And not because of the knife, considering it's discarded in the sand now. No, it's entirely because she's trying to keep her arm from getting soaked by...
God, by whatever the heck that even is. ]
Falco..! [ She isn't sure if this is the boy trying to fight the entity, or a side effect of the thing occupying a young human body, or.. well, there's so many possibilities.
But while Ange is keeping her distance from this goo that's being thrown up, her face is clearly twisted with concern as she looks at the other. ]
no subject
I don't . . . Feel so good, Miss Ange. [ his voice is no longer strange, or off, or cracking with screams; he is feeling nauseous and coming back together from— well. a lapse in memory. ] S-sorry, um . . .
[ he was building up the voice to ask her what it was they were talking about, but for the time being, he closes his eyes and breathes out, trying to spit the muck sticking to his tongue. ]
no subject
Ange knows she can't figure that out on the spot, so instead she frowns, approaching him, putting a hand on his back and lightly patting him, like she's encouraging him through this - doubtlessly awful - experience. ]
It's alright. [ She says, before pausing again. Just giving him some time. ] It's okay. You should sit down and catch your breath.
no subject
his hand lands on words in the sand before he can stop his center of gravity from being pulled. he can still read in between the spaces that his palms cover up, and turning his head this way, then that . . . his stomach goes ice cold, his lips lacking in color and his breathing— it doesn’t ease. especially not when he had to run his hands quickly through the writing. the writing that was everywhere, all over the place just surrounding their feet.
he coughs when what he accidentally swallows in his hurry is too thick down his throat. but, no, now he can’t catch his breath. ]
N-no, no, this shouldn’t be here—
no subject
Ange admits that telling him to sit down wasn't exactly the best plan - but she didn't think about the writing in that moment, too concerned with the boy's state. It's only when she sees his rapidly escalating panic that she realises what this must seem like to him now he's snapped out of it. Especially since Falco actually seems to realise what's going on with the writing to some extent.
If she was any stronger, she would have attempted to just pick the boy up and carry him off.. but alas, Ange's noodle arms would never be able to manage to do that.
So instead she lands her hands on his shoulders, trying to grab his attention that way. ]
Falco, look at me.
[ Regardless of whether he does or doesn't, she continues with-- ]
There's something inside of you that made you do all that, right? [ If he recognizes the writing, or realises that it's bad in some way - then he's got to know that too, Ange thinks. ]
no subject
the boy nods, slowly and with thin, pale lips losing their greenish tint from the running vileblood in him, too busy pumping everything to his heart. ]
Please, don't . . . Don't look at it. The writing.
[ he's terribly aware, as much as he was terribly frightened. ]
no subject
[ Trying being the main word here, but it's been mostly successful, aside from early on there. But the weird feeling that crept up on her the moment she spotted the words was enough to try and not make her look back at them again - even if it meant that she totally forgot about them for a moment and accidentally let Falco get freaked out by them all over again.
But she can at least say this much to try and reassure him. As much as he can be reassured, considering what just came out of his mouth. ]
What is-- was that thing inside you? Do you know?
[ Usually she'd be a little more gentle about it. And it's not like Ange is being rough exactly in this moment, but the worry inside of her is definitely giving a bit more of a frantic edge to her words than there usually would have been. It's just a sprinkle of it, but it's in there.
Because surely she can't let whatever it is continue to exist inside of Falco, right? ]
no subject
Y—yes. I know. [ he doesn't know a library about the thing, but he knows enough. ] It's from somewhere else.
[ would it help if—? ]
Someone here said that . . . It's like Corruption, if Corruption were an entity.
no subject
She's not sure yet whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Whether it makes things easier or harder. Probably the latter, since it'd be easier to find a cure for something that originates from this place in this place. ]
Is it a demon?
[ Now she looks back at Falco, rather than down at her shoes. ]
.. I'm mostly asking because I have experience with those. [ So maybe she might be able to help in that case.
Maybe. ]
no subject
With— With exorcisms? [ but it wasn't so much a demon. maybe it was. falco continues with a certain avidity that wasn't there before. ] It's— I know it's an entity, but they never said demon, outright— holy water burns it, does that help?
no subject
[ It's a small noise of consideration. It's Ange thinking. After all, the more she talks about demons in this place, the more she feels like her own experience with them is fairly different from most people's experiences with them - or the way people think of them, anyway.
After all, Ange has never met a single demon who possessed someone back in her own world. She isn't used to it. And yet, between Peter and Falco here.. it seems so much more common. ]
I'm more used to dealing with them while they're outside people. [ Sorry, Falco. But Ange isn't about to let that stop her. ] But I still believe that there's got to be a way to get it to leave you. It seems.. interested in you, for some reason.
[ A reason that had been too incoherent in the moment for Ange to fully grasp, even now she's thinking back on it. ]
We just have to find a way to stop its interest in you in particular.
no subject
but falco has a worry beyond "getting it out", now. ]
That'd mean . . . It'd have nowhere else to go, except— someone else.
[ and that terrifies him, all the more. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw: reference to self harm
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
think we can wrap up here! (and thank you so much for a great thread)