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. ]
Haunted Trenchwood
Falco's a good kid. What's he doing out here in the woods with a gun, and why is he so willing to fire? He could chalk this up to an overabundance of nervous cautiousness, what with the woods being dangerous and full of monsters, but it's still weird to him. He, of course, had been out there to get some excess energy out of his system, to pummel some monsters lurking too close to the farmlands like he usually did when frustrated about something. He wasn't expecting this.]
What the flip, dude??
[A few thorns are rising defensively up on his hands and arms under his coat and he's automatically moving into a more defensive stance, though he fights the urge to form a grass sword. Probably a good mood, since a split second later he's getting a whole wave of negative emotions from the tree behind him, the one that got hit by the bullet. Making a stressed noise, he puts a palm to his forehead and tries to block the invasive feelings out.]
What was that for?!
cw parasites, slight body horror
the rifle is still raised, still hot and lifting smokey ribbons from its nozzle. falco’s arms remain holding the weapon, but its metal and wood frame begins to clatter with his own shaking. it’s down, at last, no longer pointed at fern’s immediate direction. ]
I-I don’t, [ he breathes, inwardly, but doesn’t feel the air coming in correctly. his chest binds when he tries to expand, despite everything being in working order. something stirs at the jugular of his neck, writhes abnormally and far from the likeness of a vein. it slithers and moves out of place from anything normal in his body; it crawls up, whips a thin tail at the corner of his sclera, burrows beneath the skin of his temple and disappears at the curvature of his ear, to his nape. ] know.
[ he can feel the heat rise, whether from his glue or from the fright. the beads of slime form and stick where they build. ]
cw parasites, slight body horror
Hey -
[He grumbles under his breath, giving the tree behind himself a quick glance, focusing on the bullet hole now marring the bark. Great, that's great, but that tree needs to quiet down right now because he can't take care of it first. It's going to have to get in line.
Fern makes a noise like a sigh, forcing himself to drop his hand and step away from the tree, towards Falco. The gun doesn't bother him, it doesn't look like Falco is going to fire again, and even if he does another bullet isn't going to do much to hurt him. So he walks over, stopping in front of him, and rests a hand on his shoulder.]
Was it that thing in you?
no subject
why was he asking that? falco knew, but— he kept on asking himself. the more he did, the more he felt a strangeness begin to weigh. an eating silence. ]
W-what, what thing— [ his eyes are darting, indigo veins spread their spiderweb linings where the whites are, opened wide and hyper vigilant. ] I can’t talk, about the thing.
[ the thing that has given him trouble; the thing he talked to fern about on hay bales at the stable barn. he feels a cold sweat coming in hot, but the beads at his temple aren’t sweat, and they don’t build and slide like sweat. it’s too thick and viscous to do that. ]
The— purple, thing—
no subject
He doesn't let go of Falco.]
Okay. Okay, we don't have to talk about that.
[Instead, now that the gun is on the ground, Fern just pulls the kid into a hug.]
no subject
I’m so sorry— so sorry, Fern. [ it feels like a sorry here isn’t enough, but it’s the only thing that he can feel meaning towards when he speaks it into fern’s shoulder. the opposite one, on the other hand— ] How hurt are you—?
no subject
Thankfully, the grass making up his shoulder is quick to regrow itself, taking care of the injury, so the only thing that will be left within a few minutes is a hole in his shirt.]
I'm okay, dude. No harm done, see? [He'll pull an arm away so he can rotate his shoulder.] No harm, no foul. It's the best part of being grass.
no subject
he could fix the hole, immediately even— he had the needle and thread for it, so with the gun out of his hands, falco retrieves his sewing kit from the bottom of his bag. ]
The, um— The tree doesn’t look as good.
[ it’s not growing back as quickly as fern is. he’s sorry about that, too, brows crunched with apology. ]
no subject
More important than that is the state of the tree. He starts, then spins around to face it, sheepish that he had pushed the invasive feelings in his head down so he could focus on Falco, but now that the kid has brought it up those emotions come charging to the forefront.]
Oh, geez. Yeah. [While Falco fusses with his sewing kit he walks over to the tree, making a noise like a sigh, and lifts a hand up to the bullet hole in the trunk. A blade of grass slithers out from the tip of his finger and he starts trying to dig the bullet out.]
It's - it's cool. It was an accident. [The tree is not happy, but he doesn't want to tell Falco that.]
no subject
falco watches and keeps the kit hovering in his hand for a moment, allowing fern to walk over the opposite direction and wait for him if needed. the bullet burns are probably worse than a single piece of crushed iron— rifle bullets shatter and expand, leaving nasty spaces that smells like burnt bark at best.
if only . . . ]
Do you think— does our blood affect plants?
no subject
Dunno. I can understand 'em 'cause of my uh. Weird plant blood? So maybe? [He glances back over at Falco curiously.] Why? You got an idea?
no subject
My blood. It's mixed with other things, [ to dilute and make more of it, but with a hopeful swallow: ] and it's been healing lately. Instead of numbing.
no subject
Can it regrow stuff? That's what this tree needs.
no subject
[ and have it stop saying mean things about falco in the night. ]
no subject
[That makes sense to him, and since he has the whole plant empathy it should be pretty straightforward.]
no subject
I hope it works . . .
[ it is healing blood, but it is still blood; either he makes this tree’s day or it’ll hate him for as long as it’ll stand. after a moment in which they decide it’s okay to proceed, falco holds the tip of the vial above the harmed bark and, slowly, tips the bottom up, dispensing the vileblood. ]
no subject
He watches Falco do his thing, a little tense as he watches the blood. This could do disastrously, and being himself that's what he's expecting, so when those distressed feelings start to ebb he blinks in surprise. Slowly, the trunk starts to regrow, healing the damage from the bullet.]
It's... working.
no subject
now he can ask, a little hopefully: ]
How’s it feeling now—?
no subject
Like it's calming down. You know how when you take a big gulp of water when you're super dried out? Like that. [Maaaybe not the best comparison, but he's trying.] It's kinda nice, actually.
no subject
There's some left, [ just a few drops that could maybe mean some future life-saving trickles; eventually, after his thoughtful pause, he offers the now corked vial to the other. ] do you want to keep the rest, Fern?
[ it could come in handy. ]
no subject
Oh, yeah. Sure.
[He takes the vial. Using it for himself isn't his first thought - he's considering everyone he lives with. Luz and Luca and Ahiru and Varian. Maybe Rapunzel and Reaper, too.]
Thanks, dude. [And because he hasn't forgotten that thing he saw in Falco earlier, he hesitates, then continues.] ... Are you okay?
no subject
falco lowers his head as he speaks, meek to. ]
Better than I was. [ but he’s not exactly out of the woods. he was still flaking and pale, his hands were feeling sticky by the minute, but at least . . . no intrusive thoughts, at the moment. falco puts a hand to his temple, where the crawling earlier had been, all while looking out toward the rifle he put down feet away from them. ] I think I’ll . . . Trade in my rifle, though.
no subject
He regards Falco somberly, his gaze slowly moving over to the gun.]
That's not a bad idea. There're other weapons you can defend yourself with, ones that aren't as... uh, accidentally dangerous to other people.
no subject
I always carry the knives you gave me.
[ it's in tip-top shape too, despite being used constantly. clean, healthy. ]
no subject
Yeah? Looks like you've taken great care of it. [He grins a little at that.] I've always liked blades more than guns.
cw subtle self harm talk
cw less subtle self harm talk
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)