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 shouldn’t be judgmental. they’ve been through too much. ]
I, um, like birds. [ it’s in his omen, in his titan, maybe in his spirit somehow, but falco settles with the easiest similarity: ] It’s in my name.
[ falco sucks in his bottom lip, and asks, tentatively: ]
Are you feeling okay?
no subject
[The question seems to stir something in him. The trench is the only place anyone has ever asked if he was okay. Before, any problems were determined by scans, vitals checks, and other monitoring equipment. How he personally felt was not of anyone's concern so the question can still dislodge him.
He shakes his head a little, dazed, and the smile fades a little as the corruption gives way.]
There's a lot of memory and feeling on these shores.
[He looks over at the drawing that's certainly not a bird and this time, he has the urge to look away.]
What did you draw it? Just because you liked it?
no subject
he nods, but can’t help but to feel discordance on his own, a feeling of being so comfy in a heated cabin in the middle of a snow flurry. having a story read to him before he fell asleep. gazing at the stuffed rendition of perle holding a gem of paul’s paleblood within it, to guide his dreams—
as such, the “drawing” didn’t seem right, and the question brings forth just that: questioning he hadn’t asked himself. falco wrinkles his nose, and drives one more the into the sand; his brows seem troubled. ]
It . . . Feels nice?
[ there’s hesitation. questioning has made him less sure of himself. “nice” was a blessing, it was the opposite for many who feast their eyes: it attracts like honey in the middle of an arid desert, but it drags out a curling, endless scream from the back of one’s mind, an ugly chill so iced that it was easy to feel catatonic, or like watching the darkest shade of ocean unknowing of what’s in it but the sensation that something just slithered beneath your kicking feet. you can’t see it— but it can see you. ]
no subject
[He's quite certain that drawing is not a bird now. But he can't rule out the possibility that Falco sees something he cannot. When the image used to draw curiosity, now it draws weariness within him. The corruption at least saves him from outright fear and unease at the moment.]
cw possession (of a child)
[ strange, he repeats, but close to an instant, falco’s doubt and uncertainty is replaced with the opposite. he dots a spot on the sand where his stick can rest, crouches down, and draws a finger underneath the words; his voice seems sure, but it seems off— it seems like he speaks in ripples when you blink, or if words didn’t sound like words if one were to try to repeat them in their heads.
it’s clear, but it’s garbled when you try to go back on it. it’s unsettling at the very least, but welcoming— then not, when all your heart and thoughts begin to dwell on is fear, violence and so much harm you’ve seen all your life. what do you fear the most? what do you hate the most? ]
If you say it out loud, maybe you’ll feel better.
[ the silence originates those considerations, and sets them ablaze once doused with oil. ]