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 knows better than that. He knows the shape of Falco's grief, and how his own death must have carved it open - can't he see it, etched in the black sand? Doesn't he feel it, in the convulsive heaving of Falco's shoulders? Hasn't his own echoed the same way?
(Four syllables, light on the tongue, a rising cascade that ends in a hush.)]
You don't have to be afraid.
[Paul broke so many other promises. A multitude of lies and betrayals, of bonds strained or shattered. It doesn't change any of those, to have kept this one - but he kept this one.]
What are you doing out here?
[A gentle question, even in his hollowed multiplied voice. It's nothing good, he can tell that; but it's all right. He'll give Falco sweet tea and take him away from here, back to his little cottage, and start to put right what he's skewed wrong.]
no subject
he’s not embarrassed, but he is still highly aware of the feeling, of holding a brother once gone. again, he doesn’t want to let go— but his eyes burn, require a wipe. he does so with a harsh sniff as he pulls the back of his flaking hand across the corners of heavy eyelashes, and with it, strings of slime stick and follow suit like concentrated saliva. a second wipe should smear it flat, and he does so keeping the edge of his mouth in the open, to be heard over the occasional roar of the beach’s wind: ]
Waiting for you.
[ it hadn’t explained the writing too much, all that simple yet haunting propaganda for the demon’s hold to grow tighter, but falco, he promised— if paul couldn’t find him, he would.
just him being here, corrupted and strange by voice, they were more than falco could ever want. what had given strength to the entity that heightened his own corruption was now returned to him. that would be his messy purification, his stability, his return to a more colored face, healthy eyes, and less fear when stepping into a room in the dark or glancing at a mirror, in some few more days of routine.
his mouth opens, then closes, sighing out rather than speaking up; he’s not sure he wants to speak of it now, not when the entity was stronger than him. it would have to be another day. when he was the one on top. ]
And I, um— drew Perle, but, [ it’s hard to tell if he’s choking or laughing. it’s wet-sounding, and he’s pulling back to get a better look at paul’s face, at last. for some reason, he had been cautious to, reclusive and avoiding eye contact with just about anyone for too long— paul eases his tension in trying, and makes his attempt a successful one. ] you’re better at it, than I am.
cw: hallucination, gore, harm to child
It's not so bad.
[It's terrible, the thing splayed out in the sand. Nearly as terrible as the all too easy to see image of Falco waiting for him, alone and abandoned.
(Paul thought about him as he climbed the Leviathan, saw him waiting in the through of a unreal wave, and he knew - but he also thought of the awful sucking tug of the pole in his hand, the way Falco had convulsed like a landed fish, and he kept climbing. It doesn't make Paul feel better, remembering that. It doesn't make him feel anything.)]
Do you want to go home?
[Where Falco falls apart, Paul comes together. It's not a thing he finds he has to force, not the evenness of his hand or the deliberateness of his attention. Everything else might be a blur, abstract and distant, but Falco is real, and Falco needs him. If there is a best of him, Falco is one of those few who can call it out of him.]
no subject
a difficult task lately that had been facing his proper reflection was made just a touch more bearable. if peter had taught him the tricks, then paul had given him the remaining courage to not be afraid.
his little hands touch upon the ones cleaning his face, snot and gooey tears alike, finding a small smile that has long been hidden— a flash of teeth, just barely. corruption was happening to them. he knows it. he knows his possession grows worse and everyone else manifests differently. he hopes the dull blue glow from paul’s still welcoming eyes would fade during the time after he answers: ]
Please.
[ falco gives him one more hug, right around his neck and head, drier than he had been— before his arms guide to his hand, one much larger than his, to lead the way from this beach. ]
I promised I’d take care of you.
no subject
He can let Falco lead him, and that, too, is a thing he didn't doubt until the instant he did. His grip is gentle but firm, grounding, tethering.]
I'd like that.
[He knows what it's like, to want to take care of people - and it reminds him of the thermos of milk in his bag, which he turns to retrieve and offer to Falco, tentativeness crossing his expression for the first time in place of guilt or sorrow.]
I brought milk. I thought you might be thirsty. I have tea.
[Since he knows Falco, too; he puts other people before himself, and those he cares about even further ahead.]
no subject
he doesn’t let go of paul for an instant. it felt like he’d disappear again if he did. ]
I can warm it for you— the tea. [ that also included a recipe born from a kitchen escapade, some days ago at the peter household. but he’ll keep that a surprise. ] I hope. . . You didn’t eat anything yet, either.
[ there was much to talk about, though he didn’t know where to exactly start.
perhaps they could start at their afternoon brunch. ]
no subject
I haven't yet. I came to find you first.
[He hasn't been very hungry, lately, but he knows he needs to eat. That's easier in company, under the eyes of someone who cares about him.]
Don't worry about warming it. I wasn't looking for you that long. I had an idea of where you'd be.
[He squeezes Falco's hand in a gentle pulse.]
no subject
Thank you . . . [ he’s just as warm as the mild in his hands. (he still can’t tell what he’s made; it’s a surprise) ]
How long will you stay?
[ the afternoon? nightfall? he had plans for either or others. he was just happy for this. he’s waited for this. this kept the monstrosity at bay. ]
no subject
The virulent light behind his glasses dims, unnoticed by him, as he does.]
I could stay overnight, if you'd like me to.
[The suggestion is offered mildly, as if Paul hasn't already prepared for it. He's also prepared for it to be shorter, but he wants them to have time to talk properly.]
I'm staying somewhere else for a little while, as I get better [he says, still in those tonal variations that leave no mystery as to what is currently not 'better'] but I'd still like to come visit you, like we talked about.
[And when he's better - they'll see, he thinks. He hasn't gotten past the beach yet, not down this strand of time.]
no subject
You know I’d like that. And I can always visit you, and— [ he tries to hide the crack in his voice, regardless. ] I made sugar donuts.
[ in the end, he couldn’t keep his secret— not that it was much of a secret by the time they’ve entered the cozy, candlelit cabin in crenshaw. it smells like baked goods (and a trace of acrid, burnt sugar stowed away in the trash).
clearly, plenty of donuts to talk over. ]