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
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
I forget I'm holding a weapon when it's in my hand. [ it was a positive point. it felt like he was holding a very sharp plant most times, and that brought a small sense of comfort. ] The cut is smooth, too. So smooth that it only starts stinging after a little bit.
cw less subtle self harm talk
Only starts stinging after - ... That's, uh. That's a bit concerning.]
Dude... what are you talking about?
[Why does it sound like you're using it on yourself, kiddo.]
no subject
[ the amount of screwed up that is only hits after the fact— did he tell him? did it ever come up? it slips falco's mind. ]
I thought I told you. Sorry, if that's— I'm sorry.
no subject
[Well, that's a thing. Fern chews on his lower lip. He doesn't like that, not at all.]
It's okay. You got nothing to be sorry about. It's... probably not something you'd wanna tell a lot of people, 'cause they'd worry. [This being Fern, he adds awkwardly after a beat:] Which I'm totally doing right now, by the way.
no subject
for survival, it had become a necessity. ]
. . . Would it make you feel better knowing I heal fast?
no subject
[He lifts up a hand, the grass in his palm unwinding itself a bit.]
It's the same as when I get hurt. I don't even feel pain the same way as a human anymore, and I regrow, but my friends and family still don't like it when I get hurt. It's just something you gotta accept, even though it feels like it's dumb and unreasonable.
no subject
It's not dumb . . . Or unreasonable. [ he nods, soundly. ] I got worried about hurting you. It's normal to worry. And it's normal to not want people to worry . . . I guess.
no subject
It's hard, huh? Being in a place where you and the people you care about are gonna get hurt.
[He frowns, his gaze trailing back down to the knife.]
Would it help if I showed you some tricks with the knife? I'm pretty good with blades, and it might help you defend yourself. Or something.
no subject
What kinds? I, um— I know a few, but I don't think it's a good idea for me to try anything now. [ not when he just shot fern and may be sensitive to acts of violence— he wasn't a warrior candidate for nothing, though. he knows how to spar, how to corner people, how to kill them. knife, gun, hands, improvision. he simply dislikes using what he knows. ] I'll watch you.
(no subject)