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. ]
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[Michael's voice sounds almost petulant, but the original purpose of demons wearing human suits was to experience pain in them. It's operating perfectly; his skin's gone pale and clammy, and he's breathing hard. As long as he's had this form, serious injury has still been pretty rare - or, at least, the things in Deerington tended to kill him outright before he had to deal with it long.
Some bone-deep instinct has him wanting to keep his hand pressed hard over the wound. But maybe Falco knows something he doesn't? He lifts his hand away. Dark glittery blood is smeared over his palm and fingers, soaked into the fabric of his shirt, and more drifts lazily into the air as he releases it.]
Oh, that's not great. [He might lose this suit and go full squid. Granted, Falco has seen him do that before - but that was so embarrassing, oh god]
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This might hurt more—! [ more than it did? well, he did have to apply pressure to an ugly hole. he keeps his arms sturdy and presses down regardless, waiting for any break in pain to ask: ] A-are you okay on the inside, Mister Michael?
[ were his squid parts……… harmed?? ]
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[At least he's not really one to hide his pain?
Michael's already grimacing, but he somehow does it harder when the "inside" is mentioned. Yeah, Falco definitely saw that whole thing. He knew that, of course; being shot had just managed to drive it out of his mind.]
It's fine. Doesn't really work like that. There's, uh - demon, stuff.
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[ now, he needs more than two hands to work this out. falco glances to his side and then to michael twice, before: ]
Mister Michael, I— I need you to hold this, while I get blood. Can you do that, please?
[ falco gestures to the wound he’s pressing into and soaking a great deal, but feels horrible all the same that he still needs to ask anything of him. ]
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[Though he reaches up to press his hands - on fire again - over the wound anyway.]
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[ as falco retrieves a vial, he goes quiet, lips right together. how does he proceed? how does he proceed like he didn’t just shoot mister michael? his brows worry, he pops open the bottle’s cork and from it comes the smell of flower blooms. ]
We’ll figure out how to fix it. I’m sorry—
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[Still hurts like a bitch, though!]
Is the bullet still like, in there?
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[ rifles shoot differently, he thinks to say, dipping the vial down until the drops of vileblood begins to drip onto the side of the wound, with enough of the clothing out of the way, at least—
but it doesn’t just numb up. it works to heal. ]
What’s . . . ?
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[He thinks it's worse for it to be in there, right? Honestly, he's not sure if he'd have to spit it out or something.]
What's - oh, see, there it goes. That's fast. [Far faster than his suit would ordinarily stitch up, actually?]
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[ falco makes sure to stop pouring, but for good measure, he does dip the vial a second time, for strings to coat the wound—
it heals, even faster. ]
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[The pain's abating now...Michael shifts, propping himself up on one elbow and craning his neck to watch.]
It does go faster than a human body would. But not like that. Looks a little funny, too.
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[ his eyes are wide and his mind runs with the possibility; he helps Michael up then, making sure to lower the vial by him safely and cup the demon's head to be sure he was properly elevated. ]
Can I try your back, too?
[ if anything, it was the least he could do. ]
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[Michael watches his shoulder stitch itself back up as he shifts to a seated position. His shirt also starts doing so, after the skin is all healed up - function of the skinsuit.]
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It's working. [ it's . . . good news. ] Your clothes fix up by themselves?
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[Michael turns in an attempt to watch, but can't really get a view of the back of his own shoulder. Oh, well.]
That's neat! I didn't know blood could do that.
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Vileblood usually just . . . Lessens the pain, from what I’ve used. And it doesn’t seem like it’s changed in appearance. [ diluted enough, and it shouldn’t be poisonous, but— this is great. he didn’t know either and should really take advantage of it while it’s still there. ] Maybe the Patreons did something . . .
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[It's weird? And seemingly ecologically unsound, too.]
But there's so many weird blood things, month-to-month.
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[ but now, there’s something that’s profoundly bugging him. ]
—Mister Michael?
[ he’s asking for permission to speak. ]
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[He's rolling his shoulder, checking that everything's hooked back up properly. Seems good!]
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[Michael reaches out to pat Falco's shoulder, realizes partway there that his hand is coated in his own blood, and pats him with the other one instead.]
It happens. This place just makes people go nuts sometimes - I've done it before, we all have.
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Thank you. I— I’m still sorry. [ but what Michael has said piques something. ] . . . You’re a demon, right Mister Michael?
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[He can still be killed here - something about the world, he guesses. But the suit will almost always absorb at least one fatal hit for him, and a lot more non-fatal ones!]
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[ it might be a long shot, but . . . ]
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[It can be a little in-and-out, but it's never seemed fully gone!]
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