deercountry | o1 . clockhouse move-in!

Entry tags:

o1 . clockhouse move-in!

Who:

clocktowers and housemates, plus any curious passersby.
What: A move-in log! Go ahead and make your own toplevels.
When: Early September.
Where: Gaze

Content Warnings: Tagged in subject lines as needed.

In Gaze, not far from the grand spire of Never Mind's clocktower, Ozpin has found his Deerington home. The manor looks as though it has not seen life in decades or more: the once-vibrant paint has peeled to a mucky grey, the dented gate has turned a decaying green, and the whole property is a jungle of thorny weeds. The front of the mansion has been swallowed by the tangled vines of morning glories, flowers dotting the house blue and red in clusters like wounds.

The windows are boarded, just as they'd been in the mists of May. The third-floor tower is a burned wreck from a battle that feels, by now, a full lifetime ago. Every window is shattered; every space is thick with cobwebs and filmy sea salt.

Ozpin stands at the gate and gazes up the drive. He looks a mess: his hair still stuck up with sea salt, his glasses missing, wearing only the simple dark robe Ruby slung over his shoulders on the beach. He doesn't even have his cane; he doesn't even have his Aura.

But there is something beautifully simple in that. It feels like reincarnation without the dread of taking a host; it feels new.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Something in the house didn't sit right with Oscar. Beyond the overgrowth of flowers and the dilapidated remains of the burnt out tower, the absence of a multitude of ticking clocks created a haunting silence within the previously lively home-- and it was the silence in the corners and overgrown hallways that twisted his stomach into knots.

Oscar had only entered the room because he heard the sounds of movement within. He was loathe to be alone, even with his equipment found and Shortcake following him like a menacing shadow as soon as he left the building. Spotting Oz, he grinned-- and immediately pulled back when the cane was thrust toward him.

Tipping the cane downward with his fingers, he cast Oz a wry look. ]

I dunno... I kinda like the look.

[ Ozpin turns and raises a brow at him. They are surrounded by, in his opinion, an utterly unnecessary jungle. ]

It's an impressive degree of growth in these conditions, I will grant. But I am not sure indoors is the place for a garden.

[Sighing, Oscar acquiesced to reason and accepted the tool from Ozpin. The jungle indoors was unnecessary.]

Well, yeah. I guess... [He trailed.] It just seems to fit the whole 'Hermit Wizard' vibe you like to give sometimes. Makes the place look a little mysterious. And, it adds some color.

Word on the network is also that the soil here is not good. It's been polluted, or something, so it seems kind of a shame to disturb something that's growing this nicely in rough conditions.

[ Oscar... makes a few valid points, here. Ozpin stays his hand for a moment to consider. ]

The landscape does seem... a bit drab, around these parts. [ This is, in his opinion, a very entertaining understatement. ] It does seem a shame to do away with natural color. But I am not sure we won't have flower rats and the like coming in among them, should this place prove to be anything like Deerington.

These are gifts from people you know, right?

[Unspoken was the name 'Ironwood', who had not yet arrived in what was a dubious boon. The General has caused them both more than enough headaches, but Oscar hated to think about what kind of man Ironwood would be if he arrived once again from a point further down the timeline.

After everything with Penny, there was no saving him.

Oscar set to work detaching some of the tangle of blue flowers, careful to keep them intact.]

If they were going to have rats, wouldn't we have seen them by now?

[ It's a very loudly unspoken name, and Ozpin sighs. ]

Unasked-for gifts, on two counts. [ The red are a followup jab from Qrow. ] But ultimately harmless, I suppose. I would argue that it will not be terribly good for the books, but I seem to be freshly out of books to look after, and this is hardly the greatest threat this library has faced.

Very well. Let's hear your plan for restoring this wing.

[Bluntly:]

I hadn't thought about it.

[Shifting the cutting tool from hand to hand, Oscar peered around the room with a different-- more studious-- eye.]

If we can find where the source of all this is, we can probably prune it and train it to grow where we want it to go instead of just taking over... kinda like you tended to let those two do when it didn't pertain to your plans.

[Oscar cast Oz a look. Yes, he knew things in the way that only a Wizard Host could know.]

[ Wow, thanks, Oscar. ]

I take your point. My style of cultivation does tend to be... rather hands-off.

[ He sighs and gestures Oscar ahead of him. ]

Let us begin the process of digging through, then, in search of the roots.

[He flashed a grin at Ozpin. They both had things they needed to work on in Trench-- and this was a good way to start.]

Do you have any gloves?

[He asked, holding up his hands with fingers outspread to show Ozpin what he meant.]

That way we don't get cut up on thorns so easily.

[As easily as the words were spoken-- another sentence followed, soundless and clearly unintended:]

We don't need anymore accidental blood pacts. Once is enough!

Indeed.

[ Ozpin smiles despite himself, and steps away from the tangled wall of flowers to approach the spiral staircase. It... is also drenched in flowers. ]

We can see what of my closet has survived.

[ There is an ominous creaking as he takes the first step, but nothing immediately collapses. ]

[Oscar winced at the ominous creaking. Although he had gotten better on his feet, there were still some risks he was wary of at this juncture. Like sudden falls. Peering in behind Ozpin, he fumbled for the lights to cast more clarity onto the gloom.]

I wonder if any squids moved in here? Since everything's a squid, that means there's probably flying squid, too.

[He frowned.]

Birds or squirrels stuck in the attic are a problem you expect. What do you even do if it's a squid?

[ The lights, miraculously, do come on. The light is different, cooler and gentler, than the electric lighting in Deerington had been; here, it's all the glow of Lunar energy. ]

Is everything a squid? [ Ozpin sounds amused. ] I'd thought it only Sleepers who bore that dubious honor. We shall have to hope for no nests of flying squid.

[ Regardless, he picks his way through the overgrown room to see what can be salvaged. ]

I don't know... are Pthumerians squid?

[He was under the impression that most residents in Trench were some kind of Pthumerian, but he had no idea how far that extended. Carefully following Oz along, and hoping for no flying squid nests, Oscar looked around at the condition of the closet.]

Let's just hope the floors are still stable. Who knows what all happened to this place while we were gone?

I suspect Pthumerians are simply whatever they are, and from that point may manifest as they please.

[ Softly: ]

In the same manner of gods.

[ But it is, evidently, better to have a dozen small gods than two all-powerful ones. It is yet to be seen whether it's better than having none at all.

Regardless, Ozpin doesn't let this stop him as he rifles through the closet. A surprising number of items are intact, and look just as they had in Deerington; a gift from some Pthumerian, perhaps. Still other things he does not recognize in the least, as though some prior resident of this manor left their own dusty belongings behind. ]

[Oscar went quiet at that. Raised in the rural regions of Mistral, he never had much reason to care about whether or not the gods were even real until recently. Their affairs didn't mean a thing as long as the seasons changed and the sun continued to rise.

It was only after meeting Ozpin, and later entering the dream, that he started to wonder.]

...I hope they're not the same as gods.

[He intoned, a melancholy expression crossing his face as he leafed through so many dusty journals and sketchbooks that belonged to some unknown occupant. Julia Sodder and her fate once more weighed on his shoulders.

She never should have been treated as a god.]

What are these items, anyway? Did you have an artist friend who wasn't Gerry? This?

[He opened up the sketchbook, tapping at the edges of some seaside landscape with an indeterminable number of birds nesting along the shoreline.]

This doesn't seem like something his hand drew. It looked different.

[Longer lines. A distinct play and emphasis along the shadows.]

[ Oscar says did you have an artist friend? and Ozpin freezes.

It is just for a moment, a fumble, a beat off-kilter. But there is no hiding his response from Oscar: not the sudden pang of apprehension, not how it cools to anguish, not the thought of Stanford.

He reaches to take the sketchbook in careful hands. There is only one artist who has spent a great deal of time in his bedroom, and who might feasibly have left a notebook behind. But the style is unfamiliar, and in any case, the man would not leave journals in his room. It isn't his. ]

Unfamiliar, I'm afraid.

[ His tone is mild, as though they have any privacy of emotion from each other, even now. ]

[Privacy was not a luxury they shared.

Although Oscar did his utmost to preserve the shreds that remained, he still knew Ozpin in ways that others never would. He knew every nuance of expression, he knew the depths of the distance between what was said and what was meant.

He cast his gaze away in discomfort at the reference to Stanford Pines and their dramatic falling out.]

... You haven't really tried talking to him, have you?

[Oscar had responded truthfully and candidly when Dipper came to him with a million questions; Ozpin, unfortunately, was not known for his Honesty.]

[ Oscar looks away, and Ozpin turns back to the sketchbook as prop and distraction. He flips through shorelines and seabirds with a faraway look on his face. ]

We have talked.

[ He flips the book shut, and sets it down again upon a worn nightstand. ]

It seems we had a... fundamental misunderstanding, along the way. Not one that shall be easily remedied. Trying to impose further conversation just now would simply belabor the point.

[Regret.

Oscar sighed heavily and reached for another book-- a leaflet of hand written poetry. He flipped it open and read a line: 'The peace of the wine dark sea embraces me...'

It was enough to make him snap it closed.]

... That's too sad,

[He commented, tucking the leaflet away and looking up as Oz.]

Dipper and I were able to reach an understanding. It's a shame you two can't.

[ For a moment Ozpin looks back at him, and he feels, as he often does, uncomfortably laid bare. This is not a new experience with a host, but it is a very unique experience with Oscar, who can stand here in person and look up at him with big hazel eyes.

He turns away to continue his search. ]

Our case was altogether more dramatic, I would say. True understanding may take time.

[ He does not want to say more; it is too vulnerable, too much a minefield. But he cannot help thinking it:

I very badly want to. And yet, with bitter certainty, It was never going to work; best to let the issue rest in peace. ]

[Perhaps it was their connection-- or, perhaps it was coming to Trench, where their blood was different hues and they had to live with the consequences of breaking their own eggs-- but it was impossible for Oscar not to hear. It was pointless flipping through more books, for the Pthumerian who had lived in the Clockhouse during the interrim seemed to be a romantic of a different sort.

All he could do was reach for Ozpin.]

They chose to stay here like we did. Maybe there's still a chance, someday.

[ Ozpin subsides into silence, a moment. But he cannot hide the stormy simmer of his emotions from Oscar: a stung shame, and a deeper, dragging weight of grief.

There are those here who matter to him profoundly. He is not alone, without Stanford. He need not care so deeply for a man he's known less than a year— and yet it hurts all the same.

It is a kindness, at least, that he can murmur back in his mind instead of speaking aloud. ]

It's alright, Oscar. We made our peace upon that final shore.

[ And then Stanford unintentionally salted the wound by wandering up to him on the beach to introduce himself; he is still miserably irritated by the unkindness of that. ]

I have lived many lives without indulging in romance.

[How many lives had Oz lived alone? Oscar wondered this, knowing that he could find the answer should he dare you look.

He didn't. What privacy they had, the shreds left, were precious. At least, in this world, they had their own bodies and could take their own actions-- even if they never would fully be able to spare the other.]

I'm not just talking about romance, [Oscar explained, dusting off the sides of the many boxes to read the writing describing what was contained inside.]

Friendship is just as important, and there's not many people you connect with. Not ones that you don't feel some responsibility for.

[ He is silent a moment. There had been a simmer of dissent at not many people you connect with, about to argue, but that you don't feel some responsibility for tidily shuts down anything he might have tried. Ozpin simply picks his way through the ruins of the room across from Oscar. ]

I have grown accustomed to a feeling of responsibility.

[ He reaches into a tangle of clutter down the back of one of the boxes, and draws out a dust-choked grey scarf— and a pair of gloves. He turns them over in his hands in the lingering quiet. ]

But I suppose you're not wrong about that.

[ Ozpin sighs aloud, and turns to offer Oscar the gloves. Aloud: ]

A bit small on me, I'm afraid.

[As much as Oz protested, the truth was still there-- and, even if he has y grown used to the responsiy, it didn't help Oscar's worry. They weren't in Remnant any longer. They had broken their eggs and foresworn their roots.

It was possible for them to just live as themselves.

Oscar didn't voice any of this, but his worry was palpable in the set of his shoulders and the buzz of worry he didn't try to contain. He had been in the middle of pulling out one of the boxes, one that felt like it was full of books, when he turned to see the offered gloves.]

... I can make them work,

[He said, with a confident smile.]

If the weather here is anything like that dream, it's gonna be a cold winter... But, at least we can match.

[Gray as a color almost felt sad... But they had time to clean the fabric up and make it look new again.

Clothes deserved second chances, too. ]

o1 . clockhouse move-in!

2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)