o1 . clockhouse move-in!

[clocktowers]

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.

Comments

[clocktowers]

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. ]

[justoscar]

[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.]

[clocktowers]

[ 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. ]

[justoscar]

[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.]

[clocktowers]

[ 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.

[justoscar]

[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.

[clocktowers]

[ 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. ]

[justoscar]

[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.

[clocktowers]

[ 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.

[justoscar]

[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.

[clocktowers]

[ 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.

[justoscar]

[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. ]

[clocktowers]

[ Ozpin sees the set of his shoulders and does not comment; his mind hums with quiet discontent, but it is merely background noise. He will revisit it later, alone— or, as close to alone as they can truly manage. ]

Perhaps not my first choice of color... but I suppose we will.

[ There is a tired comfort in that, weary and fond: even if they are here among a drab and rusted backdrop, he knows Oscar shall always cajole him into a little more color, a little more life. ]

[justoscar]

[It was hard witnessing Ozpin like this-- so dour, so broken.

Oscar knew that this was Ozpin's true nature after decades and so many lifetimes before struggling against impossible odds, and he wished that he could do a little more...]

We can try to dye them green? [He asked, earnestly.] Once we get these clean, the fiber should take to a dark green pretty well!

[And then it would be a color more in line with the both of them. Even a mellow black or an earthy brown felt more natural than the worn down gray. Such colors still spoke of life.

They both needed some of that vibrancy.]

[clocktowers]

[ It does not quite draw a chuckle from him, but he warms all the same. Fondness echoes through the bond between them. ]

It certainly wouldn't hurt to try.