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

[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.