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Life under the sea is getting to him. At first it’d seemed a fine opportunity: start a new career, charm crowds in another way, make a brand new life without worrying about the mess he’d left on the surface. (Take himself away from Agnes and the girls. Let them have their life back, so they don’t have to worry about what kind of trouble he’s going to get into. So there are no more journalists hounding them, trying to get a new angle on the story of a lawyer falling from grace. Not that he had fallen from grace; that was just the way they liked to spin it.)
Nothing was as bright as he’d hoped. He’s made a mark for himself as a performer, sure, but it's just as glum a life as some of the girls had told him. And it isn’t the same; he misses the thrill of the courtroom, the way he could spin the rules on their head and give the people a show they’d never seen. He misses Eda, too. Misses her in ways that pull his heart and sometimes nearly left him sobbing. He should’ve given up on this endeavor as soon as he’d heard she wouldn’t come. Should have known every wrong would feel ten times worse without her.
It doesn’t help that he hasn’t felt well since arriving. Hasn’t felt like himself since before the trial, and it’s getting harder and harder to recover from drinking, harder to function without drinking and harder to focus when he does drink. And there’s that, too: with and without alcohol, it’s getting harder to think straight, harder to remember what he was doing five minutes ago or who he’s supposed to be. It’s a terrible feeling, though he won’t speak of it to anyone.
Tonight’s particularly rough, and he’s asked Phoenix to his rooms intending to announce that the kid’ll have to take over tonight. Fallon’s head is just too much of an ache, and he feels down, too far down to perform in front of anyone. Besides, the kid’s got talent, and it’ll be good for him to get out of his shell.
Pouring himself another drink (they’ve got plenty of booze at the bottom of the ocean, and thank god for that), he rubs his head and waits.
Edited 2018-03-17 05:46 (UTC)
Aramat Drawdes | Alabaster | OTA | come one, come all
There’s no better place to catch the filtered sunlight than in Rolling Hills, and Julie’s invited Aramat to a well-hidden secret of the park. It’s a place few people ever discover, a place Julie had planned for while designing the plants for the gardens/park. Getting to it takes some work - crawling under a set of bushes, making a close brush with a thorned Pyracantha, battling through an undergrowth of Juniperus horizontalis - but it’s worth the mess. The way the sunlight filters from above and through the trees. The almost-silence of the place. The roses - uncommon, varied - branching at the outskirts. The feeling that you’ve made it to another world, almost, leaving the city’s absurd politics behind.
Julie doesn’t share this place with many people, but she finds Aramat Drawdes suitable. Interesting, even, and worthy of her time. The woman’s love of plants first drew Julie’s interest, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s wonderfully attractive. The one flaw in the woman, so far as Julie’s seen, is her boyfriend. That she has one at all, and that it should be this particular twit. Julie can’t see the use in such a creature, but it’s clear Aramat’s enamored with him, and sometimes there’s no accounting for taste.
In any case, Julie could use a break; lately, she’s hardly left the lab to sleep, let alone to simply be among her plants or clear her head. And she’s looking forward to spending time in the company of an intelligent woman who doesn’t seem wrapped up in Ryan’s more nauseating ideas.
Now Julie’s sitting in the middle of the glade, legs stretched out across a blanket. Beside her sits a basket of supplies: weed and wine, some halfway-decent food, some bandages and antiseptic in case the thorns proved rough on Aramat. She’d given the woman distinct directions, with instructions to text her if she found herself lost. Now all that remains is to wait, eyes half-closed, thinking through her latest projects while enjoying the distant sun.
This city displeases him. It's too cramped, too crowded. Full of gawkers and raucous laughter. The neon lighting offends his eyes. He grits his teeth against the metallic soundscape of the casinos. Meanwhile, while he doesn't condemn the city's ceaseless activities - the gambling, the flagrant sex, the excessive drinking - he cannot approve of them, either, and feels assaulted by their presence. Every object in this city reflects the reasons he stays away from people, from settlements. Every object in this city makes him long for Zion.
And being here, in the Mojave, reminds him too clearly of the monster he had been. The monster he still is, if he doesn't watch himself; how easy it is to fall into old habits, how far he would have fallen if the Courier hadn't intervened.
It's the Courier who brought him here. Sent word that she needed him for a mission, and he'd come. Joshua owes her... Well. For his soul, he doesn't doubt. And perhaps for something more. It seems the Mojave as a whole owes the Courier. It was she who'd ended the war, breaking up the Legion and pushing the NCR back from the city. It was she who'd led the efforts to revivify New Vegas, to make it more accessible to Wastelanders and to make it more attractive to travelers coming from the East. Joshua might not like the city, but at least it's a reminder that good things can grow in the desert, that even in the wake of war regrowth is possible.
It's still hard, almost impossible to believe that the Legion was defeated, though of course it never could have remained without Edward; once he'd gone, there'd been no leader that could hold them firm in all of their absurd beliefs. It had lasted longer than it should have, and while Joshua sometimes tells himself it'd had its positive impacts, he knows the Legion never should have grown in the first place. They should have altered its course, he should have altered its course.
That's all in the past now. Nothing to be done for it. The best he can do is try to make some small amends for what he'd done.
Which is why he's here, sitting in a corner of The Lucky 38, the casino's sounds clattering against his head as he waits for the Courier to appear. He should have insisted on meeting outdoors. Well. He'll make it through these distractions; he's made it through far worse. He's casting his gaze over the room when he feels a tingle along his neck, the sign of someone watching close. It's hardly an unusual sensation here; his story - The Burned Man's story - is too familiar, the Strip-goers too inebriated to withhold their casual scrutiny. Happily, more don't linger long, and no one's been foolish enough to speak to him.
The one, though. This one has not yet looked away, and Joshua turns his attention toward the figure. "Is there something you need?"
He's been watching the boy for three weeks now. He's been watching, gathering information, and his Whalers have been watching. Their continued interest in the boy depends on Daud's opinion, but he likes to hear the input and observations of others, as well. Sometimes they'll catch a sign he hasn't noted, or they'll find the link to understand some piece of a potential recruit. His judgment is what counts in the end, but he's not about to neglect their talent, especially since they'll all need to live and work with the new candidate.
There's also the matter of safety, of course. The more eyes Daud has on a candidate, the better the chance of discerning whether they might turn on the group, whether they might pose any kind of danger. He once had to end a young man who accepted the offer, only to attack Thomas and start shouting about going to the authorities. That was it, though; Daud's been pulling young men and women from the streets for years now to form his gang of Whalers, and aside from that young man, there have been no upsets.
Truth is, there have been questions about this new boy. Oscar. Questions about whether it's too late, whether what he went through so recently has left him unsuited for their group, maybe unsuited for anybody. Billie in particular has questioned Daud over and again about whether the boy is the right fit. He's too much of a risk, she'd said, there's too much anger and we can't say where it'll come out.
The objections were legitimate, yes. But the boy has talent. But he could be great. Maybe not quite at Billie's level (maybe?) but certainly close. And as soon as Bridge had let him to the candidate, Daud had seen the potential. There's a deep resilience to him. A capacity for doing what others might consider immoral (really, it's only business, one way to make a living in a corrupt city). If stories are correct, the boy's shown a strong streak of loyalty in the past. And it doesn't hurt that he appears to be a lone. Thoroughly, utterly alone.
Still. The potential in the young man is too much to pass by, and the early evening finds him tailing the boy. (There are questions to be asked about why he's flaunting warning signs. Of course it could turn out all right, but it also might now. There are questions to be asked about why his own behavior has been erratic of late. Questions about why it's becoming harder and harder to hold any sense of what's best for the Whalers, for himself, for Dunwall. He doesn't want to dwell on any of those questions.) Slipping across rooftops and balconies, Daud follows Oscar to a near-deserted section of dockyard. It's here that he finally moves down to the street, landing several yards behind Oscar, scarcely making a sound.
"Oscar. I'd like to speak with you."
If the boy recognizes him - from the wanted posters plastered around Dunwall, from stories and descriptions (the scar alone is a major giveaway) - fine. If not, Daud will introduce himself when he feels the time is right.
These days, it can be hard to see the light in the world. The way everything's been crushing down on him, the way he's been losing clients in a slow trickle, the way his head aches and he just... he loses spaces of time, loses the way names and faces are supposed to join together, loses spark and sense of purpose.
But there are good days. There are bright moments. And Eda, Eda's very presence never fails to remind him that things can be okay. Things are okay. He's grateful for her. Lucky that she's stayed around, though in melancholy hours he can't imagine why she would have. He's knows he's wronged her. Knows she's more than he deserves, especially after he'd been with Isolde and been back with Isolde and returned once again to Isolde. And now that he's begun running low on money (now that his name no longer sings as strong as it used to, now that he can no longer perform in the ways he used to), what is there to keep her?
Still. She's been remarkably steadfast. And whatever happens tomorrow, she's here right now. Here and asleep in his bed, while he paces quietly near the window, glancing at her, looking away. She's beautiful as ever, will always be beautiful through and through. He's suddenly glad he couldn't sleep last night; it's worth it just to see her here and now, glanced gently by the early morning sun and nestled in the warmth of (he hopes, he would almost pray it) peaceful sleep.
He loves her. He's wild about her. And she is, she truly is the best thing that has ever happened to him.
See, this is why he doesn't drink and smoke and take whatever the fuck pills those were at the same time. Because then you wake up in the middle of fuckever-knows-where on some shitty, suspiciously stained couch with no idea how you got there and nothing to ease the stabbing goddamn pain in your pounding goddamn forehead.
He doesn't think he's ever seen this place in his life. It's nowhere he recognizes, anyway. Aside from the couch, it doesn't look half-bad. Shit, there's a pristine-looking couch across the room. What the fuck'd he gone and fallen asleep on this piece of fucking garbage for?
Yeah, well, that's just his luck sometimes. And all the more reason he shouldn't drink and smoke etc. etc. etc. you get the goddamn idea.
He's about to close his eyes again when he realizes he's not alone. Someone's nearby, watching him or staring at not much of anything or who the fuck knows what. Okay, so who the fuck's this chick supposed to be?
"You just gonna fucking stand there, staring at me? Do I look like a picture or some goddamn thing?"
2) sehnsucht - the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what
3) cicatrize - to find healing by the process of building scars
4) pareidolia - the instinct to seek familiar forms in disordered images like clouds or constellations; the perception of random stimulus as significant
He agrees to the job. Some guys would be apprehensive of last-minute plans, but there's still a thrill in it for Malvo. He's always prided himself in his ability to think on his feet.
"My cut and 10% of yours. You'll get something extra for getting it done quick. Not like you're missing out on any money."
The places Ritchie wishes to travel aren't easily accessible to a human. Dimensional travel takes time, practice and a level of discipline that he has thus far reached only under great duress and circumstance. A little reading may do him some good which prompt his visit to the library.
"Fuck," it's admittedly louder than the standard inside voice, but he continues flipping through his pages anyway should he have missed something.
Nothing.
Slamming the heavy book on ethereal dimension aside, he slides it across the table and picks up another beast of a book which he starts flipping through and pouring over, mumbling loudly to himself. It's the only way he can think with any clarity.
Albert's reply is dry. Nothing about the explanation is sufficient to his questions. Still, the stupidity that has caught them here in his phone conversation that has, somehow, been redirected to him twice is too much to overlook.
"Let's try this again but with the understood parameter that your bullshit is eating up my time. I'll ask you one more time: why did you call the Federal fucking Bureau of Investigation this evening?"
1) "But I listen to myself for hours: trying not to sound desperate, but beginning to repeat things, because that’s how important things are starting to seem." — Olena Kalytiak Davis, ‘Another Underwater Conversation’
2) "you think, even before it is half-over, that your cycle is an end but you repeat your foolish circling–again, again, again; again, the steel sharpened on the stone; again, the pyramid of skulls" — H.D., 'The Flowering of the Rod'
3) "Because the heart, friend, Is a shadow, a domed dark Hung with remembered doings." — Brigit Pegeen Kelly, 'Pipistrelles'
4) "Because I wanted to be accorded . . . what’s left of me." — Alice Notley, Songs and Stories of the Ghouls
5) "My hauntings are particularly active this week." — Julie Doxsee, 'Still'
[While Billie is out on her mission and gathering intel, Daud is left alone on the Dreadful Wale to ponder all manner of things. Not every thought he has can be pleasant after such a long life. If he's bored, he can gaze oh-so-lovingly at the painting of the Outsider he brought back to the ship with him. Anton's work was always exceptional. Especially given that Anton never got to see the Outsider himself, despite dedicating so many years to pursuing the god.
The Wale creaks and shifts with the tide as it laps at the docks. The sound of the creaking vessel hides the footsteps of another who's arrived on board. Corvo doesn't need the mark to be silent. The next time Daud looks up, the masked man in a black coat is standing at the doorway to the living area as though he stepped right out of the past.]
[ Every day, he wakes up certain it’ll end. That he’ll awaken at swordpoint or with a blade buried in his chest, a joke brought to its conclusion. Because how could this be lasting. How could this be true.
He’s in Dunwall Tower now, he and Billie both, though he hasn’t seen her since yesterday and her absence is starting to make him uneasy. He doesn’t know precisely how they got here. Knows Billie must have managed most of it. Knows they’re supposed to be here at the invitation of the Empress, though he doesn’t quite believe it, can’t turn that thought to sense.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Is almost certain he hasn’t left this room. After days (days and more?) of fever, he’s only now beginning to regain clarity.
There’s much he doesn’t remember. He remembers telling Billie about Corvo’s offer, mentioning it as a joke only to find she wasn’t laughing. Remembers a heated discussion about keeping to his plan, a growing guilt at what that plan might mean for Billie (but in the end it’d be better, better for everyone if the bastard was ended). Remembers the fever setting in as his life collapsed in on itself. Remembers sending Billie on a mission - maybe? - remembers sinking into a chair and everything going black and…
And then it’s all fragments. Words Billie may or may not have spoken, taunts from the Outsider Daud may have imagined, glimpses of waves and the sway of a boat and what had he agreed to, or had he agreed to it at all? Then new faces new voices and Billie saying they’d arrived and she was sorry, so sorry.
Where is Billie?
In all the fever’s haze, she’d been the most constant figure, the voice he heard time and again, the only familiar piece that anchored all this unreality. It’s strange to awaken and find her absent. Strange to finally feel clear, only to find she’s gone.
(An upsetting thought: What if she’d never been here? What if he’d imagined it? What might have happened to Billie?)
He has to find her. He’ll look for Billie. Make sure she’s all right.
Standing takes some work, while locating and putting on his clothes takes longer than he’d like. He’s shaky, unused to standing and drained by the fever and by everything contact with the knife had done to him.
Still, it’s different. He may be shaky, but he feels more… more whole than he has in months. They’ve done something to him. Treated him somehow, because while his body still feels worn, more weary than it should, the sense of constant wracking drain has vanished. They must have counter-acted the effects of the artifact, though he can’t say how that could have been.
Once he’s dressed - precise as he can be, presentable as is possible - he takes a slow look around the room. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving the room unprotected, but there’s nothing here to serve as a weapon. His dagger’s been taken, and it seems as if they’ve cleared the room of anything that could be used as weaponry. Smart of them. And irritating, but there’s nothing to be done for it.
If the door’s unlocked and unguarded, he’ll make his way down the hallway. If anyone’s on guard, he’ll ask after Billie, insisting that he be left to look for her, insisting that he must. ]
Despite the contentedness that has filled Cassandra since Daud’s sudden arrival in Whitestone, and the happiness that has filled her... it doesn’t keep her from being haunted by her past. It doesn’t keep her from the nightmares. They’re her nigh constant companions, although their degrees of intensity varies. And sometimes she might not have any. Although that is a more recent development.
However, this is not one of those nights. Instead they are particularly intense. Vibrant. And she wakes violently, a scream dying on her lips as she frantically fumbles at her neck to staunch the blood that no longer flows, flinching away from a vampire that is no longer there. Gasping for breath, remains still for several long moments, waiting until she feels as though her legs will hold her weight once more.
And then she is scrambling out of bed, foregoing her typical layers for something quicker and in nothing more than her shirtsleeves, trousers, waistcoat and boots, she carefully winds a scarf around her throat and flees her chambers. She could seek out Daud, but she doesn’t think she can. She doesn’t want to bother him. Wake him. He’s still settling into life in Whitestone, she thinks. Getting used to having a place where he belongs. A place to call home. Getting used to an entirely new world to call his own.
So, instead she retreats to the rooftop.
It’s quiet, there. Secluded. (There are only two people who would be up there; she’s one of them, and the other is Daud.) She can be alone, until the trembling of her limbs seeps into the worn surface and out of her and her past claws at her chest a little bit less.
"There’s a meadow I still go back to. It’s just a meadow—with, sometimes, a stranger, passing through, the occasional tenderness, a hand to my chest, resting there, making me almost want to touch something, someone back." — Carl Phillips, 'Falling'
It's several hours before he finds himself approaching Ludo's door.
Several hours spent gazing at the stars, curled in on himself beside a blazing (and never, never warm enough) fire. Several hours thinking over every word he hadn't said. Several hours thinking on Ludo's invitation and what it might be to accept, to once more share a room with the man for more than five flustered minutes.
It's been difficult, lately. Everything's been difficult since Katrina was married off to that family and since Daud came close - closer than he cares to know - to killing off her husband. The thought of murder hasn't left his head since, the very real prospect has lingered close, and he's felt himself itch, felt himself ache with how easy it'd be to just end the bastard, end the whole of his family, and go back to being what he's spent all these years running from. He'd like to think he isn't that man anymore, but lately doubts have fallen fast and heavy. Because it would be easy. Because he could do it to free her.
Which conjures a question of whether he's changed at all. Of whether he's been fooling himself this entire time, thinking he'd begun to find a life here in Sleepy Hollow, thinking he'd found a place to stay, a place where he could be a better man and lead a less perilous life. A place where he could truly build himself all over again, never mind what he once might have done, never mind those memories that still scream themselves through his worst dreams. Maybe all of that was only fond thinking. Maybe all of that...
It could all end tonight. It might, if he dares to speak, tell Ludo what the man damned well deserves to know (but only if he wants to hear; what was it Katrina had said? that it shouldn't be... what, an unburdening? that Ludo has to wish to know, can't be forced to hear what he's not ready for). It could end, if Ludo takes the revelation poorly (and who could blame him? Daud wouldn't dare; will only accept whatever judgment may be leveled). This could be the last Daud sees of Sleepy Hollow, a dash through the snowy night and the half-moon, one more town he's visited and been compelled to leave behind.
Well. If that's what comes, that's what comes. He's... He doesn't like to think that it could happen (have faith in him, Katrina had said, and Daud does, he does, only faith doesn't stop fond dreams from crumbling), but thinks he ought to be prepared for the worst. He'll survive whatever happens. He always does.
Daud arrives without word, a sharp double-rapping in the door. The sound rings more confidant than he feels. Far more confidant, and while its reverberation dig into his skin, he feels that he'd be best to turn tail now, save this for another day, for no day, keep these secrets buried and give himself the grace of this, this... ignorant acceptance.
No. It isn't fair.
It's been good to linger in Ludo's favorable estimate, but the man ought to know what he's dealing with. Should have been given the chance to know months ago, but there's no good dwelling on missed opportunities or poor choices. No, the only way forward is to offer the information. Is to offer himself up, set forth what he was and hope against hope (no, that also isn't fair to Ludo; he's right to hope for mercy in the man, or it isn't so far-fetched to think) that he won't find himself driven off.
So he waits, wan as he's been for weeks and feeling half-untethered from himself, the night's chill weaving its way across his spine.
It's funny. Even in the wake of his conversation with Daud, Ludo finds himself sitting up through the night, occupying his hands as always with bits of nothing that become something under the blade of a knife: oak into owls, rosewood and meerschaum into pipes, cherry into servingware. The act of turning chaos into creativity, into creation, always comforting, settling the mind into its usual state of calm. Waiting for a knock at the door that he doesn't expect.
Half-expects. Something is very wrong with the other man, something that doesn't want to be put to voice, and Ludo isn't the sort to pry. (Perhaps that's why people talk to him; he's a filter, a place to set down a burden and watch it wash away by morning. Someone to hold the problem for a moment, turn it in the light and inspect the shadows it casts, and help to set it aside.) Not the sort to pry, but certainly the sort to wait until the small hours of the morning for a familiar knock at the door.
People know his nature - some of them better than he does, himself. The Van Tassel girl is one of those, somehow, who reckons with Ludo's eccentricity and parlays it into something bearable, something hopeful. She negotiated a party under some pretense, simply to put him in the same room as Daud, and out of the corner of his eye, he had watched her giggle silently and hug herself in triumphant glee as he handed a finely-crafted pipe (one of his own) to someone he thought was...similarly eccentric.
Daud clearly hadn't understood the significance of the pipe, to his amusement. But their eccentricities called to one another.
For a while, that had been enough. Good. Sharing rooms, sharing conversations and passing, comfortable silences. (The silence has been different lately. Too loud to the ears of a man who seeks out the solitude of the woods to escape such noise.) He had thought for a while that maybe he and Daud had found a place to exist in a world that seemed crudely made for men like them.
And then there was a breach, somehow, in the companionability. Daud withdrew, further and further into himself, into a place Ludo didn't dare try to explore. It offended his sense of courtesy, his decency, to push into the depths of another person without invitation. So he waited. Watched as the vehicle for their meeting, a mere child, teased out whatever was darkening the other man's moods and hoped that somehow things would right themselves.
Nothing seems right. It all still seems to have an unnatural shape, the way cities and ships in the river seem unnatural, too grotesquely man-made and forced away from the order of things. The distance is unmanageable, uncrossable, and the thread between himself and Daud seems all too fragile.
But tonight he sits waiting, and that knock at the door is answered without surprise - just slightly raised brows and a look around at the darkness without, shadows that have gathered around the man before him and turned real.
Well. As long as Daud wipes his feet on the mat, he can help deal with shadows.
Ludo steps aside without a word, the welcome perpetual, unshakeable. Always an open door, a fire in the hearth, food and drink waiting. Something different from hospitality, where Daud is concerned.
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Phoenix Wright | Ace Attorney | OTA | dgaf
you get all the fun fallon
Nothing was as bright as he’d hoped. He’s made a mark for himself as a performer, sure, but it's just as glum a life as some of the girls had told him. And it isn’t the same; he misses the thrill of the courtroom, the way he could spin the rules on their head and give the people a show they’d never seen. He misses Eda, too. Misses her in ways that pull his heart and sometimes nearly left him sobbing. He should’ve given up on this endeavor as soon as he’d heard she wouldn’t come. Should have known every wrong would feel ten times worse without her.
It doesn’t help that he hasn’t felt well since arriving. Hasn’t felt like himself since before the trial, and it’s getting harder and harder to recover from drinking, harder to function without drinking and harder to focus when he does drink. And there’s that, too: with and without alcohol, it’s getting harder to think straight, harder to remember what he was doing five minutes ago or who he’s supposed to be. It’s a terrible feeling, though he won’t speak of it to anyone.
Tonight’s particularly rough, and he’s asked Phoenix to his rooms intending to announce that the kid’ll have to take over tonight. Fallon’s head is just too much of an ache, and he feels down, too far down to perform in front of anyone. Besides, the kid’s got talent, and it’ll be good for him to get out of his shell.
Pouring himself another drink (they’ve got plenty of booze at the bottom of the ocean, and thank god for that), he rubs his head and waits.
Aramat Drawdes | Alabaster | OTA | come one, come all
honestly julie and isolde should just bond over their confusion/disgust re: mickey
Julie doesn’t share this place with many people, but she finds Aramat Drawdes suitable. Interesting, even, and worthy of her time. The woman’s love of plants first drew Julie’s interest, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s wonderfully attractive. The one flaw in the woman, so far as Julie’s seen, is her boyfriend. That she has one at all, and that it should be this particular twit. Julie can’t see the use in such a creature, but it’s clear Aramat’s enamored with him, and sometimes there’s no accounting for taste.
In any case, Julie could use a break; lately, she’s hardly left the lab to sleep, let alone to simply be among her plants or clear her head. And she’s looking forward to spending time in the company of an intelligent woman who doesn’t seem wrapped up in Ryan’s more nauseating ideas.
Now Julie’s sitting in the middle of the glade, legs stretched out across a blanket. Beside her sits a basket of supplies: weed and wine, some halfway-decent food, some bandages and antiseptic in case the thorns proved rough on Aramat. She’d given the woman distinct directions, with instructions to text her if she found herself lost. Now all that remains is to wait, eyes half-closed, thinking through her latest projects while enjoying the distant sun.
I mean honestly...
Oscar | Lupin The 3rd | OTA | yolo
have one crispy man who does not want to be here
And being here, in the Mojave, reminds him too clearly of the monster he had been. The monster he still is, if he doesn't watch himself; how easy it is to fall into old habits, how far he would have fallen if the Courier hadn't intervened.
It's the Courier who brought him here. Sent word that she needed him for a mission, and he'd come. Joshua owes her... Well. For his soul, he doesn't doubt. And perhaps for something more. It seems the Mojave as a whole owes the Courier. It was she who'd ended the war, breaking up the Legion and pushing the NCR back from the city. It was she who'd led the efforts to revivify New Vegas, to make it more accessible to Wastelanders and to make it more attractive to travelers coming from the East. Joshua might not like the city, but at least it's a reminder that good things can grow in the desert, that even in the wake of war regrowth is possible.
It's still hard, almost impossible to believe that the Legion was defeated, though of course it never could have remained without Edward; once he'd gone, there'd been no leader that could hold them firm in all of their absurd beliefs. It had lasted longer than it should have, and while Joshua sometimes tells himself it'd had its positive impacts, he knows the Legion never should have grown in the first place. They should have altered its course, he should have altered its course.
That's all in the past now. Nothing to be done for it. The best he can do is try to make some small amends for what he'd done.
Which is why he's here, sitting in a corner of The Lucky 38, the casino's sounds clattering against his head as he waits for the Courier to appear. He should have insisted on meeting outdoors. Well. He'll make it through these distractions; he's made it through far worse. He's casting his gaze over the room when he feels a tingle along his neck, the sign of someone watching close. It's hardly an unusual sensation here; his story - The Burned Man's story - is too familiar, the Strip-goers too inebriated to withhold their casual scrutiny. Happily, more don't linger long, and no one's been foolish enough to speak to him.
The one, though. This one has not yet looked away, and Joshua turns his attention toward the figure. "Is there something you need?"
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you know what have this fucker too (let me know if this ought to be edited)
There's also the matter of safety, of course. The more eyes Daud has on a candidate, the better the chance of discerning whether they might turn on the group, whether they might pose any kind of danger. He once had to end a young man who accepted the offer, only to attack Thomas and start shouting about going to the authorities. That was it, though; Daud's been pulling young men and women from the streets for years now to form his gang of Whalers, and aside from that young man, there have been no upsets.
Truth is, there have been questions about this new boy. Oscar. Questions about whether it's too late, whether what he went through so recently has left him unsuited for their group, maybe unsuited for anybody. Billie in particular has questioned Daud over and again about whether the boy is the right fit. He's too much of a risk, she'd said, there's too much anger and we can't say where it'll come out.
The objections were legitimate, yes. But the boy has talent. But he could be great. Maybe not quite at Billie's level (maybe?) but certainly close. And as soon as Bridge had let him to the candidate, Daud had seen the potential. There's a deep resilience to him. A capacity for doing what others might consider immoral (really, it's only business, one way to make a living in a corrupt city). If stories are correct, the boy's shown a strong streak of loyalty in the past. And it doesn't hurt that he appears to be a lone. Thoroughly, utterly alone.
Still. The potential in the young man is too much to pass by, and the early evening finds him tailing the boy. (There are questions to be asked about why he's flaunting warning signs. Of course it could turn out all right, but it also might now. There are questions to be asked about why his own behavior has been erratic of late. Questions about why it's becoming harder and harder to hold any sense of what's best for the Whalers, for himself, for Dunwall. He doesn't want to dwell on any of those questions.) Slipping across rooftops and balconies, Daud follows Oscar to a near-deserted section of dockyard. It's here that he finally moves down to the street, landing several yards behind Oscar, scarcely making a sound.
"Oscar. I'd like to speak with you."
If the boy recognizes him - from the wanted posters plastered around Dunwall, from stories and descriptions (the scar alone is a major giveaway) - fine. If not, Daud will introduce himself when he feels the time is right.
such a long time, but I didn't want to half ass this tag
<3 <3 <3 <3
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Eda | Black Lagoon | OTA | /shrugs
2
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let me know if this is too soft and going nowhere or anything
But there are good days. There are bright moments. And Eda, Eda's very presence never fails to remind him that things can be okay. Things are okay. He's grateful for her. Lucky that she's stayed around, though in melancholy hours he can't imagine why she would have. He's knows he's wronged her. Knows she's more than he deserves, especially after he'd been with Isolde and been back with Isolde and returned once again to Isolde. And now that he's begun running low on money (now that his name no longer sings as strong as it used to, now that he can no longer perform in the ways he used to), what is there to keep her?
Still. She's been remarkably steadfast. And whatever happens tomorrow, she's here right now. Here and asleep in his bed, while he paces quietly near the window, glancing at her, looking away. She's beautiful as ever, will always be beautiful through and through. He's suddenly glad he couldn't sleep last night; it's worth it just to see her here and now, glanced gently by the early morning sun and nestled in the warmth of (he hopes, he would almost pray it) peaceful sleep.
He loves her. He's wild about her. And she is, she truly is the best thing that has ever happened to him.
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NONA1 | OC | OTA | #thristy
i should probably just apologize for everyone who tags your kids
He doesn't think he's ever seen this place in his life. It's nowhere he recognizes, anyway. Aside from the couch, it doesn't look half-bad. Shit, there's a pristine-looking couch across the room. What the fuck'd he gone and fallen asleep on this piece of fucking garbage for?
Yeah, well, that's just his luck sometimes. And all the more reason he shouldn't drink and smoke etc. etc. etc. you get the goddamn idea.
He's about to close his eyes again when he realizes he's not alone. Someone's nearby, watching him or staring at not much of anything or who the fuck knows what. Okay, so who the fuck's this chick supposed to be?
"You just gonna fucking stand there, staring at me? Do I look like a picture or some goddamn thing?"
plz don't teach her to take drugs, she's an innocent robot girl. T_T
but it's what he's good attttt
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for that obstinate jerk, achilles
2) sehnsucht - the inconsolable longing in the human heart for we know not what
3) cicatrize - to find healing by the process of building scars
4) pareidolia - the instinct to seek familiar forms in disordered images like clouds or constellations; the perception of random stimulus as significant
for cannibalartist
2) fernweh
3) accismus
1
He agrees to the job. Some guys would be apprehensive of last-minute plans, but there's still a thrill in it for Malvo. He's always prided himself in his ability to think on his feet.
"My cut and 10% of yours. You'll get something extra for getting it done quick. Not like you're missing out on any money."
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2
"Fuck," it's admittedly louder than the standard inside voice, but he continues flipping through his pages anyway should he have missed something.
Nothing.
Slamming the heavy book on ethereal dimension aside, he slides it across the table and picks up another beast of a book which he starts flipping through and pouring over, mumbling loudly to himself. It's the only way he can think with any clarity.
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my god
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holy crap man. this post.... this post is beautiful <3
heyyyyy thank you <3
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i think quicksand's legit but idk idk actually
only one way to find out!
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3 aaaaa I WANTED TO USE ALL 3 WORDS they fill me with joy
Albert's reply is dry. Nothing about the explanation is sufficient to his questions. Still, the stupidity that has caught them here in his phone conversation that has, somehow, been redirected to him twice is too much to overlook.
"Let's try this again but with the understood parameter that your bullshit is eating up my time. I'll ask you one more time: why did you call the Federal fucking Bureau of Investigation this evening?"
for the artful dodger
2) youster - to fester
3) horrisonant - dreadful-sounding
daud | dishonored (doto or rod)
for hours: trying not to sound desperate, but beginning to
repeat things, because that’s how important
things are starting to seem."
— Olena Kalytiak Davis, ‘Another Underwater Conversation’
2) "you think, even before it is half-over,
that your cycle is an end
but you repeat your foolish circling–again, again, again;
again, the steel sharpened on the stone;
again, the pyramid of skulls"
— H.D., 'The Flowering of the Rod'
3) "Because the heart, friend,
Is a shadow, a domed dark
Hung with remembered doings."
— Brigit Pegeen Kelly, 'Pipistrelles'
4) "Because I wanted to be accorded . . . what’s left of me."
— Alice Notley, Songs and Stories of the Ghouls
5) "My hauntings are particularly active this week."
— Julie Doxsee, 'Still'
1-ish? XD
The Wale creaks and shifts with the tide as it laps at the docks. The sound of the creaking vessel hides the footsteps of another who's arrived on board. Corvo doesn't need the mark to be silent. The next time Daud looks up, the masked man in a black coat is standing at the doorway to the living area as though he stepped right out of the past.]
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geez daud of course you can turn him down. there's even a trophy for it /shot
SUPER RUDE, RAT-MAN.
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whispers 'icon buddy'
eeeee~
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i'm calling this 4 it works whatever
He’s in Dunwall Tower now, he and Billie both, though he hasn’t seen her since yesterday and her absence is starting to make him uneasy. He doesn’t know precisely how they got here. Knows Billie must have managed most of it. Knows they’re supposed to be here at the invitation of the Empress, though he doesn’t quite believe it, can’t turn that thought to sense.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Is almost certain he hasn’t left this room. After days (days and more?) of fever, he’s only now beginning to regain clarity.
There’s much he doesn’t remember. He remembers telling Billie about Corvo’s offer, mentioning it as a joke only to find she wasn’t laughing. Remembers a heated discussion about keeping to his plan, a growing guilt at what that plan might mean for Billie (but in the end it’d be better, better for everyone if the bastard was ended). Remembers the fever setting in as his life collapsed in on itself. Remembers sending Billie on a mission - maybe? - remembers sinking into a chair and everything going black and…
And then it’s all fragments. Words Billie may or may not have spoken, taunts from the Outsider Daud may have imagined, glimpses of waves and the sway of a boat and what had he agreed to, or had he agreed to it at all? Then new faces new voices and Billie saying they’d arrived and she was sorry, so sorry.
Where is Billie?
In all the fever’s haze, she’d been the most constant figure, the voice he heard time and again, the only familiar piece that anchored all this unreality. It’s strange to awaken and find her absent. Strange to finally feel clear, only to find she’s gone.
(An upsetting thought: What if she’d never been here? What if he’d imagined it? What might have happened to Billie?)
He has to find her. He’ll look for Billie. Make sure she’s all right.
Standing takes some work, while locating and putting on his clothes takes longer than he’d like. He’s shaky, unused to standing and drained by the fever and by everything contact with the knife had done to him.
Still, it’s different. He may be shaky, but he feels more… more whole than he has in months. They’ve done something to him. Treated him somehow, because while his body still feels worn, more weary than it should, the sense of constant wracking drain has vanished. They must have counter-acted the effects of the artifact, though he can’t say how that could have been.
Once he’s dressed - precise as he can be, presentable as is possible - he takes a slow look around the room. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving the room unprotected, but there’s nothing here to serve as a weapon. His dagger’s been taken, and it seems as if they’ve cleared the room of anything that could be used as weaponry. Smart of them. And irritating, but there’s nothing to be done for it.
If the door’s unlocked and unguarded, he’ll make his way down the hallway. If anyone’s on guard, he’ll ask after Billie, insisting that he be left to look for her, insisting that he must. ]
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sorry this took so long :/
<3 <3
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for cassandra (post-fasti verse)
'And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.’
— William Shakespeare, Hamlet
2) 'You were especially one in need of healing. Whose inner geography levels the mind.'
— Maureen Alsop, ‘*’
3) "and I try to harmonize with songs
the lonesome sparrow sings"
— Bob Dylan, ‘Gates of Eden’
4) "I saw the lighthouse
sever the wrist of the dark
and knew I had never touched
anything."
— Sara Eliza Johnson, 'The Lighthouse Keeper'
5) "These bones are constructed in the form of aching,
and these eyes carry the burden of light."
— Serena Chopra, 'Livid Season'
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However, this is not one of those nights. Instead they are particularly intense. Vibrant. And she wakes violently, a scream dying on her lips as she frantically fumbles at her neck to staunch the blood that no longer flows, flinching away from a vampire that is no longer there. Gasping for breath, remains still for several long moments, waiting until she feels as though her legs will hold her weight once more.
And then she is scrambling out of bed, foregoing her typical layers for something quicker and in nothing more than her shirtsleeves, trousers, waistcoat and boots, she carefully winds a scarf around her throat and flees her chambers. She could seek out Daud, but she doesn’t think she can. She doesn’t want to bother him. Wake him. He’s still settling into life in Whitestone, she thinks. Getting used to having a place where he belongs. A place to call home. Getting used to an entirely new world to call his own.
So, instead she retreats to the rooftop.
It’s quiet, there. Secluded. (There are only two people who would be up there; she’s one of them, and the other is Daud.) She can be alone, until the trembling of her limbs seeps into the worn surface and out of her and her past claws at her chest a little bit less.
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for ludo
just a meadow—with, sometimes, a stranger, passing
through, the occasional tenderness, a hand to my chest,
resting there, making me almost want to touch something,
someone back."
— Carl Phillips, 'Falling'
(continued from this thread.)
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It's several hours before he finds himself approaching Ludo's door.
Several hours spent gazing at the stars, curled in on himself beside a blazing (and never, never warm enough) fire. Several hours thinking over every word he hadn't said. Several hours thinking on Ludo's invitation and what it might be to accept, to once more share a room with the man for more than five flustered minutes.
It's been difficult, lately. Everything's been difficult since Katrina was married off to that family and since Daud came close - closer than he cares to know - to killing off her husband. The thought of murder hasn't left his head since, the very real prospect has lingered close, and he's felt himself itch, felt himself ache with how easy it'd be to just end the bastard, end the whole of his family, and go back to being what he's spent all these years running from. He'd like to think he isn't that man anymore, but lately doubts have fallen fast and heavy. Because it would be easy. Because he could do it to free her.
Which conjures a question of whether he's changed at all. Of whether he's been fooling himself this entire time, thinking he'd begun to find a life here in Sleepy Hollow, thinking he'd found a place to stay, a place where he could be a better man and lead a less perilous life. A place where he could truly build himself all over again, never mind what he once might have done, never mind those memories that still scream themselves through his worst dreams. Maybe all of that was only fond thinking. Maybe all of that...
It could all end tonight. It might, if he dares to speak, tell Ludo what the man damned well deserves to know (but only if he wants to hear; what was it Katrina had said? that it shouldn't be... what, an unburdening? that Ludo has to wish to know, can't be forced to hear what he's not ready for). It could end, if Ludo takes the revelation poorly (and who could blame him? Daud wouldn't dare; will only accept whatever judgment may be leveled). This could be the last Daud sees of Sleepy Hollow, a dash through the snowy night and the half-moon, one more town he's visited and been compelled to leave behind.
Well. If that's what comes, that's what comes. He's... He doesn't like to think that it could happen (have faith in him, Katrina had said, and Daud does, he does, only faith doesn't stop fond dreams from crumbling), but thinks he ought to be prepared for the worst. He'll survive whatever happens. He always does.
Daud arrives without word, a sharp double-rapping in the door. The sound rings more confidant than he feels. Far more confidant, and while its reverberation dig into his skin, he feels that he'd be best to turn tail now, save this for another day, for no day, keep these secrets buried and give himself the grace of this, this... ignorant acceptance.
No. It isn't fair.
It's been good to linger in Ludo's favorable estimate, but the man ought to know what he's dealing with. Should have been given the chance to know months ago, but there's no good dwelling on missed opportunities or poor choices. No, the only way forward is to offer the information. Is to offer himself up, set forth what he was and hope against hope (no, that also isn't fair to Ludo; he's right to hope for mercy in the man, or it isn't so far-fetched to think) that he won't find himself driven off.
So he waits, wan as he's been for weeks and feeling half-untethered from himself, the night's chill weaving its way across his spine.
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Half-expects. Something is very wrong with the other man, something that doesn't want to be put to voice, and Ludo isn't the sort to pry. (Perhaps that's why people talk to him; he's a filter, a place to set down a burden and watch it wash away by morning. Someone to hold the problem for a moment, turn it in the light and inspect the shadows it casts, and help to set it aside.) Not the sort to pry, but certainly the sort to wait until the small hours of the morning for a familiar knock at the door.
People know his nature - some of them better than he does, himself. The Van Tassel girl is one of those, somehow, who reckons with Ludo's eccentricity and parlays it into something bearable, something hopeful. She negotiated a party under some pretense, simply to put him in the same room as Daud, and out of the corner of his eye, he had watched her giggle silently and hug herself in triumphant glee as he handed a finely-crafted pipe (one of his own) to someone he thought was...similarly eccentric.
Daud clearly hadn't understood the significance of the pipe, to his amusement. But their eccentricities called to one another.
For a while, that had been enough. Good. Sharing rooms, sharing conversations and passing, comfortable silences. (The silence has been different lately. Too loud to the ears of a man who seeks out the solitude of the woods to escape such noise.) He had thought for a while that maybe he and Daud had found a place to exist in a world that seemed crudely made for men like them.
And then there was a breach, somehow, in the companionability. Daud withdrew, further and further into himself, into a place Ludo didn't dare try to explore. It offended his sense of courtesy, his decency, to push into the depths of another person without invitation. So he waited. Watched as the vehicle for their meeting, a mere child, teased out whatever was darkening the other man's moods and hoped that somehow things would right themselves.
Nothing seems right. It all still seems to have an unnatural shape, the way cities and ships in the river seem unnatural, too grotesquely man-made and forced away from the order of things. The distance is unmanageable, uncrossable, and the thread between himself and Daud seems all too fragile.
But tonight he sits waiting, and that knock at the door is answered without surprise - just slightly raised brows and a look around at the darkness without, shadows that have gathered around the man before him and turned real.
Well. As long as Daud wipes his feet on the mat, he can help deal with shadows.
Ludo steps aside without a word, the welcome perpetual, unshakeable. Always an open door, a fire in the hearth, food and drink waiting. Something different from hospitality, where Daud is concerned.
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