Think nothing of it, my friend. We're bound to run into misunderstandings sooner or later - I'm simply glad of the chance to amend my meaning.
And I must confess, you are right about that. Just as I think I have finished adjusting to camping, some other sound rattles me anew! It's a longer process than I might have first assumed, I suppose.
But it makes me wonder if there is any stimulation in the city to which I am accustomed, but you would not be.
I supposed there was some reason you favoured the trees! I might be tempted to take a page from your book and try it myself, though I fear that it would take quite a tree to comfortably sleep me.
I wonder if your nighttime visitors are as generous as mine have proven to be.
[ .....puts down device, gets up, sits down somewhere else with that to choke quietly before returning. ]
Thank you, Lae'zel. Truly.
[ To be honest about his appreciation for that small human kindness and her effort in bringing it to him, for just what those few words struck in his heart, would likely be to embarrass her.
But still, he's not about to let the moment pass by without some acknowledgement. ]
And I also thank you for your concern. You are a worthy friend, and I am more thankful every day that we met. [ failed step 1 ] It could be as you say, perhaps. But I am not sure that it could be as you say for me. She has been my all for so long, I struggle to imagine involving myself with someone who would not know her.
My concern is entirely appropriate. I simply also have to worry on your behalf due to your own lack of self-preservation as you put yourself at the mercy of strange wizards with groin-exploding magic.
[ take some off of his plate once in awhile maybe, jeez ]
As much as I would truly like to direct the conversation elsewhere, I must now ask if undergarments are truly the target of this spell at all.
It seems that it simply affects [ How to write "scrote" in a Lathander-honouring way ] the nether regions, rather than targeting the garment itself.
Astarion doesn't like it. It feels too quiet, with the others around them sleeping and him busy staring idly at the stars, as if they'd reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. It's a little baffling to imagine that he has somehow come this far and finds himself with so many more questions, but the end is in sight. That's what he tells himself when sleep eludes him, unfamiliar in the dark of the night when he is accustomed to being awake and alive.
At least he isn't entirely alone; Godfrey is still awake, for some reason, and nearby, and after a moment and a rather dramatic huff Astarion pushes himself up and waltzes over, all drama and effect as he crosses his arms and watches. ]
Does the sky ever respond when you stare at it?
[ It never does for him, irritating beast that it is. ]
Falling in with the paladin has been a...mixed blessing.
On one hand, it was simply very useful to have a wall of plate metal and (presumably) solid muscle between himself and the many, many entities who were interested in killing them all. Someone so luminous cast the kind of shadows that were very easy to duck in and out of, knife in hand, and Astarion has been taking advantage of that ever since they encountered the first wave of goblins. Lae'zel was no slouch with a sword either, but she wasn't nearly as distracting for their enemies.
Of course, Lae'zel probably wouldn't have even bothered getting involved in local politics, such was her determination to reach the Gith creche. That was one of the downsides - the investment in whatever heroic nonsense his faith demanded. Astarion would argue that anything not directly involving tadpole removal is a tremendous waste of their time, but not loudly. After all, when his choice is between enslavement to the Absolute and enslavement to Cazador, at least the former seems to be taking its time.
Then there's the other issue. Astarion is not a religious student by any means, but he has a distinct sense that the undead and undead-adjacent are not to be tolerated by those of Godfrey's faith. He's lost all sense of how obvious his vampirism...is. Yes, he has sharp teeth and red eyes and some rather distinctive scars, but he's also crossing babbling brooks in bright sunshine without even a twinge of discomfort. The average monster hunter would inspect their bestiary and give him a miss, surely?
As for his occasional nighttime dining, he's done his best to be discreet. Ultimately, one hunk of carrion looks much like another, drained or not.
It's for these reasons that he tells himself he has no reason for concern when the man approaches him at camp, after dinner.
"Our fearless leader," he says, setting his book aside. "Whatever can I do for you this evening?"
If he made an effort, he could probably stop everything he says from sounding like a come-on. He's not planning to try.
A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
Though I can appreciate the nuance and differences in the two of us and your talents alike, I tell you this plainly now; an option that consigns innocents to death to ease our own shortcomings is no option at all. We overcome, or we fail.
[ his kingdom for a NORMAL scry cast tbh ]
Likely not without risking ourselves further in travel. Setting a campsite would be safer.
No trouble at all. You shall know they've arrived when you hear me rap the door.
[ Very, very gently, of course. ]
If I've anything that may help clear this morning fog, trust that it will arrive as companions to your broth and sweetmint. Worry yourself not with tithe if you do not speak in jest.
And I am unsure as to how my Lord might feel about my... pot-stirring, besides. In the conventional definition. I have been one tasked to create and foster unions, not to unsettle them.
I'm sure that I fret over our separation more than she does, for she is yet small.
[ He hopes, anyway.
But... he's not holding his breath. She's quickly becoming not so little at all. Her advancing age is the exact thing that keeps him determined to return home; to Godfrey's assessment, she had been too young to truly and meaningfully register the last loss she had.
Not necessarily so now. ]
What you say is true, of course. I have you, Gale, and all the others, just as you have me. I hope that my moment's lamenting does not give the impression that I've forgotten. We have been so rarely apart that I've no choice but to fuss to myself, I suppose.
I hope that does indeed lessen the ache for her. Tara has made sure to let me know several times over that my mother is sick over my absence, and I don't care for the thought of her wringing her hands and worrying herself so.
You're allowed far more than a moment's lamenting, if you ask me. I'll gladly remind you as many times as you need.
[ It's not quite the tone of voice he uses when he smokes an intimidation check because durge proficiency calmly informs someone that they'll cooperate or he'll crush their skull, but it's on the same frequency. Aren has learned by now that Godfrey is even worse than Shadowheart when it comes to receiving care— gaining satisfaction suffering in silence, being in denial due to holy magic, he doesn't know, but it's a stubborn thing.
He is a stubborn thing as well. And he may not have a devotee's healing touch, but he has an eye for all things medical. (He says it's because it's what he was researching, as a wizard from a destitute background. No fancy jobs in towers for those without prolific mentors. In truth, he has no idea.) So he stands there in the opening of the paladin's tent, an ominous shadow of an almost-elf.
Less spooky: he's carrying what appears to be warm towels and a tin. It smells like menthol. ]
Your posture and gait have been wrong for days, despite being healed. Is it your ribs?
[ It has little to do with denial, and perhaps less to do with any faith-based numbing agent.
What, then? For anybody else, it's the sheer distaste for the space he might occupy - the permanent, nagging presence of someone else in yet greater need, the threat of having to draw attention to himself. Thoughts which twist his own need into a threat (of inconvenience, of deprivation, of irritation,) are all that Sir Godfrey needs to turn his efforts to numbing himself to that periodic stab accompanying his steps.
Godfrey can't say this is all that holds him back where Aren is concerned, however. He spent enough time leading his congregation to know a man lost when he sees one. He's seen how Aren's gaze lingers over the strewn gore they so often left behind, how he watched the blood soak the soil. As though he would sink his fingers into it.
Medical curiosity - Godfrey tells himself this is the kinder, more reasonable assumption. He had already expressed an affinity for the medicinal sciences. His immediate conclusion feels unfair. Still, there is something about his fascination that Godfrey cannot settle in himself; he cannot make it sit right, no matter where he puts it. Always do his thoughts return to the lurid glee he'd thought he glimpsed in him as those hyenas burst on the road.
It flits behind his eyes now, as Aren cuts a tall shadow in the doorway of his military tent. He clears his throat. ]
Perhaps so. [ If he'd meant to kill him, there were better ways to go about it. This is what he tells himself as he eases down to his bedroll, ginger as his left side begins to shriek again. ] I've an old wound as well, though it's not ached before.
It is just as likely that those same chems will destabilize them, whilst the dust from all of this settles. I will sit by and await some hypothesized ideal no sooner than I will carry on your misguided charge forward.
We must create this luck for ourselves, or I will rectify this situation without further assistance.
[ Hey man, it's just like with fishing. Sometimes, you have to twitch the rod a little to make the bait look more alive than it is. ]
Ha. Were that true, I suspect that my star would instead drive me to conflict with the entire country, Mr. Morgan.
It is hardly my place to judge such pursuits. In my time here, it has indeed come to seem as though capitol is as vital to life as food and water. I am a poor excuse for an outdoorsman, but I think I may prefer the light in the sky, myself.
[ By hour six, Tertiary Gwilym finds himself short two guns.
The fifth headcount of the night reveals this. He eyes his long shadow, stretched by the hard headlights of their armored van, as he listens to his fellow Inquisitor caution him from within head-to-toe ballistic armor. He tells him through a black glass visor just how inevitable the loss was. Young guns, he says with some vague sense of blame. The Tertiary knows what he means to say - impetuousness. Zeal. A rush to glory and grave. Leave them to their broken bones and blood. Retrieving the boys now is tantamount to suicide.
Noted, answers the Tertiary.
Then, he turns away.
The exchange has gathered the rest of the Cenacle, a nervous, murmuring clutch of an audience gathering loosely to watch what was an anticipated clash of authority. He moves quickly before they can be motivated to move the armored vehicle. The Tertiary feels his boots crunch from the gravel shoulder, his shadow warping across trees and ferns, and he wrenches the door open as his armored Inquisitor follows behind.
He argues - of course he argues. He can afford to return short a few over-eager gunmen. He can't afford to return without Godfrey Gwilym. That was a loss the Society wouldn't bear unpunished. So the Inquisitor follows him through the vehicle, through holding cell and to the racks of firepower. He argues the whole way.
Even as Godfrey takes up a shotgun and all of the Dragon's Breath he can hold. Perhaps the Society and its top guns could stomach leaving these boys to their misadventure. Godfrey wouldn't.
He makes no such reply to the Inquisitor, who stops trying to hold him back. Godfrey passes quietly out of the hard white headlight alone, into the rasp of greenery and undergrowth. The noise of his Cenacle fades. The heavy, damp darkness of the wood weighs on him.
He keeps his weapon hefted close. He fingers the chain of his crucifix, wrapped around his hand. He watches the darkness.
He clicks the flat flashlight tucked against his breast to life and proceeds, slowly. ]
[ Halsin surveys the landscape below, his gaze focused on the black surface of the lake cradled within the shelter of oak and rowan, their spreading branches offering ample shelter for those seeking to hide from prying eyes. The full moon is reflected in the still waters, its lower half dyed a lurid red—a phenomena known as the Blood Moon.
It is this celestial event which has drawn a multitude of kine toward the lakeshore, that they might better observe the night sky, unimpeded by the flood of lights which permeate their cities, drowning out the stars above.
And yet, within the darkness, Halsin can clearly see the multitude of lights that the kine have brought with them—the twinkling of campfires, the soft glow of lanterns, the bright pinprick red of tail lights from campers and SUVs, like the staring eyes of predators waiting in the darkness.
His lips skin back over sharpened teeth with an amused grin. Since time immemorial, humans have sought to push back the darkness with their meager fires, huddling close in their caves and shelters for warmth and safety. It has always been their first line of defense against the monsters that prowl the night, thirsting for blood.
But they have grown bolder in these modern nights, so far removed from the forest and the soil which sustained their ancestors. They have expanded their cities, built highways through the vast stretches of the untamed land, stringing lights along their length like shining jewels, to connect their settlements in a vast web of glass and stone and steel. They wield fire in their hands, a simple flick of the thumb to summon a candlewick flame, and they have tamed lightning, that they might power their small, clever little contraptions.
Halsin tips his head back, lifts his nose to the wind. He can smell the sour-sweet tang of petrol and kerosene, the acrid sting of wood smoke. The wet soil beneath his feet, the dew clinging to branch and leaf. The warm musk of the deer that passed by hours ago.
The kine are blind to all these things, their senses dulled by indolence. Take away their lights and their fires, and they revert back to their fearful, animal nature.
A haunting howl rises in the distance, and Halsin pricks his ears toward the sound. One of his packmates calling to him, seeking permission to begin the hunt. Halsin fills his lungs with the cold night air and answers with a howl of his own, his song rising over the trees and mingling with the thin, jubilant cries of his packmates below.
It is time to remind the kine once again that they are nothing more than prey.
But for those that remember their bestial nature? Those who sufficiently demonstrate the will to survive, no matter the odds? They shall be watered with the blood of ancients, their bones buried within the midnight soil, roots reaching deep back into memoriam. They will no longer fear the darkness; instead they shall revel in the night, and it will hold no terrors for their newborn eyes.
The lights below begin to wink out one by one, the air pierced by feral howls and savage screams.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tfln overflow
@goodbeary
Think nothing of it, my friend. We're bound to run into misunderstandings sooner or later - I'm simply glad of the chance to amend my meaning.
And I must confess, you are right about that. Just as I think I have finished adjusting to camping, some other sound rattles me anew! It's a longer process than I might have first assumed, I suppose.
But it makes me wonder if there is any stimulation in the city to which I am accustomed, but you would not be.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@coupris
I supposed there was some reason you favoured the trees! I might be tempted to take a page from your book and try it myself, though I fear that it would take quite a tree to comfortably sleep me.
I wonder if your nighttime visitors are as generous as mine have proven to be.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@lolthsworn
Darkest night before brightest dawn, my Lady. Some of the greatest tales of heroism ever penned are such. I meant no insult.
[ you know yr boy is gonna flex his priest card at all provocations. ]
Tales taller than our truth? I fear you may not be able to capture such things. Their heads would surely vanish in the clouds.
(no subject)
(no subject)
@chk
[ .....puts down device, gets up, sits down somewhere else with that to choke quietly before returning. ]
Thank you, Lae'zel. Truly.
[ To be honest about his appreciation for that small human kindness and her effort in bringing it to him, for just what those few words struck in his heart, would likely be to embarrass her.
But still, he's not about to let the moment pass by without some acknowledgement. ]
And I also thank you for your concern. You are a worthy friend, and I am more thankful every day that we met. [ failed step 1 ] It could be as you say, perhaps. But I am not sure that it could be as you say for me. She has been my all for so long, I struggle to imagine involving myself with someone who would not know her.
I suppose I have some thinking to do.
1 / 2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@vitrines
My concern is entirely appropriate. I simply also have to worry on your behalf due to your own lack of self-preservation as you put yourself at the mercy of strange wizards with groin-exploding magic.
[ take some off of his plate once in awhile maybe, jeez ]
As much as I would truly like to direct the conversation elsewhere, I must now ask if undergarments are truly the target of this spell at all.
It seems that it simply affects [ How to write "scrote" in a Lathander-honouring way ] the nether regions, rather than targeting the garment itself.
@narsinssist
[ yeah bud i bet you think its not so bad ]
You could say he does.
I do not know if you will not ask.
(no subject)
@backscar
no subject
Astarion doesn't like it. It feels too quiet, with the others around them sleeping and him busy staring idly at the stars, as if they'd reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. It's a little baffling to imagine that he has somehow come this far and finds himself with so many more questions, but the end is in sight. That's what he tells himself when sleep eludes him, unfamiliar in the dark of the night when he is accustomed to being awake and alive.
At least he isn't entirely alone; Godfrey is still awake, for some reason, and nearby, and after a moment and a rather dramatic huff Astarion pushes himself up and waltzes over, all drama and effect as he crosses his arms and watches. ]
Does the sky ever respond when you stare at it?
[ It never does for him, irritating beast that it is. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
sorry for the wait!!
samesies, curse my lack of internet
no subject
Falling in with the paladin has been a...mixed blessing.
On one hand, it was simply very useful to have a wall of plate metal and (presumably) solid muscle between himself and the many, many entities who were interested in killing them all. Someone so luminous cast the kind of shadows that were very easy to duck in and out of, knife in hand, and Astarion has been taking advantage of that ever since they encountered the first wave of goblins. Lae'zel was no slouch with a sword either, but she wasn't nearly as distracting for their enemies.
Of course, Lae'zel probably wouldn't have even bothered getting involved in local politics, such was her determination to reach the Gith creche. That was one of the downsides - the investment in whatever heroic nonsense his faith demanded. Astarion would argue that anything not directly involving tadpole removal is a tremendous waste of their time, but not loudly. After all, when his choice is between enslavement to the Absolute and enslavement to Cazador, at least the former seems to be taking its time.
Then there's the other issue. Astarion is not a religious student by any means, but he has a distinct sense that the undead and undead-adjacent are not to be tolerated by those of Godfrey's faith. He's lost all sense of how obvious his vampirism...is. Yes, he has sharp teeth and red eyes and some rather distinctive scars, but he's also crossing babbling brooks in bright sunshine without even a twinge of discomfort. The average monster hunter would inspect their bestiary and give him a miss, surely?
As for his occasional nighttime dining, he's done his best to be discreet. Ultimately, one hunk of carrion looks much like another, drained or not.
It's for these reasons that he tells himself he has no reason for concern when the man approaches him at camp, after dinner.
"Our fearless leader," he says, setting his book aside. "Whatever can I do for you this evening?"
If he made an effort, he could probably stop everything he says from sounding like a come-on. He's not planning to try.
no subject
A tautness at the corners of his lips, in his throat, pulling it tight.
One might think this all had started with the fangs flashing in his mouth, or his red eyes. These were giveaways which were easier to conceal at night, in forgiving shadow. In hard daylight, however, they were betrayed; one couldn't easily mistake the red for brown, as might happen in a dark street, and neither could his fangs be easily explained away by a mere trick of the light. Even his deathly complexion could be warmed by torch and candlelight to something almost forgiveably human. Daylight, indeed, laid all of these details stark and bare.
But it hadn't. In truth, it was much earlier.
It started with his chest.
As unlife settles in, such basic biological imperatives fall to the wayside. A vampire might breathe for some time out of simple habit, the dead muscles still remembering the necessities of life. But over the years, inevitably, there came a day where a vampire's chest may rise, and fall, and stay that way. Getting it to rise again with regularity, with that soft innate motion that came naturally to living beings, was something rarely mastered even among the proudest vampire lords.
Lathander knows this, and knows it well. It's just one of the things he has been trained to watch. Godfrey had already seen it in their first meeting, how rarely it moved when he was not speaking.
After that, the rest came in a landslide; his pallid face, the fangs hiding in his mouth, the red eyes, the old puncture scars just beneath the collar of his doublet. Though Astarion's apparent immunity to typical vampiric weaknesses was something to be concerned with, the truth had been laid plain to him early in their acquaintanceship; Astarion was not a living man, and most signs pointed to vampirism.
Godfrey had not moved yet on this knowledge, however. He has his reasons - a complex network of ropes staying his hand. Among them, the obvious; that Astarion has proven himself a friend, and that had left Godfrey reluctant to bring him to harm. His fellows might call this blindness, cowardice, stupidity - a heresy, at its worst. But Astarion didn't seem like a bloodthirsty monster to him. Godfrey had been watching, and he had not yet caused any harm that he could detect to their fellows. He had been slaking his thirst some other way, and the effort has gone a long way in Godfrey's estimation of his trustworthiness.
But their friends don't know what he does - haven't been watching as he has, and the bloodless animals have them asking questions. They have more than once named what Godfrey had already concluded, though not in Astarion's direction. Yet.
Such is what he comes, nervously, to discuss - it can't be an easy thing, being confronted by a man of his stature and leanings with proof that you are the very thing he should want to destroy. He takes a quick breath through his nose and squares his shoulders with it.
"I wish to discuss something with you. A... sensitive matter."
Away from the others.
(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)
tfln overflow......2
@sangwhine
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/whatever sorry to your inbox
(no subject)
(no subject)
ok thats it
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
hello hi sorry life ate me
@radiatingsoul
Though I can appreciate the nuance and differences in the two of us and your talents alike, I tell you this plainly now; an option that consigns innocents to death to ease our own shortcomings is no option at all. We overcome, or we fail.
[ his kingdom for a NORMAL scry cast tbh ]
Likely not without risking ourselves further in travel. Setting a campsite would be safer.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
meant to get to this way earlier, apologies....
@elfenritter
No trouble at all. You shall know they've arrived when you hear me rap the door.
[ Very, very gently, of course. ]
If I've anything that may help clear this morning fog, trust that it will arrive as companions to your broth and sweetmint. Worry yourself not with tithe if you do not speak in jest.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@forrestertailor
I am the sort who has but one spoon, I fear.
And I am unsure as to how my Lord might feel about my... pot-stirring, besides. In the conventional definition. I have been one tasked to create and foster unions, not to unsettle them.
No, bully you: appropriate space between rp and life having ass, healthy boundary having ass
@divinestrike
There is value in what you say.
But I do fail to see the greater path waiting to be revealed by throwing open a set of barn doors to reveal them in the act of coitus, purely in jest.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@netherese
I'm sure that I fret over our separation more than she does, for she is yet small.
[ He hopes, anyway.
But... he's not holding his breath. She's quickly becoming not so little at all. Her advancing age is the exact thing that keeps him determined to return home; to Godfrey's assessment, she had been too young to truly and meaningfully register the last loss she had.
Not necessarily so now. ]
What you say is true, of course. I have you, Gale, and all the others, just as you have me. I hope that my moment's lamenting does not give the impression that I've forgotten. We have been so rarely apart that I've no choice but to fuss to myself, I suppose.
no subject
You're allowed far more than a moment's lamenting, if you ask me. I'll gladly remind you as many times as you need.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
resurrects myself
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
thank you for your endless patience, I adore you
always and forever my dude
(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)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
will i win and finally get a tag out
you did it!
have a fat titty godfrey to celebrate, on the house
thank you I love him
(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
[ It's not quite the tone of voice he uses when he
smokes an intimidation check because durge proficiencycalmly informs someone that they'll cooperate or he'll crush their skull, but it's on the same frequency. Aren has learned by now that Godfrey is even worse than Shadowheart when it comes to receiving care— gaining satisfaction suffering in silence, being in denial due to holy magic, he doesn't know, but it's a stubborn thing.He is a stubborn thing as well. And he may not have a devotee's healing touch, but he has an eye for all things medical. (He says it's because it's what he was researching, as a wizard from a destitute background. No fancy jobs in towers for those without prolific mentors. In truth, he has no idea.) So he stands there in the opening of the paladin's tent, an ominous shadow of an almost-elf.
Less spooky: he's carrying what appears to be warm towels and a tin. It smells like menthol. ]
Your posture and gait have been wrong for days, despite being healed. Is it your ribs?
no subject
What, then? For anybody else, it's the sheer distaste for the space he might occupy - the permanent, nagging presence of someone else in yet greater need, the threat of having to draw attention to himself. Thoughts which twist his own need into a threat (of inconvenience, of deprivation, of irritation,) are all that Sir Godfrey needs to turn his efforts to numbing himself to that periodic stab accompanying his steps.
Godfrey can't say this is all that holds him back where Aren is concerned, however. He spent enough time leading his congregation to know a man lost when he sees one. He's seen how Aren's gaze lingers over the strewn gore they so often left behind, how he watched the blood soak the soil. As though he would sink his fingers into it.
Medical curiosity - Godfrey tells himself this is the kinder, more reasonable assumption. He had already expressed an affinity for the medicinal sciences. His immediate conclusion feels unfair. Still, there is something about his fascination that Godfrey cannot settle in himself; he cannot make it sit right, no matter where he puts it. Always do his thoughts return to the lurid glee he'd thought he glimpsed in him as those hyenas burst on the road.
It flits behind his eyes now, as Aren cuts a tall shadow in the doorway of his military tent. He clears his throat. ]
Perhaps so. [ If he'd meant to kill him, there were better ways to go about it. This is what he tells himself as he eases down to his bedroll, ginger as his left side begins to shriek again. ] I've an old wound as well, though it's not ached before.
(no subject)
tfln overflow
@ghouliecooper
This is not enough.
[ But you probably knew that. ]
It is just as likely that those same chems will destabilize them, whilst the dust from all of this settles. I will sit by and await some hypothesized ideal no sooner than I will carry on your misguided charge forward.
We must create this luck for ourselves, or I will rectify this situation without further assistance.
1/2
2/2
@stoplickingthedamnthing
[ hmm....why does that wording feel unfortunate suddenly ]
Ah, well, my daughter. She has been a hole in my chest since the nautiloid.
I don't know that I've mentioned her to you, my friend.
no subject
I can't even imagine how hard it must be for a parent to be apart from their child. Would you tell me more about her?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
@cervid tfln overflow
[ Hey man, it's just like with fishing. Sometimes, you have to twitch the rod a little to make the bait look more alive than it is. ]
Ha. Were that true, I suspect that my star would instead drive me to conflict with the entire country, Mr. Morgan.
It is hardly my place to judge such pursuits. In my time here, it has indeed come to seem as though capitol is as vital to life as food and water. I am a poor excuse for an outdoorsman, but I think I may prefer the light in the sky, myself.
no subject
Well, you're in luck. No one's figured out how to tax or charge for that yet.
(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)
@zlato tfln overflow
Have ever you read the Scriptures, Lady?
no subject
vampire stuff for @polyfil
The fifth headcount of the night reveals this. He eyes his long shadow, stretched by the hard headlights of their armored van, as he listens to his fellow Inquisitor caution him from within head-to-toe ballistic armor. He tells him through a black glass visor just how inevitable the loss was. Young guns, he says with some vague sense of blame. The Tertiary knows what he means to say - impetuousness. Zeal. A rush to glory and grave. Leave them to their broken bones and blood. Retrieving the boys now is tantamount to suicide.
Noted, answers the Tertiary.
Then, he turns away.
The exchange has gathered the rest of the Cenacle, a nervous, murmuring clutch of an audience gathering loosely to watch what was an anticipated clash of authority. He moves quickly before they can be motivated to move the armored vehicle. The Tertiary feels his boots crunch from the gravel shoulder, his shadow warping across trees and ferns, and he wrenches the door open as his armored Inquisitor follows behind.
He argues - of course he argues. He can afford to return short a few over-eager gunmen. He can't afford to return without Godfrey Gwilym. That was a loss the Society wouldn't bear unpunished. So the Inquisitor follows him through the vehicle, through holding cell and to the racks of firepower. He argues the whole way.
Even as Godfrey takes up a shotgun and all of the Dragon's Breath he can hold. Perhaps the Society and its top guns could stomach leaving these boys to their misadventure. Godfrey wouldn't.
He makes no such reply to the Inquisitor, who stops trying to hold him back. Godfrey passes quietly out of the hard white headlight alone, into the rasp of greenery and undergrowth. The noise of his Cenacle fades. The heavy, damp darkness of the wood weighs on him.
He keeps his weapon hefted close. He fingers the chain of his crucifix, wrapped around his hand. He watches the darkness.
He clicks the flat flashlight tucked against his breast to life and proceeds, slowly. ]
no subject
It is this celestial event which has drawn a multitude of kine toward the lakeshore, that they might better observe the night sky, unimpeded by the flood of lights which permeate their cities, drowning out the stars above.
And yet, within the darkness, Halsin can clearly see the multitude of lights that the kine have brought with them—the twinkling of campfires, the soft glow of lanterns, the bright pinprick red of tail lights from campers and SUVs, like the staring eyes of predators waiting in the darkness.
His lips skin back over sharpened teeth with an amused grin. Since time immemorial, humans have sought to push back the darkness with their meager fires, huddling close in their caves and shelters for warmth and safety. It has always been their first line of defense against the monsters that prowl the night, thirsting for blood.
But they have grown bolder in these modern nights, so far removed from the forest and the soil which sustained their ancestors. They have expanded their cities, built highways through the vast stretches of the untamed land, stringing lights along their length like shining jewels, to connect their settlements in a vast web of glass and stone and steel. They wield fire in their hands, a simple flick of the thumb to summon a candlewick flame, and they have tamed lightning, that they might power their small, clever little contraptions.
Halsin tips his head back, lifts his nose to the wind. He can smell the sour-sweet tang of petrol and kerosene, the acrid sting of wood smoke. The wet soil beneath his feet, the dew clinging to branch and leaf. The warm musk of the deer that passed by hours ago.
The kine are blind to all these things, their senses dulled by indolence. Take away their lights and their fires, and they revert back to their fearful, animal nature.
A haunting howl rises in the distance, and Halsin pricks his ears toward the sound. One of his packmates calling to him, seeking permission to begin the hunt. Halsin fills his lungs with the cold night air and answers with a howl of his own, his song rising over the trees and mingling with the thin, jubilant cries of his packmates below.
It is time to remind the kine once again that they are nothing more than prey.
But for those that remember their bestial nature? Those who sufficiently demonstrate the will to survive, no matter the odds? They shall be watered with the blood of ancients, their bones buried within the midnight soil, roots reaching deep back into memoriam. They will no longer fear the darkness; instead they shall revel in the night, and it will hold no terrors for their newborn eyes.
The lights below begin to wink out one by one, the air pierced by feral howls and savage screams.
The hunt has finally begun. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)