terriblepurpose | Deer Country Contact

[He wanted to step backwards. He wanted to put some space between himself and this woman-- this creature of precision and rationality and the weight of myriads in that sharpened look which only made him feel small.

It was like those moments with John, when his hand was newly regrown but his multitude of imperatives to move, to stay, to be reborn, all converged and locked him from his shell. Once more he felt perceived-- himself, as well as the drunkards, sailors, warriors, and kings all before him.]

I'm myself. Claiming any single gender or identity in my situation is something only a fool would do before people like you.

I'm just me. And, if I need to swear a pact in my own blood that this my benefactor won't be harmed by anything of my doing... Then I will.

[He didn't want to make a blood pact. Blood carried power, and he already had his baggage...

But, he would.

Still feeling small, but curious as well, he dared to ask:]

... What is this?

What would I want with your blood, oh multitude?

[ She does not laugh. There is the suggestion of it only, another shadow laid across her voice. ]

I came to see my...

[ Her gaze flits to Paul, whose hand tightens on Oscar's shoulder, his breath a soft but audible inhale behind him. She gestures to him, fluidly, her fingers rippling in an intentional shape. ]

Descendant. I have no quarrel with you - yet it seems you take one up with me, wanderer.

He doesn't. [ Paul says, bright, compelled. ] Oscar, lower the shield. This is our dream. We control it, don't we? What is there to fear?

[The one constant between all living things... Was fear.

And, in the midst of the unknown, even the most well tempered of minds would still jump at shadows because of fear. Fear for their families, friends-- and for themselves.

Oscar sucked in a breath (--it was a dream, he didn't need to breathe--) and reached inward to take that trembling, tumultuous fear by the hand. Lifetimes and centuries of despairing over the unknown was impossible to erase from his soul, but he could at least remind the part of himself carrying this fear that he didn't have to wear the Crown and bear the burden of Choice alone in this one. The weight of a multitude of lives lost needed to be remembered, but it didn't have to define him.

He wasn't Oz. Not yet-- and hopefully he never would be as long as the Pthumerians allowed. And, as long as he didn't return to the seas.

Shoulders relaxing, the shield dissolved away with a flicker and a shower if disintegrating dust. Oscar looked up at Paul, still wary but willing to trust.

This wasn't his game.]

Fear is what makes us human, Paul. Ancestor. I'm sorry. So much has happened recently that I am afraid.

I'm sorry. I'll do better.

Edited 2022-08-10 14:35 (UTC)

Apologies?

[ The ancestress approaches, delicately, and Paul moves to Oscar's side to greet her. The glossy sheen over his eyes is fascinated, tracing her sinuous, purposeful motion with familiarity. His mother never walks like that, but he knows, somehow, that she could. That it inhabits her, as it inhabits him. ]

Do not apologize for being afraid, little guest. Fear is natural. Apologize for allowing it to master you.

But you are young, and untrained. I should not expect so much.

[ She maintains a distance from Paul and Oscar as she looks them both over, though it is Paul where she begins, and Paul where she ends. ]

But you should be afraid, boy-child. You are no initiate of the rites. You have not partaken of the waters.

[ Her gaze flicks back to Oscar. It has a sharp, unfiltered edge now, the interest (but not hunger) of a predator indolent in the sun. ]

You. Why did you call me?

[On instinct, Oscar reached (reached?) for Paul's hand in the insubstantial mindscape, every word and movement as real as it was a remnant of a dream. He glanced at Paul, hazel eyes uncertain while he regarded his host. It was only upon being directly addressed that he focused in on the ancestress again with the wariness of a small bird--

-- or a small, antlered wilderness creature that watched everything.]

...I don't remember calling anyone, Ma'am.

Edited 2022-08-15 11:25 (UTC)

[ Paul lets his hand be taken. He has fewer scruples about touch than he used to, and it would seem absurd to balk at further contact under their entwined circumstances. He catches the flicker of Oscar’s glance and returns it, a soft befuddlement in his own ~~blue~~ green eyes. ]

But you did. [ She tilts her head at an opposing cant to his. ] Or…a piece of you, perhaps?

You’re afraid of something. Not of me…no, of…

[ Her gaze drops to the tumbled red-covered book, still extant on the floor of this shared dream. ]

...a book?

[Oscar regarded the book warily, recalling how earnestly a stringy man with stringier hair as artificially black as the candy floss Ruby liked to wear was artificially bright had drummed the dangers of mysterious magic books into his head. Although Gerard Keay had all the physical presence of a scarecrow decked out in leather and studs, he made dead certain that the young boy that was 'Marked' by an unknown entity knew not to fuck with powers he didn't understand. ]

That's one of the things I'm afraid of,

[He admitted without shame, and shook his head. ]

There's too many pieces, Ma'am, [he said with the guileless candor of a farmlad ] I don't know who would have called, or if any of them even can.

And perhaps too many fears.

[ Her smile is interminable. It persists as she steps back, towards the open door through which she came, her motion sleek and effortless even backwards. ]

Wait-

[ Paul steps after her, heedlessly, and she holds up her palm to stop him. He halts in place with trained swiftness, but all lines of his body lean to her still, and the void that oscillates behind her - darkness to shadowed hall and back again. ]

Another time. When you do not host strangers to us, who crack open a door, yet do not imagine where it leads.

[ Her smile sweetens. She looks to Oscar once more and closes her eyes, for a flickering moment, and when they open, they are obsidian black and glossy corner to corner. ]

Or do you?

[ This time, it's Paul's turn to throw a protective (or restraining) arm to one side, across the line of sight from her to Oscar, and when her eyes flick back to him they are ~~blue~~ green again, blameless and blinking. ]

[It was unnerving, and the reflection of darkness in her eyes sent a shiver of unknown origin down Oscar's non-existent spine. He was certainly afraid, but--]

Everyone has something they're afraid of,

[Oscar said gently, stepping forth and holding onto Paul's shirt.]

It's a natural part of what keeps us alive, and nothing to be ashamed of. It's what you do in your fear that makes a difference...

[Because, he was afraid-- with good reason. There were too many variables, too many unknowns, but he also saw what he needed to do.

He wasn't going to let Paul get hurt because of him.]

I don't remember opening anything up, Ma'am.

[He said, in a tone that was both gentle and firm.]

But, if it's open? If everyone's willing? We can see where it leads.

I am afraid. But, I'm not going to let that stop me.

[ The weathervane of Paul's mood turns at the implication of Oscar's words, even as the ancestress' smile widens in encouragement, a cat with cream on her lips. He looks at Oscar questioningly as she slides her hand up the intangible doorframe, stepping halfway back across the threshold and gesturing past herself into the dark. ]

Oscar, are you sure about this?

[ Paul stoops to collect the red covered book, his gaze sliding back to the stranger. She tilts her head back at him, expression slanting towards concern. ]

Do you doubt his courage, little hawk?

No. It's not-

Do you doubt me, then? But you have hardly known me, to doubt me. Do you not trust in your blood? What a dissolute age you must come from.

[ Paul comes to his feet, his jaw setting as he does. He knows when he is being coaxed, and when he is being enticed, and he recognizes what she is doing by a dozen specific submarkers beyond that. But then - he knows her, or he wants to know her, and what harm can they come to here, in his own mind? ]

I don't doubt you.

She's here now for a reason, Paul.

[Even with the concerning implication that something-- or someone-- amidst his own multitudes had participated in the call without his consent, he was certain of one truth: you can't learn anything by refusing an offer. The grim satisfaction on the woman's face worried him in a way that he couldn't quite define. However, this wasn't his space nor his rules.

Something bigger than the both of them was at play.

Gaze sliding towards the book, Oscar held out a hand. ]

That's also something that doesn't belong here. Maybe I should hold it for right now?

[He didn't want it, but he wasn't going to toy with the odds either. ]

[ Oscar asking for the book distracts Paul from whatever it is that lies (or doesn't lie) beyond the doorway, his grip tightening on it imperceptibly to anyone but himself. ]

It's not real. [ He shakes his head, flattening his palm on the cover. ] We don't need to bring it anywhere. Here -

[ Paul collapses the book between his palms like he did the star, dispersing it back into the dreamstuff from which he formed it. Textless and meaningless, it was only ever a representation. The ancestress observes them both patiently, with mild amusement still fixed to her features.

Satisfied with one minor issue resolved, Paul opens his mouth - and stares, bewildered, at the book that's appeared in Oscar's grip. His gaze flicks up to Oscar's eyes, mouth setting in an irritated line. ]

Not funny.

[Oscar shrugged. He didn't do anything to call the book to him, either, but he cast Paul a stubborn little pout regardless. ]

It just means I was right. You REALLY shouldn't be playing with fire.

Literally.

[ It's a feat of the teenage condition that even here, even now, Paul can manage a faintly petulant line between his eyebrows at Oscar's rebuke. He brushes a strand of his hair away from his face. ]

I'm not playing with anything.

Children.

[ The ancestress interjects, amusement no longer veiled. She steps almost completely from the room, only her fingertips clinging to the doorframe. ]

Don't bicker.

[ A dozen retorts die on Paul's lips. Anything he could say would only prove her scolding inflection on 'children' correct. The glance he shoots Oscar's way before he steps to the threshold suggests the discussion isn't over, only on pause, before he enters the shadowed, obscured space beyond the door. ]

[Continuing the teasing commentary would have been easy-- but, this wasn't his game, nor his rules. Oscar knew how to be polite and, with a nod of acknowledgement towards the Ancestress, followed Paul into the blinding darkness.

Beyond the door, on the far side of whatever space they had entered, a small flame flickered to life. Carrying it was illuminated a figure Oscar would recognize anywhere. The long dark hair that faded to a paler hue at the roots was artfully swept to one side, revealing the sad face decorated with dark, heavy make up and a variety of piercings. The calculated boredom didn't hide the tension that the figure carried in their body, and the eye-shaped tattoos that sat at every visible joint was unmistakable. ]

Fire from a magic book? Oscar... Really?

[The figure cast Oscar a look of disappointment, but Oscar knew who he was the instant he heard that light, almost lilting tone. Despite himself, he gasped]

Gerry?!

[ Where the ancestress had felt immediately and viscerally familiar, this man asserts himself as a stranger the instant Paul lays eyes on him. Hands now empty of the tome being questioned half-curl at his sides before he stops himself, but the taut alertness of him now is a far cry from the dreamy acceptance that had held him in the other room.

There's no reason for it. Oscar recognizes him, and so Paul must assume he is known to the other boy - and he doesn't appear threatening, only morbid. 'Gerry' is a projection of the mind, and Paul knows how to do battle with those, if he has to.

(His blood sizzles and spits. There is something about this one; there is something about this one.) ]

Another guest. [ The Ancestress tips her head, wonderingly. ] How full you are, child.

[ The door behind them closes soundlessly. Gerry's lighter is all that illuminates the space. Paul cannot tell where the walls are, or the ceiling, or if either exist. ]

It's not his book.

[ That seems important, a rill of possessiveness opening up inside him. ]

Edited 2022-09-03 00:11 (UTC)

What kinda question is that?

[Oscar shot the Ancestress a puzzled look-- and was just distracted enough for Gerry to reach over and take the book from his hands. Oscar was barely able to stutter out a protest before Gerry dropped the book onto the ground between them. The clatter of the leather-bound tomb on the hard flooring echoed throughout the chamber.]

It doesn't matter how many people are in Oscar's head or whose book this is, honestly. It doesn't belong with anyone.

[Gerry explained briskly, casting his heavily lined eyes between both Paul and his Ancestress before wearily settling in on Paul. He pressed one of his boots against the tome and leaned into it, bearing down with the full strength those slender limbs could summon, and leaned forward-- looking more like an ominous wraith than anything human.]

I know this is your's, kid. That just makes you a fool for not listening the first time.

[He clicked his tongue in apparent irritation.]

Ma'am, this is a realm of ancestors, isn't it? Some traditions include teachers among a person's ancestors. I may not be one of Oscar's predecessors, but he does remember me as someone that tried to help. And for the last couple of weeks, he's been calling out for help.

His predecessors can't reach him right now, but he still has his own memories. So, I'm here. And-- if you don't mind my being blunt?

Both of these kids are marked to hell.

Edited 2022-09-03 03:12 (UTC)

[ Oscar's obsession with Paul's book makes crystalline sense to Paul as his summoned memory whisks it from his hands, dropping it to the insubstantial ground and stepping on the simulacrum like it was nothing. Oscar has never let it go that Paul found access to magic of his own, fixated on the idea of a connection to his long lost teacher, recreated here as another voice in Oscar's head - all of them always clamoring against Paul, always seeking to curtail what he does, what he can do -

- a slender, strong arm bars Paul's path (when did he step forward?), the ancestress' bronze bangles chiming as she opposes him crosswise, her back to Gerry and her mouth close by Paul's ear when she leans in. She smells like sandalwood and smoke, and she is feverishly hot in the cold of this unplace. ]

I know the marks on this boychild. [ She smiles at Paul even while she speaks to Gerry, the points of her upturned mouth like thorns, like fangs. ] I know his bones, I know his breath. I know he is built to bear such weight - oh, you cannot imagine, little stranger, what he is built to bear.

[ She tucks herself closer, lips nearly on his ear, and everything in Paul is a hot, stricken turmoil, a clashing light, she is close, she is so close - ]

You know who you are. Do not be afraid.

[ Paul looks to Oscar in confusion that borders on insensible bewilderment, a crash of disorientation that goes beyond misunderstanding into a dissolve of the world itself, sense ending on the echo of her words in the curved shell of his ear. ]

[Oscar knew.

Oscar knew better than most what it meant to carry the weight of a terrible purpose-- one that was inescapable, no matter how far he tried to run.

The moment Paul disappeared from view set his heart racing, breaking his own immobility with a lightning strike of fear. Oscar made to give chance, but was halted by a surprisingly strong, tattooed hand that smelled of acrylic paints and the smoke that lingered from dozens upon dozens of fires. Looking up, Oscar met Gerry's dark gaze with obvious anxiety as they hung over the abyss between dreams-- between life and death.]

I don't know what this place is, Gerry. I need to make sure he's okay--

[The train of words fell silent when he felt something cold pressed into his hands. ]

Make sure you're okay first, Oscar. You're always putting yourself last, and you can't save anyone like that.

[Heaving a heavy, long suffering sigh, Gerry relented-- and ruffled his overgrown hair. ]

You're lucky I'm just the result of your mind filling in the blanks and not a ghost. The dead should remain dead-- I want to remain dead. But, that means I can't tell you anything you don't already know.

[At this, a smile brightened Gerry's face, and Oscar was reminded of the sheer number of times Gerry had fought to just let Oscar be a kid.]

You made a few promises, didn't you? You better catch him, and don't let him fall this deep again.

[With that, Gerry released him.

It was all Oscar could do to remember himself-- and find his wings in this non-space between realities, without even a body to anchor him.

An owl had always been the form he had chosen, and before Oscar knew it he had found the piece of himself that has changed in the Dream. Hazel eyes gleamed like gold in the dim lighting, and the small but strong wings had him catching up to Paul within moments. Reaching out with tiny claws, he grasped hold of Paul's shirt and beat those wings furiously.

He couldn't stop their descent, but perhaps he could slow it... ]

Edited 2022-09-05 22:26 (UTC)

[ It is as if more than the floor gave way, but the world itself. Paul falls in the absence of gravity, plummeting and drifting simultaneously. All that’s left of the ancestress is smoke; he knows that isn’t true even as he thinks it, sparks trailing from his fingertips in blue and gold and palest silver the only light in the nothingness.

Tiny claw catch in his shirt. Wings beat behind his head. His fall slows, stabilizes, collects itself upon an axis, and there is saltwater on his tongue -

- Paul sits up on the cot he thought he was sitting on in the first place with a ragged, gasping inhale, his feet kicking out and hands scrabbling at thin blankets as his heart hammers. The room is the room, real and genuine; his body is his own, heart beating, lungs filling. There are scorch marks staining the sheets again. ]

Oscar!

[ He cries out, pressing the heel of his hand into his left eye as a splitting headache surges forth like he’s been struck in the head with a bisecting axe. He doubles over his knees and wait, anxiously, for the voiceless answer. ]

--I'm here.

[And he felt that, in the same jarring way he felt when Ozpin was in trouble. Uncertainty had his own piece of consciousness all but vibrating with anxiety as he watched--felt -- Paul buckle under that headache as surely as he would have buckled under a brutal blow from the Nuckelavee he had heard of that was said to terrorize the distant villages of Anima.]

Paul. [He said, winding his own fears up tightly to allow for the outward calm he had seen and felt Ozpin and any seasoned Huntman summon in a crisis. In a voice that was as steady as a young sapling, he knew what he had to do.

Words, after all, were the only thing that he had.]

Paul, [He repeated,] It's going to be okay. We'll figure everything out.

Has this happened to you before?

[ Paul takes hold of Oscar's calm with both hands, draws it in close. He slows his raging pulse and quiets his nerves, triggering a cascade fall of slow-still-peace in his body until he has it mastered. He must not fear. Fear is the little death. ]

No.

[ He swings his legs off the cot, animated by restless energy despite his efforts, and comes unsteadily to his feet. He hasn't had a headache like this since he was young, experimenting with the tolerance limits of his body, and he struggles to flush the afflicted tissue with blood. ]

You?

I don't get visions,

[Oscar explained, keeping his tone as calm as possible, holding onto those trembling hands as best as he could without a body of his own. ]

Usually I'd just talk to Oz in my head, or find memories that I didn't know I had.

Here... I sometimes dreamwalk and visit other palebloods I know, but I've gotta be planning on it before I go to bed.

[Everything was intentional-- just like the telepath from Vacuo had taught him.

Oscar usually thought in words, but in that moment he tried to conjure an image for Paul-- the aurora above Solitas, almost close enough to touch from Atlas-- the city in the sky.

-- hopefully, it would help me take Paul's mind off of worry, so they could tackle the problem later. ]

I still hate this place, sometimes.

[ Baleful words for baleful thoughts. Paul levers himself to standing and rolls his shoulders back, letting Oscar's vision drift across his field of view. It's beautiful, the dipping veils of the celestial dancers of the magnetosphere, and Paul accepts the calm that comes with it.

Water never hurts. Paul sets out to the kitchen, pushing back the strangeness of the encounter. It was a Trench thing, and that was all. A product of their odd situation, or a trick of Mariana's, or pure coincidence. He has heard of more outlandish things, has lived them.

It's nothing to worry about. So he won't. ]

I'm sorry you had to see that.

It's not your fault.

[Because, he understood what Paul was talking about. Trench threw everyone's understanding of the world out of sync. The strangeness of their entire situation was only amplified by the knowledge that they would never have been in a parallel position if they weren't in trench.]

I told you that I'd help you, [Oscar said, in a small but gentle voice.] That means with the good parts... and the scary parts.

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