terriblepurpose | Deer Country Contact

[ 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.

[ Paul laughs, which is a mistake immediately rewarded by a stab of agony down the centre of his skull, so it cuts off into a wince as he fills a glass from the over-loud tap. (He doesn't think of painkillers; for all the pharmacology that has gone on in his life, he has never needed them, so they do not come to mind.) ]

Thank you.

[ It wasn't a mocking laugh. He's just resigned to this, swallowing tinny water slowly to ease its impact on his stomach as he settles into a crooked leg chair and closes his eyes. ]

We can talk about it later. I think I - need to sleep. Or lie down.

[He felt that stabbing headache as if it were his own-- from a distance. It was his, yet not his. Just like how this body, during the scattered times he borrowed it, was his and yet not. ]

Just rest, okay?

[Oscar said with the tired heaviness of someone that didn't know what to do. He still recalled Gerry's words, and the feeling of something pressed into his hands...]

I'll keep the lights on and the doors closed. Try to sleep for now. You're safe.

[ Paul smiles, wanly, as he lets his neck bend to rest the back of the chair against the base of his skull, digging it in for the distracting pressure on his slender vertebrae. ]

Lights on, doors closed.

[ No formless voids, no woman who move like lions and smell like smoke and sandalwood. No flickering eyes, in his face or hers or tattooed on the knuckles of a stranger. ]

I like the sound of that.

[No flickering eyes, except for the ones that gleamed yellowy with reflected moonlight that he probably saw once his eyes closed. The Pthumerians of Trench had born witness to the owl shape Oscar had crafted for himself in Deerington and saw fit to subtly change the boy to fit the theme. As far as changes went, these were among the most benign and harmless.

Long, lonely nights had become somewhat familiar to Oscar after nearly a year of being nocturnal.]

You don't need to worry about the sheets, either.

[Oscar explained with a smile in his voice-- and flicked on the lighter as he had seen Gerry do numerous times. Paul might feel the thrill of warmth at his finger tips, but there was no actual spark.

Just Oscar, offering a night and a warmth equal to that of a warm cocoa on a chilly afternoon.]

Deer Country Contact

ic contact

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