ph_logs | saw the darkest hearts of men and i saw myself starin' back again

saw the darkest hearts of men and i saw myself starin' back again

Who: The Shade (

deaths_head) & Nieve Winslow (

icanmakeit), The Shade and YOU!
What:
...being mortal is hard. Being alive is SO MUCH HARDER.
When:
Throughout December
Where:
See starters
Warning(s):
This is the Shade, so blanket warnings for discussions of death, violence, religion, etc., and will post CW for anything else in the subject of tags.

Closed to Nieve

It's been a couple weeks now, and...

...and...he's got a feeling there's something going on here.

It's not this new standing appointment for coffee and tea. They go back and forth between his place and hers cause they're neighbors--and also he pretty much has to haul her out of her workshop on the days she's supposed to come see him, yes she'll remember this time, stop fussing you big stubborn sod. That part's good. Great, even. He feels better--less of that cold, resigned longing he recognizes as being lonesome. Sure, he's got Jean and Chris and Angel, but he's taken them unto himself. They're his in a different way from Nieve.

Maybe it's her being claimed by him. Maybe it's how long they've known each other--maybe it's the near equal power dynamic, especially now that he's mortal.

Thing is, they've been having these regular...get togethers for a minute, and it feels...it feels...

He's over at her place, coffee in hand, when he speaks the feeling aloud.

"You wanna maybe call on me for dinner sometime? I got this itch to cook, but I only know how to make the recipes for four. Between us, we could wreck a whole fried chicken and veggie casserole with potatoes. Don't think I don't know how much you forget to eat, little mage."

Working Man

He gets the idea when a local lady who reminds him a hell of a lot of the Widow Porter who raised him for a very particular kind of keepsake box for a lock of hair she's kept from her husband--dead years before Mortanne's influence abandoned the community.

Making it, tiny as the little casket memento box was, felt so damn familiar that he knows he can't keep on like this. Pretending he's anything but what he is. He's got a dozen ideas, but first...

For about a week, anyone that passes the Shade's outdoor workshop will see him laboring over a rather large project...and the later in the week it gets? The clearer it will be that the man is building a goddamn casket.

Curious? Horrified? Want one? Come on over and say howdy.

Oak and Iron

The Shade can fend for himself just fine, he was a confirmed bachelor in life (in the literal sense, not like the 'fashionable' son of the silversmith in his hometown who had more than a few gentleman callers in his day) and loved to watch Mama cook as a boy. However, being a death mage, working with fresh greens in his kitchen...inevitably, under his working nothing's ever truly fresh, sapped of some of its vigor in his hands.

So he's not an uncommon sight at the in, at least a few days a week for some meal or another. If you're one of his inner circle, feel free to take a seat, uninvited. Everyone else, come say howdy. He only looks like he'll bite.

Wildcard

[Choose your own adventure with your Big Dead Dad! XD]

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So how would the Shade feel about nearly tripping over someone sleeping (?) on their porch?

Because that's how Chris is found one morning, apparently having wandered that way in the middle of the night or something -- given that they are curled up and rather chill to the touch. At least a little wisp of steam from their breath makes it clear that they're still alive.

Their eyes are open just the tiniest bit, and the red glow of their active connection to the Between -- that space between life and death -- is showing beneath those slitted eyelids.

The Shade is about to head out to haul Nieve back to his place for their coffee ~~date~~ appointment when he nearly stumbles over the body on his porch.

He takes a look, drops to one knee, and feels the world stop with relief to see the vapor of steam puffing gently from their nose. It's wrong, that visceral rejection of the thing that's so much a part of him, but not now--not when he can't be there to look after the kid.

Not when he can't claim them and keep them safe and close and...

Gathering Chris into his arms, he holds the kid close to his chest and shuts his eyes. He lays a hand on their nape, lets the chill of their skin sink into him. He lets the cold touch of skin coax his magic to the fore, lets it rise and spiral up so he can gather a single tendril and wrap it around his own throat to send his voice across that barrier.

He doesn't have the Sight here, but maybe he can make himself heard--and goddamnit, he's gonna have words with Mortanne later.

"I invoke the name born into humanity, Josiah Cole. I invoke the name conferred by the Divine, Sorrow's Shade. I invoke the name of power conferred by Creation and Order, Death to grace the blood of ages, forever deferred. I invoke my names in fact, in worship, and in destiny, to find my wayward son."

Gently drawing back, the Shade gathers Chris's face between his hands and uses his thumbs to gently prop his eyelids up enough to stare into that red glow head on.

"Chris? Can you hear me, son? Talk to me if you can--come back, c'mon. Follow my voice and come back...goddamn it, Mortanne, help me, just let 'em be all right..."

It was searching for the Shade that caused Chris to wander -- though they thought it was only the incorporeal part of themself, that is clearly not the case.

"Joe...? Got lost..." Chris mumbles, in a voice that somehow sounds tiny and distant even with their proximity to the Shade. But perhaps that is the problem. Chris's body is here, but their soul and their self is only shakily tethered. "Tried to... find you..."

The Shade lets himself breathe free when Chris's voice touches his ears, however remote it may be. He blinks hard as his eyes burn, but ignores what that could mean.

"Got your wires crossed, son--body landed on my doorstep while the rest of you went gallivanting." he huffs, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "You ain't lost no more, I gotcha. I'm here--follow my voice, come on back now. Back in your skin, y'damn fool. You're half froze, and I ain't budgin' until you're safe with your bones where you belong. Can you do that for me?"

"Trying..." Chris breathes. Their body shudders, one hand twitching in a motion like when a dream is particularly vivid.

Then the red light in their eyes goes bright white, and they gasp. Someone else's voice is heard coming from Chris's open mouth for just a moment, "Back then, Freeman-" and then Chris's body surges upward into a seated position.

In the next moment, they blink and their eyes are back to normal -- and they fling their arms around the Shade with a soft cry of, "Joe! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

The moment Chris's arms go around him, the Shade sees red.

He's been angry before--he's known for his temper, and he enjoys it when demons in Satan's employ darken his doorstep. It's fun for him, scratches that dark itch in him for blood and violence. That cools the rage that simmers in him, black and cold as the void between the stars.

This...this isn't black or cold. It burns like the fire that ended his life, it's redder than fresh blood, it hurts. It's out of control and wild and makes his heart pound so hard it scares him, briefly. Like he'll never be able to draw enough air to keep up with it.

The Shade wraps his arms around Chris in turn, tight but gentle. He clings, he holds fast to them, one hand moving without thought to cradle the back of their head.

He's shaking. He can't seem to stop.

"Don't be sorry, I gotcha. Shhh, I gotcha." the Shade soothes, soft and soothing in Chris's ear. He has to do something with this anger--not for Chris, but for whatever tried to steal him away in the moment. Whoever owned that voice he heard out of his soul's lips.

(Not his. He can't claim souls here--but goddamnit, he's not letting this kid go.)

Gathering that rage, murmuring soothing nonsense in Chris's ear, the Shade silently invokes his names again, and whispers into Chris's ear--past his hearing, past his thoughts, reaches for that voice with a black hiss of his own.

"Harm this one, and I will show you horrors that will shred your essence into nothing. On the will of Creation, I swear."

Drawing back, the Shade gathers Chris's face between his hands and inspects his features, worry and anger creasing his brow as he turns his face this way and that, then starts to get to his feet and helps Chris up along with him.

"Inside--you need to warm the hell up. Then I wanna know who I gotta kill. C'mon, I gotcha, son..."

Chris doesn't cry, but only because the Shade is there to comfort them. Even if he's shaking, they feel safer because he's there. They smile tiredly as the Shade inspects them, and get to their feet when he helps them.

Chris doesn't answer until they are both actually back inside the Shade's home. They keep their gaze to the floor, idly rubbing at one arm with the opposite hand, and say, "If you wanna kill somebody for putting me in danger, it'd probably be myself. I was trying to get help, advice, that kind of thing... from other souls. And it's stupid... nothing else in this world is the same, so why would the people be the same? And I think... trying to reach them would mean being connected to my world and-- and I fucked up. I wasn't in the Between anymore, and I was lost. 'S why I tried to find you."

The Shade steers Chris into his house, gets them on the sofa, and a throw from the back of said sofa around their shoulders. He's kneeling in front of the kid, rubbing his arms briskly to try and warm him up when he speaks.

Little idiot.

"Mistakes are a consequence of learning, son--and if you ain't had instruction, you ain't able to learn." he admonishes gently, giving their hair a fond tousle before going back to trying to rub heat back into them. "Ain't a damn thing to apologize for, so hush."

For a long moment, he says nothing else. Then it just...sort of spills out.

"Weren't always a god--born a man just like you. 1880, little town in New Mexico called Silverstone. Momma came from Irish money, got disowned when they immigrated 'n she fell hard for a cheap undertaker outta Houston 'n they settled there to start their family. I came first, then my little brother. Thing 'bout me, though? Nobody knew, but I was what they called a Wild Power--first of a line of death workers, mage so powerful my magic would bleed into my progeny. Whole race of death magic born to one man, and near as either of my folks knew? Magic was all in the faerie stories Momma brought from the old country."

He pauses, letting his hand settle on Chris's shoulders so he can look them dead in the eye.

"So you tell me this, then you can go on 'bout fuckin' up if you think you got a right. Did I fuck up when I was three 'n my wails killed our horse cause the damn thing scared me? Did I fuck up when I got slapped for givin' a gal I was sweet on dead flowers, not realizing I sucked the life outta them cause I was nervous? Did I fuck up gettin' myself labeled possessed when I realized I could see them marked for death and tried to make sure they had their affairs in order 'fore they kicked? Or was I just gettin' things wrong 'cause nobody ever taught me no better?"

"But I should know better," Chris says softly. "If I just thought for a little bit before attempting it, I would have realized that I risked hitting the barrier. It goes... you know... all the way down. And probably all the way up."

Chris moves one hand to rest on top of the Shade's, where the man is gripping their shoulder. "You didn't fuck up. You were a child, or you were trying to help people. Those aren't mistakes."

Of course, by Chris's own logic, since they were trying to help the people of Marrow Isle by going to a spirit for advice, maybe their little escapade all disconnected and wandering shouldn't count as a fuck up either. But we are always harsher critics to ourselves.

"Either way.... I'm glad you were here, Joe. I'm glad I could follow your voice back."

"Yeah, well--didn't exactly give you much choice." he points out, a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. "And on the heart of me, I never will."

Shifting to stand, a strange impulse grips him and he leans over, briefly pressing his forehead to the crown of Chris's head.

"I'll always get you home...now settle 'n warm up, gonna fix you a cup of coffee to help. Be right back."

Chris wraps the throw blanket tighter around themself and settles onto the couch.

How much to say? How much to keep to themself?

Chris has a feeling, with as protective as the Shade has shown himself to be, it's probably not a good idea to go into too much detail about the memories they'd picked up from their past incarnations in Demon Prince Mendel's mirror maze. (The fact that Chris can still remember these things is probably some kind of unforseen reaction between the magic it took to set up the maze, and Chris's inherent abilities in this incarnation.)

But they can't quite make up their mind, and when the Shade comes back with that cup of coffee, Chris asks,

"Do you want to know who I was trying to reach out to, and why?"

"If you wanna tell, absolutely." the Shade assures him without hesitation as he eases the cup into Chris's hands. "Won't push you none if you wanna keep it to yourself, though. One of the ways my magic showed up in life was mediumship--dead sought me out when they passed, and I let 'em help me do the buryin'. To this day, I ain't ever shared a lot of them conversations I had unless the dead asked me to."

Shifting to settle on the couch next to Chris, the Shade settles a hand on their shoulder.

"Death's a state for truth 'n consequences. What you say 'n don't say matters, so if there's things you feel you have to share? No, son, you don't. Not unless you want to--but if there's trouble you need help with, my hand's out to you. And it ain't goin' any-damn-where, so it's up to you."

"It starts with the way that Mendel twisted the last day of Pumpkinfest. One was the mirror maze, where you'd be able to see and talk to your alternate selves. Some of them might have been constructs or illusions, but... not mine. Maybe Mendel didn't know, or he didn't care, but those reflections were of my past selves and they were true." Chris swallows hard. "The other Kid Eternities... they shared their memories with me, like ghosts can, but the memories have stuck with me. It's... a lot of information. But I'm slowly sorting it out."

Chris takes a breath, and then looks down at their coffee cup and takes a drink. "One of my past selves lived through the change from the Ninth Age of Magic into the Tenth. A big difference between those is that there were many Lords of Order and Lords of Chaos in the Ninth Age. Very powerful and knowledgeable sorcerers. And in the Tenth Age, there was only one of each. I thought... maybe I could speak to one of those Lords of Order who had passed on. Arion, a Sorcerer Supreme. But... the barrier punished me for trying to reach past it."

"You ain't kiddin'--that's a lotta information for me, and I've met both God 'n the Devil." the Shade replies honestly with a quiet, breathy chuckle. Still, he sits back on the sofa, arms folded, head sinking thoughtfully to his chest.

"It's a lot...but it ain't unusual for things like that to get damn fuckin' complicated." he continues. "Only thing that's certain is the will of Creation--and you're gonna get your fuckin' face slapped if you get in its way. S' how it is in my world--Creation's at the top of the divine hierarchy, the living heart of the universe itself. Then you got the Divine, master of all gods...been the Christian God for 'bout two thousand years, 'fore that it was someone else. Ain't a permanent position. Then you got the various pantheons 'neath the Divine, minor gods like me, humans, angels, demons, and so on down the line."

The Shade sighs, then looks to Chris curiously.

"So this thing you are--it's a post? Or an inheritance of some kind? You said there was other Kid Eternities--was they other people, or we talkin' something more like reincarnation?"

"Heaven and Hell love their hierarchies, it seems..." Chris mutters into their cup, before taking another drink. There's a little smile on their lips, though, at the confirmation that even other worlds have complex systems underpinning existence.

"The other Kid Eternities..." thoughtful pause, "or maybe it's Kids Eternity? Eh, you know what I mean. They're all me. Me from other realities and past lives. So... maybe I am always fated to be... this. Have these powers."

There is something going on and Nieve isn’t sure what to think about it. It isn’t a bad thing but it does complicate things because feeling things means she won’t be able to hide secrets that need to be kept.

But there are long standing appointments and even longer looks. Nieve is pretty sure that Shade is unaware in more ways than just being a clueless man. It is also the fact that he is used to be dead and therefore not feeling like most folks do. How many times had he said as much when they talked in the past? Not because there was something brewing between them but simply because she had asked him about being dead one time when he was amiable to talking about such things.

He is definitely more open now that he is mortal again but still a pest like always. He doesn’t change from showing up and interrupting her work when he sees fit. He also sees fit to drag her out and she finds that she doesn’t mind. Especially since it isn’t so bad to spend time with him.

But he surprises her when he speaks out of the blue, causing her to blink upward at him as she tries to process what he is saying. “Are you…offering to make me dinner?”

"Yeah--well, I mean, no." the Shade replies, feeling suddenly, strangely off kilter given that he had, in fact, done just that.

Just...not like that.

"I mean to say, not make it special. Just--yeah, I'd be cookin' for you, but for me, too. Both of us." he tries again. "Just my momma's old Sunday chicken dinner. Ain't fancy, think one of them Baptist women taught her--fried chicken ain't exactly traditional Irish 'n all. But I mean to say, yeah. I just...feel like cookin' a bunch of food, and I hate waste, so you can help me eat it."

Because she happened to be there when it popped into his head. Never mind he could have invited numerous other people. Probably at the same time.

Reaching for his coffee, he takes a big, bracing swallow--then winces as he scalds his tongue.

"--sonufa--"

Goddamnit, where was the whiskey when you needed it?

Maybe he wasn't aware that he hadn't done it like that?

Nieve supposed it would make sense as she would guess that it had been a long time since he had dated anyone. Or would he call it courting? Would it bother him that she didn't have a Dad for him to ask permission from or that she didn't have a chaperone? It made her wonder about those kinds of rituals or whatever they were called. Traditions?

"Is that a tradition for you?" she asked suddenly, not seeming to notice that he looked a bit stupefied or maybe she had gotten used to it lately.

"Asking a woman over to cook for them but it not to be...would you call it courting or dating?" She tilted her head to the side with a hint of a smile, trying to hide the amusement when he took a huge swallow of his coffee without thinking about how hot it was.

"Do you need water?" She asked, moving to stand up.

The Shade shakes his head--but his brain's slow to process, and looks at Nieve sharply when it finally registers.

Courting? Dating?

He opens his mouth to deny it, immediately...but nothing comes out. Shutting his mouth, he opens it to try again.

Still nothing.

...because he has nothing to say. 'No' is just wrong, and 'yes' to the courting thing...

...is it right? He's honestly not sure.

Shutting his mouth, the Shade tips his head and regards Nieve for a moment. Lets himself really look at her for the first time. Lets himself remember the first day he met her, the day he gave her his mark and claimed her soul for his own.

Keeping her alive was useful. Then it was a chore...then it was a habit. She had too goddamn much to do, and her fate was never set in stone. She was just an agent of fucking chaos sent to make his life more difficult.

Except she didn't. Hard work she might be, but how many of his souls had she aided to give them a few more good years? How many times had she summoned him with a demon in her custody because they were making trouble and she knew he just plain despised Satan's lackeys? How many details of his true self had she weaseled out of him, talking a mile a minute, to be able to read him like this just because she was so blunt and without shame or guile?

At some point, she became important. Not a habit, but vital...vital enough to become mortal for.

He finally drops his gaze, and for a moment he's overcome with a feeling that's wildly unfamiliar. Heavy and tenuous, like the world itself is spinning unsteadily around him.

...uncertainty? That--that almost fits.

"Truth to tell, little mage--I don't know what to call it." he admits quietly. "But I'm fair certain I'd like to figure that out. If that's all right by you."

It all started as teasing him just to get him flustered, but she realizes that it isn't teasing anymore when he pins her with his gaze, making her freeze. She feels pinned by the flicker of emotions that cross his face as he realizes what changes his question could bring about for them. Changes that maybe she hadn't considered herself because when was the last time she had let anyone make her stop and consider...more?

But he had always had a way of getting to her whether he had realized it or not. Of course, she had told herself in the beginning that it was because he was a useful ally to have and nothing more. It had made sense to help his souls because she had almost viewed them as her souls as well. Innocent souls that needed protecting and aid, both of which had fallen under the wheelhouse she had built herself. Dealing with demons? That had been easy too, just as easy as reaching out to him because she knew he liked dealing with him too.

Then he had started hanging around more, interrupting her work and sometimes frustrating her but never in a very bad way. How many times had she let him hang around her workspace, keeping her company as she worked until she realized it and shooed him away so he couldn't interrupt her anymore?

Then...he had become important enough for her to make a sacrifice.

She feels uncertain now too as the humor slips into something more serious between them, the air shifting and changing as she feels like suddenly bolting but she can't tell in which direction. Either away from him or towards him, both of which would be complicated. Yet, she can't make herself look away as she licks her lips slowly, feeling all glittery and like suddenly she might not be able to stay in her own skin.

He surprises her as she blinks at him, feeling breathless. "You want to...okay." Now she surprises herself. "Okay, I think...that's all right."

There's a look to her as she says it, breathless and not at the same time. Like she's fit to vibrate right out of her skin, but not...upset. Something else, something that has a look which fits better to the feeling of butterflies not in his belly, but dancing around in his chest with feather-soft brushes of wing and rioting like a bunch of rowdy prisoners.

He likes that look on her. He...yeah. He likes this feeling in his chest. He's not sure what to call it yet, but it's definitely good.

"Okay." he agrees with a nod, unaware for a moment that a smile is starting to curl at the corners of his mouth. "S' good to hear...how 'bout next weekend? Give me time to hunt up some good winter veg for that casserole. It works with damn near anything, but I ain't sure 'bout how you feel? I can't stand leeks, but you should see me with a bushel of turnips. Hell, when you can't get your hands on a decent spud? They make a great substitute for mashed potatoes, I tell you what."

Nieve can see it in him too, the way it starts to peek out of him as his lips start to curl and she can see an honest, almost sweet kind of smile forming. Almost like he looks well and truly happy with this interesting turn of events. It causes her own smile to stir and to widen as she looks up at him.

“I don’t like leeks either but I can deal with turnips,” she replies with a confident nod. It might be a tiny bit of a bluff because she doesn’t have much experience with turnips but he seems confident enough to convince her to trust him. It’s a dish he knows how to make after all.

“I suppose I could bring a dessert but I don’t know what I’ll make. I’ll have to think about it,” she tells him, tilting her head to the side. “Do you have any suggestions? Or even about what I should avoid?”

Though his smile doesn't fade, the Shade's expression immediately shifts with a dubious lift of one eyebrow.

"Sugar, if you cook like you brew up your nonsense in that workshop you got back home? Stay the hell out the kitchen so you don't blow your damn self up 'fore I can feed you. Period."

Nieve arches a brow at him before a delicate huff escapes her and she props her hands on her hips before she can stop herself. She fixes him with a bit of a stern look even as she knows exactly what to say to throw him off.

“I do not blow myself up,” she replies with a faint growl aimed in his direction before she narrows and points a finger at him. “Also you need to learn quickly that it’s never wise to make your girlfriend mad or to argue with her.”

"...you ain't my damn girlfriend yet!"

Oh, fuck.

The Shade's only barely aware of what he's said, because watching her glare and hearing that peevish little growl has always been endearing in a way he'd never admit to her face. Like a kitten scratching its way up his trousers, cutting him to ribbons and being adorable at the same time. Not a threat, but definitely not harmless. It is, and always will be, endearing as hell.

...except maybe it's actually something else, because he's suddenly seized with the insane urge to grin and reach for her. He's not even sure to what end. Mess up her hair maybe, he's done that before, or...

He can't quite put a name to it, but unbidden, his mind flies back to the day he found her. Getting let out of the damn town hall and dragging her into a hug, that warm little body safe in the circle of his arms.

He really should take that 'yet' the hell back...but he can't make his mouth move to do it.

"Oh?"

Nieve arches a brow at him again, watching as the words fly out of his mouth with an echoing growl before he freezes with a strange sort of shock. She likes these moments when she catches him off guard and makes his brain short circuit in a way because it is a good way of getting a genuine response from him but she is also curious. It is another step in figuring out what is growing between them.

"So what would you call me?" She questions, gently pushing him with her words while he stares at her oddly like he doesn't know what to do with her. Which isn't unusual and she figures it won't change between them no matter their state or relationship.

"I mean, what would you call me back in the olden days?" She continues, the corners of her mouth twitching with a sudden spike of mischief.

"Hell if I know, 'lady friend' if I was in polite comp--"

Wait a goddamn minute.

"Olden days?!?"

"And if we weren't in polite company?" She asks because now she is genuinely curious.

But then he catches on and his sudden outbursts causes her to laugh. A genuine, burst of bright laughter that starts as a snort and then turns full as she enjoys the look on his face.

The cold and the Krampus have conspired to curtail Tarantulas's movements. No more hunting trips out into the woods to save money, no more skittering over the roofs in spider-mode to save time -- it's too fucking cold! Instead he bundles up and stays on the ground, casting nervous looks up the sky in case a madman is about to ambush him with a bundle of sticks.

It's a hateful existence, and for some reason it's weighing on him especially heavily today. He slinks into the Oak & Iron around suppertime, draping his coat over a chair and sitting down with a groan. He might be struggling with the urge to just faceplant straight into the table. Being good is so hard.

The Shade is tearing into another sandwich (because damn if he didn't forget how fucking hard it is some days to keep this living body fed) for the evening when a smaller man sets himself down at a nearby table with such weight, he's a little surprised the poor bastard don't just drop straight through the floor.

"Rough day?" the Shade grunts with a small smirk after chewing and swallowing. "Ain't seen anyone so fit to keel over since my apprenticeship, I tell you what."

"Rough month, more like," Tarantulas grumbles, before blinking tiredly (only his two primary eyes are human enough to blink; the other six, arranged like a set of semi-reflective jewels on his forehead, lack eyelids) at the human apparently trying to strike up a conversation with him. "Although I suppose a big guy like you doesn't worry too much about the cold. Or being assaulted in the street." He grimaces.

(Seriously though, the Shade's upper arms are as big around as Tarantulas's thighs in this body. What does he even use all that muscle tissue for??)

That gets a laugh out of the Shade as he shrugs. "Well, you ain't wrong 'bout the fightin'. Always did believe in ol' Teddy's creed, speakin' softly and all that. The cold, though?"

The Shade absently rubs one of the aforementioned big arms, safely tucked beneath a heavy long sleeved shirt that covers most of his tattoos--save for his forearms, exposed with his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up as he eats.

"Forgot how goddamn much I hate the cold as a mortal man." he admits. "Grew up in the desert, so this shit ain't altogether alien to me, but it pissed me off in life 'n it pisses me off now."

Tarantulas squints at the man for a moment in bemusement. "'Teddy's creed?'" he finally asks slowly. "You mean like teddy bears? Children's toys? What are you talking about?"

This spider learned about human culture from a deeply eclectic mix of JSTOR and social media, there are some pretty significant gaps in his contextual understanding. And yes he noticed that 'mortal man' comment, but we'll be addressing it once he's satisfied that this guy isn't delusional or something.

"Y'know! Teddy Roosevelt--former President of the USA?" the Shade replies, tearing off a crust from his sandwich and popping it into his mouth before gesturing to his conversational partner. "Reckon you may not be from there--the eyes. Hell tried spiders on me 'n had to move on."

Dusting off his hands, the Shade grabs his napkin to make sure his hands are clean as he speaks.

"Anyhow, Teddy Roosevelt--the toy was named for him, mind--he was famous for the maxim 'speak softly 'n carry a big stick.' Always tried to follow that. That's what I mean."

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saw the darkest hearts of men and i saw myself starin' back again

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Oak & Iron

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