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abhorrently) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2024-04-28 04:46 pm
abhorrently) wrote in ph_logs2024-04-28 04:46 pm
(closed) you come at such a time
Who: Fever, Cecil, and a particular Worm.
What: Cecil's been the messenger for a call - time to have it answered.
When: Post-flood
Where: Paradesium.
Warning(s): To be added if needed.
After the most immediate tasks of getting back on their feet, of aiding Pumpkin Hollow to dry out and giving the man a moment or a few to feel settled, Fever comes calling to cash in on a promise Cecil has made her. The rains are gone, the path is manageable, and she must go - she has to go. Whatever lies hidden in the caves, under the earth, has been so patiently waiting for them to come back. For a heartstopping bit of time, she worries that it may have been flooded out with the unnatural storm.
And then the dagger is found washed ashore with other items, amber bladed and as sharp as ever. And a passing few who might also be looking into this curious phenomena would have witnessed her letting out a cry, clutching it to her chest as if she was worried it would be taken from her. When she puts it back where it should be carried, it feels like a sunrise after a night of restlessness, like some deep knot of tension in her has relaxed, allowing her to breathe.
She has to see. Has to know. They have to go at night, regardless of warnings about the night on this isle. Fever will swear up and down to Gerry to keep Cecil safe if she must, but they must go, when he's ready. His memory will guide them. If what he met down there doesn't want to call out again and lead them back.
Regardless, she stays close, tension coiled in her like a spring when they get to the cave. It's so hard to not start running, but she doesn't know the way.
What: Cecil's been the messenger for a call - time to have it answered.
When: Post-flood
Where: Paradesium.
Warning(s): To be added if needed.
After the most immediate tasks of getting back on their feet, of aiding Pumpkin Hollow to dry out and giving the man a moment or a few to feel settled, Fever comes calling to cash in on a promise Cecil has made her. The rains are gone, the path is manageable, and she must go - she has to go. Whatever lies hidden in the caves, under the earth, has been so patiently waiting for them to come back. For a heartstopping bit of time, she worries that it may have been flooded out with the unnatural storm.
And then the dagger is found washed ashore with other items, amber bladed and as sharp as ever. And a passing few who might also be looking into this curious phenomena would have witnessed her letting out a cry, clutching it to her chest as if she was worried it would be taken from her. When she puts it back where it should be carried, it feels like a sunrise after a night of restlessness, like some deep knot of tension in her has relaxed, allowing her to breathe.
She has to see. Has to know. They have to go at night, regardless of warnings about the night on this isle. Fever will swear up and down to Gerry to keep Cecil safe if she must, but they must go, when he's ready. His memory will guide them. If what he met down there doesn't want to call out again and lead them back.
Regardless, she stays close, tension coiled in her like a spring when they get to the cave. It's so hard to not start running, but she doesn't know the way.
no subject
As long as it calls to the soul happier to be bothered. There is a space in her head meant for a worm. There is a lightness that will be in every prayer addressed to the mirror. If she could cry, she might - a great pressure rising in her head, it hurts and twists, and she leans herself more into the creature instead, closing her eyes to get a bit of relief.
"...wish you could come with us."
It's softer, quiet. She could spend hours like this. But that means consigning Cecil to that, unless he's more willing to navigate the night alone, but that feels terribly unfair.
no subject
He watches Fever leaning into the vast mycellial mass, and then looks up at the roof of the cave, as if trying to see the Glow Cloud (all hail) in the unfamiliar sky.
no subject
Fever is falling down, down, down, past windows that look out through the eyes of another life, until those windows grow closer, closer, closer, sinking into her eyes like contact lenses. And then those eyes are her eyes, and the thoughts behind them are her thoughts. She's buried in despair, and ecstasy, and grief, and the dull, unrelenting ache of futile compassion. She hears her tongue lay curses in a familiar voice, sees her hands rend hapless mortals asunder, sees a weeping beggar lifted from the ground as their face shifts from hopelessness to joy. Words break and reform in her mind, their splinters cast to the earth to sprout new meaning. And mirrors, mirrors, mirrors stretch out endlessly above her, their surfaces dancing fluidly in an unseen wind.
Mercury rising.
no subject
Yet, decay is where spores may find the strongest foothold. Where something unique and strange can grow amidst the corpse of the old, turning death back to life. A mycellium network too new and transparent to be known and extracted. Around her heart like a veil. The spores nurtured by memory and faith and care, in every beat of her heart, in offerings scattered to the wind in hopes that they might find another, bit to bit. Where a young girl weeps endless tears from her wounds, where a woman watches the sunrise after wrestling with a night of agony, where the window is cracked to let in the springtide air of evening that whispers be at peace, where the shivering flood of ecstasy from designed purpose lurks.
The spores of the Madgod, held where they could not be lost or taken. She breathes out, and they move. It breathes in, and they find home.
Hail the transformation. Hail the death that must come, the rebirth that will. From the despondent, silent depths that shut out light and sound and warmth, and rising, rising to a brilliance of sight in endless mirrors, music in endless chords, the warmth of the sun. The warmth of an embrace when one has been gone and dearly missed.
no subject
But no, instead, the document is given a second glance, and then a third, and a fourth, as spores mingle with spores and the whole mycelial network processes the lot in its ever-puzzling fashion. Words begin to wiggle across the page, strokes of a pen taking the form of tiny black caterpillars, and slowly but surely, the letters of the name on the document, “Theodor Gorlash,” rearrange themselves.
I’m that dithering old man. The one who can’t settle on which clinic he wants to work for. The one who talks to butterflies. The one who called Captain Nephila “Captain Bugs Bugs.” The one who forgets his shoes, we think.
I’ve been here all along, and I didn’t understand.
Then fibers pull away from fibers, and it’s like the blinds being thrown open to let in the mid-morning light when one’s still half-asleep, and then Fever is sprawled on the Paradesium floor, skin white-hot and tender from the raw severing of the physical connection with the Worm. And it’s leaning over her, cooing and chittering with concern.
no subject
She's been here just the same, quietly waiting. Spring is a time of new beginnings, after all. Of waking back up after a long sleep.
And then it's too bright and too much all at once, made once again into a separate entity. Things don't exactly hurt, but they feel brand new, too sensitive. The need to curl up somewhere soft and quiet, and readjust to the nature of being. Her eyes flick around, overwhelmed with the great absence in her consciousness that will fade out as she remembers how to exist in her own frame. Weakened by the process - no one is strong when they first emerge - but still here. Still alive.
Her tongue feels so, so heavy. Words slur some into each other.
"Did it...work? Love you."
Emotions on the surface, not yet shielded by flesh and bone.
"Cecil...where...?"
Is he okay? How long has it been? Did he go through any of that?
(Infinite spiraling things and strange patterns and being, a mortal's mind isn't meant to comprehend it, her body as overheated as her namesake from the Weave in her set all a thrumming. The vast enormity, most will slip through her grasp, but enough will linger to form an impression that will tell her how much it was.)
no subject