ph_logs | [OPEN] While we're on the subject, could we change the subject now?

[OPEN] While we're on the subject, could we change the subject now?

Who: Jonathan Sims and YOU!
What: Open prompts for the end of summer!
When: August
Where: Around Marrow Isle
Warning(s): Cursed objects, potential descriptions of gore (More warnings pending)

1. Looking towards the future, we were begging for the past

With a sound of effort, Jon drops the last of the tools he'd been carrying too many of, letting out a winded wheeze as he tries to collect himself.

It's been quite an undertaking, collecting ins and odds from Calloway's Curios before they fell into hands, not knowing what they are or what they're capable of doing. He's not certain of the particular qualities of a few of these things, but he's seen enough things and read about even more to know when something is simply here to cause problems.

Sprucing up the unused shed behind his cliff-side home is proving to be even more of an undertaking, considering he isn't especially gifted at carpentry, but sometimes you've just got to make due.

He's so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice the presence of anyone outside of Grimmly the Dusknoir, the large Pokemon lingering, watching with what can only be described as single-eyed skepticism. The red eye follows Jon as he moves to collect the scattered metal rods of the lock-system he'd purchased, once again trying to carry all too many things at once.

To say the least, he's far too distracted to notice anybody coming up the short path to his home - especially as, with his heavy carry load, he staggers, stumbles, and topples back, dropping the rods in a spectacularly-noisy explosion of parts around his person.

Grimmly bellows with strange, wavering, ghostly laughter, the mouth on his stomach throwing his upper half backwards, with no regard for the daggers Jon glares his way.

"Oh, laugh it up, you shit, very funny. You could be helping with this, you know, you've got two perfectly good hands!"

2. Well, we knew we had the good things

Amid all the bustle he's been dealing with recently, Jon manages to find time to write and hang a flyer on the bulletin board.

Seeking assistance from the technically inclined for a repair project.

I am in possession of three tape recorders, and need someone who could potentially lend me a hand with fixing the wiring within the machines, as well as potentially making their power sources able to plug into a wall outlet. The tapes are in pristine condition, and I will only need assistance with at least one recorder, though all three being repaired would be preferred. Offering a reward of 200B for assistance.

If interested, please contact me via sending stone or telephone. Thank you.

-Jonathan Sims

With a reward like that, it's clear he's pretty serious about getting these fixed. He'll answer just about any call about them - be it someone who's ready to help him fix these, someone with questions about them, or friends with concerns about the devices. (It may be easier said than done convincing him not to fix them, if one even could, though.)

3. But those never seemed to last (Closed to Neil and Martin)

After meeting Martin on the beach, Jon was in more of a hurry than he'd care to admit to get to Neil and confirm dinner plans. Everything's smoothly in motion, and as ridiculous as it feels, Jon's more excited about this than he can rightly recall having been in a fair bit.

He's never been an incredible chef, but he's gotten a handle on home cooking since arriving in town, and throws together a plan quickly enough to have everything just about ready. It only takes a short trip out to the markets to have the supplies for everything: lemon chicken (the citrus specifically chosen for the occasion), mashed potatoes, and supplies for a light salad, hopefully making for something of an exceptional welcome-to-town dinner.

The sun is only just dipping towards the horizon when he's wrapping up, and judging by a quick glance to the clock on the wall when a knock at the door rings through the house, Martin's at his most punctual that Jon's ever seen him. Maybe he's as excited about this as Jon is? (He surely hopes so.)

Leaning as close to the kitchen's doorframe as he can while not straying too far, keen to finish wrapping things up as quickly as possible, Jon doesn't hesitate to call out towards the front of the house.

"Come in!"

4. Oh, please just last (Wildcard)
Want this guy somewhere, sometime? Shoot me a PM here or on Discord to plot, or just go wild and drop something!

[EDITED EXTRA PROMPT]

5. Beneath the Watcher's Eye

The more time passes, the more Jon feels his resolve beginning to slip.

At first, it's simply accidental, compelling people for statements when they're not looking to share. It sustains him, he feels terrible about it, and there's another sore spot to try to navigate around on this cursed island. The more time that passes, however, the few statements that are offered by the call of his bulletin-board posts simply don't provide like they used to. More often, the fatigue hangs heavy on his bones, even without the work to wear him down. Thinking grows difficult, and simple ordeals feel as though they've gained ten new steps overnight.

He tries to fight it off; he really, truly does. The itch sinks deeper into his bones with each passing day, though - no amount of reading old statements or reading books on things that had happened in town scratch it.

There comes a point with all itches that you've simply got no choice but to scratch it.

He adds his flyer to the bulletin board once more, crisp and neat. Sending stone calls are acceptable, events that have happened within Pumpkin Hollow are valid pieces of information to offer, and anything of any magnitude will be heard. The net is as wide as he can possibly cast it.

Waiting for the net to fill is an impossible task, however. Despite himself, he begins to hunt.

His search doesn't have the physicality or brute force of a Hunter seeking prey - but in energy and approach, they're shockingly alike. He's patient, calculated, and mindful. He stays out late during the nights of shore leave from the Mipha's Grace,, finding new haunts to insert himself into. Restaurants, taverns, bustling public events, and coffee shops are his most frequent targets; if he finds the perfect candidate outside of one of those spaces wearing marks that are heavy enough, though, he won't be picky.

Once he finds scars adequate enough, he sinks into action. The approach is simple and polite: if there's too many people around, he'll ask to step aside. If it's a quiet space, he'll move to stand near, to sit across from, to linger by whoever he's got his eyes on.

And then, he'll speak. The supernaturally inclined feel static begin to build in their ears, and even those who aren't get a sensation of their own, unnatural and tingly, something akin a sleeping limb beginning to wake up.

"You have seen something great and terrible, something beyond comprehension. Tell me your story."

[Extra notes: this is my general prompt for Jon taking statements! You can play this any way you want to. If you want their CR to stay positive, your character can show up at his house and deliver their statement normally, talk afterwards, whole nine yards. For anyone who'd prefer negative CR, though, or want to have Jon take a statement but have characters who would keep that to themselves, put him wherever your character might be and have him compel it out of them!

Additionally, closed to close CR: characters are welcome to bust him compelling statements out of someone! He is doing it fully intentionally this time, and while he'll generally see himself out while emotions run high from the person he took it from, he can be caught by someone who knows what's happening. He won't target people he's friends or generally friendly with intentionally, but it can happen accidentally. Hit me with anything! \o/ ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh--- that's right, sorry," He gives an embarrassed chuckle. "I'm sure you heard the commotion from just as far, then."

The mention of Cecil gives him pause, however. He turns over in his mind what she could be here to discuss, but comes up empty - only at first. Now that he's not so preoccupied with (nail-based) confusion, familiarity begins to well. It only takes him the amount of time to furrow his brows and open his mouth to ask before recognition finally sinks in.

"...Oh. You're... you were---" He stumbles over his words, but he speaks more softly, as though the idea itself is a fragile thing. "On the ship. I had wondered before where I'd heard your voice before."

“Yes. I… hope I’m not intruding, by coming here on that premise.”

She’s visibly uncomfortable, even under her mask and full-cover clothing.

“I know it’s a complicated matter.”

"No, no, it's--- it's alright," Jon assures her. He sounds caught off guard, and still a bit alarmed at worst, but he leaves the pieces of the lock off to the side, brushing himself off. That'd have to be a project for later.

"I'm actually glad. That you're here, I mean," Jon adds, tentative, careful with his words. "Would you... care to come inside to talk?"

"Yes, so long as now is a good time. I know you're busy with something."

"Oh, that's just--- a little personal project. Upgrading some storage solutions, security, that sort of thing."

Vague as ever. But he does lead her along to the front of his home, opening the door and holding it for her.

"Have a seat wherever you like. Do you want anything to drink, eat? I've got a few odds and ends, if so."

“Do you have any tea to offer, perchance?” She’s grown quite adept at getting drinks behind her mask.

"I do! I've got a breakfast tea, rosehips, and blueberry at the moment. Any strike particular interest?" He offers, with a tentative smile offered her way. Even if there's some stress to pain long-past finally getting addressed, there's comfort in the strange normalcy of having a guest, regardless of topic.

“Oh, blueberry sounds absolutely wonderful!” she exclaims.

“In my homeland, we have a fruit called comberry that is quite similar, and it makes a marvelous tea.” There’s a strong feeling of joy in her voice as she talks about it; clearly, she has fond memories of her home.

"Comberry? Well, that's a lovely coincidence, then." Jon's nerves ease tremendously at the excitement, and he grabs the tea, setting the kettle up with a renewed energy.

"You said it's similar - is it sweeter, more tart? I may be able to try adding sugar, or perhaps a bit of lemon, see if I can manage something that rings a little closer to what you had at home."

"It's a little more on the bitter side, and somewhat tart. I'm trying to remember... I know I tried a tea around here that would probably blend well with blueberry to create the impression of comberry, but I can't seem to recall the name. I think it might have been a root... maybe."

"Oh--- burdock, ginger?" Jon asks, leaning out of the kitchen briefly, gesturing with two small, tightly-sealed boxes in either hand. "I keep them around for medicinal use, mostly. Don't care for the taste, but it could work. Burdock root sounds like it may just be the closest one."

"Let's try it! Just a small amount in comparison to the blueberries should give the right effect. Oh, but of course, I wouldn't mind it if you added some ginger, too. That's a common ingredient in Dunmeri tea."

Honestly, she could talk for hours about Vvardenfell tea. As a little girl, she would help her mother forage for herbs and berries during family trips out to Lake Amara, and she can remember the natural sweetness of the tea they would make afterwards- comberry, heather, marshmerrow, and, if her mother had brought some, a little ginger. It tasted like honeyed ash yams and made her feel so wonderfully sleepy.

"I'll see what I can come up with."

And, for a few minutes, Jon lets the silence fall once more - though, this time, more comfortable. He portions tea-leaves into a metal strainer with care, finds one of his larger teapots (great for potentially long conversations), and a couple well-loved mugs. He reappears with a small tray in tow, and pulls the small coffee table closer, before taking the other seat on the couch.

"Sweetened it just a bit, but I brought over more sugar, just in case," He explains, idle and comfortable as he speaks, as he pours the cups. It was a strange comfort, in having someone who is ostensibly a stranger over. Sharing a hivemind just does that to people, he supposes. "You'll have to let me know what you think. Never tried anything like it, myself."

He takes an opportunity to breathe it in, for just a moment. It's strange, aromatic, and complex. Somehow, it seems perfectly fitting for someone like Drelasa.

She takes a deep breath as well, as she brings the tea up to her mask and lifts the bottom of her mask just slightly. The sound of it is just a little bit off, like a clarinetist drawing a long breath through their instrument. Then, she takes a sip.

"Oh... yes, this definitely awakens a memory. I can almost taste Sera Tanusea's ash yam bread. She would make fresh loaves when my friends and I would come to the city to visit the Temple, and she would serve comberry tea with it."

The sound catches his attention, but he doesn't say anything - he simply puts that in a mental note for later. There's plenty of things to ask her about, and he can only take all of this one step at a time.

"Ash yam bread? I don't know that I've ever had anything like it," Jon says, before taking a sip of the tea, letting out a soft, contented hum. "Oh--- that's lovely. I'm glad you suggested it, I'm going to have to find opportunities to make this more often."

He's quiet, for a moment, taking in one last moment of the peace. She came here to talk about something that shouldn't be avoided, however - nor is it something he wants to drag on for too long. Even after the time that had passed, there's a familiarity that his mind reaches for in her, a connection that can no longer be reached. Even if speaking aloud about it is harder, it's worth doing.

"...I apologize if this sours the mood, and--- I'd love to hear more about your homelands. They sound truly beautiful, and if you're willing, I'd love to hear what it was like," He clarifies first - there's some nervousness under the calm he works to exude, more detectable by the moment. "But... you said you were part of the Hive, right? When we first spoke, outside the Dream Analytics, you felt familiar to me, but--- it's difficult, to tie thoughts and feelings to names. Especially since we hadn't met beforehand."

"Yes, muthsera. I was... I was the song, and the sway. I was the voice that proclaimed we must set the places at the table, to ready the glory of our House. I was the steady tolling of the bell. I was the priestess."

She says all of this flatly, the melodic quality in her voice suddenly conspicuously absent.

"The song..."

Jon thinks, reaching back to that time, that place. Everything from then tends to be almost dream-like; pieces are missing, everything feels disjointed, but every piece he can remember feels so tangible.

And then, he's able to recall the song. That grounding song that pulled all of them into a harmonious motion, that he could hear even before he was truly part of the Hive, with a mere infection, leading him closer to it.

It's a jarring thing to recall, when there's no song in her voice any longer.

"I remember you. I--- I do remember your song. You kept us centered. It was such a harmony, but I don't think it... would have been, without you."

“The Stag Beetle was not my first experience being part of a collective,” she admits.

“I spent twenty years in the thrall of a dead god’s song, as he cried out to be remembered while he tried to pull the whole of the world into his gaping maw. During that time, as I circled towards his event horizon, I learned how to listen to the song of the universe, and with that knowledge, I learned to speak to the world through harmonies. When I was in that place, I used the song to bind and charm. Now… I would never use it to rob someone of their will. But on that ship…”

She trails off.

Jon's frown is gentle, sympathetic. It seems that the people chosen by the Hive hadn't been any sort of horrible coincidence; each person he's spoken to offered something to grant it strength and allow it to spread it's thrall wider than it did before.

"...The Hive used a lot of our history to its favor, and much of it for the worst," Jon assures her, after a moment of considering his words. "But I know that doesn't ease the burden of having done things that you would never do in your own, unobstructed mind. I'm sorry."

He hesitates, the silence lingering only for a moment, before he speaks again. It's easier to bear parts of himself that he hadn't been able to with other people to those who have known him so deeply, even if in a place where they could hardly know themselves.

"When the Hive claimed me as part of itself, I was terrified. I could feel myself slipping into the collective, and my individual mind would have continued to try to fight itself into nothingness. Even if the situation wasn't ideal... your harmonies brought me a great deal of comfort, when I was losing myself. If it robbed me of my will, I wouldn't know it. All I know is that, in that time of both deep, profound interconnectedness that my mind sometimes still strains itself to try to reach, and that time of terror at my loss of self, your harmonies centered what was left of me, gave me direction, left me something that wasn't simply pushing against inevitability."

She pauses for along moment, before replying.

“The Song… it may have stemmed from a great and terrible source originally, but there is more to it than the Sharmat’s insatiable hunger. Beneath the mask of the wrong-way-walker was one my House now considers a Saint. The power of the Sharmat latched onto him not because of personal corruption, but because of his unflinching devotion. Loyalty, once twisted to a nightmarish goal, is a difficult thing to sway. And though it was the Sharmat who filled his lungs and let him speak, what Saint Voryn lamented was the loss of his House- his family scattered and their dead unmourned. He sang with hope of a divided people united once again to uplift themselves. His lullaby’s was the warmth of hearth and home and kin. I can understand why my Song would have been of a comfort to you in that place.”

"...You're welcome to tell me if this is untoward, or you're not comfortable to answer, but may I ask a question?"

Jon waits a beat, deciding the best way to go about it. He's starting to understand how everything ties together--- dying gods, their strange songs that bend wills, the universe and how it, itself, is a living, breathing thing. But what he wants to reach towards is closer than a distant world and the nightmares that wake on it.

"Your song, in this place. Is it something that you cherish, or you resent? Is it yours, or do you view it as the remains of your life before here?"

She lowers her voice a little.

“What I’m about to tell you… I cannot say I know it to be true, and I think it may be a dangerous thing to think. But… you know how I called Dagoth Ur a wrong-way-walker? When I woke from the dreaming, following behind him, I saw the path that he had set me upon, and I turned and saw that there was a chance it might lead to a place of worth, if only I could learn to walk backwards of his way.”

“The Song is the road. He walked it one way, and now I walk it the other. In it, I have found that all things may be alike; I can sing metal sleep, and beseech the stones to hear my pleas. I have learned to bring sleep to the sleepless, dreams to the undreaming. They are all connected by a set of harmonics, notes played to the rhythm of a doom-drum heart. The Song is mine, and I belong to the Song. My eyes were blinded, but I see more clearly now than I ever did before. And when others speak Song to me, I ‘see’ what they have to say in the most vivid ways, beyond any imagining.”

Jon leans in, just a bit, as though he's being told a secret. The Song, as a concept, a performance, a thing in and of itself, is so abstract that his mind reels to understand it, yet some part of him feels as though he truly understands. It's fascinating - if only he could figure out where to begin to ask more, or if he was able to.

"I worried, after the things that happened, that the Song was something harmful, or that it's been taken from you. I'm glad to hear that it's yours as much as it's ever been. It sounds like a truly incredible thing to know."

"I can show you a little of it, if you'd like, without the pressure of the Hive altering its meaning. If you would like, hold out your hand. And, er... please excuse the claws, muthsera."

Jon looks surprised--- he clearly wasn't expecting her to be able to do so now, on a whim--- but he does offer a hand out.

"Claws are no trouble. I'm ready if you are."

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