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

"He told me a little more than that," Shen Qingqiu allows, "But 'cursed' seemed the most politic way to put it on a public street. Here we are." He pushes the tavern door open and guides Jon through, still keeping that hand on his arm. He's not squeezing or pinching, certainly not doing anything that might hurt him -- but good luck trying to pry him off.

He speaks to the proprietor briefly, asking for that booth in the back that he'd had his eye on and ordering a single beer for each of them. Only once they are seated -- both on the same side of the booth, Shen Qingqiu fencing Jon in with his body, does he let go of his arm.

"Now," he says kindly, "Now that I understand your situation a little better, I think it behooves me to offer my assistance. A willing volunteer has to be better than having another little 'accident,' hadn't it?" His eyes are sharp and glittering in their knowledge.

Drawn so far away from everyone and everything, into a booth that is dim, distant, and secluded, Jon is almost halfway convinced against Shen Qingqiu's word, and that he is, in fact, going to try to kill him. There's no chance that he could make an escape, though; even once that steel-grip is released, he's cornered. If he tried to dart away, he'd probably just get grabbed again.

His offer stops that train of thoughts directly in its tracks, though. All he can do for a moment is stare at Shen Qingqiu, and slowly churn over the implications of everything, that knowing look included.

If his reputation is preceding him, that's not ideal; even if some wrenches are being thrown in the process, though, this seems to be paying off, albeit strangely.

"...Alright," Jon agrees, tentative. He clearly doesn't trust this arrangement fully, but he's no longer looking like he's spring-loaded from stress, slowly settling into his seat. "I do try my best to seek voluntarily given information before things get pressing to the point of thoughtless behavior. So... your assistance is appreciated, of course. Thank you."

Shen Qingqiu's smile widens, acquiring just a hint of wary approval. "I'm so glad you can see reason, when it comes to this," he says, and condescendingly pats Jon's arm.

Yet, the fact remains: for all his bravado, for all his certainty that what he is about to do is both the correct and necessary thing, the fact remains: Shen Qingqiu really, truly, hates talking about himself. Especially his vulnerabilities. A note of hesitance, even uncertainty, enters his body language as he takes a sip from his beer. Finally he clears his throat and asks, "So, do you ask me questions? Or do I just...begin?"

The uncertainty, even if there are only mere ghosts of it on the surface of Shen Qingqiu's composure, is something Jon catches as though it were blood in water. He's still thoroughly entrenched in his own nerves, but it gives him just enough of something to pull his level head back, even if it's only inches towards the composure he'd like to have.

He's not going to take advantage of Shen Qinqiu's intentions--- nor is he going to go out of his way to make an ass of himself. Instead of faltering so heavily, however, it gives him just enough of a push to try to be helpful.

"A mix of the two. I ask, and it helps you get into... all of it," Jon explains. "Significantly more easily than you may be able to on your own. Friends of mine who look to tell me about their experiences often ask me to ask them, just so they're able to lay out everything without having to think on doing so too hard."

"Do they? That's good to know." It's both a source of confusion and fucked-up comfort to Shen Qingqiu that people have actually volunteered for this before, people who knew Jon Sims and, presumably, everything he is capable of. Yet the why eludes him. Why would anyone volunteer for this, unless they felt bound by duty?

Well...he knows that even someone like Jon has people who care about him. That's its form of duty in a way.

"Very well." He sets down his beer glass and decorously folds his hands on the tabletop instead. "Then let's begin." Staring at the empty space on the other side of the table, he says, "Ask me what it was like to see my favorite disciple after three years apart, Mister Sims."

Were Jon to know what Shen Qingqiu was thinking, he'd be just as baffled, and they could share some common ground of not understanding why. Even if Jon appreciates it--- and, god, does he do what he can to make that known--- he knows the costs, and the effort that goes into it. Even before becoming the Archivist, he wouldn't have wanted to be seen like that.

There's no time to waste, however, and at Shen Qingqiu's request, Jon straightens his posture, lets out a soft breath, and soothes the last rattling of his nerves from everything.

When he looks up once more, he locks eyes with Shen Qingqiu's distant gaze. He speaks, low and clear; static begins to build, making the air electric and alive.

"What happened when you reunited with your favorite disciple after those three years?"

It's a sensation like being oppressed by a senior cultivator's qi, but the resemblance is only skin deep. Shen Qingqiu feels the weight of eyes, an uncountable number, staring and measuring, and with the knowledge of experience he can now trace the feeling back to Sims, the connection and the distinction from his own small, biological eyes. That thread of uncertainty grows, becoming the first rows in a tapestry of fear. He doesn't even have time to regret before the first words pop out of his mouth:

"It was in Jin Lan City. It was a major merchant's town, and yet it had been cut off from the outside world for weeks. Even the aerial approach was blocked by a powerful barrier. Representatives of two great sects had already entered, but they had yet to report back. Suspecting a plague, my junior martial brother, Mu Qingfang, asked for permission to enter the city in order to develop a cure, and our brother Liu Qingge insisted on accompanying him for his protection." The words flow from his lips all too easily; it takes an effort of will *not* to break in and interrupt them. He listens to himself explain, "A plague capable of inconveniencing so many cultivators would almost certainly be demonic in origin. If those who spread it remained in the city, Liu-shidi's martial skills would surely be needed. And I volunteered to go with as well, in order to contribute my my knowledge of demonic species and their habits to the search. But in truth, I was probably only allowed to go in order to keep me busy, for I was much give to depressive episodes and fugue states ever since I was separated from Luo Binghe."

He blanches, pressing his fingertips to his lips. That was...he'd barely articulated that to himself! It was much too embarrassing a thought to dwell on, much less share with another person!

Edited 2024-08-14 06:06 (UTC)

After the question, Jon settles in, if you could call him shifting to perch his elbows on the table and fold his hands while sitting otherwise rigidly settling. There's a particularly palpable fear that Jon doesn't get often from other people unless they're well-versed in the supernatural; an understanding, an acknowledgement of words leaving against your will, instead of the wondering of why you'd say such a thing to a stranger.

"And so you enter this plague-ridden town, to find your missing comrades and to ease your mind of the weight of loss. What did you find, when you arrived?"

The way Sims sits puts Shen Qingqiu in mind of a vulture, perched on some high place overlooking their stricken prey. His eyes flash with a piercing glare -- but he did, after all, volunteer for this. He won't embarrass himself by giving up less than halfway through.

"I'd already had my suspicions as to the plague's origin," he says evenly. "These were confirmed when, as I explored the empty streets, a cloaked and tightly-bandaged beggar woman brushed against my left hand. Within seconds the skin bloomed with an angry scarlet rash, and I knew that the plague which had scourged Jin Lan City was no plague at all. It was the curse of the Sower Demons."

Despite the hateful circumstances, his voice grows more animated, more enthusiastic as he explains, "You must understand, the demons of that world are unlike this one. Although even the least of their breed is possessed of frightful strength and magical power, far outstripping the abilities of the average human, still they are fundamentally biological creatures, made of flesh and blood and requiring more of the same to sustain themselves. The demonic nobility has a great taste for manufactured items, and often raid border towns and trade caravans in order to steal human goods, but as for demonic commoners their interest in humanity is far more... visceral. There is no meat more delicious to the average demon than human flesh, and the older and more putrescent it is, the better."

He continues, "Naturally, human carrion is in short supply. The average demon easily outstrips the average human, but humans are rarely so foolish as to fight demons one on one. City walls, arms and armor, the spiritual arts; these are all tools which the humans of that world developed to protect themselves from becoming prey. Famine is an all too frequent occurrence in the demon realm, which only increases their inclination towards factionalism and internal warfare. Thus: the Sower Demons. A demonic noble with what might be called his own version of noblesse oblige invented their curse in order to create a stockpile of human carrion, that his people might always have access to that food which they most craved. The curse is spread on contact, and though it does not kill it induces a most terrible change in the flesh of its victims, causing a kind of living decay. If left untreated, those who fall prey to the curse will literally rot alive."

Edited 2024-08-16 01:25 (UTC)

"So you were beginning to rot."

Jon's response is as even and measured as Shen Qingqiu's are, but he doesn't escalate; he focuses more deeply. With each piece of description, the vision of the encounter with the Sower Demons becomes clearer, and past kerfuffles and conflicts, even his minutes-ago stint of panic are forgotten as he chases that vision deeper.

In a way, they almost resemble the vampires of his own world, something he learned of so long ago; but, in the same vein, they're their own monster entirely. Strange, uncanny shadows mirroring things that would make anyone's skin crawl in any world.

"Your expertise wouldn't allow as much to overtake you, though. You were on a mission. You gave chase."

"Of course I did." Despite his fear and his personal distaste, Shen Qingqiu still finds himelf leaning closer to Sims, speaking in a lower, more intimate voice as he says, "It might have been foolish of me to strike out on my own without Liu Qingge's company, especially as I still held another demonic toxin in my veins from a duel gone wrong three years before. But I was still a lord among cultivators in my own right, and I had confidence in my ability to capture this Sower and bring it back to Mu Qingfang for study. My younger martial brother is the best doctor in that world; that's not simple filial piety talking, it's Word of God, straight from the author's mouth. I knew that once he knew what he was up against, Mu-shidi would break the curse before I lost my hand. So I gave chase -- and the demon immediately dropped the pretense of being a frail old beggar woman, leaping to the roof tops with agility any acrobat would envy. I followed it, chasing it from neighborhood to neighborhood, across rooftops, down allies, even ducking into the sewer once or twice -- until I bumped into someone I didn't suspect."

"I hadn't expected to see anyone from Huan Hua Palace here," he says, lips twisting slightly in discomfort. "They hadn't told anyone they were joining this investigation -- but I'd met young Gongyi Xiao before, and thought highly of him. He was a good, strong boy, and a righteous cultivator -- deserving of better treatment than he'd received in the book, honestly. Airplane never really seemed to know what to do with him, poor boy, and Luo Binghe barely even gave him a second glance. They didn't even have a proper fight about it when Binghe stole his fiancee and the lordship of Huan Hua Palace in a single stroke -- poor Xiao was simply exiled to the far side of the world. Better than being torn apart or staked to an anthill like Binghe's real enemies, I suppose."

He takes a deep, slightly shaky breath. "I told him what I was doing, and he immediately agreed to help me. We tracked the Sower Demon in a grand merchant's house, now entirely abandoned -- and there we encountered another group of Huan Hua cultivators, Gongyi Xiao's juniors. They'd caught the Sower Demon and slain it outright, but that bothered me far less than it should have. I stopped caring about Sowers or plagues as soon as I saw who was with. I thought I had two more years..."

He hangs his head, trying to avoid Jon's direct gaze. On the tabletop, his hands twist and clutch at each other, knuckles showing white beneath the skin. "When I last saw him, Luo Binghe was only seventeen. He'd already grown taller than me, but his face still had that puppyish look of adolescence, all soft lines and pinchable cheeks. Now he was twenty, and he'd...he'd become a man. His face was more narrow, shoulders broader -- although he accentuated them even further with the way he tied his robes closed around his waist. His hair fell all the way down his back in a great fleecy wave, barely held back from his face by a simple half-ponytail, and at his hip he wore Xin Mo, the Heart Demon Sword...but all these details paled in comparison to his eyes. They were like two black pools, reflecting an endless starry sky. It felt as though you could fall into those eyes, and once you were in their clutches there would be no hope of ever climbing out. You would simply sink, down and down, forever..."

"He saw me," Shen Qingqiu says with a quiet gasp, his voice strained. "He looked right at me and said, 'Shizun?' in a soft, gentle tone. It means 'teacher' in Mandarin, and hearing that word in that voice made my blood run cold. I tried to back away, but I'd been coming up a set of stairs with Gongyi Xiao behind me, and I heard him let out a soft cry of surprise when I bumped into him. Luo Binghe came closer and said, 'It really is shizun,' in a tone so soft and quiet that I might have missed it if I hadn't been staring at him, all of my senses strained to focus on him. I remembered the scenes in the book where Luo Binghe had spoken to his enemies, how the more he loathed them, the more he longed to sink his claws into their flesh and drink their heart's blood, the more he had exerted himself to speak gently and kindly, to appear a reasonable man. It was this exact voice which he now used to address me, and I knew then that, that..." Shen Qingqiu's voice cracks. "The little sheep I'd cared for was dead..."

He hides his face in his sleeve, shoulders shaking with a hitched sob. "Don't look at me," he begs, "Give me, please, give me a just a moment for pity's sake. Don't look at me while I'm like this."

Edited 2024-08-17 08:42 (UTC)

It's a strange thing, after all his hunting, his deeply pulled statements, to have a more conversational one. Especially with someone who seems fully capable of pulling out of the thrall - though he shouldn't be all that surprised, after their first incident together. He's pulled statements from other entities of powerful magic and incredibly ability alike, but none who had fully pinpointed what he's doing like this.

Being a monster and acting like one are two very different things, and where he can, he tries to avoid the latter.

Jon averts his gaze, and the weight of the other eyes bearing down upon Shen Qingqiu leave with them. He takes the sobering moment to nurse his drink instead, and take in the sights across the bar, pointedly making sure that his attention doesn't fall back on Shen Qinqiu while he weeps.

"Of course, I--- sorry," He manages, clearly working through being caught off guard. "Take all the time you need. We'll continue when you're ready."

Shen Qingqiu's shoulders shake again, this time in a muffled sob of relief as he feels the weight of that gaze move on. "Thank you," he whispers, and then falls silent, focusing his energies on trying to regain his composure. Unused as he is to this sort of public breakdown, his face is burning with embarrassment when he finally raises his head and sits upright once more, and he reaches for his beer without speaking as he tries to cool down.

"I apologize," he finally says tightly. "I'm not usually one to, to lose control like that. This is difficult for me, even with your god's...assistance."

"It's alright," Jon's reply comes softly, a bit tense, as well. Unpracticed. This has fallen off of the script that he's found himself so comfortable with, and he's adjusting as they go. Shen Qingqiu's good at that, catching him off guard.

But it isn't any trouble - it shouldn't be, really. He's receiving the information, even with delay, even if that which drives his instincts pushes him on to get what he can from the man at his weakest.

"These things find details you, yourself, may not have been aware of, or things that your mind stores away for safe keeping. Usually the Fear will keep you talking, and let you come undone later, once you've said all you need to. Not sure if that would have been easier for you, and if so, I'm sorry. But, regardless, you're--- welcome to take the time you need."

"Wonderful," Shen Qingqiu says quietly, a bit of sarcasm in his tone. "Something to look forward to." He shakes his head slightly, trying to stay calm. "I've some experience with creatures that invade the mind and try to play on people's fears. And of course I'm an immortal cultivator. My body is supposed to be like a...a fortress unto itself. Inviolable and perfect. Not that it ever seems to work out that way in practice." Because being able to resist the Watcher's call, however briefly, is such a mundane, unimpressive feat.

After he's ordered a second beer he sighs and says, "You're being very kind, but I'd prefer to get this over with." Folding his hands on the table once more he clears his throat and continues.

"The Huan Hua juniors seemed oddly suspicious of me, but Luo Binghe kept his distance. He'd always been very secretive and private about his vendetta against the original Shen Qingqiu, so I assumed that he was simply waiting for the right moment to spirit me away and...and do as he liked to me. I tried to behave as though everything was normal, although the juniors made it difficult with the wild accusations they kept throwing at me, and confirmed the Sower demon's identity. Luo Binghe promised to have it delivered to Mu Qingfang for study, just as if...as if he was still that loyal little disciple of Cang Qiong..." He stills for a moment, visibly fighting back another wave of tears.

"Anyway," he continues, "I eventually made my excuses and fled back to the inn I'd commandeered along with Mu-shidi and Liu-shidi. I told them about the Sowers and mentioned that Luo Binghe had returned, although I didn't...I couldn't bring myself to explain exactly why I was so worried about him. I felt...mixed up. Confused in my mind. On the one hand I hoped desperately that Liu Qingge might be able to protect me. He'd never fought Luo Binghe in the book, he'd died under mysterious circumstances while Binghe was still young and Shen Qingqiu was eventually accused of murdering him. I didn't have much hope that he'd actually be able to kill the protagonist, but I thought surely the War God of Bai Zhan Peak could at least slow him down...but on the other hand I ached at the thought of betraying Luo Binghe further, of turning the people who were supposed to be his martial family against him. Do you know how important a sect is supposed to be, in that kind of culture? It's supposed to be a family, legally and, and morally. When I call Liu Qingge and Mu Qingfang my brothers, that's not a simple courtesy title. We're supposed to support and care for each other like real blood relatives, and as for a shizun...I was, literally, the closest thing to a father orphan Luo Binghe ever had. That bond had already been severed -- in the book, Luo Binghe razed Cang Qiong to the ground, the only survivors a few martial sisters he took as wives. But somehow I just couldn't bring myself to speak it out loud, and make it official."

"And on top of all that," he adds with some remembered irritation, "I started having a Without a Cure flare-up. I said before that I'd already been poisoned by a demon once before, during a duel gone wrong. The truth is that it happened immediately after the duel, when my opponent decided to be a sore loser and attack Luo Binghe who happened to be standing nearby. Binghe was just a boy at the time, and the demon thought he could simply throw himself at him and crush him with brute strength and the ugly metal spikes covering his armor. I knew the System would protect Binghe from any serious harm apart from the Abyss, it had done it before, but in the moment I just -- I just acted without thinking. I threw myself at the demon, pushing it aside, and one of those spikes cut me across the back of my left hand."

"Without a Cure is a terrible poison, but the name isn't actually accurate. It can be cured, with the, ahem, sexual essence of a heavenly demon. However this is not exactly common knowledge; actually I believe that only I and the author were the only two people in that world with any idea. At the time young Binghe was horrified, but this grown up version who hated me might have found the whole thing terribly funny if he'd known. Anyway Without a Cure kicked in, stifling my cultivation and setting all my veins on fire -- not literally, I mean, it just hurt. So I went upstairs to my room to rest."

"Night fell, and I heard a knock on my door. I thought it was Liu-shidi, done with hunting demons for now and come to give me my normal treatment for these flare-ups, an infusion of spiritual energy from a cultivator with plentiful yang. I called out a greeting -- but it was Luo Binghe who opened the door."

As Shen Qingqiu continues, Jon doesn't argue whatsoever, though all those eyes do set back upon him immediately. No additional questions need asked to continue the pull - not unlike a tape being paused and continuing to play, the information continues to wind, laying out the scene.

Jon only takes a pause long enough to drink, to allow the information a mere few seconds to align just-so. Being a part of a greater tale, he's not surprised that there's much of a scene to set - and even if he's got to take a moment to process, that only makes the reward that he reaps so much heavier than any other statements he's taken from the assorted townspeople he's found. He'd be just fine for a while, once this was all said and done.

"What did Luo Binghe come to your door for? And was it easy enough for him to learn of your condition, during this flare-up?"

Shen Qingqiu snorts. "Oh, I imagine he knew exactly what was going on as soon as he heard me greet Liu Qingge. Why else would he have been visiting me after nightfall?" He sighs. "He was smiling when he saw me, this little upturned quirk of his lips, showing off his dimples. It was such a sweet smile, but his eyes were so cold. Icy cold."

"He came into the room and said, 'Shizun, hello.' That was all I allowed him time for. I won't tolerate any accusations of cowardice; when a tiger appears at your door, claws bared and teeth dripping, is it cowardice to flee? I jumped straight out of the nearby window and began to run."

It must be that thing Jon mentioned, the "Fear," that makes Luo Binghe's exact words come so easily to Shen Qingqiu's lips. "He called after me, 'Earlier today Shizun was so intimate and gentle with Gongyi Xiao, and this evening you lit a lantern, waiting for Liu-shishu late into the night. What sincere affection. Why, then, are you so distant when it comes to this disciple?'"

"For the first time since I'd met him, I ignored Luo Binghe completely. No, that's not quite true. I called out for Liu Qingge as loudly as I could."

"Behind me I heard Binghe let out a wintry laugh. He had followed me from the inn, and with every word it seemed as though he were halving the distance between us. He said, 'Liu-shishu is embroiled in a fight, so I'm afraid he doesn't have the leisure to come. Shizun, if you have orders, why not give them to me?'"

"I tried to use spiritual energy to hasten my steps, but I'd forgotten about Without A Cure. It felt as though my blood had suddenly solidified in my veins, and my feet had been turned to stone. I staggered, and then Luo Binghe was upon me. He grabbed me by the throat and slammed me up against a stone wall. My head rung with the blow, and I couldn't focus my eyes. Luo Binghe put his face up close to mine and whispered, 'After so many years of separation, we meet amidst golden wind and jade dew, yet Shizun incessantly calls someone else's name. That truly saddens this lowly disciple.'"

It's impossible not to feel a weight of sympathy, of pity, of understanding, at Shen Qingqiu getting so firmly snared, trapped in such a compromised state. It's something he's felt far too many times for comfort, and with it happening to Shen Qingqiu someone who he'd once been so close to, yet now so distant... it's a good thing he's busy and focused on taking in the information, or else he'd dwell on that.

"What did he do, once he'd captured you? Did you attempt to fight him off, even growing as weak as you were?"

"I didn't have to," Shen Qingqiu says. His voice has grown soft and nearly flat in its intonations, and his gaze is fixed on some point very far away. "He let me go himself. We exchanged a few words, then -- he mocked me by asking why I had run away, and I asked him what he thought he was doing, bringing Sowers here. It seemed a reasonable assumption; who else would have the power to transport them so far from the demon realm? But he became so angry..."

"He swung at me, pulverized the wall where my head had been. I dodged just in the nick of time, and then -- Terror had made me stupid. I drew my sword on him, accidentally cut his hand when he raised it to block. And it was an accident," he adds fiercely. "Even then I didn't want to hurt him. I just wanted to get away. But he grabbed me again, shoved me back up against the wall -- and this time he placed his wounded hand over my mouth."

He suddenly turns to look at Jon, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "Have you ever held a worm in the palm of your hand, Mister Sims? Have you felt it wriggle and squirm against your skin, as if it can sense the water that flows through your veins on the other side? Then you know in some small way what it felt like, when Luo Binghe's blood formed a great squirming clump on my tongue, and began to force itself down my throat."

"This is the secret inheritance of the heavenly demon bloodline, Luo Binghe's bloodline. Blood-borne parasites, which they can implant in the bodies of other people at will. They are great tools of torture, interrogation, and tracking. Luo Binghe implanted them in the bodies of his enemies and his wives alike, so that they would have no secrets from him -- and so that, if a wife was ever kidnapped by one of his enemies, it wouldn't matter where or how far they fled. He would always know exactly where they were, because a part of him would be right there with them, hidden under his wife's skin."

"It was then that I knew that I'd been right to plot my own suicide. As long as the part of me that was Shen Qingqiu lived, I would never, ever be free of Luo Binghe."

Have you ever held a worm in the palm of your hand? Not quite his palm, but one of the many pockmark scars along his arms suddenly have a horribly uncomfortable ache to them. Shen Qingqiu's worms are made of blood, and Jon's keenly aware of that - but no amount of awareness can shake the mental image that shoves its way to the forefront of his thoughts, for even a fleeting moment, of Jane Prentiss' swarm taking a very different approach.

He only barely manages to shove it aside before it makes him sick, but that's surely something that will come back for vengeance when he's got his guard down. So much for a restful night of sleep over the next few days.

"He infected you," Jon murmurs, and the flatness that he'd maintained before wavers; try as he might, the notion's clearly affected him, even as he tries to push on. "And you could never truly escape from him again. Another person kept under his thumb, always within reach. Did he release you after this?"

"He did," Shen Qingqiu agrees. "And somehow I stumbled my way back to the inn and fell into bed, passing into a deep yet troubled sleep. The next morning, the barrier was taken down and the city gates were opened. All of the Sower Demons had been captured, and Mu-shidi had already begun to distribute his cure. Jin Lan City was saved...but when the leaders of the four great sects arrived, the Huan Hua Palace Master stood before them all and accused me of having brought the Sowers down on them. Luo Binghe simply stood nearby, neither smiling nor frowning, as I was taken into custody."

He suddenly reaches for his beer and downs the whole thing, throat working near-frantically to swallow it all. He wipes his mouth and says, "Perhaps sometime, if you ask nicely, I will tell you of the hospitality I enjoyed in Huan Hua Palace's Water Prison. But for now I think we're done here, Mister Sims. I hope you consider yourself satisfied."

Satisfied is a word for it. He's been faring well recently, while on his little stint, but at this very moment, he's feeling purely and deeply energized. God, he could go on a jog, even. Since when did he take jogs?

"Water Prison? I--- yes, I think I might like to hear about that sometime," Jon agrees, a little caught off guard by the rush. It's not a first, but perhaps since he'd been handling the rest well enough (better than most, in fact), he wasn't expecting him to leave in such a flurry. "But I'm quite alright for now, thank you."

It's awkward, trying to get back into niceties, after eating someone's fear, but he sure does try it. He clears his throat, and shifts to stand as well.

"I appreciate your time, and, ah. I'll... see you soon?"

Well, it's an attempt, at least.

Shen Qingqiu, meanwhile, feels like he's been torn open and bleeding, like a bunch of scabs on his psyche have all been suddenly ripped off. He wants to, he needs to retreat somewhere and bandage his wounds. But despite that he still manages to nod, and even muster up a weak, faint smile.

"Yes, I -- yes. Please don't hesitate to contact me, if you find yourself hungry again. Especially if you find your control...slipping." He clears his throat. "I've lived through many distressing experiences in my time. Usually I try not to think about them, but if it will keep someone else from getting hurt, then...I'm happy to share. But for now, please...do excuse me..."

He shallowly bows and then turns, hurrying for the door. If Jon watches, he might see Shen Qingqiu pressing a hand to his mouth as if holding back the urge to retch -- or to burst into sobs once more.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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CW: discussion of infection, decay, and humans as prey

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cw: blood, worm-like imagery, mention of suicide

CW: worms / parasitism / brief nasty imagery relating to those

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