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/ ]

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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.

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

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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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