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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Sometimes the choices that he draws to aren't the ones that seem like they would provide the greatest ease, and Dimitri is no exception. Marks weigh heavily upon him, a variety set upon a banquet table, but the sword at his hip hangs proverbially over Jon's head.

Perhaps there's an extra level of care to this one that Jon offers, in the wake of that threat. He starts the Compulsion conversationally, not pulling it out of him with great force. Precision is required not to pierce anything that would cause those Marks, so heavy in their Slaughter that, upon the mere mention of the kingdom's name, he can practically see the tragedy unfold then and there, nor anything that might put him on the business end of that sword.

"Nothing at all, unfortunately. Feel free to begin there."

The compulsion is barely needed. The Statement spools forth easily, cleanly, as if pre-prepared. Dimitri's posture shifts, a crisp, relaxed martial rest. If the Archivist (that's not how Jon introduced himself, so why -- ?) has no knowledge, then Dimitri will start at the beginning.

"Faerghus is the northernmost country of the continent of Fódlan. In 747 -- just over four hundred years ago -- our first king, Lugh, led a revolt against the Adrestian Empire. After four years of war, the Church of Seiros backed our claim to independence, founding the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.

"It's not an easy place to live. The climate is harsh. The soil is poor and difficult to farm, but rich in high-quality iron -- our steel is our finest export. Internal conflict is common, as minor lords squabble over grazing land and mineral rights. All of this is to say that we're a martial people -- I was raised with a sword in my hand, taught to hold a lance before I learned to write my name. Our pride is in our strength, and our strength is in war.

" ... and then there's Duscur." Dimitri sighs. "Duscur is ... was ... our neighbor. A smaller nation, occupying a peninsula off our northwest coast, divided from Faerghus by the Sacred Gwenhwyvar mountains and the vicious Sea of the Horns. Perhaps due to the mountain range, the climate is milder. Duscur is thickly forested, with fertile river valleys and abundant fishing. The mountains hold deep reserves of iron ore, as well as gold and silver; Duscur gold- and whitesmiths have no equal.

"Countless Faerghan lords have coveted Duscur for conquest, but the terrain made such a thing unfeasible. Duscur needed no standing army -- small regional militia could rally more quickly, and hold the narrow mountain passes against a Faerghan army ten times their number. The people of Duscur have their own language, their own faith, their own ways of governing, unlike anything of mainland Fódlan. And they did not have the culture of war we do in Faerghus."

Dimitri glances at Jon, making sure he's following. The context is important!

Jon is used to context, of course. Many statements had a great deal of lead-up, to set the stage, as though he'd truly lived it - and in doing so, the fear became all that much more palpable. What Jon wasn't expecting from a statement, however, was geopolitics. That's a new one.

He's so surprised that Dimitri's pointed glance catches him off guard, and despite his brows being knit together, he gives a short, brisk nod.

"And such a lack of this culture of war left them open to a larger, hungering military presence."

"Not just any presence. By the time I was born, any serious thought of conquest had been abandoned. Relations had been sound for some time. A pretext was needed to launch a full campaign, and it was bought with the murder of our king. My father."

Dimitri eyes Jon, gauging his reaction. (How did he admit that so readily to a stranger -- ? The momentum of the story drives him forward; he can't dwell on it.)

"He was well-loved by his people; less so by the court. Faerghus has long been divided between the West and the East -- Blaiddyd, Fraldarius, and Gautier, who together hold the bulk of Faerghus's power, are clustered in the East, as are the remainder of the Crest-bearing houses. The Western houses are less influential and often at odds; without a coalition or the individual power to challenge the East, the Western lords often felt disenfranchised and neglected.

"My father's moves to improve conditions for the people, then, only roused further discontent. When I was an infant, a plague ravaged the country, one of many. The cities' sewers and water systems needed major renovations, but such things are expensive. As is only just," Dimitri bristles with righteous fury, "my father sought to raise those funds from the lords, rather than demanding them from people who had little enough to spare.

"But of course, the Western lords resisted the request. So they in turn put pressure on their people to extract funds, rather than pay from their own coffers. And when my father sought to centralize the army around the throne, to control the tyranny of the Western lords, they saw only an attempt to strip what little power they had. Perhaps they were right, though I can hardly call it undeserved."

Dimitri's voice drips with disdain, and enough resentment to rival every Western lord put together.

"My uncle, too, had reason to conspire against my father." The righteous indignation fades in favor of bitterness, almost childish as Dimitri bunches his shoulders. "If you know nothing of Fódlan, then I should explain the matter of Crests. Certain bloodlines of Fódlan were blessed by the Goddess, so they say, with extraordinary physical and magical gifts. Those bloodlines are prized; bearing a Crest is free admission into the nobility, and in most cases, a Crest-bearing younger heir will inherit over a Crestless elder. So it was when my father was born, and his Crest of Blaiddyd superseded his elder brother's claim to the throne."

Are you regretting pulling a Statement from a fantasy world yet, Jon.

Edited 2024-09-01 00:25 (UTC)

He might be regretting this a little bit. Forget context, he's starting to feel like he's going to need a reference manual to reflect on for all this. (He doesn't, of course--- he'll likely retain each piece of this well past it's relevance to him--- but it sure does feel that way.) He'd expected no more context than he'd needed from the denizens of this world that he'd pulled information from. Apparently, he was so very wrong.

The Eye still thrives from the stolen information, though; he still reaches for more.

"So your uncle sought to take the throne for his own purposes, emboldened to finally do so with the support of these lords?"

Dimitri clears his throat. "Ah. Yes. That's a fair summary. Normally I'm more concise."

... his expression sours. "Of course, I can prove none of this. But I know what I saw." At last there's a twinge of real fear, curdled with desperation and childhood betrayal. Dimitri subsides, folds his arms, looks away. " ... but I get ahead of myself.

"When I was thirteen, my father made a diplomatic journey to Duscur. As a gesture of goodwill, he travelled with his family -- myself, my mother, and my godbrother, Glenn. It was a chance to introduce me to the business of politics where the stakes were relatively low, or so he thought.

"We were on the road when the fog descended. There was a woman -- " Dimitri shakes his head, a single sharp tic. "No -- no, there wasn't. Sorcerous fog is a universal ambush tactic. Its ubiquity makes it no less effective. My father had just enough time to shield us before the first volley of arrows fell. Then a volley of fire, to light the carts and panic the horses. Then ... sorcery like nothing I'd ever seen before. Buzzing motes that stripped flesh from bone; sucking mud that swallowed horses and humans whole; clouds that burned from the inside out, and left bodies seizing with the meaty froth of their own lungs spilling from their noses and mouths.

"But no competent ambush relies on artillery alone. Annihilating a convoy requires blades in close-quarters. So they came out of the woods to slaughter the panicked survivors. Any attempt to rally a defense met more of those hideous clouds." Dimitri shudders. His eyes glaze, focused on something far away. His voice remains level, soft, distant. "My father was a good king, and a good Faerghan. He refused to abandon the people he'd led to their dooms. He told Glenn to take me and run. But over Glenn's shoulder, I saw --

"It took three spears to bring him down, howling with a rage I'd never heard before. I must have cried out. Glenn turned, and saw my father fall. He faltered -- and it was then that another of our foes emerged from the smoke and fog.

"The blow was meant for me. Glenn had no time to defend himself, only throw his body over mine. I felt it -- through his body -- he fell, and I fell beneath him. He lived, still, clawing after his fallen sword, until the spear drove through his back and pinned him to the ground." Dimitri's hands tremble. His eyes are wide, pupils blown and shimmering orange in the fading light. Tears drip down his face. He hasn't noticed. "It was meant for me."

Edited 2024-09-06 16:36 (UTC)

There's the terror he's after.

Had Jon been an Avatar that properly hunted, he would have been spring-loaded to attack, the opportunity to strike revealed at last. Instead of lunging, however, his impassive demeanor lights with an intensity boiling just beneath the surface, his gaze fixed so firmly on Dimitri's. A vicious act of carnage, befitting those marks of Slaughter he'd been so certain he'd seen. Everything was fitting neatly into place, just as he'd expected it to

What a tragedy indeed.

"Did your assailants assume you'd died to the same spear?" Jon asks, low yet so very pointed, digging deeper for every scrap of information he can get. "How did you escape with your life, so far away from home?"

"My father. He came roaring out of the fog with the spears still buried in his body, and tore the man who'd cut Glenn down in half at the shoulder. But more followed him, and ...

"Have you ever seen a boar surrounded by dogs? They snap at its heels, afraid to approach. Its tusks and hooves claim any careless enough to try, but the dogs can afford their loss, and they harry the boar to exhaustion until a hunter can land the killing blow. So it was with my father. By any reasonable measure, he should have been dead already, but he fought screaming until an axe ended his life." Dimitri traces a diagonal line across his own neck, starting just beneath the point of his jaw, ending just above the ridge of his collarbone. "The spears held him upright. Even with his head s-swinging on a strip of sinew, it was a moment before they believed him dead." A tear drips from Dimitri's chin and spatters across the back of one hand. He blinks down at it, and scrubs his eyes on one wrist. Sniffling, he spits into the dust and snarls, "Cowards!

"They must have forgotten me in the chaos. I was a small child, hidden under my godbrother's body amidst the fog and miasma. If they saw me, they numbered me amongst the dead, and didn't bother to make certain. So they counted their work finished, and left me living in the wreckage." Dimitri spits again. "Cowards and fools.

" ... no one else survived. None escaped to warn of what happened of us. I was in shock, unable to move or even cry out; later, delirious from sunstroke and thirst. My father's retainer, Gustave, had ridden ahead with a company of knights to announce our approach to the capital; it wasn't until we failed to appear that they knew to look for us. It was three days before anyone found me. Three days I lay under Glenn's body while he -- while he rotted.

"The Gwenhwyvar mountains are impassable in winter, and the weather is unpredictable in spring. It was in summer that we travelled. Mr. Sims, do you know what happens to a corpse in summer, abandoned on the road?"

The memory overpowers Dimitri; he gags as the phantom smell floods his nose and mouth. Why is he saying this? He's never spoken these brutal details aloud, not even to Dedue -- the facts, yes, but not the viscera. The flies, and bloat, and rot have remained consigned to Dimitri's nightmares. So why now, to a stranger?

There's only one reason Dimitri speaks of the Tragedy like this, and that's spite.

CW: UNSANITARY, GORE, BODILY DECAY, MAGGOTS

His gaze drifts into the middle distance again. His voice remains soft, level, acidic in the back of his throat. "It shits itself, first." The profanity rolls smoothly off his tongue, the calm stream of his speech uninterrupted. "The bowels loosen in death, and void whatever they'd held. The forgotten dead are far from quiet, Mr. Sims. They stiffen against the inevitable. When death steals even that meager strength from them, they bloat. They twitch, and shudder, and swell, as rot consumes them from the inside out. Their eyes bulge and burst, weeping putrid fluid from the sockets -- if crows or maggots haven't plucked them out. Bloody foam boils from their mouths and noses. Their tongues protrude, thick and purple, choking their desperate cries.

"Still, they speak. Such is the kindness of corpse-flies: called by shit, and rot, and clotted blood, they come to gather on lips and lashes. They feast and lay their eggs, and their buzzing, writhing hunger grants the dead the voice that flesh denies them. They plead for mercy, comfort, vengeance, and unlike in life, they can no longer be silenced.

"I remember when that final strip of flesh gave way, and my father's head fell to the ground. I remember the thud, how his jaw hung slack, how the skin sloughed from his face. I remember when Glenn burst, unable to bear the pressure inside him; how his body spasmed, how pus and putrefaction pooled around us.

"Can you imagine? Faerghus holds that a death in battle is a death with honor, but there was no honor on that killing field. A whole nation was held guilty for my father's murder, but he rotted in the dirt with the horses and their carters. The crows came for all of us alike. I was close to death when Gustave found me -- but alive. Someone had to be, to give witness in words the living could understand."

Finally, Dimitri blinks. His eyes are wide, transfixed, staring through Jon with a feverish light. The horror he describes is a part of him, woven through the core of his being; he survived the massacre, but the child who left Faerghus with his father died amidst the corpses of everyone he loved. Whoever, whatever was pulled from the wreckage was something else entirely.

He folds his arms, and takes a breath; surfaces, at least shallowly, into the present.

"And that was only the beginning."

Jon's focus is unwavering as Dimitri lays out each detail of viscera, of rot, of death and decay and loss, his stare as intent and hungry as the crows that scoured the site of the attack. He barely needed to pull for this all to spill out; it clearly boiled near the surface of every inch that made Dimitri who he is. No child could escape something like that with their life and not bear scars, seemingly endless in number, marring them to the point of becoming entirely unrecognizable.

In the coming times, even if it were true to Jon's intentions, Dimitri's spiteful detail will be rewarded. This tragedy won't only haunt him any longer; it has gained a new set of shoulders to weigh so heavily upon.

This was a consequence to be dealt with later, however. Dimitri said it was only the beginning, didn't he? There's so much more yet to be seen, and Jon doesn't hesitate to seek it out.

"What happened, after you were pulled from the wreckage at long last?"

Dimitri shakes his head, just once, blinking shallowly out of a daze. "I'm s-sorry. You didn't ask for -- for that."

But the Archivist did ask, and a moment's remorse isn't enough to interrupt the Statement. Dimitri slips under again, into the dark water of memory without breaking the surface.

"The knights were already present in Duscur for the treaty negotiations. When my father's convoy failed to appear, they established a perimeter around the capital. A precaution, they said, against whatever might have befallen the king. A simple cordon to ensure the search and investigation could proceed without interference." Dimitri's voice hardens. "It was a slaughter-pen.

"In the following days, while I lay alone in the wreckage, more Faerghans flooded across the border: knights, infantry, any laborer able to take up arms. They were kept out of the city -- there was still some pretense of political decorum -- but my father's retinue began to arrest anyone they deemed 'suspicious,' without explaining what those 'suspicions' might entail, or how they might be allayed. Yet what could Duscur do? The enemy was within their walls. Already the Faerghan force outnumbered any Duscur could muster, with the arms and armor of professional soldiers.

"Arrests escalated to roundups of dozens of civilians at a time. Roundups became slaughters, if any of the accused defended themselves. Kept from the capital, the Faerghans assembled outside began raiding nearby villages in search of someone, anyone, to punish for my father's death. The day after I was found -- when the prince's survival failed to pacify the Faerghan mobs -- Duscur's leaders decided enough was enough, and marshalled a force to expel Faerghus from the capital.

"It was a bloodbath. My people took it as license to begin the massacre wholesale, murdering anyone they could reach -- women, children, the elderly. While I ...

"I screamed. Cried. Thrashed in my fevers. Struck out at the doctors who tried to tend me. Wounded a few." Dimitri bares his teeth, with none of the humor to make it a grin. "When I was conscious of my surroundings, I ranted, desperate for anyone to listen -- but I was a traumatized child, barely coherent, and never for long. Gustave's priority was keeping me pacified, not defending my witness. And of course the rest of them had reasons to discredit me.

"They had to bring me back to Faerghus. That meant bringing me through the war zone. When I heard the riots, smelled the smoke, I thought I was reliving my father's death. Delirious, I couldn't understand why Gustave wouldn't help, nor my godfather, who'd arrived for the investigation. So I bolted from the carriage and fled into the fighting in search of my father, godbrother, stepmother, certain that this time I could save them.

"Of course I didn't find them. They were dead. Instead, I found ... "

Dimitri bites his tongue, looking away for the first time. He tries not to speak of this part. It's not really his to tell. But the story has him in its grip, and its momentum drags him forward.

" ... another boy. Soldiers had cornered him in a field near the town. They were about to kill him. The blade was already falling -- all I could do was fling myself beneath it." He grips his shoulder, fingers brushing the familiar ridge of scar tissue beneath the collar of his shirt. "The killing blow struck my back, instead of his neck. It split my flesh to the bone. I'd never known such pain, but my father and my tutors had trained me well. I am a Faerghan, and a warrior, and in that pain I felt only purpose."

His eyes flutter shut. He sways, light on his feet, rocking from heel to toe and back again. His hands twitch in the memory of movement.

"I turned, and with my open hand I struck that soldier's jaw from her head."

Edited 2024-09-26 00:10 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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1/2

2/2 [cw mass death, parent death, gore]

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cws continue; police brutality, genocide