ph_logs | [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

"Of course. Best of luck, brother."

With a final nod to bid Dalomar goodbye, Vonsim follows Drelasa dutifully out of the gently-chiming door. Once they're out, he's quiet for a moment, before the gentle gnawing at his stomach catches his eye. (And raises a question he hadn't considered: how does he eat in this new body?)

"If it isn't too much trouble to ask, ah. I was wondering, how do meals operate around here? Are we waiting for a time to gather?"

“There are times when a more prepared meal is on offer, but if you need something now, I can show you to the kitchens.”

There’s a pause, as she’s perceptibly uncomfortable.

“We do not have much access to fresh food out here, as foraging only sometimes provides what we need. The stewpot has a bit of nix-hound and rat meat to it, but it’s mostly the, uh… divine sacrament.” The bells on her sleeve ring as she fidgets with it, uneasy.

The description gives Jon pause, and he hesitates almost as much as she does. Hound and rat don't sound like the most appetizing things he's ever eaten, sure, but he catches on the divine sacrament. He isn't sure he's ever heard her say something with so much hesitance before.

"...What is the divine sacrament, Drelasa?"

"It... it is our flesh, daesohn. When we cut it away, it grows back better and stronger, and it gives more nourishment than it takes for our bodies to mend. It is the only reliable food we have out here."

It's difficult to know if that dawning horror in his chest is visible on his features; he's stunned into silence, if only for a few fleeting seconds.

"I--- I see."

What could he possibly say? The thought of eating these people, one of what he is, one of his siblings, as he is now--- how could it sit right with him? But, inversely, how could he admonish them for doing what they have to? Could he ask them to starve, to avoid having to eat their own?

His appetite doesn't hold up especially well under the weight of this revelation.

“We are equal parts blessed and cursed, Vonsim. That is the wisdom of the mountain. Our eyes were taken, but we were gifted a sense like no other. We live isolated by the elements and the fear others have of us, but we do not want for the basics of survival, ever. Our bodies ache as they continually re-form, but we are timeless and resilient. Like the mountain itself, we are made molten in our own beings, then emerge anew, as solid rock.”

“It is not a pleasant truth, but it keeps us alive to remember. For to forget is to give rise to hungry ghosts.”

Vonsim, for several long moments, is silent. He fidgets, made immediately evident by the soft jingling of the bells on his sleeves. She's right, of course; as his guide in all of this, she's not led him astray so much as once, even in the wake of both the wonders and terrors of this home.

He takes in a breath, slow, and lets it out just as slowly, before he nods.

"...I--- you're right," He relents, quieter this time. "It's difficult, but... it's necessary. I-I know, were the mountain to provide another way, it would be easier not to. You are given much, and--- when there isn't enough, all that can be done is to survive by any other means."

Survival in the wake of so many things that would try to see otherwise is something he's familiar with, even if he's never had to take this particular route through it before.

"I do not wish for you to go hungry out of misgivings... do you think the promise of a cup of tea to wash away the aftertaste would make any difference? I think we still have a small sash of dried comberries from the last long stretch of clear days."

Comberries? The name resounds with a familiarity that, while within the dream, almost feels a lifetime away. He hesitates for only a moment more, before giving a small, tentative nod.

"I... I think that would be fine, yes. Thank you. It wouldn't take too much of what you've got left to make the tea, would it?"

"You are our daesohn. Our brother. If we do not afford you some small measure of the luxuries we have, that bodes ill for the rest of us. Come. We will find you a comfortable place to sit, and we can chat over your meal so you needn't think too much about it."

And soon enough, Vonsim finds himself sitting near the sound of a crackling fire, resting against a lumpy pillow, with a bowl of not-wholly-unpleasant-smelling stew in his hands. He can hear the clanking of a kettle being readied, though Drelasa is going to hold off on heating the water until it's time for tea. Then, he hears the soft jingle and the scrape of fabric against the floor as she sits down near him.

Between the chiming, the crackling flames, and the simple comforts of this space, there's a small part of him that is, at least in some small sense, mollified from his terror. The stew is warm, and it doesn't have that sort of copper-laden smell that he'd expect from this sort of thing - though, perhaps that's due to differences in blood? Maybe even human flesh, too, would lose such a smell when cooked? He isn't sure. He tries not to think too hard about it.

Even still, propriety is in order, and he looks to Drelasa when she sits just to his side. He's not used to expressing himself with this face - instead of figuring out how a smile might work, he reaches over, giving a gentle, appreciative touch to her arm.

And, at last, he breaks his hesitance. There's attention upon him now, after all. He takes his first bite of the stew, uncertain of what to be prepared for.

It’s not nearly as horrible as he might have imagined, though it’s not an especially tasty dish. The broth is rather salty, seasoned a little with traces of aromatic herbs, and the meat itself… well, it’s hard to tell what is nix-hound and what is Dagoth. The whole affair tastes a bit like stale pork, with a weird, biting sweetness like something that has just begun to ferment. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten, and it sates his hunger surprisingly quickly.

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

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cw: CANNIBALISM!

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