ph_logs | [August Open] God Has Permitted Me To Survive

[August Open] God Has Permitted Me To Survive

Who: Agent Jean and YOU

What: August open as I claw my way back into regular participation

When: Take a wild fucking guess buddy

Where: Watchtowers, beach/docks, public library, the gazebo, the woods, and wherever you like

Warning(s): Struggles with mental health, cosmic & demonic horror, possession, violence if you want some

Self-Care | Various

Jean is still working on relaxing. The paradox is not lost on them, but they do understand that relaxation is, you know, a skill, like speaking or reading or swordplay or training their stupid cat-dog-rabbit-thing, so they're going at it with the same kind of regular dedication they give to their otherwise busy schedule. Once a week you can find them at Oak & Iron expanding their knowledge of alcohol firsthand, and if they're not busy chatting with a local you are very welcome to join them.

They've also continued to sketch, something they didn't think of as a hobby they enjoyed before but which is, on reflection, one of the thin pillars of their fragile mental health. Jean can be spotted all around town simply working on their drawings, but especially at the beach, under the gazebo, in town square, and sometimes just hanging out in the lobby of Town Hall. Just about anything or anyone could be a subject of their art; odds are good that you're on the list.

Vade Retro Satana | Library, Ocularum | OTA but Neil Encouraged

With autumn and the ascension of Mendel approaching, Jean is trying to research more humane methods of resisting mental influences than the ones they themself went through. It is not really going all that well. A lot of books get checked out just before Mipha's Grace sets sail, and when the ship comes back into port Jean can be found staying late at the library desperately peeling through tomes for advice, or over at Neil's using the good doctor's library for much the same reason. Their notebook on the subject is uncharacteristically chaotic, full of scratched-out ideas with sketches in the margins that have a distinctly...

...stressed...

Style.

Outreach | Closed to Dahlia

Deep into the above, Jean gets dressed up in the Page of Kora's Avatar and ambles across town to the Leeds Estate. They settle in just outside the gate, pondering for entirely too long to themself if this is an appropriate reason to approach Comrade Leeds, and ultimately settles on the thought that Dahlia herself really is the one to make this decision. So they slip their sending stone from their pocket, and...

"Comrade Leeds? My apologies for the intrusion, I had hoped to speak briefly on training for the local levy and other volunteers. To be, hahaha, AHAHAHA, to be perfectly honest I expect my request may be a longshot regardless of any other factors, but just in case it isn't it would be remiss of me not to ask! If you're amenable I am currently outside."

Play With The Devil's Toys | The Woods

This moment was probably meant to be private. Deep in the woods, where only the mighty, the stupid, or both go, one might stumble upon Jean dressed in Cobalt Scar and contemplating a truly godawful weapon, thrust point-down into the soil. Their expression is grave. Their hand flexes, tentatively, once, twice. They seize the handle with gritted teeth, and the sound they make is pained, and it is full of furious hatred.

"No," they growl, and there is another growl, lupine and massive, rich and layered and inhuman, behind it. "No, you obey me. If you expect to be permitted to survive you obey me."

The sword doesn't seem to say anything out loud, but Jean's grip is white-knuckled, and it's not clear that they're winning whatever fight they're having with it.

Wildcard

Fuck me up.

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Scratch scratch scribble scratch

No one was there a moment ago, but as Jean is looking down at their work, they can suddenly hear the sound of another hand drawing graphite across paper. Should they look up, they might notice the old man with a sketchbook of his own. They may also notice that this old man is not quite in sync with the surrounding universe, vibrating to match Jean's own personal frequency. It creates the impression that the fellow is somehow more in focus than the rest of the world.

He's fixated on his own work.

Scratch scratch scribble scratch

The new sound gets Jean's attention immediately; they're so casually hyper-vigilant, so ready to fight at any and all times, that the idea that they've been snuck up on is terrifying. But...

...Hrm...

Curiosity wars with fear, and then interest joins the battle. Slowly, without a word, they turn to a new page, and begin sketching this stranger. The outline happens fast, the product of a great deal of practice with technical drawings, but the details will blossom with greater patience.

It's strange, how much this stranger gives off the impression of... wanting to be seen? It's as if the image of him isn't just hitting Jean's eyes, but in fact, presses into them.

Suddenly, he looks up, luminous, cat-like purple eyes staring into Jean's soul. He smiles a wolf's smile, and says nothing.

It's an easy soul to stare into. After all, Jean is using it as their body; there is no 'Jean' inside this shell, the entirety of them is here, woven into something that imitates matter nearly perfectly yet still is not. They blink slowly, and partly avert their gaze, instinctively acting as if this stranger is an animal they do not wish to frighten.

Quietly, they turn their book, and show the blossoming sketch of Sheogorath, captured in the moment of the Madgod making his own art. The details on the man himself are still vague, but the background - the gazebo, the woods beyond, the buildings of Pumpkin Hollow, leaves caught in the wind, even small birds and flitting insects - are breathtaking in their specificity.

His smile turns warm, but there's a hint of something hiding behind it.

"Did you draw all this while looking through your own eyes?" he asks, after a moment.

...Huh.

The stranger's confident but vaguely sinister air, paired with the question, reminds Jean of Madam Binah. When Jean still lived in the City, Binah intimidated and confused them, but now the little nugget finds themself intrigued by the implied challenge. They think, tucking their chin over the back of their sketchbook.

Then...

"Can they only be my eyes, when so many people helped teach me to see?"

“A mortal can have an eyes made by thousands, but it’s seldom that a mortal has a thousand eyes. You seem to have more than you can fit into your head at once. I’ve seen you take weapon in hand under instincts that aren’t and are your own.”

Blink.

Blink blink blink blink -

"You...perceive the Pages," Jean says slowly, almost not believing their own conclusion. "You understand what I've done?"

"More that you could possibly know." He un-crosses his legs.

"It's a strange sight to see, how easily you slip between selves without the world so much as feeling the beginnings of a sneeze."

There is a presence felt on the back of Jean's neck. Something that's been quietly observing, slipping under focus due to their fight, and now making itself known. A slow hello, instead of breaching their conversation - just Fever pulling herself out of where she's been hidden in the shadows and letting their awareness do all the rest.

The last thing she needs is that weapon coming towards her head, after all.

Jean closes their book and sets it on their lap, and they shake their head. "Not slip," they murmur. "The Pages...are not mine to take, but I can take them anyway. When I wear them, I'm closer to the source, but I'm still...me. I wear an identity but I don't truly experience it, any more than I would if I read a biography. It's..."

They sigh. "Unholy. Ha. Haha. But we use the tools we have."

Their head turns almost painfully slowly. There is a moment, both instant and awfully long, in which it seems like Jean has many, many more eyes than the ones simply on their head; ten thousand and more glowing, lantern-like eyes, hypnotic and alluring, promising salvation from evil...

They release their grip on the blade, and exhale a ragged breath. "Comrade Fever," they manage, shakily, offering up that odd half-bow salute of theirs. "Pardon me, I am...having a workplace disagreement."

They look, and in that moment, Fever feels rooted to the spot. As if those many, many eyes would see her, know the evil within, and strike. To save her, would they destroy her? Would she rise up, hierophant of damnation, set to oppose-

And then it's over, and Fever pulls herself fully out of where she is.

"No need to apologize. I can wait until it's over."

But she's been looking for them, idly, and this is better than most places to talk.

"No, no, a recess would be a good idea at this time. I'm certain we both," they glare at the sword, "have things to think about. I must caution you not to touch the sword. It will end poorly and, comrade...I am not worried that you'll misunderstand my intent in saying that, but I will clarify anyway: that is not a threat, it is a diagnosis."

They take a few steps away from the blade, and fumble for their canteen. The drink of water Jean takes is inadvisably long, the kind of pull a hiking instructor or drill sergeant yells at you about, but they're...drained. But at long last they take the canteen away from their lips and flicker a strange smile. "How can I help, Comrade Fever?"

She waits for them to drink, keeps her hands to herself. Some part of her itches, though, wants to touch the sword and see if she could dominate it to her will, use that force she had sensed to strike out and back.

But there's still an ache in her back, and she isn't quite in her body, and that was not her intention.

"I...wanted to talk about what we spoke of, months ago. You know I haven't said anything on the subject since, but that does not mean I've forgotten it, even when we talk briefly in passing. I need more information from you."

"...I see." Jean's left hand flexes, those clawed gloves marked with deep scars and red blood that never fades, and they close up the canteen and put it back on their belt. "I am listening, Comrade. I am also prepared, as much as I can be, to follow through at this time."

"The obvious first, then. How can I have you promise me that what you find within this Light remains something you do not speak of to others? Again, it's a great power I would be handing over, contrary to my every instinct - to trust blindly was never in the cards."

Does she want to die today? She never wants to die. She never wants to give in. But at some point, she will.

"...It's difficult to certify," Jean admits. "I can promise, but that's only my word. I could give you the knowledge to easily destroy me, but...hahaha, I think an indifference to threats of violence is something we both share, comrade. If penalty for breach of contract is what you want..."

Something occurs to them. They don't smile, but it seems to be an interesting thought. A very interesting thought.

"...The only thing to go after is my reputation."

"That I can do."

It might seem unfair, cruel. But what Jean is offering is immense and fearsome, and without a war at her back to goad her onwards, in this fragile net of relationships and the mask of being a person, without death or maiming being a permanent thing, she needs some security.

"Let's call that the contract. Should you betray my trust and ill use the information you gain, I will destroy your reputation utterly, to the point where your relief will come in the barrier breaking so you may escape into the world an unknown."

How, she doesn't know. But she'll figure something out.

"You will find an ally in this in Comrade Leeds, who has reasons to distrust me already. We have each other's respect, I think, but she will not be disposed against you." Jean takes a deep breath. "Your next question?"

"What sort of information does it give you? Memories? Or more a state of being? And...does it stop me having it, when I am revived?"

Ah, this is much easier. Something in the realm of known facts, with which Jean is far more comfortable, even if those facts have become increasingly distasteful. They relax, visibly. "The information is given in a...readable format. Not unlike a biography or a...what is the word...a bestiary! Which may be the more apt comparison in that there will be a greater slant towards practical knowledge." How to express this next part...

"...While it is not inconceivable that elements of your history, perhaps elements no longer consciously known to you, will be included, the lion's share of the information will concern practicalities. Your present form and nature, the factors that influence that form, the strengths and weaknesses of your body and mind, and your combat techniques. Many of these would become available to me for my use, though only if you choose to let me keep the Page, comrade."

"If?"

The concept of choice is still sometimes a strange one to her.

"Thought you just...harvested it or something. A corpse doesn't really get a say in matters."

Zoom in even further on Jean's eyes.

"It's a Page, not psychic surgery. I can hand it to you when you revive."

"But if you keep it, do I still have Light? Or is it just...in your pocket then?"

She does her best to hide it, but sometimes her INT is just going to be 8.

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[August Open] God Has Permitted Me To Survive

Self-Care, Gazebo

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