ph_logs | August/September top-level

August/September top-level

Who: Helen Richardson (

paramnesiarules) & anyone else who wants to meet the new Spiral-touched weirdo~

What: First meetings galore!

When: Last week of August and first week of September, before Dahlia's big birthday bash

Where: Anywhere there are people!

Warning(s): Discussion of madness, trauma, and depersonalization.

The Oak & Iron

On her first morning in this strange new world, Helen embarrassed herself terribly.

She'd been quite pleased with how she was holding it together -- sure, her memories of speaking with Mayor Poe were a bit fuzzy, and it took her a few minutes to remember where she was when she woke up in her room in the inn...but she'd stayed calm. Cool. Professional. She's gotten out of bed, washed her face, combed out her hair -- even taken a moment to admire the old timey charm of the secondhand clothes she'd been given, like something out of a period drama. She'd gone downstairs. She'd ordered breakfast -- just something simple, bacon and eggs and a slice of toast. She'd sat down and waited for it to come to her -- and that was when everything fell apart.

It was the smells that did her in. And the sounds. And the...colors. Her egg, when her plate was set down in front of her, was a rich inviting yellow, nearly orange. The bacon was red-brown with white streaks of fat, and smelled warmly of cooked pork and grease. At the table behind her, two people were talking quietly about a party that was supposed to happen in a few weeks. The wood grain of her own table was smooth and warm under her hands. Everything was soft and...somehow gentle. There were no hard corners or harsh smells, no eye-searing artificial colors. Everything was natural and gentle, homey even though it was just an inn. Like it had been designed to make people relax and feel safe -- and it probably had been.

It was too much. Helen tried to hold it back, tried to stop it -- but she failed. With no other recourse she covered her face with her hands as, as quietly as she could, she began to cry.

Greymare Library

The scratching of her pencil is awkwardly loud in the quiet room. Helen cringes and tries to draw more quietly, but she doesn't stop. She's almost done, and once her map of the island is finished -- maybe she'll feel better? Maybe she'll feel <i>safer</i>, once she knows where everything is and where it's supposed to be. Once she can be sure that she'll <i>notice</i>, if anything changes...

She draws a final line and puts her pencil down with a sigh. One last thing, and then her little project should be complete. She's not sure which of the people wandering the stacks are patrons and which are employees are the library, so she simply corners the first person she sees and asks them plainly, "Excuse me. Do you work here?"

Temple of Seasons

The local church is small and quaint, and seems to exert a pull on Helen that fills her with a quiet, trembling fear. The doors are thick and heavy, and seem to almost whisper to her, promising safety and tranquility, but -- she can't bring herself to touch the handle. She sits on the front steps instead, arms wrapped tightly around herself, and tries to pretend that she's just taking a break. Just a little rest, that's all. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Tawny Beach

The beach is crowded, but it bothers her less when she can look out on the open ocean. It stretches out to the horizon, a flat, blue plain broken with the white caps of cresting waves. Like a badly-installed carpet beginning to bunch and pull up from the floor, she thinks, and the thought is amusing rather than nauseating. In all other respects it is completely unlike an interior hallway -- and if her eyes should start to leak again, it's easily blamed on the salt air. Now if only she could shake this ridiculous and cliche conviction that people are staring at her, everything would be...just. Perfect.

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There are many things Jon expected to see, in this strange, jointed business he's just caught wind about.

A peculiar split interior was the first expectation that was met, with the two sides divided cleanly by wooden dividers. It isn't bustling, but it's slow enough for him to look as he pleases, which is a welcome change of pace from many of the more-fast-paced businesses he frequents. A desk with a receptionist just as standard, and he's quick to approach, fully ready to ask about a list of offered services, so he can see if there's anything in particular he might be after. (Maybe he ought to get a tattoo? He hasn't gotten a new one since university, after all...)

Asking for that list falls short when he finally takes a good look at the receptionist, though. What he hadn't been expecting was for her to look familiar, a sort of recognition that feels like it's come from a lifetime ago that leaves him wide-eyed and stunned.

"Helen?"

Sheogorath is a very generous employer, but as promised his paperwork is a solid mess. While a few potential clients quietly browse the sketchbooks full of Sheogorath's work -- Helen has already made an entry on her to-do list reminding her to organize them into more professional-looking binders -- she takes a moment to work on the inventory sheets. An artist is only as good as their tools after all, and she's determined that her new boss will have the best possible tools she can get him.

She did glance up when the bell over the front door rang, but didn't see anything exceptional about the man who walked in. He looked like another idle browser, in fact, so she was all set to leave him to it when he walked up to the desk and -- and said her name.

Helen looks up at him, eyes wide. It takes her a minute to place him; they only met the once, after all, but the validation he gave her left a weighty mark. "Jon?" She stands up from her chair. "Oh my god, it is Jon isn't it? Jonathan Sims, from the Magnus Institute? You took my statement!"

Edited 2024-09-10 00:58 (UTC)

At first, there had been a back-seated anxiety that had risen, but had been quelled as quickly as it'd come. He'd been expecting to see long hands, for her visage to start bending and changing as she moved, but there were no such changes as she stands from her chair. There is a mark, a weighty scar worn from the Spiral, but she is not the Distortion. This must be Helen before she was taken - perhaps from the moment when she'd become something else entirely?

Regardless, the sight and revelation brings a delighted smile to his face.

"I am! God, I feel like I haven't seen you in an age," Jon half-lies - if this Helen hasn't lived the Distortion's life, she doesn't need to start knowing about it. Not yet, at least. "How have you been? Have you been in town long?"

"Just a few days!" She laughs and waves Jon closer. "Come over here, have a sit. The boss won't care at all, he's awfully free-wheeling. Have you met him yet? He hired me on my first day here, if you can believe it. I was an utter mess, still reeling over -- well, everything, and he just walks up to me on the boardwalk and starts chatting me up like we're old friends!"

"Probably for the best, really," she has to admit. "I'm not sure how, um, how much time passed between me leaving your office and winding up here, but it wasn't pleasant. Feels good to have something constructive to do, take my mind off it."

Jon hesitates little before he comes to take that offered seat, all delight as he sits and listens. They may not have been close, but what an instant balm to his nerves a familiar face is. (Even if the next subject that comes up is, tragically, quite bleak.)

"It'd been a time back home, and I've been here a year, so it's... been a while," Jon agrees vaguely. "But I'm glad you were able to find this space for yourself! I don't believe I've met the owner, no. I'm sure there's a great deal of structure with all this, though! I know I started work right away for much the same reason. I'm out on the docks, myself. A fishing vessel, if you'd believe it. Between you're being here and mine out there, I feel like we may have the strongest contenders for 'strangest career change in next life.'"

Helen laughs behind her hand. "I can't imagine you on a fishing boat!" she says, answering Jon's delight with her own. "I don't mean it in any kind of negative way, mind you, but you were leaning in so hard on the stuffy academic thing when we spoke before...but of course, that was then and this is now." Back then she'd probably have been simply insulted if anyone had told her she'd be working in a shop one day, and glad of it -- although she might have wondered if the messenger of this news was simply insane, once they added that it was partially a tattoo parlor. But now? Well, she is glad. It's a fine opportunity, much better than just moping in her room at the inn all day.

"Speaking of which," she adds, a little twinkle in her eye as she looks Jon up and down. "What brought you in today, hm? Thinking of getting a little 'ink' are we?"

That gets a bark of a laugh out of Jon, clearly not all that troubled by the hassling. Most of any of his friends do anymore - save for a scarce few topics, he's hardly sensitive about much of it anymore. (That's some progress right there, not having to take himself so seriously all the time!) "I couldn't imagine it myself, if you'd told me before! To tell you the truth, I'd initially joined to try to get off the island, but by the time that failed, I'd gotten used to it. I'm a boatswain anymore, though, I'm mostly running numbers, making schedules, helping where I'm needed, what have you."

The look gets an amused look out of him, however, and he gives a short shrug.

"You know? I hadn't settled on what to do, myself. I haven't gotten a new tattoo in years, even before my time here. I've tossed around the idea of getting my ears pierced, as well. Maybe see how far I can push things until I start looking like a goddamned pirate," He jokes. "Have you got any recommendations? Interesting new designs posted up anywhere?"

Helen laughs even harder. "Oh, now that -- that's really funny. You started out as a sailor, but now you're the boat's administrator. And me, I might be in charge of the counter and appointment book for now --" She lays her hand on a tall, leather-bound book with a proprietary air. "But just you wait. Sheogorath is darling, but he's hopeless at administration. It won't be too much longer before I'm running this place, you'll see."

She grins at him. "I suppose the more things change, the more they stay the same, hm?"

But now there's business to discuss, and Helen nods, reaching under the counter for a large stack of loose-leaf papers. "I'm going to eventually get these bound into a proper show book," she explains to Jon. "But you're welcome to look at them in the meantime. Sheogorath is a very skilled artist, albeit of a frequently macabre bent."

She fans out a few of the papers from the top of the pile to showcase colorful sketches of a fly-bitten rose, a child holding a large and fat snake like a teddy bear, and a sunny pond -- as well as a sheet full of calligraphy, ornate letters forming interlocking patterns that pull and scratch at the eye. "What sort of symbols and imagery do you like?" she asks Jon. "What resonates with you the most? Are you thinking of something to go with the tattoos you already have, or perhaps you'd prefer something entirely new?"

"Oh, I've got no doubts that you're going to get this entire place whipped into shape in no time," Jon jokes. "Never a dull moment, is there?"

He's quick to shift his attention to the papers, and picks up a few, seeming to be torn between equal parts of scrutiny and admiration. This whole place had a touch of the strain of the mind that so often came with the Spiral, an uncomfortable pulling of the eye, a tightening of the mind as it attempts to parse what it sees, and these pieces of art are no exception. He's reluctant to consider putting any of his skin.

"I've always been fond of watercolor tattoos, but I'm afraid that I've got too few parts of myself left without scars to manage that without interrupting it," Jon admits, leafing through a few of the of the papers she's fanning out. "The tattoos I have are relatively small, so I'm a fairly blank canvas, but, hm. I'm not sure... I may have to check some other time, see if he's got anything new..."

That is, of course, until he catches eye of something a bit more abstract, looking like dark ink on water, parting around an almost perfect negative space. His brows lift with immediate interest.

"Oh, wait--- what do you think about this one?" He pulls the paper gently out from between the others. "Do you think that would look alright, maybe... upper arm?"

"Ooh..." Helen looks between Jon's shoulder and the sketch, visibly assessing the spot with her realtor's eye, before nodding and grinning at him with shared excitement. "I think that'd be just lovely! Very striking! And you know, if you're still interested in a bit color I think it would look lovely with a gradient or streaks. Sheogorath has a marvelous range of inks to choose from -- I could fetch one of the pigskins and show you?"

Jon had still been a bit tentative, and maybe it's just Helen putting on that realtor charm, but by god, it works. He's more confident in it now than he'd been before, and excitement wins out over the nervousness of change.

"If it wouldn't be any trouble, I'd like to see them, yes. I haven't gotten any tattoos in color before, actually. Maybe it's the right time to give it a try?"

It's nice to know that she's still got it, but really it wouldn't be working so well if Jon hadn't secretly wanted to be talked into it. The interest was already there, she's just encouraging it along. Like pointing out that a second floor bedroom could easily be turned into a home office, and just think of what an easy time you'll have keeping an eye on the children with this window looking out on the back garden, she's helping Jon refine and improve his own ideas and make clear what he really wanted all along. But that spark was already there. She can't make someone buy a house if they're not already checking the market.

"Maybe it is!" she agrees, and gets up to fetch the pigskin. That's unfortunately literal; with no color photography in this world, the only way to show off a tattoo is to tattoo something; in case the actual taxidermied skin of a pig. Helen's been pretending it's plastic, actually, in the privacy of her own mind. Very thick plastic.

At least it doesn't smell.

"There's something so lovely about getting something nice just for yourself to enjoy, isn't there? Like a new bag or a mani-pedi at one of those nice Vietnamese parlors with the massages...I bet it must feel even better when it's something permanent, right?"

There's no part of Jon that loves handling the pigskin--- no, not after how he'd arrived here--- but, unknowingly, that sentiment of insisting to one's self that it's something else is shared between the two as Jon takes it, looking over the colors. It's easy to gravitate towards the greens as he's always been prone to, as much as it's easy to be taken by the lovely shades of violets, reds, and blues. He isn't sure how he's ever supposed to decide.

"Oh, absolutely," Jon agrees while he looks it over, glancing between the design on paper and the colors, as contemplative as he is ultimately indecisive. "You know, I spent the better part of my first year here simply... not doing anything of the sort for myself. I think, in a way, I was still refusing to believe that this was it. Perhaps a permanent change is worth trying to really, truly settle in, you know?"

At last, he sets the pigskin back on the table (idly rubbing his hand on his pants leg to get the texture off of his fingertips), before he gestures just above it to the cooler side of the colors, in those rich, deep purples and blues, as well as gesturing to the violet red.

"Do you think he'd be able to do something in sort of an... I don't know, ombre-type thing for it? Something to sort of flow with the general motion of the piece was what I was thinking. Either those, or something in these greens might be lovely. If budget wasn't a question, I'd split the difference and simply leave with one in each set of colors, but whichever I don't go for this time will surely just have to be for the next visit."

Which, as far as he's concerned, is already a plan of his. What can he say? Familiar faces aren't something he's ever going to not want to reach towards, and even as brief as a time as he'd known Helen before, there's a sense of responsibility there. He hadn't had the opportunity to know her, as she was, before the Distortion left her forever changed - now's the time to make that right, if he's able.

"I know what you mean," Helen says, sitting down again. "If Sheogorath hadn't just walked up to me that first day and offered me this job, I'm not sure what I'd be doing. Probably just moping around the place." This is hardly an appropriate topic for a sale, normally she'd never, but...it's Jon. If he can't understand and compartmentalize it appropriately, who will?

"Even having been there, it's still a little hard to relieve believe it all ended like that," she says quietly, voice kept low to avoid any of the still-browsing customers from overhearing. "I mean...I just didn't think things like happened in real life, you know? It all seems like something out some weird artsy horror movie."

She sighs, taking a moment to compose herself. When Jon asks her about color schemes she smiles gratefully, taking it not as a change in subject but a gentle redirection. "I don't see why not. I've seen him do similar things for other people. Now, obviously the final decision is yours, but if you'd like to know my opinion --" She raises her eyebrows at him invitingly, "I think a red to purple ombre would look absolutely lovely with your skin tone. Green wouldn't be bad at all, mind, but purple...well, I'm sure you can already tell that I have a preference for it." She gestures to her work clothes with a grin.

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August/September top-level

Wildcard - Butterfly's Fang Salon

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