December TL -- A Triptych

[stoneoftherose]

Who: Pyotr Stamatin and players like you <3
What: Open post for those who would like to meet Artemy and Daniil's castmate!
When: December
Where: See below
Warning(s): Depression, alcoholism, and suicide ideation, including references to a successful attempt pre-game.




Panel One -- The Oak & Iron

A new ghost has come to Pumpkin Hollow.

His heart may beat, his skin feels warm, but he is a ghost all the same, one with clenched jaw and burning, agonized eyes. Coming here was a mistake; he'd opened his veins in anticipation of oblivion. Finding himself in a mundane office instead so bewildered Pyotr that he'd participated in the following conversation by rote, agreeing to everything the strange woman said so he could get away. And now he's stuck here, in a place where he can't die.

Nothing could be worse -- except for the fact that he's also sober. No, even worse than that: he feels healthy, in a way he hasn't since boyhood. Steady hands, clear eyes...if he cut himself open he'd probably find his liver fresh and regular in color, free of the cirrhosis that used to fret Andrey so until he rejoined Pyotr in architecture.

His thoughts follow one after the other in steady procession, without interruption or pause. Agonizing. Intolerable -- and he knew from long experience that wine would not be enough to soothe his soul, but it would make a fair enough anesthetic. If he could just stop thinking...

A ghost in the shape of a man sits down at the bar at the Oak & Iron, looking no higher than the level of the counter as he orders a bottle of wine.

Panel Two -- The edge of the woods

Eventually the noise of the bar gets to be too much for him. All those people coming and going, and even when they do him the courtesy of ignoring him he struggles to do the same. There was a reason he always avoided the Broken Heart...

No surprise, then, that he eventually walks out in search of a little quiet. He winds up on a track leading west out of town, through a thin patch of wood that opens out into farmland. There by a wooden fence, an interesting sight at last: a fallen kite, built in the shape of a bird out of colored paper and sticks. He turns it over gently and finds one of its wings crushed beneath the body, its bones snapped in twos and threes.

"Don't be sad," he tells it softly. "A bird can live quite well without its wings, so long as it takes care to avoid the cats."

Panel Three -- The Temple

The Cathedral was a loathsome sight, a great dead block of stone with neither love nor the will to seek it. He'd never understood Eva's infatuation with the cursed place; he'd boarded up all the windows in his flat that faced that side of town, so he wouldn't see even a speck of it by accident. The Temple...is not like that. Even standing outside, he can tell: this is a building with a soul.

Possibly four of them, if you listened to the locals.

It makes him sick, the way these people talk about their goddesses. Like they're people who can be just walked up to and touched --! It's not the first time Pyotr's wondered how much simpler his life might have been -- if he'd born one of the Kin, for instance -- but now the question burns him like a stomach full of coals. If he'd been born in a world like this...

What is he even doing here? Do these goddesses long for death? They could have satisfied themselves with Burakh in that case; he's the experienced god-killer. Pyotr Stamatin's talents lie more in the area of divine maiming. And besides, his useful days are over for everyone. What did they bring him here for?

Supposedly, he might be able to just walk right in and find out. Supposedly...

Fuck it, he's freezing his balls off out here. Pyotr pushes the heavy door open ahead of himself, passing through -- and immediately loses his nerve, sitting down on one of the nearest pews. This is fine.

The Frame -- Wildcards welcome

Comments

panel one;

[medekh]

Artemy is trying to get himself out and about more.

It's good for him.

He still isn't much of a drinker, but a lot of new people come to The Oak & Iron, and the meals aren't bad. It's a good stop to make.

What Artemy isn't expecting is to see the backside of someone he knows.

One of those Stamatin brothers? It sure sounds like it too. And he's drinking.

Time to go see which one it is.

Without asking permission, Artemy takes a seat next to him.

"So, you met Mortanne then?" He asks, voice sounding even keeled and not amused.

[stoneoftherose]

Anger was Andrey's specialty, both to punish and to clear the path ahead. No matter how outraged Pyotr might be, it was always easier to retire, let himself fade into the background and leave the matter in Andrey's hands. That was the pattern they established in boyhood, and it had served him well all their lives but for those lonely years in university. So it's actually a rather...almost a pleasant surprise to find out he's capable of getting angry at all.

He turns to look Burakh up and down, squinting a little against the first rush of the wine. "I suppose so," he says slowly. "And so, it seems, did you. So what was it, Burakh? Did the Kains decide to be rid of you after all? Or maybe our sweet Capella chose vengeance for her father and brother? Surely my brother didn't find you in some dark alley with a knife -- I told him not to."

Ah. Thinking of Andrey was a mistake...The anger's flickering like a candle under a draft.

[medekh]

Artemy raises an eyebrow. Sure, he remembered him, now that they were face to face. The one drunk on twyrine constantly... Pyotr, it was.

He never seemed quite so irritated when they talked back in town. This was curious to the Haruspex.

Though nothing he said really ruffled his feathers much.

"Do you find Capella to be one who would brandish a knife?" Artemy actually lets out a chuckle at the idea. Sweet Capella. Unlikely. "But no, I did not meet my end under the end of a blade."

He kind of wish he had, in all honesty. It would have been a more dignified death, at the very least.

"And what of you? Are you not projecting onto me? Being mugged seems a bit more your style, does it not?"

panel one!

[famedthanatologist]

Dankovsky had just felt like getting himself a drink, that day. He pushes the doors to the Inn, expecting to find no one of importance, when he freezes at the entrance. His eyes are honed in on an impossibly familiar figure, hunched over the bar.

It feels almost like seeing a mirage. Like when he found Artemy, on his first day in Pumpkin Hollow— the feeling is unreal. Dankovsky's pulse skyrockets, and he calls out to the man before he can even stop himself.

"Stamatin?"

[stoneoftherose]

Pyotr flinches hard, almost knocking the wine bottle onto the floor. All right, that's one small positive to having clean nerves, he thinks, dazed, as his hands reflexively catch it and set it back upright. He doesn't turn to look yet.

He's hoping he was just hallucinating, you see.

[famedthanatologist]

Oh, that was not the reaction Dankovsky was anticipating. In fact, he's still being ignored, and that offends him greatly. At least, he's certain it's Pyotr now— that reflex in catching the bottle told him all he needed to know.

He steps forward, brows furrowed, making sure the architect has no other choice but to acknowledge his presence.

"Are you ignoring me, Stamatin?"

Panel Three

[preacher_in_reticence]

Angel's still off duty for Reasons, so Degas is on duty at the temple when Pyotr walks in. He's currently cleaning one of the altars, replacing the offerings. Something smells like booze. Is he offering rum to one of the goddesses?

Yes, yes he is.

He has not failed to notice Pyotr entering and sitting down. But he's not immediately going to crowd the man. The Temple is for all who seek the goddess's peace.

[stoneoftherose]

Oh. Right, of course there'd be a priest here. Pyotr stays where he is, pillowing his chin on the arms on the pew ahead of him and considering the merits of taking a nap. It's been a while since he offended a member of the clergy to their face -- oh, but getting himself thrown out would be such a hassle, and he already has a headache...maybe he can just sit here for a while and sneak out in a bit.

He doesn't connect the smell of rum to the priest until it's almost time for him to move on to the next altar -- but in Pyotr's defense, it's a strange offering by the standards he's used to. What kind of goddess wants rum?

Right, his curiosity's come back. Maybe he can just...slip closer to the front? Just close enough to see what the priest is doing, mind, he's still not sold on the idea of talking to a real person about any of this.

[preacher_in_reticence]

Degas has moved onto Celestine's altar, where he's leaving a small jar of ink (a fetching maroon shade with gold shimmer) and a slice of gingerbread loaf for her, humming quietly as he makes his offerings. He has not yet realized his guest has moved, which gives Pyotr the opportunity for Hijinks™.

panel one

[amourtician]

Anzu raises an eyebrow at the order he just overheard — an entire bottle of wine? — and, his curiosity piqued, decides to investigate. He approaches Pyotr.

"An entire bottle of wine, darling?" he says, smiling. "Thou'rt expecting company? Or merely buying a bottle and hoping it'll summon company?"

[stoneoftherose]

Pyotr glances over casually, his chin propped up on one hand. "Neither, really. I'm hoping to get black-out drunk and sleep until tomorrow morning...but you're welcome to drink with me, if you'd like to keep my misery company." He signals the bartender to bring him a pair of glasses. He and Daniil might be close enough to drink straight from the bottle, but a stranger warrants a little courtesy.

[amourtician]

To Pyotr, Anzu says, "I'm more than happy to keep thee company, darling, and if thy misery must attend, I shall not chase thee off, nu?"

He gives a one-sided grin, a little sardonic, but friendly all the same. The grin of one melancholic to another — as mercurial as Anzu's moods are, melancholy is no stranger to him; it's been years since it was a frequent guest, but this winter, the ghost has come knocking again.

He takes a seat beside Pyotr, and signals to the bartender — attention secured, he says, "a bottle of whatever top-shelf grain liquor I have not tried yet, darling, and two shot-glasses, if thou would'st be so good."

A Frame of Reference

[graveling]

A corpse slouches into the Oak and Iron one night, not having the energy to figure out cooking for himself. It's a well-preserved corpse, dressed in simple clothes (the priest robe was left at home; it's not on duty tonight), and it barely seems to be paying attention to anyone else in the room.

But there are few open tables on this particular night. So, it does at least speak to someone with a seat available by him: Pyotr.

"Mind I sit?"

[stoneoftherose]

Deep in his cups already, Pyotr looks at the newcomer blearily, failing to register anything at all unusual about his breathing (nil) or the rate at which his eyes blink (zip).

"By all means," he slurs. "The more the merrier, is it not so? Although I have little reason to be merry. Wine?" He offers the stranger the bottle he's just been drinking from. It does not seem to have come with a glass.

[graveling]

"Wine does nothing for me. And it tastes gross." For someone who enjoys fermented foods, perhaps this is an odd stance, but Angel's odd in so many ways that this doesn't raise anyone else's eyebrows. "If you keep buying wine, you'll run out your initial stipend real quick."

panel two.

[abhorrently]

There's a light crunching in the snow, coming from the woods. Emerging from the underbrush is a woman with a sheathed sword in her hand. color higher in her cheeks from exercise, whose gaze sweeps over him in an instant before dropping to the kite.

She's managed to catch his sentence, after all.

"Will you carry it into the skies on occasion, so it need not mourn? Felines or none, a bird is a creature made for air and flight."

Call it enough time around her father, lately, to automatically keep going when confronted with such sentences.

[stoneoftherose]

"Hm?" He stands and blinks at the woman for a moment, not having expected to be addressed. "It would take rare courage indeed, to brave the skies after such a fall," he finally says slowly. Yet it's true that he could replace the broken sticks, paste a new wing onto the body...but why? Is it not beautiful in its own right as a broken, fallen thing?

He feels unsure about saying such things to a woman openly carrying a blade of that size. "Is there much need to walk armed in these parts?" he asks her directly.

[abhorrently]

"In this particular area? No. I'm simply training, as per my father's request of me. If I don't practice, it will show."

Good thing he doesn't know of the dagger, or the many spells in her mind, or the thoughts that swirl and roil as does water over jagged rocks, over the splinters of whatever is left in her.

"Your bird, tell me - was it cast down by chance, by cruel fate, or has it served its purpose as messenger and thus embraces retirement?"

Oak & Iron -- New OTA

[stoneoftherose]

The day after his 'fight' with Artemy, Pyotr doesn't make a beeline for the bar as soon as he comes downstairs, to the bartender's silent relief. He leaves the Oak & Iron instead, staying gone for several hours -- and when he returns it's to sequester himself in a corner of the room, bending over a new sketchbook and drawing at a feverish speed. When someone finally bothers to ask, he orders water, at least at first. What the hell, did he get replaced by a clone or twin? Don't ask that where he can hear you.

He'd almost certainly prefer to be left alone with his work, but as every artist knows, the world doesn't stop moving just because you've gotten into the zone...and there are people who'd undoubtedly like to talk to him about the things that happened yesterday. Are you one of them?

[medekh]

So, yes and no- Artemy does want to see if Pyotr is okay, but he's being sneaky about it. Is afraid to actually approach him.

Not because he's afraid of the younger Stamatin, but because he's afraid of himself.

So Burakh sits at the bar, gets a water, and glances over at Pyotr. Trying to act inconspicuous.

It's not working.

[redlightgreenlight]

When Valdis hears the report her first instinct is to delegate it to someone else. She has more important things to do than handle a bar brawl. But then she reads the actual report and with a heavy sigh, she hands off some of the paperwork to one of the other detectives and heads over to the Oak and Iron, where she speaks with the bartender. The man points to the corner where Pyotr sits, oblivious, and she heads over to speak with him.

"Hello, may I join you?"

She's not one to wear any uniform, so she's dressed casually, but not like most ladies around town to be sure.

[famedthanatologist]

Dankovsky makes his entrance into the bar known by practically abusing the poor doors. Any more and they'll shatter— but there are more important things to worry about.

The Bachelor immediately locates Pyotr in the room, and walks quickly in his direction, fuming with anger. He stops short of grabbing the man's collar (Dankovsky's never been one for physical violence, really!), and rages:

"You bastard— you're here for a day and already you push a man to violence?"

He says, chin raised, glaring down at Pyotr like he's worth nothing to him. Clearly, he'd taken the slight to Artemy as a personal offense. When had he grown so protective of the menkhu? It wasn't like the man couldn't defend himself!

"I hope you have a good explanation for that behavior, Pyotr!"

January TL

[stoneoftherose]

Word spreads slowly, but it does spread. The newcomer Pyotr Stamatin, who spent his first two weeks in town getting blackout drunk and then started a bar fight that ended with Erik Osborne getting stabbed, is an artist -- and he'll draw your portrait if you show him something miraculous or macabre. He has a profound interest in the magical, supernatural, and the blood-stained. His apartment on Goldleaf Street has been turned into a studio; climb the stairs to the second floor, and so long as Pyotr is home alone you'll find the door marked 'A' left unlocked.

Pinned to all four walls is already a thick layer of sketches and anatomical studies; here are Erik Osborne's fangs, the lips pulled back to expose both rows of teeth; there are Fever's hands, passing a coil of lightning back and forth as though it were a metal spring. Here is a sketch from memory of Mortanne, as she appeared in the cemetery at Mourner's Night; here is the island's wyvern in flight. In one corner a brightly-colored kite in the shape of a bird hangs suspended from the ceiling, its wings two sets of complementary hues.

At one end of the room a small stage has been shaped from a thick rug and a set of folding screens, with braziers left nearby for the comfort of anyone who wants to try modeling in the nude. The artist lounges on a settee nearby, a thick drawing pad in his lap. His hands and clothes are perpetually covered in ink and soft pastel dust these days; when he looks up to greet you, you notice that he's even managed to get a streak of it across one cheek. Yet he immediately lowers the drawing pad, offering you a small, nearly-shy smile.

"Did you want something?"

[aphroditish]

His visitor is a woman. Strikingly beautiful, wrapped in a strange, patchwork leather duster with fur around the neck. Rubies for lips and rubies for nails, long and claw-like. She smiles.

"Hi, lovely," she purrs. "I heard you're looking for models who can show you something--- what was it, miraculous or macabre? I think I can do both at once, if you have the time."

[abhorrently]

The woman that comes to meet him in his apartment is the same that he knows, but the year turns over to the next before she follows up on her cryptic speech from Mourner's Night. It's a subtle change that's fallen over her, leaving her loose limbed and relaxed, smiling more easily. So when she casually drapes herself over whatever form of seating is open, the solemnity of the earlier night seems far flung.

And yet, the way she fixes her gaze upon him, one can't help but remember.

"I've kept you waiting, and for that you have my apologies. It took some doing before I was at liberty."