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

[stoneoftherose]

Pyotr goes up less like the promised dog and more like an angry cat, snarling and sinking his fingernails into Artemy's wrist. Trimmed short, they're much too blunt to draw blood. He scrabbles futilely for a second or two before laughing like a dead man and hissing, "Do you even know much they love you? The girl especially, what was her name? Misha, Mina?"

Go on, Ripper. Tear him apart, what are you waiting for?

cw: violence

[medekh]

Artemy's face grows cold as ice.

He's shown this expression several times before. But never once in Pumpkin Hollow.

"Her name is Murky." He says coldly. Flatly.

He slams Pyotr's head into the counter. Hard. Artemy doesn't bother holding back.

He preferred Pyotr when he was high out of his goddamned mind.

Artemy yanks Pyotr's head up again. With his free hand that is not holding Pyotr up, he reaches for a scalpel tucked away in his coat.

"Her name is Murky. She is dead. It is my fault. And you will not speak of her."

Re: cw: violence/injury

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik has been making himself available for work in the pub, as is his habit, so he's had a front-row (well, side-corner) view of everything going down. With hearing like his, he doesn't even need to try to know what's being said. Admittedly, it's getting ugly. Clearly, the two men know one another, so Erik hesitates to intervene, but now that true violence has erupted, it might just be time. He has, however, chosen his moment poorly.

"Gentleman," he calls as he zooms between them, "Let's all just take a step bac--" There is suddenly a knife in his belly.

The sharp pain comes as a surprise, but one that barely makes him flinch. He's more upset that there is a new slice in his good shirt and a blooming blood stain, too, though not nearly as much blood as there ought to be. He looks down at the knife sticking from his side and lifts one delicate eyebrow in what almost reads as annoyance, more than anything else.

"Ah. See, this is what I was trying to avoid."

[medekh]

Artemy's eyes widen at seeing Erik's face in front of him instead of Pyotr's.

It's too late.

He's hoping he hasn't hit anything vital, most likely not, and even if so, it would only be fatal for a day or so.

Still, he's injured someone who wasn't even involved.

Someone Artemy genuinely likes and respects.

Made a mess of everything.

Artemy stumbles backwards. His vision blurs. He feels like he can't focus on anything. Or like he's focusing on everything at once. Or both at the same time somehow.

The world is spinning.

He loses his balance, he crashes onto the floor of the pub, bringing a few someone's drinks down with him.

Bourbon stings his eyes.

He wants Murky back.

[stoneoftherose]

As soon as Burakh releases his hair Pyotr goes down too, flopping onto the bar and sliding down to the floor like a rag doll. He curls into a protective ball, clutching the part of his head over one eye where the skin had split.

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik is actually relieved to see Pyotr flop down and then curl up into a defensive ball. That's one problem taking care of itself right now.

Poor Artemy, on the other hand...

"I'm all right," he insists, hurrying to Artemy's side and dropping to one knees. "Here, look." He yanks the knife from his flank and then jerks his shirt open, buttons flying all over, to show Artemy the wound. It's already mostly healed, the skin knitting itself back together in real time.

"It's okay. You see? No damage done. Steady now."

[medekh]

Eyes try to focus on Erik's wound. The blood remains, but the lines. Unsevered. The flesh wound healed right before his eyes. He blinks. Once, twice.

He feels his eyes flood with tears despite himself.

How long has it been since he's cried? Childhood?

Artemy cannot remember. He feels like he willed away his tears long ago.

And yet he sobs. He sobs like something else has been let out of him. There are tears and snot and god knows what else and soon his body posture resembles that of Pyotr's but for entirely different reasons. His body is unharmed, but his mind. His mind is very much not.

[lordoftheozarks]

Oh. Oh no. He was hoping showing the healed wound would help, and in some capacity he thinks it has but...

Artemy sobs in the way of a man who has fallen over his tipping point, spinning in the abyss of sorrow. Erik already knows the reason, doesn't he? Murky. A child's life lost. There's no way to kiss away such pain. Erik tries the next best thing, and moves to gently envelop the man in his arms.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Erik whispers, just for Artemy's ears, "I didn't know you held such pain inside you."

[medekh]

Artemy knows he's being comforted. He can feel it. Half of himself is here. In Erik's arms. Feeling the warmth of another person.

And he does appreciate it. He does.

Another part of him is there. In the town. With a child in his arms. A mockery of Murky's figure, created in sand. As soon as he tries to hold her close, she disappears to dust.

He knows it's not real. But it happens on repeat. Over and over. Short loops. He can feel it. Smell it. Sometimes see it.

It's so overwhelming. He tries to focus on Erik instead. Anything to make it stop.

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik can sense Artemy's struggle, can practically hear it in the pounding of his pulse and quickening of his breath. It isn't difficult to guess, in general, that he is reliving some horrible moment from the past. His eyes are focusses on something that isn't there, something terrible only he can see.

"Artemy," Erik hopes his voice can be a tether to bring him back to the present. "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." Erik takes one of Artemy's big callused hands and wraps it around his own cold and slender fingers, encouraging him to hold tighter. "Feel me. Hear me. Focus your eyes on my face."

[stoneoftherose]

Within a few minutes, it's become obvious to Pyotr that he has a concussion. He saw Andrey get his brains rattled with a move just like that when they were two and twenty, and he puked afterwards like he was trying to turn inside out. He'd started cutting his hair short after that...

But Pyotr has at least one advantage now over his poor brother then, which is an additional six years experience navigating the world at all levels of fucked up. And he's not sure why someone thought it was a good idea to bring a bellowing bull into the inn, but if he stays down here any longer the noise alone will finish what Burakh started and crack his head open like an egg. He unfolds slowly, squinting against the light. The room has broken up into irregular shapes and bands of light and shadow, an oil pastel sketch soaked in twyrine and then hung up in front of the sunrise to dry. He can feel his own pulse in his forehead.

Slowly he looks around. Four white spectres are crouched over a lump of meat he thinks might be Burakh, so he's all right. Pyotr turns away and begins painfully limping for the stairs.

Some Time Later

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik sensed the movement behind him and watched just long enough to be sure retribution wasn't imminent. But, no, the injured man had wisely chosen to slink away to, presumably, lick his wounds. That was for the best.

Now that Artemy has been seen to as much as possible, Erik deems it time to go and clear the air, or, at the very least explain himself. He had just made quite a display of his healing ability. He worries there may be need of it yet, since he is following a blood scented trail upstairs.

"Pyotr," he calls, knocking on the door. "We haven't been introduced yet, but may I come in? I'm the man who intervened. I mean you no harm."

[stoneoftherose]

A muffled groan issues from the back of the room. Pyotr had crawled straight into his bed and curled up under the covers, a tight little ball of misery. He's certainly not going to come out now...but making his visitor fuck off would be such a bother...

The dealing with Andrey approach it is, then. "It's unlocked," Pyotr groans, and tugs the blanket more securely over his head.

[lordoftheozarks]

None of this paints a pretty picture, from the groaning to the unwillingness to rise from bed. The scent of blood is powerful, even before he pushes open the door.

"Pardon my intrusion," he says as he crosses to the bed. He's in debate with himself over whether he should simply snatch the blanket away. "My name is Lord Erik Osborne, I have a card I will present you in a moment, but I'm far more concerned with the state of your injury."

He opts for gently prying at the blanket, first, to see if Pyotr will relinquish his hold. "I am a vampire, but as I said before I mean you no harm. I can, however, use some of my own blood to heal your head if you will let me?"

[stoneoftherose]

"Like Nosferatu?" Pyotr mumbles, only half listening. He doesn't try to fight the removal of the blanket, but his eyes stay stubbornly closed. Hearing and tactility alone are enough to near-overwhelm, and he cringes, shivering hard as cold air sinks into the weave of his shirt. Blood has dried across his face in smeared trickles, matting his hair and soaking into the bedsheet.

"I don't need healing," he groans, contriving to curl his bony frame into an even smaller ball. "You should've let Burakh stab me, lord vampire. It would have been a treasured gift, but now all my hard work's been wasted."

[lordoftheozarks]

Oh, good, this cuts down on explanation time significantly. "Very similar, yes, but I have no intention of making you into one."

Now that Erik can see the wound, he can get to work on it. He uses a sharp fingernail to slit open his palm and then presses that to the matted spot on the man's head.

"Yes, you do. There's no honor in getting yourself stabbed to death here. And no relief, either. Do you think you would have enjoyed spending twenty-four hours as a ghost?"

[stoneoftherose]

"No...no!" The unwelcome sensation of his flesh knitting itself together overcomes Pyotr's lethargy; he thrashes and writhes, and succeeds in wiggling himself clear over the opposite edge of the bed. He lands with a heavy thud and lies there for a moment, groaning in agony; eventually he manages to lever himself up, leaning heavily on the bed as he squints, struggling to focus on Erik so he can glare at him properly.

"You're a twin too? Or...triplets? Amazing," he groans, and rubs his face on the sheet. "But I'm telling all of you, I don't want healing...I'm already a ghost. Is it not proper to seek an end to this stubbornly beating heart, this perverse brain? I belong to the void, but if peace will be denied me then why should I not make war on the flesh? I'm surprised at you, lord vampire; are you so glutted with blood that you'll pass up an easy meal?"

Inspired, he yanks the loose collar of his shirt down so low that the curve of his shoulder is nearly exposed. "Go on, drain me. I won't make a fuss...I've already gotten in some practice at exsanguination, you see..."

[lordoftheozarks]

What the fuck?! He's never had someone revolt against him in quite this way, before. Was it the blood? Did he think Erik lied?

.... no.

No, it's much worse. Gods help him, it's one of those. Knowing about Nosferatu should have been his clue.

"How did you know I was a-- No. Now, look." He comes down to sit next to the man, frowning with disapproval at his open collar.

"I'm not so desperate for blood that I'd take any old thing off the street. Heaven knows what you've drunk or worse. I do have standards. Besides, just because I've done it once doesn't mean I'm here for every person who wishes a thrilling death. There needs to at least be a good reason."

[medekh]

Artemy forces himself to grip onto Erik's hand. Hard because he knows Erik can take it. (And what a grip he has.) Forces himself to match his breathing to Erik's, just as he did during the dance with Daniil's breathing.

It takes ten, maybe fifteen minutes for Artemy's eyes to slowly regain focus, staring into Erik's.

For the shame to seep into his gaze.

Oh how he wants to run away. But his legs feel like jam beneath him. He's aware of how many people must be staring at him.

He's never quite felt this self conscious before. At least no one at the dance had noticed his attack before, but this time-

This time many, many people saw.

"Erik, are, are you-"

Artemy's brain catches up with him. Without asking permission, with his free hand, he pulls up Erik's shirt, looking at where he had stabbed him. He knows he saw it heal over, yes. But he has to be sure. Has to make sure he's really alright. That in his panic he really saw what he saw correctly.

[lordoftheozarks]

It matters not how many minutes tick past. Erik stays there, steady as a rock, breathing slow and evenly for Artemy to match, enduring that impressive grip as if it's nothing. This is not so different than how he has held fledgling vampires in his care while they, too, struggled against memories of loss and pain. He's seen far worse than this, which is why the shame in Artemy is so heartbreaking to witness. Such guilt he carries, so heavy for a human.

"As you can see, I am perfectly fine," he answers gently, with no attempt to keep the man from lifting his shirt to check. "Don't fret over me. I did tell you I am sturdy. How are you feeling now?"

[medekh]

"Like hell." Artemy confesses, and it's an honest one at that. His eyes dart around the room, to see how many people may be looking around.

He's well aware that public actions have consequences.

His eyes dart to the nearest exit.

Artemy doesn't voice it, but his look says everything. He wants out of the public gaze. Now.

[lordoftheozarks]

"Then it matches how you look," Erik says as more a statement of fact than a judgment. It isn't hard to see how exposed Artemy feels right now, so his next question comes right on the heels of this. "Is there somewhere I can take you, somewhere with more privacy? I can carry you there swiftly."

[medekh]

He can't help but laugh a bit at the absurdity of the situation. He can't remember the last time he was cared for like this. No, he will get up himself. Walk himself.

He can manage that much.

"Help me up." He demands gruffly, starting to pull himself up. He thinks, a beat, his clinic is too public- "Dankovsky's farm, accompany me, please, but give me a bit of dignity."

[lordoftheozarks]

"If you insist."

Erik stands and offers him a hand. It will be evident he wasn't exaggerating his strength, either, because Artemy will barely have to put any effort into getting onto his own feet with Erik all but lifting him one-handed.

Dignity he shall have, but Erik will still insist on putting an arm at his waist to support him along the way.

"This way, now. I know where the farmlands are, generally, but you'll need to point the house out to me."

[medekh]

Artemy lets himself be helped up. Being on two feet helps. Knowing he's about to leave the inn helps.

Having Erik's arm around him helps.

He follows without complaint, only giving a gruff nod and grunt in acknowledgement as he does.

As the two exit he finds himself so thankful for the brisk cold air on his face that he could start crying again. Artemy holds back, but he's so thankful. Incredibly so.

He gathers himself as the two start off towards the farmlands.

"... I am certain you don't want to hear this." Artemy starts, "But I do feel inclined to apologize regardless. My blade was not meant for your side."