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

[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."

cw: death-seeking behavior

[stoneoftherose]

"Are you saying my blood's not good enough for you?" Pyotr demands, outraged. For a moment his temper flares, as hot as Andrey's ever was -- but then it burns itself out with a flash, and he slumps against the bed, feeling desolate. "It figures...of course I'd be useless for this too. Can't protect what I've built, can't create anything new, can't even look after a tiny child...What do I even draw breath for, except to poison the air? You should kill me," he tells Erik, eyes wide and red, pupils blown out from the concussion. "Snap my neck, if you don't want my blood. Please...you can call it a favor. If I really do come back tomorrow, I'll do whatever you want as repayment..."

Re: cw: death-seeking behavior

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik sighs and rolls his eyes. He's missing out on an entire night of work... for this. Unless? God. No. What the hell is he about to even consider?

"Help me understand why doing this for you would be a favor?"

cw: discussion of suicide & suicide ideation

[stoneoftherose]

Pyotr throws him a withering look. "It really not obvious? Then let me say it plainly: I want to die," he mutters beneath an icy glare. "I want to feel my soul shatter and fade into nothingness. But since that's impossible I might as well soothe myself by drawing as near to it as possible, no? I'd have thought a member of the undead would understand. Don't you remember the moment when your heart began to race, as if it could keep beating through inertia alone? But then it stilled, and everything faded to blackness. Or perhaps you haven't had that pleasure after all?" He sneers.

[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."

[lordoftheozarks]

The gruffness is unintentionally adorable, but Erik keeps that thought to himself. As a man with his own pride, he understands.

"I don't mind hearing it. I know already; I put myself in that position intentionally. I'm not saying I disagree with your actions. The words he spoke to you all but begged for violence. That is what bothered me. Killing him would have played too much into his machinations for you. Forgive me, but I felt the need to spare you a blemish on your reputation."

[medekh]

"You are too kind to me, but I already know what it is to have a blemished reputation." In fact, it's sort of what Artemy is used to. This whole, being loved thing... that is what he is less used to, "I do not know what is wrong with that raving lunatic. Pyotr. He was mild enough in the Town-on-Gorkhon, perhaps being high on twyrine kept his anger in check."

He sighs as the two continue along the road. There is more to be said. And Artemy trusts Erik.

"That's not it though, is it? More likely, it has to do with what he said about me being some sort of god killer. Not that I remember anything of the sort, but even mine and Dankovsky's memories are entirely different from each other's, and it seems Pyotr has seen even more of the Town's demise than I have..."

It's so much to take in.

The Haruspex feels a headache coming on.

[lordoftheozarks]

"I have had kindness given to me when I did not deserve it. Consider this as me passing that burden on to you. Your reputation here has been positive so far. Tonight won't change that. Don't throw it away so easily when things can be different for you here."

Erik thinks of how he was when he first arrived. He was filled to the brim with resentment. Here he was, finally somewhere new but it wasn't alone. People who knew his dark past were here alongside him. Some wanted to murder him on sight. Some accomplished that task. And he did deserve it. He just didn't realize that yet. But people here gave him a chance. They listened to his story and they cared. They made him want to become part of something more. Artemy could have that, too.

"Time can work very strangely here. I met a young boy on the island a long while ago who was from my same world but very far into my future. I struggled for some time to comprehend how that could be. I'm still not sure I know."

[medekh]

He has a point. Artemy cannot deny that. Once a good reputation is built up, keeping it can be rewarding.

And he's enjoying being well liked here. Not that he wouldn't give it away if needed be. For the greater good. But if he doesn't need to.

Artemy gives a nod at his words. They carry some truth, but it's not just the past and future that the Haruspex worries over.

"I wish it were that simple with me and Dankovsky. And perhaps even Pyotr... But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I came here, the town that intrinsically ties the three of us together. I was born there. Raised. Dankovsky was simply a visitor, Pyotr a transplant, from the capital- similar to Dankovsky, but his duration of stay was longer. The Town-On-Gorkhon was seized by a plague, you see, the sand pest- However, me and Dankovsky remember those few days entirely differently."

Artemy does his best to stress the importance of this next bit as much as he can.

"According to Dankovsky, I was one of the first taken by the Sand Pest. However, in my own memory, this is not true. Me and the veritable Bachelor worked together a good nine days before I succumbed to a death that was separate from the plague- and the events that happened during the plague? Different. We remember everything entirely differently. It's as if... two worlds. Different but similar enough that I knew Dankovsky as soon as I spotted him and I knew him to be my own."

Those words, slipping out in a moment of his own fevered passionate ranting, almost go unnoticed by him, but once he does notice them, the unintentional slip, his face does blot pink. He ignores it and continues on.

"And I fear this may be the case with Pyotr. But even worse, perhaps. Maybe he will not listen to me. Perhaps he is too upset with- with whatever I've done..."