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ph_logs2024-12-10 09:16 pm
stoneoftherose) wrote in ph_logs2024-12-10 09:16 pm
December TL -- A Triptych
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
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
no subject
"Serranai, of Spring and the Land. Kora, of Summer and the Sea. Celestine, of Autumn and the Sky. Mortanne, of Winter and the Beyond. They are our Mothers, and they love us."
The last sentence does include Pyotr, even if he doesn't realize it.
no subject
"So I just missed her..." he murmurs to himself. "But she is an artisan as well, isn't she? Is she said to have invented the tools she's depicted with here, and gifted them to mankind? Or are they simply symbolic?"
no subject
Degas gestures at the altar.
"My wife used to leave offerings here every week. Usually part of what she baked that week. If it was a loaf of bread, she'd make a smaller loaf as Celestine's share."
no subject
He's broken out in a cold sweat just from the thought. What would happen if a blasphemer like him got too close to the altar? Would he be struck down for the insult -- or would nothing happen at all, the goddesses nothing but hot air? He's not sure which would be worse.
no subject
"Celestine, please turn your gaze on this brother, who is newly arrived on this island. Give him the gift of your wisdom and help him keep his lantern lit in the waning of your season."
As he finishes speaking, there is a breeze that comes out of nowhere, one that carries the scent of baking spices and wet autumn leaves that have been on the ground for a while. Is the light behind Celestine's stained glass a little brighter than it was a moment ago? It's hard to say.
But something definitely just happened.
no subject
"Does that happen every time?" Pyotr asks, pulling his too-thin jacket closer around his chest. He's not sure what to think...it's weird as hell, having a spiritual experience while sober.
no subject
Degas smiles slightly, glad Celestine was 'around to take the call', so to speak. A little divine intervention makes it easier to help people believe in the goddesses.
"They manifest as they please. Some who have nightmares see a white horse chasing them off in their dreams; that's Mortanne's work. There's other instances of boons being offered."
no subject
"Maybe things really do work differently here..." he mumbles to himself.
no subject
The question is gentle, meant to prompt consideration more than an actual answer.
no subject
Besides, so much depended on how the soul reacted, once it had taken up residence in the house that he built...would it be appreciative? Grateful? Or would it strike him down as a heretic? He would have accepted whatever judgement it handed down. He would have been its first acolyte, its lover, its sacrifice. He would have given it everything he possessed. But...but instead...
Burakh may have been the one who struck the final blow, but...Pyotr was the one who killed it all the same.
"I should go," he says, standing abruptly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't -- I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry..." And he rushes out in a hurry, as if the hounds of hell themselves were chasing him.