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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
(And he would react poorly to being told otherwise, so really it's for the best that Daniil let the subject go...)
"You as well, old boy." He smiles slightly, raising his bottle in a toast. "The circumstances are certainly strange, but...I can't deny, it's a comfort to see your face." He sighs, resting his head on one hand.
"...So, tell me what you've been doing here. Is there more or less work for a thanatologist, in a world where death no longer counts?"
no subject
Oh.
Ohhh.
Right. Yep. That.
Dankovsky... may have neglected to think about how to announce his current employment situation to his friend. In a way that would, well... not embarrass him.
"Well......"
I'm a farmer now. I dig into the dirt and clean up cow dung. That is my life now. Oh, and I chose this for myself, by the way.
"That's..."
I lost my mind. I went momentarily insane. I forgot who I was and woke up having signed up for that job. Haha, I know, I know...
"Not exactly, indeed..."
Thanatology? Ha ha ha. Ha! Good one. There's no point in studying death anymore, if there's no glory to be found in it. So I farm now.
This is who I've become. I will never be anyone again, so this is the life I have chosen to go with.
"....." A deep sigh. He looks at Pyotr, resigned. "I have become a farmer, Pyotr."
There is no joke in his voice. No amusement in his eyes. He means it.
no subject
For a very long couple of minutes. Slowly, he tilts his head to one side, as if trying to observe Daniil from a different angle.
Another minute passes before he finally says, doubtfully, "So...do they do farming conscriptions here or...something?"
no subject
"No... they do not."
Dankovsky's blushing. A lot.
"......"
Pyotr's stare has always felt piercing, but it was a new level of unbearable now. He had forgotten how it felt to be scrutinized in that way.
"...I signed up. To become a farmer. It was my decision."
no subject
Pyotr finally breaks the intense stare, reapplying himself to his wine. After a moment he finally gives the verdict of, "I don't think I'll be doing that."
He passes no judgement on Daniil's decision. The celebrity thanatologist is dead; who is he to dictate how Daniil spends his afterlife? Maybe he'll even find some peace, out there in the weeds and dirt.
...Pyotr still thinks he'd rather stick with drinking.
no subject
"Well, what will you be doing, then? Do they hire architects here?"
no subject
His own preference would be to simply stay at the inn drinking himself into a stupor, but...he's going to need to get more money from somewhere, as his tolerance exceeds the limits of the stipend. Fuck...
"I guess...I could make a few paintings to sell..." he suggests doubtful. Daniil should know the reason why; Pyotr's artistic output is not known for its 'commercial appeal.'
no subject
Dankovsky can even think of a few people he could suggest Pyotr's art to. Daniil finds it mostly unappealing, preferring more classic fine art to Pyotr's more experimental pieces, but... someone like Sheogorath might find them interesting.
Yes, he would. He's quite sure he would. Chaos meets chaos- Sheogorath would surely enjoy Pyotr's company. He can't help but snicker to himself at the thought.
no subject
"Would you say this town is more or less insane than the one on the bank of the Gorkhon?" he asks, almost playfully. Trying to spur his friend into a round of exposition, as they've both enjoyed in the past.
no subject
There is finality in his voice. Regardless of the things he's witnessed in Town-on-Gorkhon, nothing compared to the absurdity of Pumpkin Hollow.
"Walking corpses, temporary death, monsters and human-sized animals of all kinds... this place is far worse than I could have ever imagined. The Gorkhon town almost seems welcoming, in comparison."
Almost. Even if he'd felt Eva's warmth when he'd arrived. Almost, even when the kids started calling him 'Uncle Bachelor.' No, he was sure of it— nothing about that town was welcoming.
He closes his eyes. Remembers how he last found Eva. He would not let her memory fade from his brain, no matter how hard it is.
no subject
no subject
Dankovsky smiles at Pyotr, his cheeks slightly reddened by the drink.
"What is there left to do, in a place that has no need for me? You can satisfy yourself with a few drinks, but that's not the life I seek, Pyotr. I need something that drives me."
He shakes his head, resting his palm against his forehead.
"I don't know if I can find such a thing here," he confesses quietly.
no subject
It bothers him far more to think of Dankovsky moldering, his intellect going to waste, than it does to think of himself in such a state. Pyotr's never seen himself as an especially intellectual man, certainly not like Daniil or his brother. His prowess lay in a deeper realm, the realm of the mystical. For a while he almost fancied himself a sort of oracle, interpreting the will of a higher being...but that was before he understood the true depth and breadth of his failure. Now he sees that it would have been better if he'd never tried in the first place.
But Daniil's work, his mind...it isn't like that. Something precious would be lost if he gave up his struggle.
"You could always try becoming a magician yourself," he suggests whimsically. "The feats people can perform here are miraculous to us, but there must be some kind of underlying system to it, a scaffold of rationality. Otherwise everyone would be able to do such things -- but instead there are specialists and experts, haven't you noticed? Magic is something that has to be studied and trained for, like mathematics."
no subject
Of course Pyotr would find the idea endearing. He is not the right person to talk to, when it comes to this specific subject. It makes Dankovsky's head pound to just try and explain it to him.
"I'm sure you would do wonders," he says, quietly. "The Polyhedron was, in its own way, a miracle. I'm sure you'll find a place of your own in this community of insane men who play with sorcery."
Great. Now, he's bitter and angry. The drink is making it worse, too.
no subject
"Wow," he says gruffly. "And how exactly can you bear to say such things to me, Daniil Dankovsky? You know which hopes I pinned on my rose -- or did you go and forget that conversation too?"
He glares spitefully into his drink. "There will be no more miracles from me," he murmurs. "I have no wish to be the death of anything precious to this world."