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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 sometimes, she likes to be a little less reasonable, a little more poetic.
"Since you've already decided it can live, I'll forego the suggestion of burial. What will you do now, then?"
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A thought belatedly comes to him, and he frowns slightly. "I suppose someone might be missing it..."
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While they speak, she's taking one of her gloves off her hand, checking where she has fabric wrapped around the palm. The blisters are healing up fine - her own fault for training too hard.
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When he looks up again it's to find the girl inspecting her hand, and he walks closer automatically, unself-conscious in his concern. "Are you hurt?"
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Nothing bleeds. The cloth is just padding, preventing things from becoming too abrasive, and she readjusts it so that where the skin is more angrily red, it's covered by linen.
"I cannot rest my hands. Not yet. There's too much still to do, before the year draws to a close."
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He still knows so little about this island. He couldn't be bothered to learn until now. That's the effect this strange girl with pale hair is having on him...
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She pulls the glove back over her hand, flexing to check how the adjusted padding feels.
"If I get really hurt, we have enough doctors here to help. Someone will fix me up."
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"What sort of sorcery do you do, then? Will you tell me?"
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Her pride can't help but peek out at that.
"Or call me Fever, as you like."
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"It's good manners to let a lady call herself whatever she wishes, but if you prefer to be Fever, perhaps you might also be pleased to call me Pyotr."
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Bringing her hands together, they shift, turn, and as she draws them apart, a deep blue light sparks between them in thin threads - electricity like a net, lightning catching between fingers, crossing over each other, moving and sustaining themselves, as if one could reach forth and twist, collecting it all to play cat's cradle with a force of nature.
It's a trick that will vanish the moment she stops concentrating on it, but on looks alone, she intends to dazzle.
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"Your patroness? Is she like me?"
An artist, then? The word is rather particular, and given his speech...but then again, seeing as she herself speaks like that sometimes when the mood strikes her, she can't pass judgement.
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Which is why in her life she wants enough to do as she would, and always has. One takes power where one can.
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He's giving her a hopeful look now -- if somewhat subdued. Bracing himself for rejection after all.
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"If you're serious about it, sure. No one's ever asked me that before."
That she recalls, in any case, but one could append that on the end of so many sentences she speaks.
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"Then, whenever you like, when our time aligns."
wrap?