[Post Canon Update Open Log] Wasteland, Baby!

[lofi_charm]

Wasteland, Baby!

The Day That We Watched The Death of the Sun [ Blackwood Brews ]

It's a rainy morning when Blackwood Brews reopens, brass keys jangling loudly as Martin pulls them from his pocket. It's strange to be back here. There's this constant feeling that there's another shoe waiting to drop. A phantom Sword of Damocles. Pumpkin Hollow is far from perfect, certainly, but it's that familiar imperfect, predictable and comparatively easy. But after everything that he and Jon endured for... however long, Martin's already forgotten what Jon said it was aside from it feeling far too short... Some of those worlds within the world, they felt so... real. Dreamlike and permanent, like they'd been there forever. The sick village comes to mind. Not to mention that dreadful house.

The scent of tea leaves snaps Martin from his introspection. There's a bit of dust. He should get that cleaned up before Jon gets here with the pastry order from Max.

Water boils as rain falls outside. Dishes are washed, tea sets prepared. The dark wood and bookshelf-lined walls of the shop feel cozy under the rainy sky.

Martin almost doesn't notice as someone finally enters once the shop is open.

He startles lightly, snapped out of his stupor as the bell on the door rings. "Oh--- Hello there! Welcome in! Have a seat wherever you like. Can I get anything started for you?"

The Cloud & The Cold & Those Jeans You Have On [ Morning Fog ]

Sometimes, in the very, very early morning, the fog will be much thicker than usual as it rolls in off the shoreline.

A figure stands on the beach, in the very thick of it, silhouette almost obscured despite its size. A Thermos-like flask in hand, Martin gazes out at the sea.

He came here to be alone. Mornings on the shore are quiet if you stand far away enough from the marina. Between the distance and the effects of his Lonely fog, the far-off shouting of the crew of the Mipha's Grace as they load up their ship for the day sounds almost unreachably distant, like the echo of another world. A world of people and gatherings, so otherworldly to Martin's solitude.

During their apocalyptic hike and their stay at the safehouse, Jon and Martin were separated meaningfully... maybe twice? In all that time that felt like years, just a few brief moments apart. And Martin loves Jon more than anything or anyone, but a thing like him... Well, he's always needed a healthy dose of solitude to think straight, and he won't find that at the cottage or at the tea shop.

But maybe occasionally it won't hurt to be interrupted, to be kept from sinking too deep. Either by a friend or a fellow seeker of a moment's peace in a loud and busy world.

You Gaze Unafraid as They Sob from the City Ruins
[Closed to Jon]

As things slowly start easing back to normal, Martin and Jon spend fewer and fewer days laid up in bed, dead to the world. But every so often, they take a day to themselves to just be.

Martin has been almost ghost-like, his own struggles to reconnect with this world drawing the Lonely to him in noticeable but largely innocuous ways. (Aside from a bit of fog in the house, but what can you do.) Jon is woken on a lazy morning not by hands and a lover's voice, but the phantom of a kiss to the forehead, the cloying smell of bacon being cooked, and the sound of the ocean through a window that was not open the night before. Traces of Martin's presence.

Jon will find the other man out on the patio, breakfast laid out on their garden table overlooking the bluffs. "Morning," Martin murmurs, smiling with a warmth reserved only for Jon these days. "Hope I didn't wake you too early."

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Comments

[lofi_charm]

There's a strange quality to the fog. Thick, low-hanging, and oddly cold, but also starkly isolating. As if standing in it makes every single other point seem vastly further away.

When the Wizard speaks, the fog itself almost seems to recoil at the sound, like a hand reeling away from a hot stove. It's hard to say why it feels that way, as the soupy cloud-cover doesn't rescind or retreat at all. But somehow... there is the overwhelming sense that the weather itself responded to the words with disgust.

The figure looks over. Raises his flask. "Name's Martin," he calls back. A man's voice, light in tone, with an English accent. The fog doesn't react to him. "Don't mind me, though. I'll be no bother."

[substitutiarylocomotion]

[Inclement weather ordinarily has a peculiarly welcoming feeling for Wizard, giving much the same sensation as being the first to rediscover some long-neglected trinket or find a well-worn tome in its feeling of embracing something rejected. That feeling had been as present as ever thanks to the gloomy weather that hung across the island, but the feeling of the fog had felt keenly different in the moments after he'd called out.

The unknown brings with it a feeling of foreboding fore many people, certainly, but Sylus was drawn to that rather than turned away so the idea that a mysterious silhouette would make him feel off like that was a strange one. Fleeting as it was, though, he dismissed the passing impression and focused on man speaking with him.]

"On the contrary!"

[Wizard calls back.]

"It's a pleasant surprise to find another person out here. Many of my little expeditions end up with nothing but sand for company."

[Drawing closer, he raises his hand in greeting and returns the introduction.]

"A pleasure Martin. I'm Sylus, though most everyone simply calls me Wizard. You out here taking in the sea air as well, or are you heading someplace particular?"