( open and closed starters )

[wrists]

WHO: laurent & friends (questionable).
WHERE: here and there in stygia.
WHEN: december.
WHAT: catch-all for monthly tidings. plotting comment is here.
WARNINGS: mentions of csa and the ongoing trauma surrounding it, bloody violence, angst and general unpleasant fuckery.

Comments

( CLOSED ) d — baby it's cold outside etc. i'm sorry this is so wordy

[wrists]

[ the cold sets in quickly, more brutal than the most vicious winters in arles, a chill that permeates far past the flesh and settles deep into the bone. it feels as though ice has replaced parts of his lungs, his heart. no matter how close to the fire he gets, no matter how much hot liquid he consumes, it offers little relief for this slow, glacial agony. stygia has frozen over and seems determined to take the restless with it.

laurent's small lodgings in the harbors protects him from the snow but not much else, his pale lashes frosted over and his breath spiraling in clouds of white despite the fire in the hearth. even without the cold sapping his strength, he's already weakened — his leftover injuries from his imprisonment still have not fully healed, and he walks now with a limp, his steps careful as he kneels next to a small bundle of fur by the fire. a cat wrapped in a blanket regards laurent warily. with a bandaged hand, he sets down a small dish of fish from the harbor, then turns to give the creature privacy to eat.

laurent himself feels ill. he's stiff with the cold and begins to suspect he might freeze to death here. the roil of his shadow has gotten worse, and every time he thinks he should venture toward someone he knows — to aspen who wouldn't question his presence, to augustine's shop that provides an excuse to wander, even to sasuke just to needle him or see if he's dead from his illness yet — he finds himself caged in isolation. it should feel normal. he has endured a lifetime of living in a place where his uncle has turned his people against him and stifled all his chances to make allies. he has always borne the weight of his predicaments alone, has had to solve every problem without help. this should feel no different, and yet the turmoil in his mind feels worse than ever, his anger a restless beast, his sorrow unceasing.

it doesn't help that no one knows he's here. he's yet to tell anyone where he's staying — a tiny flat mostly comprised of one room, with a rickety back door that leads to an alleyway. he'd found the cat there, pregnant and hissing in the snow, and she'd shredded a generous patch of his jacket before he'd managed to get her inside. other than her, he hasn't interacted in person with a living thing in nearly two weeks. he sleeps fitfully when he does at all, dreaming of the press of an unwanted touch and waking in silent terror before he remembers where he is. now it's too cold even to rest, a sprinkle of frost falling from his hair like stardust as he shudders, a blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders — and then he stills as a knock sounds on the door, brief but firm. laurent turns, realizing it's coming from the alley.

he ignores it after several seconds of consideration, limping to the fire to warm his hands, but the cat begins hissing so laurent leaves it be, dragging himself reluctantly to the door and peering through a splinter in the cheap wood. a dark figure greets him, only D is covered in a fresh dusting of snow and appears nearly white. ]

You'll die out there. [ laurent leans against the wall, crossing his arms beneath his blanket. he knows his voice will carry through the closed door. ] There are frozen rats in the alley, too.

laurent with the cat 😭😭

[damnpire]

[It is not very difficult to find Laurent if only because D can smell the scent of human flesh from a certain distance. And because he has had a very long career of being a vampire hunter. That’s what he did, relentless, for so long. Hunt.

Naruto is missing as Eddie had been before; when Laurent also becomes incredibly scarce, D tries to ignore the strange freeze settling into his body by searching for the missing blonde with the soft heart and jagged mouth.

The snow accumulating on his hat and shoulders is somehow less cold than whatever splinter of ice has wiggles down into the pit of him. And yet, he remains standing on the outside of the door, listening with the pointed ears to the way Laurent moves and breathes on the inside. His Shadow is so dangerous; he would be one of the deadliest predators here if he had been any kind of lesser man. But he does not try to enter at all.]

I’ll thaw in whatever spring might come.

[He can’t say as much for the rats. Is it odd for him to be relieved to know Laurent hasn’t disappeared into some further ether of this nonexistence?]

You’re still here, [he says in his low and quiet voice.] No one has seen you for some time. We thought you may be missing like some of the others.

You don’t sound like the other voice has taken over.

he's softe

[wrists]

[ whatever spring might come. curious, that D that thought this far ahead, when laurent's mind has stayed solely on the present as it always does. he has never had the luxury of planning for future comforts when all of his attention is always wrapped up in surviving present calamities. he is sure none of them will survive this infernal cold; he has not yet thought of a solution for not freezing to death in the coming weeks, if the glacial temperatures do not abate.

more curious, maybe even painful, is that D has noticed his absence. laurent stares blankly ahead at nothing, unseeing, simply processing this fact. his bandaged hand tightens, still healing from the wound at the tavern when D had put a stop to the fight he'd picked.

no, his shadow hasn't taken over, but it's there. insistent. he hasn't had an outlet for his anger, so it continues to roil inside of him, leashed for now. ]

Who is we? [ the crease deepens between his pale brows. ] You've been discussing my affairs with others.

[damnpire]

[It's funny Laurent tries to sound accusatory and offended. The only thing he offers is:] They have asked me if I have seen you. [Laurent received his lack of invasion initially, as expected (what people do is their own business). However, after at least one person mentioned it to him, he decided it would merit some investigation.]

Aspen asked me if I knew where you may be. I had no answer to give him.

[Now he is here, having dug into the depths of most bleak places to find whether or not Laurent was missing completely.]

If you're not well, I understand. I came to see the answer for myself. I'm glad you haven't vanished.

[wrists]

Then you should have settled for having no answer. What business is it of yours to know of my whereabouts? [ he finds himself snapping without thinking, pulling his blanket around himself in irritation, or perhaps in a childish gesture of protection. he doesn't know what to make of D's presence outside of his door. he has never had to deal with such a thing — of being hurt and alone and having another person show up just to verify the status of his person, seemingly without wanting anything else.

seemingly. laurent pushes himself from the wall and unlatches the door, swinging it open, the glacial draft fluttering his golden hair around his shoulders. he shivers, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg but otherwise standing with his spine perfectly straight, staring at D as if as insect has appeared at his door. ]

I have not vanished. However, it would be pleasant if you would.

[ at that moment, the cat makes a beeline for the door, too stupid to know she and all her unborn kittens will die in the cold. laurent's impassive stare breaks, a rush of childlike panic crossing his features as he dives into the snow for the creature.

this is all D's fault. ]

[chokuto]

[The border of the Hinterlands — where gravel roads from the city begin to peter into chartless fields — has become unwelcoming in the frigid, midwinter cold. It is a dark, desolate place. At some point the sun must have sunken into the grave of the sky. He doesn't know the time; it is difficult, too slippery to track in this afterlife, lending a worsened surreality to the everyday nature of their suffering. Days have passed, but he can't guess whether those days each contained the correct hours or whether they've gone for weeks. All he understands is that the season is changing, and he is alone, and he's ventured here for a reason he doesn't like, and he's angry.

Anger he's carried since the conversation with Laurent on the network, however blisteringly abrupt. That wasn't its genesis. Sasuke has the unfortunate self-recognition by now to comprehend his Shadow at work, but it isn't something that goes away when he looks it in the eyes. In fact, the awareness is almost more excruciating than if he'd gone on oblivious, acting on the first thought in his mind rather than questioning every impulse, every nagging urge. There was a time where he did things without understanding why. The hurt and rage felt like teeth in his soul, chewing holes through logic and reason, driving him from one goal to the next with unhinged violence. But, in a world where he knows his own history — his family's history — the picture is clearer. This is just who he will always be. He's cursed to this.

𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲, 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞, 𝐍𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐞. And now he's gone.

It should be fine.

Yet he's out here making another mistake with that same burning fury as before. Dissimilar eyes, luminous in the dark, scan his surroundings with intent. He's looking for someone. A person who might have been stupid enough to come out here on their own, vulnerable and without protection. Someone who cannot even cook their own food. Someone who says hurtful words without knowing their proximity to truth.

Past the treeline, a collection of lost souls, wayward Restless struggling with their Shadows, have cobbled together a small village. There are tents, rickety huts, horses leashed to fence posts. There are lights, too, as it seems even those rejected from Stygia have a desire to celebrate the festivities, because they've hung green garlands and wreaths and colorful streamers from spindly tree branches, silver bells chiming eerily in the wind.

Torches illuminate the dirt path he walks until he's reached the outer boundary of the settling. Where he sees, lit with a glow beneath one of the decorated gates, that head of golden hair.]

I thought I might find your corpse instead. [The words feel jagged and angular in his mouth.] Not that you've made it far.

[wrists]

[ there has only ever been one thing to do in his life, and that is to try to latch onto the smallest crags of possibility and hope it goes unnoticed beneath the petulant bluster he puts forth. laurent is a prince who can't do anything. can't take care of himself. a spineless, petty coward, too weak and pretty for the hard work required of him. his uncle has slandered his name so thoroughly that laurent had had no choice but to find a way to make this work in his favor — and he had, as well as he could. if everyone believed laurent to be unseasoned, no one would see the viper coming when it struck.

it would have been easier to have someone with him, but the journey to the hinterlands did not kill him. it's as depressing as he'd imagined it to be — castoffs trying to make a life, exiled from stygia with little in the way of the bustling resources of the harbors. it's not an ideal environment to best a shadow, and yet there are lights strung up for the winter festivities, paling in the luxuries set up in mirth, but there is a quaint comfort here that laurent almost prefers to the gaudy decor of the main cities. almost like a private joke, mistletoe hangs from the gates, the fences, from wayward tree branches.

sidestepping the cursed blossoms, he goes to the nearest horse and pets it, his fingers methodically working through the tangles in its mane. his expression softens. the creature offers a bit of warmth in the brutal cold, and laurent presses his reddened nose to the horse's short fur, briefly closing his eyes, his breath clouding in the frigid air.

and then his peace is broken by a hardened voice. laurent's eyes open, his spine perfectly straight as he turns his gaze minutely, catching a glimpse of sasuke's form through his frosty blond hair. there is something off about the other man, something stony and cold that was absent from their previous interactions. laurent turns fully, his hand still on the horse. ]

Terribly disappointing that I'm still alive, isn't it? [ his features are schooled back into blank indifference. ] Are you considering ridding yourself of me the way you rid yourself of Naruto?

[chokuto]

[If Laurent had any sense of chakra, it would be oppressive now — a cold, dark sheet choking the air, the first warning of that ominous intent. Perhaps it isn't needed, and the evidence is on his face in that granite frown and those vivid eyes. If Laurent senses anything, it isn't communicated back in manner or tone. Even those words are sharp icicles. He can tell too much from too little; he has been watching, and listening, and paying attention. It's dangerous. Laurent knows more about him than anyone else, and that knowing is a threat.

It seems clear in his mind. A connection that should be ripped at the root.]

I've tried to kill him before, [is the low drawl of a voice.] But I failed. I don't believe that it would be the same for you.

[Sasuke takes a prowling step closer, narrowing the space between them. The intimidation is far more deliberate than their encounter during the Harvest festival. There is a soul-forged sword at his waist; there is darkness in his heart, polluted by the effects of Oblivium. He can imagine how easy it would be. He could take Laurent by the throat with one hand, and then...]

Am I wrong? You're weak. You could never stop me.

[wrists]

[ it's a far cry from his earlier words about his friend — laurent had barely breathed in naruto's direction before earning a threat from sasuke. to speak so callously of him now sends a ripple of warning through him, though his expression remains outwardly unchanged. he is used to this: being cornered, outmatched, disadvantaged in every way. it shouldn't frighten him. and yet it does, just the same way every glacial, bloodlessly violent interaction with his uncle does, forcing him to stand ruthlessly indifferent while his heart kicks in his chest like an animal caught in a snare.

it's no different now. there is truth in sasuke's words — laurent's quicksilver defenses can't stand against sasuke's brutal steel. he could disarm every man in arles and reduce them to tears in minutes, but it is not so in stygia, where people come with abilities unheard of in vere. ]

I see. You've come to kill me. [ he says it calmly, stating a matter of fact. this, too, is not new. he's lost count of the number of attempts made on his life before coming here. ] So you're Naruto's kept bitch, and now that he's discarded you, you're off your leash.

[ with one last, gentle stroke, he moves away from the horse. no sense in making it a casualty in a matter unrelated to its life when he's already gotten one horse poisoned and killed courtesy of his uncle (a gift from auguste, and thinking about it still stings). silent, deliberate steps take him along the edge of the gate, frost clinging to his lashes. ]

I came here to find the criminals the Hierarchy exiled. If you're not going to help, you're in the way.

[chokuto]

[These are the poisonous words he sought in that brief earlier exchange. It seems no one else in this place — or even the world of his past life — is willing to speak this way to him, whether through fear or intimidation, ignorance or indifference. Or, bitterest of all, some misplaced demonstration of tender sentiment. He doesn't care if Laurent is only partially right; it's enough, a brutal harshness that fits into all of his malignant corners, his self turned over to the Shadow woven from those worst years.]

I know why you're here. That was the first mistake you made. [First of many. The second, in his intelligence and intuition. Third, a scathing tongue. Fourth, and far outside Laurent's control, an appearance that at this moment — to murky hallucinations of another blue-eyed, blond-haired friend — drives him to a familiar age-worn bloodlust. And the fifth transgression of knowing of Naruto, and Itachi, and his parents.] If I'm in your way then you should have even more reason to stop me.

[One movement eats the remaining distance between them. His hand seizes the front of Laurent's collar, shoves him back in a stumbling step. He pushes again, like a bully, but even this is strategic as a means to shepherd Laurent away from the safety of the light and nearby civilians. He does not even see them pass beneath the cherry-red mistletoe on the gate. He doesn't care.]

Fight back.

[A fist swings to hook Laurent across the face, bruising pressure that will turn his cheek purple, split skin across teeth, knock him down if he can't take it. Yet there is no chakra behind the force. Nothing with the bone-shattering magnitude of power he possesses.]

( CLOSED ) aspen — tetherworld shenanigans

[wrists]

[ the tempest is no better the second time, and particularly made worse by the relentless cold that has taken root in them all — no amount of clothing or fire offers true relief. the winter is inside of them, gnawing just like their shadows. and now, this. the disruption of their tethers. it's not something laurent can put into words, nor does he have plans to attempt to. doing so would make himself vulnerable to questions on what his tethers actually are. he only knows that they are in danger, and that he must protect them.

the pain is in his head makes it impossible to think. laurent wanders through the rocking ship, shivering, nauseated, off balance in a way he has not felt in some time. auguste's absence feels fresh. the roil of confusion surrounding his every thought of damen is stronger than ever — hatred, budding affection, betrayal, something almost like trust if he could identify it so clearly; he can't. he avoids the captain's quarters this time, lacking the desire to commandeer the ship. instead he ventures into the bowels, stumbling below deck to the dank halls, keeping close to the walls so as not to lose his balance.

his vision swims. he rubs at the frost clinging to his lashes and shakes his head. from somewhere, he hears the lightest of steps, the flutter of wings, and he recoils from habit, blinking owlishly in the dark. ]

Come closer — [ he sees double, triple, his knees weak. ] And I will take you apart.

[terraria]

( he stops. )

Charming as ever.

( despite the sarcasm, there's no bite to it, and frankly - aspen himself feels surprised by it. every person that seems to come close brings out the tetchiness in him: a man who gets too close brings him close to bearing his curved canines like a cat, a woman asking him if he's alright had him snapping at her.

but the one person he knows will bite back, he feels no inclination to bite. funny. )

I was wondering where you went off to - I couldn't find hide nor hair of you when I went into the city. Will you sit down with me? I need to take some medicine for this gods-awful flower cough, and I have some hot tea I can share.

( he won't bring up laurent's awful condition. ... yet. granted, aspen isn't as hale as he looks. sure, his long hair is in a tight, neat braid and the double-breasted dress is crisp and deep with fluffy petticoats underneath, but his wings are kept much closer to his body than usual and there are the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes. )

[wrists]

[ his absence has been largely intentional. laurent has holed himself away in his home in the harbors, wondering when he will finally freeze to death in this hellscape. his own flower cough is mild at best. the winter seems to be the thing that wants to do him in, and the horrible pulse in his head that he can only attribute to one of his tethers having been damaged. his shadow feels ready to strike, but he holds it back for aspen's sake, at least for now.

aspen, who doesn't look so well himself. the cold is affecting them all. ]

Your teas are full of odd things. [ his voice feels faraway, and before he knows it, he's sliding down the wall, a dusting of frost falling from his hair. ] I only take potions from my physician back home. He has cared for me since I was child.

[terraria]

( aspen sits down by him, stretching his wings out a little as he pulls off the fluffy scarf wound around his neck. he sets it on the floor, near enough that laurent may feel its warmth, as he twists the lid off of the thermos. )

Of course my teas are strange, I'm an herbalist. If you want plain tea, I'll do a Sakian tea ceremony by instinct. There's no normal when it comes to me, I'm afraid.

( he takes a sip, exhaling low. )

... besides. This is the only thing keeping my Shadow at bay right now. Best for me to keep drinking it, for everyone's sake.

( he takes out a vial, the orange-colored serum inside almost halfway gone before he takes a quick shot and gulps the tea down alongside it. )

Ugh. ( he shudders. what a surprise, the nurse is a bad convalescent. just in case, he does offer the tea to laurent. it's only polite. ) What was he like, your physician? I've only had experience with the doctors and healers that cared after the king I served as courtesan.

( OPEN TO ALL ) — random prompts.

[wrists]

o1. the sprite steals an object that belongs to you and puts it in another character's pocket/room.

[ the parties in mirth don't hold his interest, and laurent finds himself abandoning the noise for a quieter alcove, hoisting himself onto the ledge of the window to snatch down the mistletoe before he sits, straight-backed, and watches the swirl of dancing guests. something presses against his side, and he reaches into his pocket to extract an object that wasn't there before — something unfamiliar that doesn't belong to him. ]

o2. sweet advice.
texting — un: LAURENT

if you don't like someone, gift them one of those berry tarts the woman in the marketplace is selling. they'll fall asleep within the hour and they won't wake up unless someone kisses him. it's a lot simpler than attempting to commit murder.
all you have to do is make sure no one kisses them and they're as good as dead.

o3. NOTICE BOARD — the harbors (funeral).
texting — un: LAURENT

even after death, the hierarchy will come back and haunt the remaining restless here? there must be more than a handful of us who believe this organization does not serve the people and could use some changes.

o4. WILDCARD — texty or general shenanigans welcome! no need to ask, just drop right in.

power-slides into o3 - un: jonas.

[coherer]

Were you there? That was the creepiest, most alarming funeral I've ever been to lol

What if we made our own representative body or smth? Maybe then some of us would be allowed to walk near Radiance without getting the rich ppl eye-roll. They might help us more if we were actually a louder minority or smth bc rn we're just yelling into a void at them.

:D

[wrists]

yes. it might've improved if more of their members offered themselves to the pyre.

are you proposing yourself as leader of this representative body?

[ he might be...... doing the rich ppl eye-roll despite being currently penniless ]

[coherer]

(we may be broke bitches but we don't have to dress like it, you're winning in that category laurent)

I'll let you thinking I'm leader material slide this once without dunking on it bc you don't know me at all, but I am not. I'd get us all thrown into the tempest or smth.

Did the hierarchy do smth to you personally or like are you just mad at them in general??

Text 03; un: delicatefuckingflower

[pissoffbook]

Fucking finally more people are getting it! Those bastards defintely aren't working for us Restless.

[wrists]

they never have been. they need us to fend off oblivium.
do you intend to follow their orders and take a soulmate?

[pissoffbook]

I... don't know... I mean, to get rid of this bitch in my head? Maybe...

01;

[craters]

（ as it happens, what he has is a small, elegantly folded piece of paper pressed into an origami star. tellingly to no one but her and sasuke, it's a soft, gradient, warm yellow to brilliant crimson at its heart.

but, if he happens to unfold it, there is a message within, written in a deftly neat, studious hand that reads:

« Hi! Not sure if this will end up with anyone or not — I was curious where the sprites were taking what they're stealing. Wave at the girl with the pink hair if you see me! »

— hey, at least she stands out in a crowd.

sakura is well below his perch, dressed nicely but clearly not in a way that would facilitate a spin across the ballroom floor. instead, she's scanning the vast chamber, looking for anyone who might have ended up with the paper star. ）

LISTEN. i'm sorry about him

[wrists]

[ apparently tearing down the mistletoe does not spare him from being pulled into the sprites' nonsense. the little paper star does not belong to him, a gradient of canary yellow to fiery red holding a simple message. his eyes lift and catch onto a head of pink hair, recognizing her immediately though they have never spoken prior to this.

she's clearly searching for the note, the bright color easy to spot, which she seemingly does. he holds it between his pale fingers, following the pattern of folded lines to return it to its original star shape. then he turns, arranging himself side-saddle upon the window ledge, reaching up to hang it in the space the mistletoe previously occupied. ]

Well. [ she's arrived by the time he's finished, and he tilts his gaze to her, his eyes like blue glass. ] If it isn't Naruto's whore.

later they'll laugh abt this over wine while dunking on sasuke

[craters]

（ she'd come over smiling, a moment's fey pleasure at her little gambit paying off — temporary distraction to loss — gutted instantly by the cold words. she couldn't have looked more shocked if he'd slapped her across the face, the abruptness of her halt making one boot squeak against the ballroom floor. she's rarely in her life been spoken to in such a manner, much less in this particular context. yet it's naruto's name, more perhaps than even the epithet, that makes anger twist and boil into something ugly inside her, threatening to bleed over. her fingers curl in against her palms, the press of her nails a grounding point.

there are two sides to the season that bridges winter to summer, echoes of each. but desolate cold is no stranger to spring, and her voice is a reflection of fractal frost. ）

Excuse me?

（ she heard him perfectly well. this is his one chance to change his mind. ）

02. sweet advice | un; puppetmaster

[guitarpicks]

For the plan to work, you'd have to follow them for an hour and know where they fell asleep. Then you can't leave their side to make sure no one kisses them.

Which is a lot of energy put into someone you don't like, man.