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[ 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.

[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.

Edited (i always see typos after i post) 2022-12-10 06:41 (UTC)

[ 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.

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.

Edited 2022-12-11 19:20 (UTC)

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

no subject

( CLOSED ) aspen — tetherworld shenanigans

( OPEN TO ALL ) — random prompts.