d | a november catchall

[damnpire]

WHO: d & others
WHERE: stygia mostly probably
WHEN: nov.
WHAT: general meetups, notice board things, etc.
WARNINGS: me freezing spoon's comment so i can laugh every time i see it, reference to csa (laurent), snake imagery (augustine)

OOC plotting post

Comments

[wrists]

[ laurent's anger pulses through him like a living creature, dangerous with no one to rein it back — though D certainly makes an attempt, his efforts unwanted. the strange power radiating from him has faded now, the glint of sharp teeth smoothed over. their eyes meet, laurent's lashes spiked with rain.

he files that information away for later, the lack of D's fear of death. ]

There isn't — [ he stops himself, swallowing carefully. there isn't anything for him anywhere. no family that does not wish for his death. no allies to stand by his side. no one to turn to, here, when his shadow tightens its inevitable grip. he closes his bleeding hand into a fist, keeping the wince from his face even as the movement causes a throb of pain. ] I didn't require assistance back there, thank you.

[ because there's still the issue that now his anger has nowhere to go but inwards — but this is not an unfamiliar sensation, and it won't be the last time he's isolated in his rage. his eyes remain fixed on D at the offer of kindness; it chafes, a foreign burn against his skin.

but D, while he hasn't been cruel, is not particularly prone to overt kindness, either. he is not like aspen, who will help for the sake of helping. laurent's hand drips blood mingled with rain, and he lifts it now, his eyes glinting like the sharp edges of blue glass. ]

Does the sight bother you? [ he curls his fingers, his blunt nails digging into the wound in his palm, his expression unchanged and showing no inclination of pain as fresh blood wells. when he relaxes his hand, there is significantly more red marring his skin. lightly, he steps forward, wiping his hand on the front of D's cloak. ] I don't need it. Your cloak. I'm already wet.

[ although — he's uncomfortable and freezing, and will not admit to it. ]

[damnpire]

[This feels very much like dealing with a toddler, and then that's giving almost not enough credit to toddlers.] Not for fighting, no. [He does not think for a second Laurent is this mouthy without having some way of backing it up at least a little.

But he is a bit of a loose canon, and he thinks he can understand maybe why now.]

You aren't wrong to be angry when someone makes you uncomfortable.

[The smeared blood is accepted without a single defensive jerk or any flinch. He doesn't even try to grab Laurent's wrist even though he very well could. The sight bothers him immensely less than the smell of it through the rain, but luckily, the water washes it slowly off the material.

Then he does move finally; the way he reaches up across his chest is as if he might backhand Laurent. But instead, the gloved fingers of his right hand slide under the bottom edge of one of the pauldrons and unclasps that side of the cloak. The left hand is mostly open; the pale fingers do the same on the opposite side until the cloak is free. It takes a lot in him not to dump it over Laurent's head and turn him into some obsidian sheet ghost.

Politely, he drapes it around Laurent's shoulders and up over Laurent's head; it doesn't have a hood, but he brings it up enough for a makeshift one. The topside of it has been lacquered in something water-resistant, and the rain falls away. The inside is dry and smells like worn, soft leather.]

I can't enter any building, but I know a place to stay until the rain stops.

[wrists]

[ could he blame discomfort for his anger? he can't remember the last time he truly felt relaxed, when tension didn't hold him as taut as a stringed instrument. even now, he's ready to move in an instant, his muscles rigid, instincts coiled like a viper waiting to strike.

but D doesn't react in the expected way. laurent finds himself swathed in his cloak despite his protests, standing perfectly still as the cloth settles over him, effectively blocking out the rain. the material is reminiscent of the hat. instinctively, his uninjured hand comes up to clasp the cloak gently around his throat to keep it from slipping from his shoulders.

for a long moment, he says nothing. does nothing. water drips from his lashes, down the sharp angles of his cheeks, his damp hair framing his face. his nose is tinged red from the cold, and his fingers tighten around the soft cloak. this kindness feels like a thorny vine wrapped around his heart, tightening so the sharp points sink into flesh. he wavers, swallowing. the world seems to tilt, his balance lost. ]

You look at me differently now. [ his voice is detached, a mind desperate to sever itself from the body. this is the worst outcome he could have imagined. he would welcome vile, disparaging remarks over this — pitiful intimacy of being known. he wants to throw the cloak to the ground, turn on his heel and walk away. and yet he stands rooted to the spot, feeling as though the smallest movement could break him. ] This is not kindness. This is pity. You can't offer it to me because people will — they'll know.

[ he says it in a rush, his thoughts jumbled. a shiver moves through him, and not from the cold. it takes him another long moment to speak. ]

Until the rain stops. That's all.

[damnpire]

[He stands there long enough to allow Laurent to have a moment, to grow accustomed to the sliver of serenity the kindness and cloak offer. It isn’t much different than sitting some ways off from an untrusting animal, letting it get used to just your existence.]

No, [he says with level earnestness. He’d have done this for anyone, but doesn’t expect Laurent to give him that benefit.] You are the same rash, loud, foul-mouthed man I knew before.

Just now I understand why you think it’s necessary to be covered in thorns.

[He turns to walk ahead and lead. The lack of cloak has a similar effect to the lack of hat: he has been slimmed into something more his age, an extremely lean and muscular young man rather than a walking mountain of black. A little silly with the pauldrons only, the funny traveler’s hat, but he walks with the same measured and confident stride he always has.

The familiar croaking voice comes in pieces through the rain, hushed, like it’s for D:] Look, I know I … hard time … you think … a little risky … let … go over the… [D continues walking, looking straight ahead without acknowledgement.] Remember … last time. And … haven’t … blood. Eh? You … deny you’re … son— [D curls his left hand into a fist, and all the voice can do is let out a muffled mmph! of noise.]

[wrists]

[ it takes a measured breath and several moments of convincing himself before he follows, his steps light even on the wet road as he catches up, keeping a pace between them but walking side by side. ]

I'm not rash or loud, thank you. [ foul-mouthed, he is. but what seems rash is generally a well-thought out decision even if it sometimes can be a poor one. generally. there are moments where his anger gets the best of him, and then... the people here don't know him well enough to stay away.

laurent, between the sheets of loud downpour, picks up only bits of conversation (one-sided) between D and his mysterious parasite before D silences it entirely. he realizes then that his hand is still dripping blood, rivulets of pink running down his fingertips. he would be leaving a trail if the rain wasn't washing away the evidence of their steps. his hand feels stiff and numb, and he slowly draws it into the warmth of the cloak, blood seeping into the soft, dry fabric inside. ]

Your little friend — [ laurent gestures to D's left hand. ] Doesn't appear to like me.

[damnpire]

[Even if he disagreed, he does not try to argue with Laurent about the rashness or the loudness.

He continues walking, quiet, stride unhurried. Almost like he’s sour of spirit, perhaps the symbiote is quite skilled in hitting his sore spots. Though this is not necessarily a surprise having been with D for so long.]

There are only few it dislikes, [he finally says.] It acts as a Carbuncle does: caring only for its survival through the survival of its host.

[Not terribly far from the tavern they left, he takes them to a loophole: a dilapidated building with no discernible “threshold” he can be barred from passing, not when most of the front side has been peeled away. But there is still the overhang of a roof, and the interior is mostly dry and intact. The cold will plague them, however, until they get inside.

The back wall has the remnants of a hearth, and as D carefully steps through (wary that somehow the curse would have changed, or had some new stipulation), he goes straight for it. Laurent is left to be independent for now in what’s left of the dark carcass of the house.]