Carlisle Longinmouth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tongueamok) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2018-09-01 02:38 am
tongueamok) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-09-01 02:38 am
Entry tags:
Everything Fades
Who: Carlisle Longinmouth (tongueamok), Glacius (glacius), & [open]!
What: Deserted Event Nearly Kills Local Cleric. You Won't Believe What He Looks Like Now!
Where: Memorial Garden, North Island
When: August 31st - September 8thish
Warnings: Just a general catch-all for Carlisle for the early month! Probably going to be some sad topics like impending death, terminal illness, and suicidal ideation, so PG-13ish. Will update!
Shops, Western Island [closed to Glacius]
In good news, people are showing up again -- people, not monsters. The bad news is that Carlisle is still a complete wreck. He's alive, yes, and moving, both improvements over... well, all the alternatives: alive but not moving, dead and not moving, moving regardless of how dead he is. Yes, alive and moving is certainly the most preferable combination of those two words, no matter how utterly exhausted he feels.
The first of his current problems (or at least the problems that move themselves to the forefront of his mind, as he'd rather focus on what he can control over what he cannot) is his appearance: his hands are trembling, his legs doing the same as they struggle to hold him up. His glasses are cracked, his clothing torn, and though he hasn't yet seen his reflection, he's positive his hair is a complete and utter disaster. Worst is that there's ink all over him, traces clinging to the crevices of his skin, blotches soaked all the through the fabric of his jacket, his pants, and his tabard. That last one is particularly grievous, the dark mark spreading all the way across the emblem of his order, marking what wounds lie beneath.
He can still feel ink seeping from them, the old scars having been torn asunder by the incredible duress his body had been through only a day prior. He may have stopped coughing, and the ink might have finally ceased trailing from his eye, but he can still feel that tear eating him from the inside. He's sure of it.
And that brings him to his second problem: he cannot possibly get home on his own. He'd been in fair health when rowing himself to the western island from the northern one, but now? With his hands shaking as they are, his head thundering, and his heart feeling as though it might pound its way out of his ribcage?
He puts a hand to his chest, leaning against the wall of the darkened, empty store he's tucked himself away in for the time being. It is pounding, isn't it? But there's a familiar energy behind it, something he hasn't felt in days. Fear strikes as suddenly as a knife, apprehension abound -- what will Glacius think when he finds out? There will be guilt, certainly. Carlisle knows his partner well enough to know that much. Anger, perhaps. Frustration at their circumstances... and desperation to change them. All things Carlisle himself has felt in spades.
As badly as he wants to spare Glacius the heartache of this revelation, Carlisle knows he cannot hide this from him -- more importantly, he doesn't want to hide this from him, nor does he want to bear this alone. Burying his head in his hands, the throbbing behind his eyes nearly drowns out the sob that rattles from the back of his throat as his hopelessness finally catches up to him. The distance between them feels endless, but he reaches out regardless through the Mote.
Glacius?
Memorial Garden, Northern Isle [open]
Those who haven't been to the Memorial Garden lately might notice a change in it. First is the decor: with the trees gone, it's more obvious that the shrubs and bushes in the area have been properly pruned over the past few weeks, the foliage trimmed into tight shapes -- mostly orbs, but one is more of a pyramid. The markers themselves haven't moved, but around several of them are soft patches of soil, ones containing clippings from a shrubby plant with flowers as clear as glass. One marker in particular has the start of a curvy stalk buried next to it, the single, thorny leaf attached to it curling against itself.
And in addition to the new landscaping is its latest regular gardener, Carlisle Longinmouth. The garden has changed, and for those who know him, so has Carlisle. His already pale skin is nearly white now, sharply contrasted only by the dark marks under his eyes; what brown there was in his hair has now faded entirely, leaving behind only dull, grey locks. The only features that have any real color at all are his eyes, and what color there is -- they glow vibrantly now, the blue light behind them bright even bhind his glasses, so strong that it nearly drowns out his pupils.
Even his attire has seen some changes for the time being. Gone are his usual vestments, the blue pants and jacket replaced with a sweater and slacks. His tabard remains, now marred by a black stain that runs horizontally across it at his abdomen. At some angles, the head of a penguin can be seen hiding behind his ruined tabard. Given he looks as though he's been put through the wringer several times, he hopes no one notices, or at least has the courtesy to not ask about it.
Being on the same island as his personal garden, it wasn't hard for him to transplant some of the more stable plants over the past weeks, just something to spruce the place up... and to, perhaps, better commemorate those they've lost over the years. He looks almost lost himself as he wanders among the names, stopping beside one in particular and contemplating just how long it may be before his name ends up there.
Despite the penguin sweater, most people wouldn't describe him as a cheery fellow, even on his good days. Perhaps the caretaker of a place of sobering remembrance suits him more than he'll ever admit.
tongueamok), Glacius (glacius), & [open]!What: Deserted Event Nearly Kills Local Cleric. You Won't Believe What He Looks Like Now!
Where: Memorial Garden, North Island
When: August 31st - September 8thish
Warnings: Just a general catch-all for Carlisle for the early month! Probably going to be some sad topics like impending death, terminal illness, and suicidal ideation, so PG-13ish. Will update!
Shops, Western Island [closed to Glacius]
In good news, people are showing up again -- people, not monsters. The bad news is that Carlisle is still a complete wreck. He's alive, yes, and moving, both improvements over... well, all the alternatives: alive but not moving, dead and not moving, moving regardless of how dead he is. Yes, alive and moving is certainly the most preferable combination of those two words, no matter how utterly exhausted he feels.
The first of his current problems (or at least the problems that move themselves to the forefront of his mind, as he'd rather focus on what he can control over what he cannot) is his appearance: his hands are trembling, his legs doing the same as they struggle to hold him up. His glasses are cracked, his clothing torn, and though he hasn't yet seen his reflection, he's positive his hair is a complete and utter disaster. Worst is that there's ink all over him, traces clinging to the crevices of his skin, blotches soaked all the through the fabric of his jacket, his pants, and his tabard. That last one is particularly grievous, the dark mark spreading all the way across the emblem of his order, marking what wounds lie beneath.
He can still feel ink seeping from them, the old scars having been torn asunder by the incredible duress his body had been through only a day prior. He may have stopped coughing, and the ink might have finally ceased trailing from his eye, but he can still feel that tear eating him from the inside. He's sure of it.
And that brings him to his second problem: he cannot possibly get home on his own. He'd been in fair health when rowing himself to the western island from the northern one, but now? With his hands shaking as they are, his head thundering, and his heart feeling as though it might pound its way out of his ribcage?
He puts a hand to his chest, leaning against the wall of the darkened, empty store he's tucked himself away in for the time being. It is pounding, isn't it? But there's a familiar energy behind it, something he hasn't felt in days. Fear strikes as suddenly as a knife, apprehension abound -- what will Glacius think when he finds out? There will be guilt, certainly. Carlisle knows his partner well enough to know that much. Anger, perhaps. Frustration at their circumstances... and desperation to change them. All things Carlisle himself has felt in spades.
As badly as he wants to spare Glacius the heartache of this revelation, Carlisle knows he cannot hide this from him -- more importantly, he doesn't want to hide this from him, nor does he want to bear this alone. Burying his head in his hands, the throbbing behind his eyes nearly drowns out the sob that rattles from the back of his throat as his hopelessness finally catches up to him. The distance between them feels endless, but he reaches out regardless through the Mote.
Glacius?
Memorial Garden, Northern Isle [open]
Those who haven't been to the Memorial Garden lately might notice a change in it. First is the decor: with the trees gone, it's more obvious that the shrubs and bushes in the area have been properly pruned over the past few weeks, the foliage trimmed into tight shapes -- mostly orbs, but one is more of a pyramid. The markers themselves haven't moved, but around several of them are soft patches of soil, ones containing clippings from a shrubby plant with flowers as clear as glass. One marker in particular has the start of a curvy stalk buried next to it, the single, thorny leaf attached to it curling against itself.
And in addition to the new landscaping is its latest regular gardener, Carlisle Longinmouth. The garden has changed, and for those who know him, so has Carlisle. His already pale skin is nearly white now, sharply contrasted only by the dark marks under his eyes; what brown there was in his hair has now faded entirely, leaving behind only dull, grey locks. The only features that have any real color at all are his eyes, and what color there is -- they glow vibrantly now, the blue light behind them bright even bhind his glasses, so strong that it nearly drowns out his pupils.
Even his attire has seen some changes for the time being. Gone are his usual vestments, the blue pants and jacket replaced with a sweater and slacks. His tabard remains, now marred by a black stain that runs horizontally across it at his abdomen. At some angles, the head of a penguin can be seen hiding behind his ruined tabard. Given he looks as though he's been put through the wringer several times, he hopes no one notices, or at least has the courtesy to not ask about it.
Being on the same island as his personal garden, it wasn't hard for him to transplant some of the more stable plants over the past weeks, just something to spruce the place up... and to, perhaps, better commemorate those they've lost over the years. He looks almost lost himself as he wanders among the names, stopping beside one in particular and contemplating just how long it may be before his name ends up there.
Despite the penguin sweater, most people wouldn't describe him as a cheery fellow, even on his good days. Perhaps the caretaker of a place of sobering remembrance suits him more than he'll ever admit.
no subject
He doesn't ever want to experience that again.
"How did I manage?" He chuckles, low and with a twinge of bitterness. "Not well."
Trying to rationalize it he continues, "No one's dead or injured, so I suppose it went as well as could be hoped. Given.... the circumstances."
The circumstances as well as his entire mental state which is being held together by sheer force of will. He shakes his head, not wanting to think too deeply on it.
"And yourself?"
no subject
"Have you seen many of the monsters that dwell here? The ones brought from the Door?"
no subject
"I've seen the bugs. And the kind of cow things. But not many more than that." Though he vaguely recalls that someone from the lab had been collecting them. And taste testing them. Eugh.
"What kind of monsters are we talking about here?"
no subject
He stoops, his body stiff as it struggles to make it to the ground; once there, he digs through his satchel and finds his journal, his hand shaking as he uncaps his pen and begins to draw a rough approximation of the creature that attacked him. He wasn't kidding about those limbs.
no subject
Alright maybe he needed to get out more, but if staying inside kept him from encountering that then he's fine with his current plan of: never leave home again.
He wants to ask Carlisle if he's okay; he's shaking, looks stiff and uncomfortable, and he's far, far more pale than Pratt remembers. But he hates when people ask him that because the answer is always 'no.' And he can't think of a better way to phrase it.
"I take it these things aren't friendly." He says sarcastically. Because of course they wouldn't be, nothing he'd met so far that wasn't a sentient person had been friendly. Even some of the people had tried to kill him, so he's assuming everything is hostile until proven otherwise.
no subject
He draws another line, a horizontal one that juts downward at the edge of the page. "I ran from it, but it caught up to me at the cliffs. For all its legs, it could not swim."
no subject
Maybe there's other answers here, maybe Carlisle shoved it, maybe it fell, maybe it didn't see the cliff and walked off it. But the most likely answer is that Carlisle, out of options, jumped into the water from a cliff and this thing tried to follow.
"Jesus. I'm glad you got away." Though it doesn't appear as if he escaped unscathed. "Were you injured?"
no subject
He certainly doesn't look like he tumbled onto any rocks, unless landing on the shore somehow knocked all the color out of him. Seemingly aware of that, he continues. "I am a healer by trade, but my injuries were... truly awful. It took more of me than I could have imagined."
no subject
Holy shit, how is he not shattered into ten thousand pieces? Every few years someone tries to rock climb back home without any safety gear and splatters off a cliff. Either they die from their wounds, die of exposure, or have to be lifted out of there via helicopter to the hospital in Missoula. Being the helicopter pilot, Pratt got to hear all the details as EMTs tried to save them, usually to no avail.
"You can heal yourself? Well that's good." Though it looks like it didn't come easy. "Are you gonna make it?"
no subject
"Did you wish to see my garden?" he asks. "It's not far from here."
no subject
"I do, if you're feeling up to it." This place is nice as well, but it's tainted by the fact that it's commemorating deaths. Very peaceful and relaxing, but there's the underlying current of sadness that's present in all places like this.
Uuugggh Sorry this took me so long!
He wasn't wrong about the garden not being far; it's within eyeshot of the Memorial Garden now that the trees that once filled the area are gone. Within ten minutes they are there, the green monument on the horizon revealing itself to be a lush garden as they get closer. Poles and stones make up the various structures to hold the vines of his coilers, their tendrils reaching passively for them both as they draw near; most of the plants near the ground are contained in patches surrounded by stonework, each rock carefully chosen and placed according to its size for maximum stability.
At the center of the garden is a small cottage that doubles as his work shed, though if the curtain and plants sitting in the window are any indication, it serves as a home away from home. The beds around it hold an array of smaller plants, some with curved, thorny claws, and others dotted with powder as white as fresh snow. Needless to say, this place wasn't here when the city with its strange spires was built. It looks as out of time as a cleric like himself in the modern world.
"You'll have to forgive my coilers for being a bit overgrown," he notes, eyeing the eyes on the canopies as they shift and move, so slowly that one might think they weren't moving at all. "I haven't been as diligent with pruning as of late."
no subject
"It's wonderful." And he means it. Not only can he appreciate the time and attention that went into a place like this, but the plants themselves are so strange and unusual that he could wander around the space for a long time just observing them.
"Where did you get all of these plants?"
no subject
"I bargained for them," he answers quietly, his fingers brushing against the translucent petals of a glassweed blossom. "With Sorrow. He demanded I destroy something precious in return for them, and I did."
no subject
"You made your sacrifice." He sounds a little impressed, his voice soft with reverence. "I never could."
To be fair he had never been put through the trials so he doesn't know for sure if he could kill someone he cared about in Jacob's honor. But he's pretty sure he'd fail miserably. Now that he's away from the cult he's starting to think the reason he never had to go through Jacob's trials like every other recruit was because the Herald knew he would fail and didn't want to kill him before he became a useful tool.
But that's a thought for another time. The less he thinks about the Project at Eden's Gate the better. And here in this little garden, a bit of Eden in this miserable place, it's easy to forget about them and all they've done.
Pratt looks back at the garden, "It was worth it. Look what you achieved here!"
Sacrifices must be made.