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.
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Well whatever it was, you are alive. We are both alive, and we can recover. Together once more, as always, the otherworldly being attempts to reassure. I am nearly back. Just hold on a little longer, alright? Then we will get this all sorted.
He has to believe that they can. He does not like what he's feeling across the Mote, how... tenuous it is. But his life force has been enough to prop his partner up so far, and he'll give whatever it takes so that the young cleric can hold on.
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I... He stops. Glacius is trying to reassure him, and he should do the same, yet he cannot fight the feeling it'd be nothing more than a lie. He goes for something that is somewhere between the two: I am alive. There is that much.
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Take whatever you need from me to keep yourself going, Glacius continues. I will be back to you shortly. I promise. I promise you, Carlisle, I... and I am sorry. I never should have left your side.
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Carlisle has enough sense to insist that immediately, knowing how utterly oppressive guilt can be. Even in his terrified state, that is a truth he cannot deny.
He pulls in a breath, trying to steady himself, dipping his toes into the metaphysical energies of the Mote; it feels as though they will drag him away almost immediately, and rather than the euphoria he is accustomed to with such inundation, fear dominates him once more. It bleeds through the Mote as thick and horribly as the ink across his abdomen, barely held back by what determination he can muster. He cannot die here. Ravine may have helped close his wound, but he can still feel himself ebbing away, getting lost completely in energies that are not his own. His head pounds, his fingers curling against his scalp.
He needs grounding. He needs Glacius. They are real, he reminds himself; if he cannot trust his own feelings through the paranoia, he can believe in them.
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As he communicates, he continues to push himself towards the inland. Up out of the surf, slapping against the shore with the waves; he then reverts to his natural form and continues his desperate journey. It is a very rare thing to see the alien run, but that's exactly what he's doing now, as if any extra second he spends away from his partner could further his deterioration.
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Everyone disappeared, Glacius. The false gods, the citizens -- everyone, save for a few... and the monsters. We likely would have been separated.
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And then the boiling anger is washed over by a wave of confusion and uncertainty. What has happened should not be possible. A Bond through the Mote isn't something that he's ever heard of being able to be interfered with by an outside party. Did the gods plan this, or was it simply an unintended side effect of tampering with one or both ends of the link? Whatever the case, he needs to find a way to help his partner with his condition in a tangible way even sooner than he thought, lest something else happen and Carlisle slips away from him in a way that's actually real.
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Glacius.
He lets his partner's name rest in a pause, feeling something more akin to trepidation wash over him -- over them both, he's sure. He can sense that uncertainty, but cannot read directly into the icy warrior's thoughts, and so he makes a measured, quiet guess. He's usually the one so embittered, so frustrated out of the two of them -- it's odd how the tables can turn sometimes.
Let us focus on... the now. Your anger is justified, but it must wait. Are you close?
He can feel himself already buckling from exhaustion, his legs too weary to carry him, his energies too thin to support him on their own.
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Just hold on a little longer, I am but mere minutes from you. You are still near the clinic, yes?
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He trails off, trying to recall. He feels so utterly exhausted, as though if he closed his eyes for too long he might drift off, despite the pain, tears, and ink; however, it's when he does that everything seems to stand still, the world outside him silenced, fading.
He shakes his head. Can't sleep. It is there that he's closer to his greatest fears. Instead, he tries to get to his feet, but they completely fail him, and back down to the ground he goes.
I know I'm near the Clinic. One of the stores. I- I needed some things.
Bandages, mostly.
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This might seem like an overly-fanciful way of thinking that's leaping too far into the future too quickly, but its purpose is to keep Carlisle awake and with him as much as it is to inspire hope. Getting the cleric to think and focus will hopefully keep him from drifting off while he makes the last legs of his journey... and the ice alien knows his voice has managed to ground his partner in the past. Hopefully all of these factors can work together to help Carlisle endure, even when it seems like so many things are conspiring against them.
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I want you to hold me.
It's something he'd like right now, actually, not just waiting for that nebulous, hypothetical day when he will suddenly be well, uncursed and unburdened. He knows Glacius is trying to instill hope within him -- and perhaps within himself, though he has yet to see with his own eyes how dire things really are -- and so Carlisle continues.
We could explore the ocean a bit. Just near the islands, but that's... quite far for me. I could work on an enchantment to allow me to breathe beneath the depths. With you, I believe I would be safe.
Oh, but that monster that attacked him is down there now. On the other hand, it didn't seem to be able to swim, so...
I don't know if I could learn to swim, but when I am with you, there is no need.
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It certainly does to the alien, though he's aware they have to make it to that point first; he's still pushing himself in his dogged run, the clinic drawing nearer and nearer. Once he reaches that familiar building he immediately starts looking around for Carlisle, though it might be easier for the cleric to spot him first, given the alien's hulking figure and his own prone position on the ground.
no subject
Though his answer comes through the Mote, his voice is quieter still, the voice of his partner and presence through their Bond enough to lull him into a sense of security for the first time in days. He'd like to close his eyes to imagine the reef -- it has always helped him envision things in his mind's eye when he closes his true ones; however, he fears what lurks in the darkness when he does, what lingers on the edge of his periphery in both this world and others. The fear he might not awaken is enough to stir him into speaking again.
I have only seen what reefs look like in illustrations. The waters around Bear Den are not particularly warm -- not really the right place for such things.
Glacius might not find Carlisle in his search, but tracking him down isn't too difficult: he left a trail of ink behind him. In some places, it isn't much more than a footprint and some droplets; in others, it is a thick, viscous pool, more congealed than it has ever been. At the door of the building he's using as his sanctuary are handprints, a dark puddle spilling across the threshold.
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... On second thought, the alien wishes he hasn't wondered, knowing that might just be what his partner is headed toward. He follows the dark trail with even more urgency before, finally making his way inside and spotting his lover in a crumpled heap.
"Carlisle—!" Glacius cries out, breaking the mental link in his horror as he dashes over and skids into kneel next to his partner. The warrior leans over, helping the cleric sit up with a careful hand at his back; it only takes a second of taking in the pallor of the human's features and the absolute greyness of his hair before he's wrapping him up in a concerned embrace instead.
"I'm here, Carlisle. It's alright, it's... it's going to be alright," the ice alien murmurs, cradling his partner tightly; his words seem like they are as much to convince himself as they are to reassure the human, at this point.
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"Ah. There you are." His voice is raspy, barely a whisper, yet the corner of his mouth twitches as he leans against Glacius' chest, the barest hint of a smile crossing him as he finally feels safe enough to close his eyes. "I feel... better already."
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The ice alien keeps the cleric tucked against his chest, but releases him with one arm to manifest his Mote in his palm. It rotates and thrums mere inches from Carlisle's chest, spilling its warm light over the both of them, inviting the ailing human to partake in its energies.
"You must let me restore you, even if temporarily. I cannot afford to let you sleep until I am sure that you have the strength to wake once more."
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"How gentle can you be?" he asks, both in earnest and in jest -- his humor only shows at the most macabre at times, it seems, but he cannot help but take advantage of the reprieve his partner has given him simply with his appearance. "A strong breeze could knock me off my feet, much less the... currents you provide. I..." Another breath, in and out, as he tries to focus his eyes. "I haven't the control necessary Not presently."
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He reaches out to brush his fingers along the Mote, his hand trembling as it connects -- the light in his eyes explodes in intensity, drowning out his pupils entirely. The current indeed pulls at him, and however gentle Glacius may be, Carlisle himself is truly worn too thin. What energy there is of his own is awash immediately: he feels himself being pulled down, out, toward that terrible maw within him—
Carlisle shudders as he pulls away, his chest heaving as he gasps for air. He mutters an apology under his breath -- he is certainly awake now, if nothing else.
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He heaves a sad, weary sigh, not feeling at all like he's helped in the way he has wanted to. "What say we head home? You need rest, and I need a chance to think, to figure this out."
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"Please," he returns; his voice is steadier, even with his uneven respiration. "I hardly made it here. No doubt I could not make it back now. My decision to venture out was at the worst of times, it seems."
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—Realizing his focus is being pulled away from what is really important, the ice alien stops himself and nods instead. He rises to his feet, hoisting Carlisle with all the gentle strength he can muster. "Perhaps... perhaps my focus has been too divided for too long," Glacius muses, at first seemingly to himself, but then he flicks his green eyes down to regard his partner through his peripheral vision as he starts walking.
"I thought that getting those fragments... leaving you alone... I thought that I was doing it for us. To pave the way for a better life that we may share, in a safer world," the otherworldly being continues, followed by a grimace. "But maybe... maybe I was doing it for myself just as much. I want to leave this place, desperately so—I have ever since I got here. I will not act on that yearning ever again if it could put you at risk, Carlisle. From here on out... until I am sure that you are safe... I will always be at your side. I promise you."
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Ah. But the thought of him going with Glacius was more of a hopeful afterthought to the main priority: getting Glacius back to his people, to his home he so desperately wished to return to. That was bigger and more important than them in the long run, wasn't it? Carlisle had certainly managed to convince himself of that, but he'd always looked at his lifespan as short, temporary. Getting Glacius home would make his partner happy for far longer than he ever could.
And perhaps, with that line of thinking, he too had blinded himself to what was truly important: them. He'd swallowed down his anxieties, but it wasn't from some newfound bravery, but the desire to do what was best for Glacius. They had both been fools in that regard.
"Your intentions were good, my friend," Carlisle continues, looking toward Glacius' face; his own is a mess, but he tries to be reassuring.
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The alien pauses, experiencing how odd and terrible those words feel coming out of his gills; they pull at him, stabbing at his hearts to consider. But he knows, now, it isn't the worst thing that he could experience. No, the worst thing has been watching Carlisle suffer so terribly from his curse; it has been holding the cleric as his life threatens to slip away from him in the thick, inky rivers that seep from old wounds. Glacius shudders, his grimace twisting into an expression of outright remorse... but then resolve, as he finally finds the final point he needed to cement the mindset that he'd been working towards for so long in this place.
"... Even if I never do leave," Glacius starts again, "...It would be alright, so long as I get to keep you with me."
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