hadriel_logs | Intro Log: HOLY F*^K THAT'S A F*&KI%G DRAGON

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Intro Log: HOLY F^K THAT'S A F&KI%G DRAGON

Who: New arrivals and everyone else!
What: The intro log for October
Where: The colosseum and all around the city.
When: October 10th-13th
Warnings: New faces, new greeting posts, and dragons. What's more to want?

If your first thought upon waking up on the cold, hard ground of Hadriel's very own Colosseum is 'maybe I partied too hard last night', one, Delight would love you and two, you're wrong. Or- maybe you did, but that's not why you're here. Instead, you wake up with the same clothes you were wearing when you were last home, but surrounded by very different people. So, make some friends! Might as well voice your confusion and concern and show the technologically unsavvy of you how to operate these fancy new phones, right? Just be sure not to trip over these odd bags of chips on your way to greet your fellow man.

Don't spend too much time out in the open, though. There are monsters about, and not quite the usual ones. This month, Hadriel is bringing in four dragons, each with their own unique abilities and raidboss-esque stamina. They'll be terrorizing the city until someone puts them down- maybe that someone is you! Maybe you should, uh, actually hide. They're hungry and territorial and mean and they're definitely out for a good meal. Check out our OOC post for more information, as well as who will be eventually killing the beasts!

But hey, once you escape from the dragons, feel free to go explore the rest of the city! Find a house, find a new monster, or simply scavenge for supplies.

New, as of October's intro log is a Newcomer's guide that installs itself by default on every activated phone. Thanks, Mello!

Good luck, and enjoy your stay in Hadriel!

► This log covers October 10th-13th.
► Feel free to make your own logs as well!
► All characters arrive with phones that have network communication and the newbie guide installed.
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ As he's seated, the bag falls beside him, almost as if so intended. Hermeann leans to take it, fingers working idly at the plastic, not yet tearing it open.

Again he rolls his eyes. He should perhaps be less dismissive, less brusque, but -- ]

I know that, Mr. Sans. I was there. I am not an idiot. That is why I'm not angry and why, if Newton is, he overreacts.

[ It did sound like an indirect apology. That it is indirect annoys, simply because, ]

Of course, you did intend the last of it. 'Intend' may not be the right word, but it wasn't Miss Confusion's influence.

[ He was there. ]

It's our fault, too. We imposed no conditions. We aren't strangers to this sort of thing.

[ There had been Yao 'employees' sought after by those butchered childen, and many of them had been controlled, had not been in their right minds when serving the corporation. They knew well, had seen enough, that in such places, people could be made to do things they would not. Mr. Sans could just as easily have been puppeted or had his mind addled, compelling the choice to attack. They knew about his shortcuts; Hermann had not asked whether there was more. ]

[Newt's still bristling, though some of that eases a bit at the statement that he didn't mean it to happen. It still did and Newt definitely doesn't trust him as far as he can throw him, but hearing that is a hell of a lot better than hearing someone go on about blame and speeches and stuff]

[he bristles again, predictably, at Hermann] Yeah, well, maybe you're underreacting. [It's more petulant and annoyed than anything--and he's dropping down to sit next to Hermann, finishing opening his chips. But yeah, there's that whole business of that last part--the intended part. That's what's really bugging him.]

I mean, it's not the first time someone's powers have gone fucking haywire, and knowing our luck, it probably won't be the last. But--[and he shoves a chip in his mouth like a rude person]--there is that whole 'intentional' bit. [he waves a chip at Sans] So. There's that that needs explaining. [and chip going in the mouth again]

Intentional?

[Yeah, he...well. They ain't wrong. They ain't wrong, that's the bit that stings. And he's loathe to revisit that, that thing approachin' panic. That thing approaching memory. A blade stained red, the thing that would've, that did kill him.

His eyesockets droop closed.

He don't wanna think about this right now. He just - he wants to be away from them, the both of them, more than anything he just wants to be gone and he could just up and bash his head against a wall or a shelf and that'd be good enough, wouldn't it, good enough for 1 HP.

But, uh. That ain't his style.

It really ain't.]

Maybe not intentional.

[He shoves his hands into his pockets.]

[So. Now comes the part where he makes a decision.

How much he tells 'em. How much he trusts 'em. How much of this he's willing to salvage, to fix. How much he's gonna hold close to the chest. What's he told the kids now? How much have they figured about him now?

They know things he doesn't really tell anybody. Even Papyrus.

He knows what he did. What he did is - it's inexcusable, frankly. Even if he panicked, even if he fucked things up, even if he was tryin' to avoid gettin' skewered and reliving the dramatic and frankly traumatic mechanisms of his own death.

He's got a policy, you see.]

[A policy. When it comes to others. When it comes to himself. When it comes to everything he's ever done. Maybe he had a different means of doing things, a different methodology. But, uh. Yeah. That ain't happening anymore. He got that ripped outta him a long, long damn time ago.

He's got a policy, when people come to him. Askin' for answers. Askin' for anything, anything at all.

He's got a policy.]

[He's got a policy.

Works out real great for everyone, don't it?]

[So he makes a choice. He hates himself a little for it, but that's nothin' new. Only, uh. "Hate" ain't really the word. Hate takes time, and hate takes work. Mistrust, maybe. Dislike?

Well, heh. Like he said. Ain't new.

Sans opens his hand. Somethin' small and grayish materializes above his palm. It looks almost like a heart, only - upside-down. He looks at the pair of 'em with lidded sockets, lookin' resigned.]

This is a SOUL.

All monsters have 'em.

All monsters have 'em, [he continues, tiredly, and the little pinpricks of light in his sockets fix on the faint little fluttering thing there. It hovers inanely on the spot, innocuous. Like it ain't a constant threat to him. Like it ain't the weakest SOUL anyone's ever seen in their goddamn life.]

Mine's, uh...

[He chuckles. It ain't really got a lotta mirth to it. Ain't really got a lotta anything.]

Well, it's not what you'd call a strong SOUL. Y'know, uh...it doesn't take much for it to just -

[He closes his hand over it, and it disappears.]

Yeah. It doesn't take very much at all.

[His hands go back in his pockets. He looks at them both. Level.

You think bein' the judge of someone's SOUL and the content of their character is the hardest thing he's ever done? Maybe bein' the immovable object to halt someone's trajectory into the termination of all known existence? Nah. Nope. That ain't very difficult at all. It ain't very difficult, because he knows it doesn't matter. And this, uh.

Well. This, this right here. This honesty, blunted and straightforward and pained, this is - it's way harder. 'Cause for all he knows, this might be one of the first things in his life that'll stick.]

So I see someone comin' at me with a knife. I see a friend comin' at me with a knife, and I just kinda - maybe I panic, a little bit. [Another laugh, no less humorless, no less deprecating, no less resigned.] 'Cause it doesn't matter what you mean to do with it. If you're just tryin' to help. Point is, I can't afford to trust that you weren't gonna - [He makes a vague gesture in the general direction of his ribcage. The place where his hateful weakling of a SOUL is housed.] Even by accident.

That's all it takes.

[ (Let that be swept away -- maybe you're underreacting -- let there be intentionality, haphazard abilities, the fluctuations and probabilities of prisons managed by the sadistic. Let that be a passing snipe, the closure of the deflection, and not a simple, settling truth --

in the moment, in those moments, his body always does what bodies do, they fight, they hurt, the chemicals and hormones floor, and so terror, and so indignation, and so, and so, but rationality follows, but the certain sweep of the numbers, and it is daft to be indignant, because it was an accident, because it was probable, because what is he doing, anyway?, because something will do it, because Mr. Hope may not always bring them back, because eventually --)

Mr. Sans says much more than Hermann expected, expects.

He can no longer think, even now, that he says everything.

But then, Hermann does not want everything. A person like Hermann, with his walls, with his distance, with titles that say respect for respect but also we are not friends, we are not close, would not want the burden of everything. Would not expect it. Would never himself give it.

He does not need the entire story from Mr. Sans, but he needed more than the slippery dregs of before.

Mr. Sans speaks and the plastic tears beneath Hermann's fingers, which will not cease in fidgeting movements, though nothing else in or of him would betray it. His fingertips brush orange skin and something grey flickers over Mr. Sans's bone palm. They have seen so much -- his eyebrows shift, but there can only be so much surprise for this sort of thing.

Hermann leans, slightly, as if that would help him better see it, understand it. A SOUL. His own SOUL?

It doesn't take much -- even the accidental graze of a knife -- and with Mr. Sans already disoriented, distressed by the taxing toll of his vast abilities exerting, pinning himself, panic is certainly understandable, if a touch insulting, because -- ]

[ It doesn't take very much at all.

Even by accident.

That's all it takes.

The fragility of those bones.

Hermann's eyes narrow, scattered memories clicking into an ordered sequence. Had Mr. Sans crossed the room, even cut across, for a pillow? For a pillow? Hermann had not been paying attention then -- ]

What is wrong with you?!

[ It bursts out of him, abrupt and snarling, low. He's so agitated, he grabs at Newton's shoulder to shove himself to his feet, shaking the bag of carrots at Mr. Sans. ]

How little are you inferring? Is it only a blade? The graze of a blade? What if I threw a carrot at you? What if I'd nudged you hard with my cane, trying to get you away from the laundry? Did you -- how weak -- How close was I to killing you every time I threw wild at Newton, or right at you?!

[ (And -- if he is that weak, that susceptible to even blunt objects -- there was more to that knife.

But Hermann does not want everything.) ]

Good heavens, man! -- Skeleton! You've enough preserving instinct to flip the room, but not to say a damned thing? We do not live gently!

[Newt listens. He's been doing a lot of that lately, as unlike him as it is. It's a peculiar thing to just...sit and take it in. At least he stops eating the chips. And that's....that's a piece of information that Newt was not expecting to be given. He stares at the little grey heart as Sans's fingers close around it and it disappears.

That's a SOUL. And Sans's is weak. So weak, that it could've--they could've--Newt could've--

It suddenly feels like there's a lead weight in his stomach. Because the thought of that--even accidentally, it's terrifying. But Hermann's suddenly bursting out with a snarl, causing Newt to startle even as he's unceremoniously used as a bracer for Hermann to get up. It's not really that big of a deal though, as Newt's going to push to his feet as Hermann justifiably yells at Sans, basically saying exactly what Newt might have. So, as Hermann continues to do that, Newt's just gonna...walk forward until he's standing in front of Sans--at which point he's going to drop to a knee so that they're at least on a much closer level]

[at which point, he's going to reach out and (very gently) put his hands on Sans's shoulders, look him in the eye(socket,) and state, with utmost weight:]

Dude. You're an idiot.

Edited 2016-10-14 23:46 (UTC)

[at which point he's going to use that grip on Sans's shoulders to tug him into a tentative hug. Because that's just what Newt does in times like these. He never has the appropriate words; he's traditionally pretty bad at that whole "reading social cues" thing in general so, like...this is what he has. He can't say it's okay or that it's alright, because the idea that there's a strong chance they've nearly killed him on accident before is awful and it sits heavy in Newt's chest--it's upsetting, okay??? And Newt doesn't have a solution to it. Except this.

So

yeah.]

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sans.exe has stopped working and needs to close.]

[So he's being - he's being yelled at. He's getting a thing of carrots shaken at him. He's being told he's an idiot and now he's, uh...

He's being hugged??

Is it just him, or are all these things extremely disparate? He's been yelled at. He's been called an idiot. He's been told he's reckless, dishonest, moronic. He's been hugged.

But not all at the same time.

What is happening here.]

So, uh. Just to clarify here.

[Sans's voice emerges as a weak little straggling thing as he looks between the guy hugging him and the guy who's just shaken a bag of carrots at him with something approaching beseeching bafflement.]

Are you, uh...mad at me, or upset, or, uh...what? 'Cause I'm gettin' real mixed messages here.

[ As Newton kneels, Hermann ducks down with a frustrated grunt to grab at his cane. Indeed, grab at, as his equally disturbed fingers need a few attempts before he gets hold of it, turning it upright. Once he's straightened, his chin jutting in irate defiance, Newton's hugging Mr. Sans.

Hermann hangs back, as he does, his scowl still a heavy weight that droops in his lips, makes crooked his jaw -- but his eyes lack the ferocity. They are softer. It presents itself in the easing of the creases on his forehead.

When Mr. Sans finally speaks, looking and sounding wholly -- well, mixed -- Hernmann snaps, without leaving a milisecond of room for Newton, ]

Yes.

[ Drawing himself straighter too, he fumbles, and fumbles, and fumbles still, with getting the bag of carrots under his elbow, so he can tug at his sweater vest (...the one imprinted with skulls...), at his blazer, fussing with a singed thread. ]

Because I am often angered by abominable, inconsiderate stupidity.

[ And, really, Hermann angry -- water is wet. ]

Besides, [ the kicking gravel in his tone smoothing, somewhat, ] with your experience, you shouldn't have any problem with mixed messages.

[alright, that's enough of a hug, and Sans sounds bewildered enough. So Newt's gonna release him, glancing over his shoulder at Hermann, before pushing to his feet. He snorts at the end of that, standing so he can see the both of them at once.]

Don't worry, it just means he cares.

[:> flippantly, but of course with that shit-eating grin aimed in Hermann's direction]

[It's at times like these that Sans really wishes he had an esophagus or a set of lungs or something, 'cause it'd be real handy to cough or clear his throat or do something to fill the expectant silence. Hermann is...mad, but not really at him? Maybe? It just means he cares?

Maybe that means he really is more like Papyrus than Sans gave him credit for, huh?

Fortunately, something that draws his eyesocket very handily solves that minor conundrum of what the hell he's supposed to say next for him.

So he goes for it without shame.]

Woah. You have a skull-print sweater?

[ At Newton's qualifying comment, that deliberately antagonizing grin, the incongruity of Hermann's jaw furthers, deepened by the severity of his scowl. His eyes roll hard enough to hurt, a long show of the whites.

Yet, though he mutters, Please, he dos not otherwise dispute it.

It seems to do so

would be dishonest.

He does not appreciate it being laid so bare, however, and frowns further at and only at the bag -- until of all things -- Hermann's chin whips up, his jaw, mouth setting petulant. ]

One of Mr. Hope's gifts when he sought Hadriel beautified. It is a sweater. It is clothing. What. of. it.?

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7/7 DONE

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1/3ish?

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3/3

1/?? aGAIN IM SO SORRY

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DONE

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