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ph_memes2023-12-10 08:04 am
December Mini-TDM - "The Dead of Winter"
[Mod Note: This is a Mini-TDM (previously just called an "Open" post) because we were technically due for a fresh bi-monthly TDM. However, due to the light-duty December schedule and the fact that a December-themed TDM that also works for January is kind of limiting, we're doing a single-month mini-TDM now with a new two-month TDM coming in January! This public post is open to both new and existing players/characters. Please mind the content warnings, and enjoy!]
Pumpkin Hollow Gazette
12/10/2023 | Mini-TDM - "The Dead of Winter"
Content Warnings: "Further Details" section has independent CW labels.
Pumpkin Hollow continues to welcome new residents!
HOLIDAY BAZAAR NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS
By Yorick Aberdeen
MAIN STREET - Splendid news, Pumpkin Hollowites! In preparation for Givingstide, the annual Main Street Holiday Bazaar is now open from now until the end of the month in Downtown Hollow! With the failed-then-rescheduled Dance of Celestine debacle behind us, we could all use a bit of festive cheer as Marrow Isle enters its most difficult season. Come down to Town Hall for a simple game that comes with fantastic prizes, then enjoy an afternoon on the town! Enjoy the spectacle of festive decorations amid snowy streets, and find any number of finely crafted gifts to share with your loved ones this Givingstide.
Long-time residents, please remember that for the first time in a long while we have residents who have never experienced a Pumpkin Hollow Givingstide before. It is important that we show our best and most festive hospitality to newer residents, and comfort anyone who might be homesick during this time. Have a Blessed Givingstide, and may your lantern always be lit!New Oven Installed; Pizza Feast Commences
By Cecil Gershwin Palmer
The oven in question.
NORTHWEST HOLLOW - Local blacksmith River LaCroix has built a free-standing pizza oven on the farm belonging to Arthur Morgan.
Pizza, first created by Francisco Pizarro in the early 1500s before his assassination by Gavrilo Princip, is a food celebrated for its flavor and the variety of possible topping combinations it has. It begins with a base of dough, traditionally made from wheat or wheat by-products. This is then topped with a sauce (tomato is traditional, though other varieties involve barbecue sauce or chocolate sauce) and a cheese that melts easily, along with any vegetables, fruit, meat or other vaguely edible ingredients one desires. Spicy sausages called pepperoni are very popular, as well as mushrooms, peppers and even chunks of pineapple. Anyone who tells you that pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza is simply incorrect and should not be trusted.
In celebration of the new oven’s creation, free personal-sized pizzas will be cooked and shared with all residents of Pumpkin Hollow, funded by local reporter Cecil Gershwin Palmer. Arthur Morgan’s farm is easily reached by trolley, or on foot if you’re scared of trolleys. But it really is a long walk, so just ride with a friend if you’re scared, really, they won’t hurt you. At least, we don’t think they will. Then again, considering how riding the train went in November, you never know…
Regardless! Pizza, Arthur Morgan’s farm, free food, perhaps even drinks? We look forward to seeing you there.
FESTIVE FIEND SIGHTED ACROSS MARROW ISLE
By Yorick Aberdeen
The jingling menace.
ISLAND-WIDE - Reports of a mysterious horned creature sporting strangely seasonally appropriate attire have come in from all over the island over the past week. Witnesses say that this apparently demonic holiday entity somewhat resembles our local Pine Devil, but has curled ram horns instead of antlers and is wingless. He is also apparently capable of speech, as victims claim to have heard him speaking about “wicked deeds” and “naughty behavior” and repeating a gibberish word occasionally--- “Christmas.” The reports detail multiple instances of harassment as well as public acts of violence that are definitely not comical in any way. It is absolutely in no way hilarious to see someone get smacked with a stick in broad daylight by an evil satyr wearing Givingstide getup and jingling festively, and this matter is extremely serious.
Despite resisting arrest and avoiding being detained by the constabulary on numerous occasions, the demon was strangely available for comment. He has identified himself as Krampus the “Christmas” Devil and had this to say of his crimes: “It’s my proud duty and a longstanding tradition that I punish the naughty and wicked every holiday season. It’s practically a civil service, if you ask me. Maybe if you didn’t want to be attacked, you might stop being such a troublemaker and be a blessing to your neighbor for a bit. Or don’t. More fun for me that way.” He then proceeded to take a large fistful of candies from the bowl on Miss Leeds' desk and disappeared in a puff of snow, leaving the carpet wet.
Anyone with any further information about this Krampus creature should reach out to the constabulary with tips. Any noteworthy reports are appreciated!
MOURNER’S NIGHT PROCESSION INFORMATION
By Yorick Aberdeen
The town's lone hearse, prepared for duty after annual maintenance.
FALL'S PROMISE CEMETERY - While it is always easy to get swept up in the jolly festivities of Givingstide, it is important that we also remember to pay homage to the spirits of those we have lost and the goddess who guides them, and whose protection we seek in this most difficult time of the year. Each winter, when the world is at its darkest and its coldest, we take to the streets and process to Fall’s Promise in the tradition of our age old funeral practices. Mayor Poe will have the honor of leading us this year.
To participate, join us in the streets at 6:00pm. Dress warmly, as it has been snowing quite a bit this past week and will not have melted. The procession will begin promptly once everyone has their candles lit, so please be timely and even early if you are able.
Please inquire at the Temple of Sacred Roots if you have any questions regarding Mourner’s Night.
Page 1
Holiday Bazaar
Main Street is beautifully decorated, each lamp post strung together with pine garlands and cranberry strings. The frigid air preserves them perfectly and coats them all in a light frost. Windows of shops glow warmly with festive decorations. Images of horses, either alone or drawing carriages or sleighs, can be seen everywhere. Advertisements for sales and specials dot the street corners and the air is full of delicious smells--- coffee, chocolate, sugar, fruit, roasted meat. Booths are also placed along the streets near Town Hall, and merchants hawk their wares. Artisan crafts and jarred preserves, decorations and novelties, all manner of thoughtful gifts. Givingstide approaches, they declare!
What is Givingstide, you ask? Why, any local will gladly tell you! It’s the festival of midwinter, anticipating the return of spring. Warmer weather, longer days, fresh food, all drawing ever nearer as Winter reaches its peak. Gifts are exchanged to share blessings with loved ones, appreciate them for all they’ve done for you this past year and wish them prosperity in the next one. Perhaps similar holidays are familiar to you.
kr
The holiday bazaar is the perfect place to buy a gift for Givingstide. It’s also a magical place for a walk with friends, or even a date. So many beautiful items for sale! And booths selling warm drinks and sweet treats! There are even carriage drivers offering rides up and down the street to take in the scenery, their steeds and vehicles garnished with silver bells and cedar boughs.
Also, right outside of Town Hall, there is a booth that is selling nothing. In fact, it is offering something for free--- a voucher that can be used to make purchases here! While it can only be used to make purchases from the holiday bazaar and expires after Givingstide, vouchers can be good for up to a whopping 500 Brass. All one needs to do to acquire it is win a trivia game! Ten questions, 50 Brass for each right answer. Perhaps you can earn yourself a bit of extra pocket change?
You'll Catch Your Death of Cold
[CW: manipulative language, hypothermia, starvation.]
There’s always something wrong with Lockwood Forest. From the Pine Devil to Brutoks, some manner of strange nonsense is always going on, and it is almost always dangerous. Less so when the cheerful spectral pocket monsters were here, but now that they’ve moved on and a blanket of snow has coated the leafy ground, the eerie quiet here has returned. Not only that, but the trails are covered. This isn’t a huge issue in areas of the forest with more traffic as there are plenty of footprints to follow, but deeper in, the forest becomes a maze.
Despite the danger, you’ve decided to go in. There are any number of reasons why you’ve done this: needing to hunt or forage to sustain your food supplies through the winter, searching for firewood in places that aren’t already picked over, seeking a quiet moment alone. Perhaps you simply got lost. These things happen, especially if you’re new to the island. No one will judge you, probably! Hopefully you at least didn’t come alone.
Regardless, the trails are covered. It’s hard to tell which gaps between trees are part of the path or just formed naturally. Animal footprints sprawl out in all directions like a spider’s web, which only serves to make things more confusing. Soon you begin to feel turned around somehow. Is it just you, or have the past five trees you walked by looked really similar? Haven’t you seen this holly bush before? You could swear you’ve been this way three times already… Oh dear. It’s so hard to tell. Even if you’re otherwise good at navigating the woods, something about this expanse of white snow and imposing pine trees is throwing you off. Almost as if there is some kind of magic at work here…
You wander the forest for a long time. For a while, your cold tolerance had peaked at that point where you’d been out long enough that you were used to it but not so long that it was starting to wear you down, but that peak is waning quickly. It’s freezing, and you’ve been out in it for a long time now. It sinks into your bones, making you feel sluggish. The chill bites at your face and the wind stings your eyes. Unless you have a traveling companion who is lost with you, there’s a strong chance you haven’t seen another person in… How long has it been? Hours? Days? Surely it can’t have been days. It certainly feels like days. Everything hurts and you are very hungry.
”You look so tired.” You have no idea where the voice comes from, but it’s clearly not just in your head. The echo through the trees causes a startled bird to fly off nearby. Maybe it’s just the haze that’s come over you from the shivering chill and deep exhaustion you feel that is making you so disoriented by the sound of the voice. All you know is that it is close, and it is beautiful and sweet. ”It must have been exhausting, walking all this way. Did you come to see me, or for something else?” You don’t remember the answer.
”Here, follow me. I’ll take you to safety.”
The sound of the voice guides you to a clearing in the forest, and it is the most beautiful clearing you have ever seen. Everything is covered in thick, plush pillows of fluffy white snow that look like billowing clouds and the silvery moonlight causes the icicles in the trees to sparkle and shine. (When did it become night time?) The sky is a deep plummy purple and above you there is a veritable explosion of stars like you’ve never seen before. You feel like you could fall in, dwarfed by the slice of night sky that peeks in through the trees. (The stars, are they closer than usual?)”Come, lie down. Rest your weary bones. The snow here is softer than any bed.” Looking at those mounds of pristine, untouched snow, you begin to feel like whoever this is might be right. And you are so tired. ”You are safe here. You are loved. The world is beautiful and peaceful here. No more monsters, no more pain. Just rest in the arms of someone who loves you. Can’t you feel the warmth of my love?”
As the voice says this, you do notice that you start to feel warmer. Almost uncomfortably warm in your clothes, and you’re tempted to shed them. In the depths of your exhaustion, it is hard to tell if this is the warmth of a loving embrace or something else. But your shivering stops and you feel held. It’s so quiet here, so far away from the town of ghosts and monsters and people and work that you know.
”I promise you are safe here. I will take care of you. Just sleep now, my darling. I love you. Stay with me and you will want for nothing.”
The desire to lie down becomes nearly irresistible.
[ You are entering severe hypothermia. If you sleep here, you will die. If you came here alone, there is a chance someone else could find and rescue you. If you came with a traveling companion, you may be able to overcome the trance and the chill together. Or, if you like, you could write about the aftermath of dying. See our Death page for details! ]
Krampusnacht
[CW: Harassment (tone of comic mischief) ]
Have you been naughty or nice this year? In Pumpkin Hollow, there are no such tales--- but you and your extradimensional neighbors are hardly the first things here to be snatched from other worlds. And there is no better reminder than the mysterious horned figure that has been lurking about town.
If perhaps you’ve been up to some mischief this year, you may begin to see him out of the corner of your eye as the snows of December begin to fall. Did you hurt someone’s feelings? Take the last muffin without asking? Commit unspeakable evils in your former life? Sounds like you’re due for a visit from Krampus!
It all starts with a lump of coal, left out in the open in a place it should not be. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you’ll spot a horned and furry figure (that is decidedly not the Pine Devil) in the distance wielding a bundle of bound sticks in one hand and a sack in the other, wearing a wicked grin. Incongruous with his ghastly, beast-like appearance, he sometimes wears a red cloak lined with white fur or golden jingle bells on red ribbons tied to his ankle. He’ll disappear behind a snow drift and you will think your mind is playing tricks on you.
Next, you’ll begin to find your personal items missing. Wherever you left them, they’ll just be gone, and in their place will be a candy cane. In case you were worried that it might be a nice little treat, fear not! It tastes utterly foul.
The final stage is more direct visits from the Christmas Devil. He will ambush you at any time of day to attack you with sticks regardless of how public the location is, that way everyone can know what a troublemaker you are! He will also occasionally stuff you into his sack and abandon you at random locations, typically unpleasant ones. He cannot be killed--- indeed, he cannot even be struck, dodging quickly or disappearing and reappearing in puffs of snow every time you try and cackling all the while. So how do you get rid of him?
That’s easy! Just get yourself onto the Nice List by any means necessary. Time to start doing some good deeds around town and hope you aren’t subject to any more attacks in the meantime. If you do a good enough job, you may even get your missing items back! Gruß vom Krampus!
Mourner’s Night
[CW: grief and past death in the context of the holiday season]
As the early dark of high winter begins to fall, people begin to gather on the streets. A somewhat odd sight, but this isn’t the first time that people have come together under lantern light for an event that is in defiance of the danger posed by darkness. They are bundled tightly, wearing mostly black if it is available in clothes warm enough, and many people have donned veils which cover their faces with black lace.
From the streets, there is an informal procession. At intervals, there are men in uniform black military peacoats and black caps carrying tall poles with bright lanterns on top, swaying in the frigid air. Their faces are painted to look like skulls. Yorick is among them. Despite the difference in gender, River is invited to take up this role, implying something about what these lantern-bearers are meant to symbolize. The rest of the townsfolk are asked to follow along as they please, each bearing a long white candle stuck into a paper cup meant to catch its wax. The candles are in no danger of blowing out— the wind is eerily still.
The procession is largely silent. The people who do speak do so only in whispers. It winds through the streets of the town, converging on one of the main roads. Once it is clear of buildings, the front of the solemn parade becomes visible. A black funeral carriage, like one that may have once conveyed caskets, bearing lanterns at each corner. The two black horses are marked with skeletons using white chalk on their fur, and it is driven by a woman in garb representative of deepest mourning. This is Hellen Poe, playing the role of Mortanne.
It has been a long time, what feels like ages, since the people of this town have had a funeral procession outside the context of Mourner's Night. But they remember well their traditions and follow them with reverence. This, for you outsiders, is a unique glimpse at something you might not otherwise see due to the effects of the barrier. Each and every person in town follows the trail left by carriage wheels in the fresh snow and arrives at Fall's Promise Cemetery.Beyond the wrought iron gate, there is more silence. Locals gather around the graves of their friends and loved ones, saying silent prayers and spending time in contemplative remembrance. You see Dahlia stand outside the central mausoleum, looking grimly up at her own name carved into the stone.
Degas has made his way over to a grave. He is here as himself, not as a reverend, and he does not leave the side of the headstone he gravitated toward. Melly Clayton.
Meanwhile, Dr. West is loitering at the back near a gargoyle. For once even he is present. And far off in the shadows, a small figure looms outside the fringes of lantern light, looking off into the sea. Silvery hairs catch the light occasionally. Elsie.
The candlelight vigil remains silent for a long time as people recall and honor their loved ones. Any sound of shuffling or movement is dampened further by soft, fluffy snow, creating a deep and heavy hush that is almost loud in its soundlessness. Perhaps, deep in the Season of Spirits, the presence of the fallen can be felt in the quiet dark.
Your mind drifts as the somber reverence beckons your mind to your memories. Who do you honor? A lost lover, a passed parent, someone you left behind in your life before?
Or perhaps you honor yourself. You did die to get here, after all. And it’s probable that you aren’t the only one to think so.
In the distance, the bell tower chimes. Then, rising up from the snow, soft at first and then louder, a song. The locals are beginning to sing a hymn about Mortanne sharing carriage rides with passengers, reminiscing about their lives as her carriage drives them to the afterlife. Did you learn it from a local before the festival? Do you sing, hum, or remain silent?
As the song finally comes to a close, all at once the locals blow out their candles, leaving the graveyard in darkness aside from the lantern poles. The silence now broken, people shuffle along, meeting up to mingle and hug or heading home for an early night. Some of them are crying.
Additional Note:
If you have any form of ESP, you notice something while attending Mourner’s Night. This includes people who have a special connection with spirits or death, or any sort of true sight that allows them to see things others cannot.
Toward the end of the hymn, a person you hadn’t seen before catches your eye. She is a young woman, with long black hair and a tattered white gown. Her eyes are sunken and her skin is marred with contusions and scars. She looks very, very tired. She is sitting on the boarded-up well that is on the far end of the cemetery. Even in the orange glow of candlelight, you can tell she is quite pale.
Across the graveyard, her eyes meet yours. Then the song ends, the candlelight dies, and she seems to blink out of existence.
"Slasher Face" Jean | Project Moon | Existing Player
It's been a weird few days. Drawings going missing, a notebook gone (gotta start that one again...), and then, well.
There's this goat-man accosting Jean after their morning coffee. Krampus is doing his damndest to beat Jean with those switches, which, in fairness, he's mainly succeeding (Jean is struggling mightily to parry an enemy that can teleport, this one's almost new...), while Jean is.
Well.
Jean's...
"Comrade! Comrade I am attempting to interview you! Comrade. COMRADE THE PROJECT - OW - "
Open Can Of Wellcheers | Bazaar
Oh, Jean's busy. Taking in the sights, yes, but also hovering near gift ideas, writing furiously in their notebook, chatting excitedly with various merchants. Their notebooks get a lot of play here as they listen intently and with Great Interest to craftsmen, merchants, and artists about their works, what they need to make them, what it took to learn their craft...
Find 'em here for a chat, perhaps. Or something else. If you're a creator yourself, Jean might be caught up in the fervor and want to Know Things.
Laetitia | Various Gifts
Eventually Jean has gifts to present to various people.
Princess Zelda's isn't exactly a surprise, since Jean didn't want to just steal her coat and outfit and come back with it, but they still present their lover with their uniform with a shy little smile so different from their usual resting slasher face. Self-repairing and infused with the vitality of the forest; something tough enough to be used in a real emergency. A note is included from River giving Zelda fairly clear instructions to ensure the clothing is given earth and water on a monthly basis to keep the enchantment fresh.
The trip down to see Comrade Eddie is complicated by Jean not being sure how to hold the shepherd puppy in their arms. By the time they knock on the door their entire face is coated in dog slobber and they're holding their gift out at the end of both arms, looking exasperated but very happy. The puppy will not stop barking in excitement.
A delivery of beer and cheese to the various clinics, plus ethanol for First Aid, has a note attached:
In deep appreciation of your service, I hope this helps you celebrate
- Agent Jean, Pumpkin Hollow Recovery Task Force
A package of high-quality ink and a fancy, brass-bound book are left on the front stoop of Neil West's clinic, with another note from Jean: One can never have enough notebooks
Lord Erik will find a scroll case and a sheet of perforated paper in his mailbox; the case contains a high-quality map of Marrow Island, and is itself waterproof, while each of the 12 coupons entitles the vampire to 30 minutes of Jean shutting the fuck up.
On the other hand, Pomni has a similar map and scroll case delivered in person; an aid in planning escape and travel routes, one she may find useful given that she is, so often, out at sea.
Some collaboration with Yorick gets Jean to the desk of Cecil when he's otherwise out, where the Agent leaves a beautiful snowglobe of Marrow Island near the IN tray.
Finally, The Shade finds a used sole from a high-quality shoe, frozen in glass, left on his front porch, with one last note: Instructions unclear; a sole for you to claim
Funeral of the Dead Butterflies | Mourner's Night
Jean had debated not coming. Even though they did end up attending, they have come armored in their werewolf suit, with the claws concealed in their pockets. Too many of these celebrations have been attacked...it can't be borne.
They relax, more and more, as the night goes on, and eventually can be found off to the side creating a small mound of snow with great patience. As it nears its completion, the surface carefully smoothed by hand to an almost icy finish, Jean inscribes a butterfly at its peak, murmuring to themself: "A solemn heart is all that is required to mourn..."
Containment Breach | Wildcard
Come at me
Funeral of the Dead Butterflies (and Moths?)
Standing away from the group, they see a sculptor at work. Intrigued, they stoop beside the finished work, beautiful in both its precision and its ephemerality. Bronwyn could almost pass for a normal height, crouched like this.
"That's really beautiful," they remark softly. "Is it for someone specific?"
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(- An immediate emotional tension; a sort of internal flinch, a well-worn killing instinct flashes to the surface, like a dog hearing a noise -)
- They flash a Professional Smile, and it's thin and forced. "Good evening, comrade," they murmur, and turn their head back towards the mound -
(- an equally well-worn quiescence, forcing themself to be at ease. It leaves behind a sort of confused sorrow, distant and unpracticed, cramping like a rarely-used muscle; like a cramp, it hurts, it hurts -)
- "It's...for a specific group of people," they continue, feeling their way through it. "My home...there are a lot of people who won't get buried. Or have headstones. I suppose when the snow melts they won't even have this, ha, ha ha..." -
- (A voice in their mind, layered, somehow cartoonish and bouncing while at the same time growling, deep, nightmarish: Eat this one, or have we not learned from the billy goat?) -
- (Jean's thoughts, turned at that voice, firm, sharp: Not everyone is destined to be the Big Bad Wolf. Go back to sleep.) -
- "...Agent Jean. With whom do I have the pleasure, comrade?"
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In short order, Bronwyn ascertains two things. The first is that Jean shares their headspace with another mind, which is straddling an uncomfortable balance between cooperative and hostile. The second is very rare among a species of obligate pacifists, making it extremely distinct. Like the very few Lunari given the Moon Mother's blessing to shoulder the mantle of violence, this person has the instincts of a warrior on whom the responsibility of safety for their colony depends.
Their words only solidify this, and Bronwyn attempts to radiate their own emotions subtly to Jean. Compassion and tranquility. Hopefully it will aid their efforts to put their beast to bed.
"Bronwyn Thysania. It's a pleasure." They hold out a hand with two claw-like pointed fingers and a matching thumb, all covered in ivory peach fuzz.
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The other, contained in that suit, growls.
It's not enough for Bronwyn to simply have no effect, but it is, perhaps, notable. As is the very delicate way in which Jean shakes their hand, showing great concern not to squeeze. "Thank you for taking up the commission, Comrade Bronwyn. Our work here has been, hahaha, ha, hahahahahaha..."
"Difficult, so far."
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They look back to the mound. "If you want, we could do something a bit more permanent. I'd be glad to help."
CW gore, death, unexistence
(A flashback; the mental image is so strong. A steel facility, austere and corporate. A musical alarm plays from the speakers, but the screaming has almost stopped. Too many are dead to scream. Bodies litter the halls, burnt, broken, sliced open, half-eaten, many with their chests burst outwards like something ripped out of their ribcages, and Jean is watching -
- Watching -
- What was their name? They furiously enter a code into a keypad, and their ponytail is coming loose from its tie. It's never loose. They were always so tidy and now they're a wreck, covered in gore, a strange sword hanging loose in their free hand. The fingers are broken.
They turn and smile at Jean (what's their name, their name, what is their name...) and murmur, "It'll be okay."
No. No wait. Jean knows that room, not that room, wait, wait -
The door opens, revealing a clock with all four lights lit up, and the last Jean sees of their friend (their friend their friend what's their name no no no) is them grasping the key on the clock.
The world reverts. The halls are clean. Everyone is alive.
Jean never sees their tidy friend again.)
"...I should interview you. Later. This is...this is not the time, I think. A solemn heart..." Jean looks down at the mound again. "Comrade, what is it, to mourn?"
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The vision passes over their eyes as they swallow up the fear they're bestowed, as practiced as it is painful, like someone who has microdosed poison to build up immunity. They see the whole scene play out from start to finish and feel every beat of this horror story as if it is their own memory. Speaking to those who feel their trauma loudly is never not an ordeal. But it is a burden that Bronwyn carries without complaint, and the negative emotions of yet another person are pushed down with such fluidity that the flicker of agony in their eyes is undiscernable.
"Mourning is a pact between the living and the dead. 'I will remember you for the best parts of you, both for you and for me. For you, so that your existence extends beyond the time you were given. For me, because it eases the pain to carry you with me. And one day, I hope someone else will do the same for me, so that I can continue to exist and ease their pain by staying with them.' It's deeply personal. But healthy! Loss is hard, and it's important to take measures to cope with it, as well as honor the people who brought something meaningful to your life."
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"...I see." Jean lets out a long breath, and looks back up at Bronwyn. They are not smiling; their professional face just isn't up to this. Not with their worries about an attack, and the strange experience of this event, which gives them a wrenching feeling in their chest. The other mind quiets, turning into something thoughtful, contemplative.
It is still watching Bronwyn. It's weaker in some senses than Jean's mind, less able to protect itself; indeed, there's almost a sense that it's stretching across Jean's mind, taking hits first, but for all that sense of weakness it is far more aware.
A faint thrum of realization. Recognition. "You've come here as an act of compassion, haven't you?"
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It is not eating your mind-flesh, wolf.
On the outside Jean is pausing, like they just heard something they didn't believe.
(How would you know?)
Because it would feel like this.
The nugget flinches in pain, swatting at their own lapel and rocking back away from the mound so they don't damage it; irritation lances off them in waves, and they shake their head vigorously.
The other mind is immensely smug about this.
Wait. They're still talking to the moth person. Right. Eye contact, eye contact - eye contact achieved. "The people here have been very compassionate themselves, Comrade. You're in...good company. Even if I don't always know how, hahaha, how to, how to accept it. It's fine."
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Brushes themself off.
And then bows, one arm across their chest. "My apologies, comrade. I've had experiences that shouldn't be your problem."
A thread of guilt and self recrimination; they're sincere.
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Jean barely restrains the urge to swat their suit again and decides the best thing to do is to get back on track: "I asked Doctor West if we, as dead people, might be contacted by seance. Now I wonder if we should mourn ourselves. How many here will return to life only to be in equal danger? I...I may well die again if I went back."
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...
Jean's voice dips into a murmur: "There was an army, and its name was Ruin. Its soldiers could never truly die, for they would simply be remade, as if no blade had ever touched them, my role in that army was to take the hits that others could not. I was very good at it. Often I even lived. But when the army was undone, my training remained. Does that make sense?"
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A thought visibly crosses Jean's mind and exits their mouth nearly simultaneously: "But who taught you to act this way? I mean no offense but your body appears fragile to me."
Unspoken, but very thought: You taking the hit is improper use of resources.
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The confusion is legitimate. The author doesn't know if Bronwyn can detect emotional voids but the mental and emotional conception of, say, self-sacrifice as offering excessive care to others? Of performing emotional labor without getting care in turn? It is not present in this nugget. It's Gone. No one installed that idea.
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But I'm not important, so it's fine. It's what I can do for others that makes me valuable and wanted.
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(The memory that comes back is just as strong as the first, running through Jean's mind without so much as a by-your-leave, but the tone is...
...Different.
The heat is intense, as it always is, in the Floor of Language. Jean is reading their way through books so as to better catalogue them, a service they very much need to provide because the Patron Librarian is, by her own admission, nearly illiterate. The irony has at no point been lost on her. The sound of Gebura's unhurried footsteps and the scent of her ever-present cigarette precede the woman herself, one hand in her pocket, the other tapping ash out onto the floor.
Jean springs to their feet. "Ma'am, guests?"
"Not yet," Gebura answers; her voice is rough from cigarettes and hard living and a life of grief, smokier than her tobacco. "Sit back down, Assistant Librarian. I'm just here to talk."
Oh boy! Talking! Relief at the lack of battle is eclipsed by excitement about Talking To Gebura, Gebura rarely has time to talk except just before or just after a fight. Everyone is so busy, all the time, but now she's here! And she's going to talk to Jean! Sitting, right...
The Patron Librarian pulls up a chair and spins it around so she can sit with her arms over its back and rest her chin on them. She regards Jean for a long moment, and then says: "You are hereby ordered to provide your honest thoughts and opinions, with no regard for the mission. Confirm."
Jean blinks several times. "Uh - hahahahaha, uh. Confirmed, Madam Gebura. What's...what's this about?"
"There's been a requested change in tactics." Gebura's eyes trace the bookshelves, whose pages thrum with Light, and then track their way back to Jean. "Angela believes that victory alone is not enough; she's pointed out that we extract more Books from those who die in the height of their passion. She's asked us to leave them alive for longer, and to cut them down at the peak of their terror and pain."
Silence, broken only by Gebura flicking her cigarette into the ash tray, and then immediately lighting a new one.
"...Madam...is the Director asking us to fight worse?"
"Yes."
Jean frowns. They do not like that idea at all. But..."Surely she has a good reason?"
Gebura sighs a cloud of smoke from her mouth. "What is a 'good reason', Assistant Librarian Jean? She is impatient to see her desires met...but she's not the only one who might benefit. To fulfill her agenda sooner would bring your freedom sooner as well. And that of the Abnormalities, I know you had a fondness for some of them once."
(A flash of deeper memory; Little Red's voice in Jean's head, telling them to killkillkill, make them hurt make them suffer they hurt you they hurt your friends kill them cut and shoot and burn and kill kill kill kill kill -)
"Once," Jean agrees, looking away. "...It's going to hurt, if we fight worse. Our enemies are becoming competent."
"I know. I'm going to talk to the others about this too, but I came to you first, Jean. Because you're the one who will suffer the most, and with the least relief. If you say no, we continue as we are. I will refuse the Director."
That's fucking shocking. Jean stares at Gebura for long minutes, and she waits with infinite patience. To refuse the Director? To her face? Over Jean?
"I'm supposed to take care of you," Gebura murmurs, "and I haven't forgotten how poorly you've been served by me. When it was my duty to look to your welfare, you and Disciplinary looked to mine."
(Deeper, still deeper; the same corporate halls as before, red lights blaring. A mighty warriour cleaves through space itself, moving faster than sight, focused only on the kill. Jean and a mercenary hold the front, lives on the line, terror pounding through Jean's heart while the gunline sets up on either side of the hallway...)
"Do you want this, Madam Gebura?" Jean asks in a soft voice.
"..." Gebura takes a long drag from her cigarette. "I want to be able to do right by you. I'm not in a hurry, but this City is; our enemies are only coming faster, and harder. If this gives us the power to set you free...to do right by you? I'm in favor. But my opinion's not the one I care about here. You already did right by me, Jean."
"...I can do it. We'll kill them slow. Hahaha, ha! The Director should be pleased...maybe she'll make more coffee."
"Heh. Yeah. Maybe.")
"Comrade Bronwyn, if I can ever be of service, please vow that you won't hesitate to ask."
(no subject)
Possibly walking to a wrap?
🎁!