(OPEN + CLOSED) The Forsaken | Calcutta Catch-All

[aeviternitas]

Who: The Forsaken and you!
What: Open top-level + closed starters for the Calcutta event
When: July

week one ∞ i am caught, tangled in

( after the Murmur becomes active and the Forsaken becomes aware others are present in Somnia. )

He wakes, again, as he had woken time and before. This place is unfamiliar, too. It is far from the glittering orchard, closer to the blood-red moon and the monstrosities beckoning She is beautiful. Look at Her. Still, it is different. He wakes in a tunnel, with a path of metal and rotted plank that beckons towards a halo of light. He follows alongside, bare feet tender against sharp gravel. At the end, he finds strange belongings, abandoned: clothes, a coat among them, and a leather satchel. This last item, he takes with him, not yet cognizant enough to question why he feels the need. Before it had been a dream, though he awoke several times, each to a new landscape, further decayed. Now that he is awake again, he wonders if it is not the same dream still. As his eyes adjust to the light at the end of the tunnel, the scene that spreads before him is wondrous and strange and entirely alien. Monoliths tower so high he cannot crane far enough to see their tops. Wandering closer, he discovers he can venture inside through doors, windows that were once filled with glass though are now empty. Not monoliths, then, but buildings, impossibly tall. Steps ascend seemingly endlessly, and he finds his body growing tired.

Fatigue is not the only new sensation he experiences. A pain, gnawing below his sternum, begins dull and spreading, then grows sharp and focused. It is not for some time that he realizes it must be the human sensation of hunger. Many of the Lost have come to him with their bellies empty, their cheeks hollow with starvation. He supposes, then, that he must find food. Only, he has never hunted, and the unnatural grotesquerie of form suggests even to him that the creatures that roam and scuttle about may not be safe for consumption.

Glass from a storefront window lays shattered on the broken sidewalk. By the flora that has crept up from the sidewalk and across some of the window, it has been there for some time. More recent, though, is a trail of red droplets slowly seeping into the worn concrete. Following them will lead to an almost ethereal, androgynous figure sitting in an empty storefront windowsill - much like the first, though this one is mercifully absent of glass. The Forsaken sits, the hem of his white robes dragging the sidewalk, now dirtied. He examines the sole of one foot, and the shard of glass embedded in it. Or, one might follow the trail instead inside the store, where the Forsaken curiously searches what remains on the bodega's shelves. He finds parcels that rustle strangely, some of which are painted with depictions of food he recognizes - fruit, mostly, and some array of brightly colored packages that depict potatoes (though the weight of them is so light as to feel nearly empty; surely it cannot contain potatoes). In either case, it can be safely assumed this man needs help.


{{ If you are interested in a thread with the Forsaken for a different prompt, just let me know in my plotting comment, or at ricorori and I will write up a starter for you! (feel free to add me on plurk, just let me know who you are if your character isn't in your profile please!) }}

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CLOSED STARTERS

[aeviternitas]

@shatteredlenses | week one ∞ and i wake, say your name

[aeviternitas]

[ Find the others.

He had seen no one, since waking. And he is truly awake this time, he thinks. Something is off, always, not always the same something — but the scenery does not shift and change as it had. And he is different— something gnaws at his stomach, the air bites at his bare arms. Something dreamlike had crept in, anyway: emotions not his own, whispers, voices. One, in particular: Espera. He had reached out and she- she had reached back. Find the others.

So he had wandered. The whispers continue, flickers of memories he has never seen. It is stronger, wearing the veil he had found. He mislikes it, more now that he know it is from Her, but this strange place seems endless; the buildings, too tall and too numerous to search one by one.

In the constant murmur, one thread becomes familiar, then louder. Within it, two sensations carry like a pulse: pain, and fear. The Forsaken thinks of the Lost. His steps hasten with purpose.

They carry him past skyscrapers, and buildings with odd shapes, and signs that were once bright, now unlit and overgrown. He does not find what- or who- he seeks with the first, or even the third building. Find the others, Espera had said, and yet he finds no signs of life save strange fauna. Finally, he stops in front of a shop, gaze lifting from behind the veil to the crumbled facade. His first step onto the cracked tile inside is heralded by a tinny sounding bell above the door.

The Forsaken removes his veil. Someone is here, he thinks. It smells different, and the air is warmer, not as still as other buildings. Tentative, he calls: ]

Hello?

[shatteredlenses]

[At first, the sound of the bell shocks Ignis into stillness. He's used it as an indication there was someone or something around more than once now. However, before now, no one has actually called out to him. Another human voice. Oh, how he's missed the sound.

Still, he has to be cautious since he knows he's at a disadvantage without his vision. Plus, it would just be his luck for the pain to return just as he is trying to defend himself from an attack. There's not much he's found in this store, but he would hate losing it as a shelter until he is back on his feet.

Ignis doesn't pull himself out of the shadowed nook he's sitting in yet knowing his dark clothes and the dark blindfold over his eyes will make him hard to find, but he does answer that tentative call.]

Hello? Store's closed I'm afraid. Some blind fool ransacked the stock.

[He's hid his emotions behind dry humor his whole life, and it's one of the few defenses he still has now.]

[aeviternitas]

[ Bare feet still on the floor, and the Forsaken waits for his vision to adjust to the darker interior. He doesn't venture further, only a short distance from the door. He can hear the other person, and they can clearly hear him.

An amused sound answers Ignis first, not unkind. That sort of humor was rare with the Lost, but not unfamiliar. ]

I might be looking for him, if he's still here.

[ There's silence for a moment, as the Forsaken takes in the shapes forming in the dim light. ] I am the Forsaken. You need not be afraid.

[ It's a line he must have said a hundred times. A sense of a tired sort of familiarity fingers at the strange threads of voice and memory he has found himself part of, a brief glimpse of sand and ruined marble shrouded in fog. He isn't sure if this is the person he seeks through that connection, but fear is a response he is used to.

A small click of a metal clasp follows his voice a moment later, the rustle of fabric against leather as the Forsaken pushes the veil into the satchel hanging against his hip. ]

[shatteredlenses]

[The corner of Ignis' mouth twitches up in response to the amusement he hears from the stranger. The Forsaken, hu? Not exactly a name that inspires pleasent things, but if he can appreciate Ignis' odd sense of humor, it's a point in his favor.

There is the soft sound of movement and should The Forsaken turn toward it, he will see a shadow unfurl itself from another shadow. Ignis' dark, purple and black leopard print shirt, black pants, shoes, and blindfold are great for helping him disappear into the shadows. The only giveaway his messy dishwater blonde hair.]

My name is Ignis. Pardon me, but I don't know you. Why would you be looking for me?

[Perhaps if they had meet in the dream, he would understand better, but Ignis doesn't recognize his voice, and considering voices are his main way of identifying people now, he's certain he would recognize it if they had met before.]

[aeviternitas]

[ His attention shifts. In the still of this strange... city, if that is what it once was, it is easy to hear the movement. His eyes light on the stranger, his unfamiliar dress (though he has seen similar articles, in what he can only imagine were once shops), his blindfold.

The god considers his answer for a moment. Hearing voices and feeling the emotions of other people is... not a skill he has always had. The dream from days (and it has been days, he thinks,) is mostly hazy now, though two things remain perfectly clear: the taste of fruit on his tongue, almost effervescent, and an emotion he had long forgotten not only springing forefront unbidden, but springing to others nearby.

Why it would be the same here, awake, he isn't sure but— ]

I have been hearing the voices of others when they are not nearby. One told me to 'find the others.' And... [ He trails off for a moment. There is a smile in his voice when he continues, a note of apology. ] This place is passing strange. Forgive my forthrightness, but I began feeling someone's fear, and pain. Those feelings were strongest, here. I thought I might find someone Lost.

@untilldeath | week one ∞ and i wake, say your name

[aeviternitas]

[ He had assumed upon waking, those first hours, even days, wandering between the towers that reached towards the skies, that he was alone here. There were animals - after a fashion - creatures that scuttled this way and that - and plants creeping and bloated and all manner in between. But like the realm that has been his home, his prison, for so long, the Forsaken assumed this realm, too, to be devoid of people.

Then, he had begun to hear them. To feel them. And he had met her - not Her - (he thinks, and it is an important distinction). She had told him to find the others. Others, here. And so he had gone.

He follows the voices and the feelings, after a fashion. It is not precise - sometimes, it is not even accurate at all. He had searched a circuit of buildings for hours, sure that the voices that whispered were louder here, yet found no one.

Now, though, now someone must be close. At first, the Forsaken cannot place it. It is an emotional rush, lifting not like strength lifts, but like air beneath his feet, a height both precipitous and precarious. It is almost like— like he had felt upon waking somewhere else for the first time in centuries. It felt like hope, if he dared not give the thing its name for fear. Just as soon, the emotion turns. The weight of it nearly robs him of breath, a sudden sheer grief that threatens to drown him the same as the tidal wave from the first dreams.

He expects he must search again, as he had before. Instead, he soon discovers a young man in the open. His appearance is not unfamiliar. It isn't who the young man is, but rather bandages, weary circles beneath his eyes, an expression weighed by pain - the Forsaken has seen that before, too many times. Something in his chest tightens.

The man that approaches Till is slender, almost feminine, unseasonably dressed in sleeveless robes that trail the ground, with white hair that falls well below his knees. Strangely out of place is a leather messenger bag hung from one shoulder, and decidedly modern sandals on his feet, one of which is bandaged. The Forsaken is considerably shorter than Till, neither does he look any older, and yet there is something in his demeanor that one might be put in mind of a caretaker. His voice is gentle when he speaks. ] Are you alright?

[untilldeath]

[He feels trapped. Like he entered some strange dreamscape, and reality isn't quite what it seems. Vaguely, he has memories of something like this before- what he thought was a dream. Now he's not so sure it was. But he's not even sure that this isn't a dream, either. His own emotions trap him in a volatile vortex, flashes of light sparking about him on occasion, his recent memories continuing to weigh heavily on his heart like an anchor.

The chaotic mix lingering inside him doesn't exactly disappear, but something cuts through it like an arrow piercing a bubble. He can... feel it. Feel someone, and he isn't sure how he knows that, but he does. One moment, the glitched memory of a bloody smile flashes through his mind, fragmented music filling the air, and in the next, there is a man.

At least he thinks they are. Their features are so smooth, hair so long, that he can't actually tell immediately. The individual approaches Till, and he doesn't know why he feels rooted— Why he feels connected, and why that makes him wish to retreat a little. His eyes open wide as the stranger comes to a stop in front of him, and he remains still like a deer caught in headlights.]

░ₒw c▓░ₗd ᵢ ₚₒ██ᵢbₗy▂▂▒▒░▂ ⧈☰ₗͩᵣ̰ͦ͂ᵢ̓g̿ₕₜ?

[Shock crosses his features, and there's another spark of light. He lifts a hand to his injured throat. He doesn't recall actually opening his mouth to speak, but his voice had seemed to echo in the space, glitchy and broken, like a scratched record, but present nonetheless.

How...?

His confusion is palpable. His teal eyes glance back to the man. He swallows and tries to speak, but the attempt at using his actual voice causes immediate pain. Hands lifting to his throat, he wheezes painfully on a series of coughs. Frustration radiates off him in waves. How long until his throat heals? Will it at all? Deliberate, he tries something else.]

║░░▂ 𝘊ₐₙ 𝘺▁ₒᵤ ☰▅██▃■ₑₐᵣ ₘₑ?■▃░░

[Or are those fragmented sounds all within his mind?]

[aeviternitas]

[ His gaze shifts, taking in the light as it flickers and sparks. He himself had experienced something strange, too - shadows warping around him, seeming to grow heavier. He had wondered then if his eyes deceived him. Now he wonders if they hadn't.

He hears a voice, but the man in front of him does not speak. Though he cannot make the initial words out, the intent is clear, all the same. Of course I'm not alright.

Something sympathetic shifts in his expression as the young man is seized in a fit of coughing. He ventures closer, voice gentler still. ] Do not tax yourself. [ Whatever injury is beneath the bandage clearly damaged his voice— though he hears a voice again, nonetheless. He listens more closely, this time. The Forsaken's brows lift slightly in surprise, and he smiles. ]

It isn't entirely clear, but yes, I can hear you.

[ He sits by the other, tucking his feet beneath him, hands in his lap. It's a deliberate gesture rather than any need to sit, one meant to put the young man at ease, to coax him to relax himself. ] This place is strange. Thoughts seem to carry nearly the same as voices. It is the same with emotions and memories. [ Which is precisely how he found Till, an ache so loud he might as well have been screaming. ]

[untilldeath]

[He watches warily as the other man, somehow so elegant, takes a seat in the grass. His clothes almost seem like something someone might wear in Anakt Garden. But they're ...more fancy. Flowy.

He isn't wearing a collar, either. Then again, not everyone into adulthood is forced to. Till was just never good at being obedient.

. . . He feels so emotionally drained, though. So after a moment of hesitation, he crouches down in the grass too, a little ways away, his hands lifting to rub over his arms. It's so cold in this place. He doesn't remember it ever being so cold, growing up.

For a moment, he studies the other man a small distance from him. His crouch quickly turns to sitting. He only has so much energy still. A strange, 'earthy' substance comes to mind as he watches him. Tiny crushed rocks...? Sand? He thinks he read about it before. Something on 'beaches'. He has the sensation of fog swirling about him.

He blinks, trying to clear his head of it.

'Thoughts seem to carry nearly the same as voices. It is the same with emotions and memories.'

Is that what this is?

After a moment, he opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. It is frustrating, not being able to easily say what he wants. Against all reason, though, there's truth to the stranger's words. He doesn't understand how it is possible to speak through thought, but does he need to know the why right now? Impossibly, he's done it once already. So again, with purpose and intention, he attempts to 'speak' once more with something simple.]

Wₕₒ ₐ░░a░A░░░░░░a░ᵣₑ yₒᵤ?

[The question is almost more of a feeling than words, but what does penetrate through is clearer this time, if still glitchy. It is as though static pierces his inner 'voice', causing syllables to repeat brokenly.

He's human, just like him, isn't he? Even despite the almost ethereal feelings that surround him. He finds himself looking for some kind of familiarity within him.]

[aeviternitas]

[ The man smiles when Till joins him, in the same quiet way a mother or a teacher might smile in praise.

The voice comes through again, or at least the perception of a voice, one that shifts and catches on itself in a strange way. If he listens - if it might be called listening - it isn't that difficult to make out. He is, he thinks, slowly getting used to the strange connection with others. (That is, if they are all other people, and not merely echoes or even figments of imagination; some voices are fleeting whispers that do not answer when called for, that he has not put to a face. The city is large, and seemingly long abandoned. There are only a spare few he has met.

He has always been a god, separate from humans. Once, there was reverence for them - prayer, feasts, offerings, festivals. Now, the gods have gone, and humans have forgotten. Those that meet him now, though, still find comfort in being found when they are lost. That this human might look for the humanity in him, instead of divinity, for comfort, does not occur to him.

Though he might suppose he finds his own godhood little comfort. ]

I am the Forsaken. [ He says it like a name, as if that is what he was always called. ] And you are?

@spiritmonger | week 3 ∞ wrapped and quartered

[aeviternitas]

It is cold. He cannot remember the last time he felt cold, or if he ever has. (Surely, once in an age so long ago humans do not even tell tales of it any longer, but he can no longer recall.) Air bites at his bare arms, leaving him paler still. Lately, the night grows so chill he shivers, taking refuge in whatever building is nearest. He has begun to learn which were once residential, most with so many bedrooms they could house the entirety of the largest city in Crownreach. He wonders about the grand families or clans that must have resided in them before whatever calamity befell them. At least in those buildings, he could often find a blanket with which to stave off the cold.

Tonight, though, he walks. He had heard her again in the days prior - Espera - and something in him grew cavernous. He felt muffled, as if not only the view of the world was damped in shadow, but even sound. And then, he had stepped into a shadow - and disappeared. He had stepped again into the light of day, though could see nothing of himself. The effect lasted only a moment, short enough he tried to dismiss it, it had left him shaken. And then, it had happened again. Something began thrumming beneath his breast, and has not ceased. It is worse when the shadows are deeper. So though the night is dark, at least in the open, there is the light of the moon.

This part of the city he has not seen before. The buildings are smaller - grand, still, compared to what he sees through the weave, but smaller than the towering monoliths he had seen first emerging from the tunnel. His gaze falls on small forms behind a fence of iron - graves. The recognition lasts only a split second before something else assails him. It is not the strange power that stretches within him, but something like the network of voice and emotion and memory. Only, it comes not in whispers and glimpses, but all at once, a shriek or a light suddenly blinding. The Forsaken reels, his head throbbing in protest. The moment passes, the ache fading from splitting to aching. Shadows gather around him, unnatural, and panic claws up his throat. Will he disappear again? His vision, blurred from the sudden pain, slowly clears. Between fingers rubbing at his brow, he sees someone approaching. His hand lowers, gaze lifting. Soft:

"You..."

He recognizes him. He dreamed of him, the memory that had grown faded in the days since coming into focus again, a hand through fog on a window. He remembers none of the words exchanged - or even his name. He does remember the contact of fingers, tips against palm and knuckles, a sensation that it was right, it was what he needed.

What he needs now.

The impulse is stark in its intensity, and the reaction - shock, displeasure - equally so. His first thought is to leave immediately, even flee. That he might need something of someone, something so intimate as touch, frightens him. He does not examine the thought too closely. Neither does he examine the fear of becoming intangible, to be so close to other people as he is now and yet unseen by them. If only he could touch, then he might feel grounded.

The Forsaken is not wearing the mask from the dream, nor the veil he had found here. His hair gathers around him like a cloak - though tress seems to blend in to tress as if to shroud the god entirely - if only for a moment. He stands still, whether in defiance of his own urge to flee, or whether to not appear weak or some other reason entirely, even the Forsaken is unsure. But he remains, and the silence stretches. Finally, he finds a smile. Small, frail, but present. "Hail again."

[spiritmonger]

The cold had been something that he was aware of over the weeks, but it was not something he was so unfamiliar with. His jailor had been kind enough, but there was nothing one could do to keep away the cold of winter in the mountains. His fingertips were chilled and numb just like the worst parts of winter, but he knew how to keep a fire, he knew when he needed to retreat before the cold bit too deep. He'd wandered aimlessly for a while, but he eventually found a place to stay.

The cemetery was very small, nestled between buildings. It was old, too - he could tell from how worn the headstones were, how some had broken and the rough edges had worn smooth from the weather. Grave soil had always smelled different from regular soil. It had always brought him peace in a way that nothing else could, and that he had finally found such a small square of peace in this place that almost reminded him of Beacon. (Almost. This place teemed with life in a way that Beacon could never - even this twisted affront called life, this all-consuming corruption - would have made his god grimace. It was still an affront, yes.) The rising monoliths, the degredation of time and ruin. Nymnar couldn't help but wonder if Beacon would ever become so sprawling, so urban.

He spent a little time within the small cemetery, letting the cold nibble and nip at him as he sat before one of the graves with his eyes closed. He was almost as still as a statue, his eyes closed and bowed with his hands folded together in his lap. It looked as if he were praying, in truth, as if he prayed to a kind god and hoped their spirit found peace. In reality, he was meditating, trying to hear the dirge that played through his soul. It wasn't there - that much hadn't changed - so he also attempted to reach the spirits here, to try to hear them, or feel them. They were no longer here, he felt.

Nymnar's eyes opened. He reached out and gently brushed his fingers against the headstone he knelt before today, his breath misting before him as he sighed softly. He murmured a gentle plea in the soft whispering language of the dead. He stood and turned to leave the little cemetery and retreat back into the shelter he'd carved for himself. He stepped out from the silence, carefully closing the gate behind him with reverence that perhaps this place did not deserve from him.

He didn't notice himself, too lost in thought as he rubbed cold fingers together and started to turn toward the building he had found. His shadow tugged on his pant leg and he looked up, his glance sweeping over the familiar, beautiful face. It took him a moment - the dream had been unique, but blended into the past nineteen years in the way that dreams did. He remembered the audacity of the man, stealing touch from him. Nymnar couldn't remember much except for that, the way it had made his heart race. He wasn't sure what to do with that, but he had an inexplicable desire for it again.

The realization of it was slow as his gaze stayed calm and stoic on the stranger. He tried to recall a name and none came to him, only the memory of the heat of their hands together. He knew on some level that he should be shrinking away from this desire but the painful ache that he felt slammed into him suddenly, all at once. His fingers curling into a loose fist at his side was the only indication of his discomfort as he realized that the only thing he wanted to do was take this man with him to warmth.

"Greetings," Nymnar replied softly, his breath misting in the cold. He did not smile as his pale eyes regarded the stranger, his face still stoic despite his shadow reaching for the other, betraying his need. Nymnar regarded The Forsaken in silence for a moment longer before he finally spoke again in his usual soft, calm voice. "Shall we go inside? I imagine you are..." A pause as he considered his next words. "Quite uncomfortable out here. I have settled in next door." He motioned to the building next to the cemetery.

[aeviternitas]

The god does not move save his faded gaze, shifting to the ground between them. He does not notice the other man's shadow so much as his own, too numerous, and nebulous, warping unnaturally. As he forces his attention to return to the other, his own shadow coalesces into its regular form, only to stretch round and reach for its fellow in turn.

"Yes," he breathes, before his mind has quite caught up.

His breath halts then, as he realizes. Again, something moves him forward. He falls in step with the other, and imagines he can feel his heat despite the distance. The Forsaken swallows, gaze on the path in front of them. "I am unused to the cold," he says, as though that might explain away his eagerness. Is it something about this man that makes him weak, makes him crave contact?

Distantly, he recalls the taste of something- a plum? -and a rather clinical explanation of... something. Had it been the fruit? If it was, why feel the same now?

What he does not recall is the difference in what propelled such impulse. Before the desire for touch had been physical, seeking touch for the sake of only that. Now, it is an undercurrent of fear he refuses to name, seeking confirmation of presence, seeking acknowledgement. The Forsaken's fingers close into a loose fist, feeling the sharp curve of nail against soft palm instead. Behind him, the shadow of his hand does not close, but reaches out again, melding against the shadow of the man next to him.

[spiritmonger]

That the other's shadow seemed to warp and change, to reach for his own, was not unusual to Nymnar. He'd grown so accustomed to his own shadow's wiles that seeing another's move was not surprising. Something tugged on the back of his mind, though: he couldn't recall the man's shadow being animate in the dream, though dreams had a way of being different from reality. That much was true. It was nothing to waste much more thought on, even as his own shadow seemed eager to greet its new companion, welcoming the contact.

He turned and led the way down the street, moving with no hurry. It wasn't very far, after all.

"The wind is quite bitter when it weaves through the buildings," Nymnar commented. The way he said it suggested that it was the wind he was unused to, though the cold was not so much a stranger to him. He glanced sidelong to his companion. He didn't seem so dazed as he had in the dream, so intently focused on one singular thing. Nymnar wondered if it was only he that felt the pull now, the desire for that connection, or if the stranger felt it mutually. It was odd they'd stumbled into each other again: this was a large place with many places to hide.

Nymnar stopped before the entrance of one of the buildings - one without so many windows - and opened the door for his companion. He followed in and barred the door behind them, then led further into the building. It grew dark, but he pulled out a crank lantern he'd found and flipped it on, leading into a room that was relatively small - perhaps an office for someone important some time long ago. His shadow set to work getting the fire started as he set the lamp down.

"I do not recall your shadow moving before," Nymnar commented as he took the matches from his shadow and coaxed the fire to life. As the room lit up with the glow of the fire, The Forsaken would be able to see the humble little hole that Nymnar carved out for himself here. There was a pile of neatly folded blankets that would serve to keep him warm as he slept with a few stacked bookx beside them, carefully organized packages of "food" along a wall, if one could call them food. Everything about the room was meticulously organized, in a way that suggested an almost obsession with neatness. He sat back next to the fire, unconsciously sitting beside the stranger while his shadow coyly reached for his companion's.

"I also do not recall ever exchanging names," he finally said thoughtfully. "I am Nymnar," he offered as, for the first time around the stranger, some of the tension in his shoulders eased - perhaps because he was in a small space, or perhaps because of the company he now shared. It was hard to tell, but Nymnar knew that it was taking all of his self control not to push himself against the stranger. It wasn't love - that was not something that was in the books for Nymnar - but there was a desperation in the desire, an almost fear of what were to happen should he fail to somehow connect with this man more deeply than awkwardly holding a hand.

[aeviternitas]

The Forsaken follows, gaze shifting to their surrounds, the other man, then directly before him. At the mention of wind, his arms loosely wrap around his thin frame as if to stave it off. "Mm," is his only response, a distracted hum of agreement.

His demeanor shifts, slowly, as they enter the small building. He watches the crank lantern come to life with curiosity, the lead to a small area that is surprisingly welcoming. He sits in front of the fire, though not before pausing just inside the door, gaze taking in all the little details that are clearly new against the long-abandoned building. It's comforting; the sensation is such a foreign one it takes time to place it. He watches too the way the man's shadow moved on its own, even preparing the fire for its owner to light.

In the flickering light of the firelight, the shadows cast are long. Behind them, his shadow reaches for the other in turn, twining into one shape. It shudders at mention of moving on its own, a ripple of discomfort from the Forsaken. "I do not either," he admits. His gaze shifts to the side as if to look behind him, but he cannot quite manage it. It makes him oddly uncomfortable - and makes him think of the violent fear of disappearing, the way he would step into the light and be unable to see himself. Unconsciously, he leans a little towards the other man.

"I am the Forsaken," he answers after a slightly too-long delay. He manages a smile, faint and uncertain despite himself. "The dream is a little distant for me now, but I remember you."

@snaggletooth | week 1-2

[aeviternitas]

[ He is, in a sense, beginning to grow used to this place. He has learned where to find food, though nothing here looks like food. Much of what he has found rotted, but the food in glass or metal are largely safe. After stepping on glass, he had found shoes (well, sandals), but he has yet to find more suitable clothes for the late autumn chill.

One must imagine he could wander endlessly here and not see all of the city, its monoliths with innumerable rooms. He had made it so far as the shore, but today he is a little further inland, where the buildings aren't quite so tall. He could wander, but his body grows tired now, requiring rest periodically, and sleep. And he is quite used to having little and less to do - for years at a time, in fact. So the Forsaken is resting, after a fashion. He sits on a large slab of bricks that is tilted at a slight angle, resting atop the rubble of one side of an old building. It was, at one time, a small office, perhaps for a freight company, but exposure to the elements has rendered it mostly unrecognizable.

The Forsaken isn't thinking about the office building, what it used to be or the inhabitants it must have had, once. Instead, he is thinking... about nothing at all, really. He had grown tired, and had sat down, changing the bandage around his foot, and had simply... sat. His gaze is distant, unfocused, arms wrapped loosely around his knees.

That is not to say he is entirely absent- when a figure enters the corner of his peripheral vision, the Forsaken lifts his head. His posture remains lax, unbothered, but there is a momentary sharpness to his gaze as he focuses. No one here has been aggressive thus far, but if he is human, now, he cannot afford to be unaware. ]

start quest

[snaggletooth]

[ The first time the needle points him toward a place with four walls and no creatures nesting in it is a coincidence. When it leads him to an untouched palette of bottled water, it's still a coincidence. Ivan knows that coincidence is not correlation.

Still, he spends a lot of time watching it spin and wondering what it actually means, or if it's just a broken thing. It seems right to keep it. It has a scuffed silver body that's taken many blows, and the center where the needle sits is a striking teal.

Yes, strangely right to keep it.

Ivan doesn't notice the Forsaken right away, out there where there's obviously no food, nothing for firewood, and nothing to block the wind. Besides, his eyes are lowered curiously to the compass now that it's steering him off the street into that uneven mess of terrain. He would have cut straight through it if the needle didn't start to turn again. That's when he sees that there's a pale human just sitting there like he grew out of the stones. Worrisomely, he's blocking the direction he needs to go in.

Ivan smiles in self-defense, giving a him a berth.

The needles moves.

He pedals a few steps backward.

The needle moves.

...

This continues for a couple of cautious repeats. ]

Excuse me, would you humor me for a moment? This might be the strangest thing ...ahaha, I think this dial wants me to talk to you?

[aeviternitas]

[ He smiles in return, faint. The expression is a reflex, centuries of reassuring others. Then, he watches as the man walks a wide circle around him, backs up, and repeats.

When the young man speaks to him, the Forsaken's brows raise in curiosity. ] Is that so? [ He can't help but smile again. It sounds absurd, that some device would be leading this person to talk to him... but then, his bag holds more than it should, this world is stranger than anything he has seen and, well, he's here, isn't he? And so is this person, and at least a handful of others that all seem to be from different realms. ]

I wonder why that might be. [ He motions languidly, not moving from his perch, for the other to come closer. ]

[snaggletooth]

[ In the back of his mind, he imagines stepping closer to the stranger and feeling fists try to beat him down for the clean water he's carrying. It's the kind of thing humans do when there isn't a hand feeding them.

But that's just his hindbrain warning him as it's been wired to.

Ivan himself can't really care, at least not about what happens beyond solving this one mystery. Curiosity is all he has that isn't the past, a distraction he might as well indulge again and again. So — caution to the wind, he finds the footing to work his way up the slanted pile with the Forsaken on it, as beckoned.

For a final test, he holds the compass high over the man's head. ]

My, it really is pointing right at you.

[ Straight down! ]

If you had to think of a reason, could you?

there's a thorn in the lion's paw (clip only needs to be watched for a few seconds, CW: suicide)

[sadpoem]

[He sits in a department store window, too beautiful to be a mannequin. The Forsaken is too beautiful to be a human either. Sunny dreamt this man, this...thing. In fact, the last thing he remembers about that terrible dream is falling asleep inside of a craggy cavern, at a loss for anything better to do. No one should find it that easy to sleep in the arms of a complete stranger, but it just seemed like the right (perhaps only) thing to do. When it comes to waking up, the alternative would have been...

[Grim.

[When it comes to waking up, though, Sunny isn't sure that he has. The world still looks like a nightmare, and there's the man he dreamt.

[He approaches the Forsaken, lifting his hand in a small, shaky wave. Seeing the bloody foot, he cringes a bit, then tilts his head to get a better look. There's a frown on his face.]

[aeviternitas]

[ It comes like a breeze, a whisper of sorrow, than any real sound, but it gets the Forsaken's attention anyway. It's familiar.

He lifts his head, faded blue gaze finding a boy he recognizes. His expression lifts momentarily in surprise. He smiles then, but sadness weighs the corners of his lips. With a soft voice: ]

Hello again, Sunny.

[ There have been a few Lost that the Forsaken had wished he could keep with him, even if only for a little while longer. Sunny is the first that he wishes he could have sent home, but was unable to. The Lost deserve better than this place. (He deserves better than this place, too, than the one he left, but here at least is new, different. The most alarming part, he supposes, is the fact that he appears to be human now, or more human than he was. ]

It's alright. I didn't notice the glass on the path.

[sadpoem]

[It's true that Sunny would probably be safer in his own bed, but it's true, too, that there isn't much waiting for him. Both here and there, he'd rather sleep than face reality. The Forsaken is a comfort in that he tells Sunny he must still be dreaming. To that end, the Forsaken saved him during his last nightmare. Perhaps it's his turn to return the favor...

[He looks up at the Forsaken, reaching for the shard of glass with two fingers pinched, ready to grab it; he doesn't take it yet, though. He raises his eyebrows at the Forsaken, silently asking if it's alright. It might hurt...]

cw: blood

[aeviternitas]

[ It surprises him a little, that Sunny so readily reaches to take the offending shard. Perhaps it shouldn't. The Lost are often seen as fragile or weak, but resilient in even the smallest ways.

He nods permission, though requests only: ] Mind you don't cut yourself.

[ He is not unused to pain. Though a human might cut or stab him - and has on occasion, usually in fear - the wound closes almost immediately as though it were never there. So he is prepared for it to hurt, if only a little. What he isn't prepared for is a fresh rush of blood that drips along the sole of his foot onto the concrete below, and that it keeps bleeding. ]

cw: blood

[sadpoem]

[Sunny takes great care to remove the shard without cutting the forsaken deeper. Blood pools and drips from the bottom of the Forsaken's foot, unceasing. It makes Sunny queasy to see it, and he has to look away for a moment, wrinkling up his nose.

[He thinks he knows the basics. When something is bleeding and won't stop, you should press down on it as hard as you can. If only they had some sort of bandage...

[There's a dusty, moth-eaten sweater still hanging off of one of the mannequins. Sunny tries to remove it without looking at its face (does it still have a face?). He balls the sweater up and presses it against the Forsaken's foot, applying firm pressure.

[He has no idea if he's doing it right...]