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cultor2025-07-02 04:10 am
aeviternitas) wrote in cultor2025-07-02 04:10 am
Entry tags:
(OPEN + CLOSED) The Forsaken | Calcutta Catch-All
Who: The Forsaken and you!
What: Open top-level + closed starters for the Calcutta event
When: July
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![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
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!) }}
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
no subject
He froze, but did not withdraw, even as the Forsaken's fingers curled around his. There was something heavier about the contact now than there was in the dream, something more satisfying about it. The way he wanted more unsettled him, but he kept a measured silence as the Forsaken continued to speak. That he didn't wish to speak of the shadows caught Nymnar's attention again, and he begins to search his companion's expression until their shoulders touch: at that he looks down to the fire and momentarily tensed.
It felt like a line had been drawn and then immediately crossed, though he may feel that way simply for the urge rising within himself. He was growing acutely aware of an ache that had existed buried for years, hidden away for reasons he could not actually articulate. Because it was weakness? Because he had forgotten what it was like? His hand shifted to curl around the Forsaken's fingers, gently holding with a desperation that screamed for more. His gaze shifted back toward the Forsaken - sidelong, but he did meet the other's eyes - as his eyes lifted and their gazes met.
Nymnar wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want this feeling to go away, but he also recognized that this was a dangerous path to be on. This was something he may grow to like too much. His thumb started to gently rub over the Forsaken's fingers in an unconscious movement as Nymnar collected his fragmented thoughts.
"I am not a man upon whom you can rely," he finally responded, his voice low and brittle. The warning was said without any real teeth to it: he was afraid of the ache that was gnawing at him and demanding more the longer he stayed here. The only thing he knew was to push away and isolate, which he also didn't wish to do.
no subject
Is he feeling the same desire for touch? Does he not mind? Is he simply being kind for the sake of it?
None of it particularly makes sense, he thinks, especially with the way the man talks about himself. But the touch of their hands, their shoulders, it feels right. Grounding. It feels like maybe this way, he won't disappear... right?
His eyes meet Nymnar's, then, the Forsaken laughs. It's a light sound, melodic, not unkind. He drops his head lightly on the other's shoulder with a cascade of white hair across his front. With it comes a scent familiar, earthy like soil, or maybe like the leather and long-dried ink, like parchment forgotten and discovered again. And then, it is gone. Amusement in his voice, the Forsaken turns his hand to lace their fingers together as he answers. "I ask no such thing of you."
What he wants is touch, solidity, something to anchor him here, to know that he is seen and heard and felt. That is a simple thing.
Or it should be.
His gaze returns to their hands, the way they fit together, the shades of their skin in the firelight. He feels a warmth - in his fingers, yes, on his face, from the cast of the fire. But, he feels it in his chest, too, something like a pull, unfamiliar and perhaps a little frightening, but not altogether unpleasant. He isn't sure what to make of it.