There's usually a rush on Town Hall at the beginning of the month as everyone turns in their community surveys, so Gaeta waits a few days before he heads over. Less time standing in line; more time to navigate the absolute mess littering... well, everything, since the flood. He doesn't even know where to start with his apartment. There's only so much Tayrey's borrowed tools can fix, and he's always been better at code and computers than hammering a nail.
But -- that's for later. Paperwork first. He elbows open the door and starts to hobble in, only realizing once he's halfway to the front desk that he recognizes the woman behind it.
....well. That's, um.
He stops in his tracks for a couple seconds. When he picks up his stride again, it's slower than before; he can't stop staring.
Unlike the cuts the bugs left along his arms, the scar on his neck hasn't faded since he came back.
She hears the door open, but her hands are carrying files that she turns to put down before turning to greet whoever it is -
And also stopping in place. To her credit, she looks taken aback, before it smooths itself into a wary resolve. This was inevitable, since his return, since she hadn't thought to seek him out, discuss things. That mark across his neck - at the least, she thinks, it's neat.
"...How can I help you?"
Not the affected tones of caring. Just the normalcy of two strangers when one has to be professional. If he's showed up to talk about what happened, then so he has. If he's got paperwork, she can handle that too.
Tayrey arranged to meet Fever on the outskirts of the forest, because it's as good and as private a place as any. The last thing she wants while they do this is onlookers, whether inquisitive locals or people who might know who they're doing this for, and interrupt.
She's wearing her usual uniform. Ordinarily the remembrance of the dead would merit more formality, but she doesn't have anything more formal, won't be able to afford anything more formal for quite some time (an uncomfortable thought) and there's not much about this that's conventional anyway. There are no bodies. They're in a forest, on a planet equally alien to the two survivors and the comrades they're mourning.
When she sights Fever, she sets down her backpack and waves. 'Peace and prosperity!' she calls over - and then, when Fever draws nearer: 'I... uh, I should say that I haven't actually done this before. I've seen it done. And I know what a couple of them wanted.' She should have asked every single one. They were her team. Too late for that now.
"Peace and prosperity," gets called back with a return wave. Fever's also about as formal as she can get - which isn't much, but they make do with what they have. This whole ceremony, if one calls it that, is them just figuring out something that for all the gaps in it, the sentiment will make up for it. Still, something feels odd if she thinks about it in the sense of mourning them, so she'll settle on honoring what they did, and remembering them.
"You've got a better idea than me, then. The most I managed to sort out in my memories is that there's so many different things one could do - but what I chose to involve, I think they'll approve of." A pause. "What did you bring with you?"
It's on his way back from the police station to the Oak and Iron that Leon runs into Fever again, noticing the distinctive shock of white hair as he passes by. Normally he might just nod a greeting and maybe exchange a few brief pleasantries, but after their extended stay aboard the Stag Beetle he's been feeling more than a little shaken up, and seeing a familiar face can sometimes help settle him.
He waves her down, closing the distance between them.
It's been a lot of busy work at Town Hall, but the good news is that there's less to redo than she'd expected. Things in cabinets seem pretty untouched by the floods, and instead it's just mostly cleaning.
"I'm doing well enough. Better now that we're back here. And what about you?"
"That begs many questions. However, I've come into possession of a decent bottle of wine which should allow you to make some headway. It's yours if you promise answers."
Or otherwise, but regardless, she'll come over with it. It's a nice red, the same that she had been drinking at the gathering at the inn, so she can vouch for the effects.
There's warmth in her voice, friendliness, just like the day before.
"Got any rest? I couldn't find you after everything - I thought you went home to catch your breath."
Which, her tone implies, she doesn't blame him for. The entire experience had been truly difficult. At least with this downtime, she's been able to fix herself back to functioning, even if she hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.
Sometime in mid october, after a particular conversation, an envelope is left at the door. It is not marked, nor is it signed. Within, folded neatly, is a single somewhat large sheet of drawing paper, depicting a single subject, with three words.
The subject of this sketch is one Alice Dyer, as she appeared at the Gala. She is terrified but is, curiously, not depicted wearing one of Mendel's masks; instead, Ms. Dyer is caught in the act of retrieving a blue sword from her dress, with the cloth hiked up over her leg, half-looking at the viewer of the sketch. The blade is the only element of this piece that has any color, though it is not quite the sword Jean was holding - the blade is straighter, shorter, done in another style. And yet the color is exactly the same, rendered in blends of chalk that must have taken hours to get right.
At the bottom of the paper, three words: She needs help.
The art style is unmistakably Jean's; the picture could go on Fever's wall and never be noticed as anything different, save for the color.
Among her Givingstide gifts, Fever finds a slightly lumpy package with a simple ribbon bow stuck on top.
Inside is a notebook. As neatly as he could, Radar hand-lettered the first page with "WYVERN CARE," then filled the rest of it with everything he knows -- or could find in the library -- about taking care of reptiles in general and wyverns in particular. As for the lumpiness? That's because there's also a pair of blue-and-silver knit hats, one human sized and one wyvern sized, that he got from the same stall as the hats for him and Nibbles.
An included note reads:
Dear Miss Fever,
Most of what I already knew in here's about snakes and turtles, but I bet some of it'll work for Chills. I also wrote down a bunch of stuff from the library about wyverns just in case. Hope you both like the hats too!
Oh, Radar. She's truly touched, and in the spirit of the day, will be trying that hat on in the middle of the festivities. In addition, being out and about and occasionally having Chills nestled in her coat, he will be proudly wearing his tiny hat as well.
The package that comes to him is smaller, but picked with no less care. Inside is a handsome pocket knife, one that folds up, handle of a warm wood. There's a small scroll of a note with it, as well.
When and if you want, I'll teach you that spell I use to reach the high shelves. Having an extra hand has infinite possibility, and I can't think of anyone more deserving.
The box holds a dagger. The sheath is nothing overly remarkable (he had a lot of gifts to get through, and a lot of depression to fight, sorry), but what's visible of the weapon is promising. Pulling it out reveals the total artwork of an iron blade fashioned after a feather. The hilt is the wide part, the smooth barbs with some frayed strands to curl about and form the guard; meanwhile the naked pointed quill cleaves right down the center of the blade, a raised and pointed design between the two edges.
There's a specificity to the feather. Fever will recognize it, of course.
It's beautiful, and she looks at it for a long time, turning it this way and that to see the design in different angles of light. If she eventually gently kisses the pommel, that's her business, as well as when she tucks it into its new hiding place, to be carried near her and at hand for whatever it's needed for.
To strike down foes, or cut a piece of bread, or simply be reassurance, kept close.
One nice day in March, Fever will find a note written on a single sheet of paper sitting in her mailbox with neither an envelope nor any sign it was ever stamped or mailed. But it should not be hard to guess where it came from. When Fever unfolds it, she'll see this written inside:
"Thank You <3 FEVER Mother said that when someone does something nice Elsie should say thank you. Fever is showing Elsie how to write better so she can say thank you like this. Thank you from Elsie"
Dankovsky should not feel as nervous as he does coming to Fever's place. They have a good relationship, he thinks, and so he should not feel so conflicted about it.
He is, though. It's just something about Fever— she frightens him just as much as she radiates patience and kindness. The two perceptions clash in Dankovsky's mind and make for a mixed opinion of the woman. Why, though?
Easy. She makes you feel like exactly how Aglaya did.
Daniil chases away that train of thought, uncomfortable with it. He does not like the implications of it at all.
He stands straighter, raises his chin, and confidently knocks on the door. Nothing weird about visiting a friend, for God's sake.
Spring puts her in a better mood, she's finding. Slowly, bit by bit, it's been an entire year of this place. And look at her now, with a place of her own and a job that hasn't fired her, and today's a better day than it has been. Sometimes it's easier, sometimes it's harder - but the sun is shining, and that counts for a bit.
The sound at the door pulls her from her reverie. A surprise? She'll take it, opening the door not long after his knock.
"Oh! Dankovsky! I didn't know you were in the area - would you like to come in?"
Today is a kinder day, if how warm her expression is means anything.
He’s sitting on her desk when she arrives for work, butt on the table and feet on the chair, looking positively giddy.
“Fever, love! Oh, you’re going to enjoy this one, I think! I’ve found you one: an offering! One suited more for you than anyone else.” He wiggles like a small child on a sugar high.
"An offering, Father?" she repeats, moving around him so she can take off her coat and put aside her bag. "I thought I was the giver, not the receiver of such. At least for now."
Who knows what will happen in the future. Apparently, she's getting offerings now?
She can't remember how long she's been at it. Her knuckles aren't black and blue yet and she doesn't have a headache— so not long enough. But she's drenched in sweat under the morning sun and her brain's buzzing inside her skull, and for once Carolina feels right.
Fists hit hard the sandbag she's tied up to the nearest tree. It hangs like a P.O.W. Limp and lifeless, but heavy. It takes shock like one too. Swings back and forward, saying nothing. Silent, just the way she likes.
You’ll know her when you see her, lashing out at the shadows she casts.
The words ring in her head in their familiar lilt as she beholds the woman from a ways off. The angle of the early sun behind her, she could be trying to fight her own shadow cast upon the bag, meeting it blow for blow in silence. The gun, as Father had said - precise, brutal, explosive. She's met enough soldiers by now to know the type. And to know you don't sneak up on them even when it's to their benefit.
Let's take a more personal measure, shall we?
Deliberately, Fever steps on a twig she would have otherwise avoided, letting the snap enter the air. Enough of a herald, when a face that's the picture of innocent surprise pops out to accompany it.
"Oh! Sorry - I guess I wasn't the only one with the idea to train today."
There is genuine interest in her for what the stranger's doing, but she knows that saying my unearthly father sent me to help a desperate case doesn't make for a great start.
While Fever is out walking, there is something in the woods.
In the evening, in the spaces between trees where shadows gather and thicken as sunset draws near, there is a negative space that breathes. A living shadow that looks more like a hole in the world than a presence. And suspended in that form, within a spindly, shattered, beckoning rib cage,
there is
a heart.
Glowing bright red and hanging in the void.
"Daughter of Death and Madness," speaks a low and rumbling voice. "A moment of your time, if you please."
Even the most naive would sense something amiss, something powerful with a heartbeat that pulses through the blood of man. Infinitely closer, when the reenactment of her own fall is so near her mind. And Fever hears that voice, and no matter how she looks, she feels fear breathe on the back of her neck, in the same cadence as the living void.
There is a moment where she considers running. On her own, should this turn bad, she has nothing. No quick teleport out, no defenses that will last until help arrives, only a stubborn determination to survive. But she has always been a fool who presses onward, and she holds one thing as certainty - nothing in her recollection makes her believe she's earned his wrath. Not yet, not knowingly.
"Your Majesty."
Look, erring on the side of instinctive courtesy from time to time never backfired. It doesn't hurt that later, her ego will be reveling in that title.
Though Erik had helped her overcome the insanity that attempted to take over after the violence of the Opera, she's uncertain if that is a long term solution. The hunger still remains, whether a curse of Aster or of the Void alone she doesn't know, but it's subdued enough that she can function as normal. Still, she needs more options, more eyes, more advice. Things she doesn't dare seek from anyone but Fever. The last thing she needs is Max and Miles worrying over her more than they already are, or Neil trying to therapize or pick at her wounds. Cassandra can't advise her on the madness, only the pain. Shen could only sympathize. Crichton would get anxious and question her sanity. CT doesn't need the added stress of her boss possibly losing it while she tries to deal with her own issues. Hell, Daisy might encourage it which she doesn't need either.
The list goes on further than it would have three years ago, before the Eterna, before Pumpkin Hollow.
But it is Fever she needs. The one who understands the need for violence, the unfortunate ties to gods who wish to use you, the struggle of keeping yourself while wielding the powers given to you. So it is Fever she seeks in this moment, following the pull of her love for the other woman, the bond between them brings her to exactly where she is, wherever that may be.
She's out on the beach, walking without shoes by the water and keeping her eyes peeled for more bits of glass - actual glass weathered by the sea, not Pyotr's creations. There's a lot she has turning in her mind, enough that will not settle, and giving herself a simple task at least lets her live around where they all swirl about, being worn into shape as much as the pieces she collects. A shine catches her eye, and she bends to pick it up - nearly clear, but subtly tinged blue. Nice.
Both of them are attuned to eyes on their back, and when Fever feels them, she half turns, curious as to who. When recognition sets in, she smiles, waving from where she is - of course Valdis is welcome here.
"Now that you're out here, I'm roping you into being my assistant."
A mail carrier's work begins early, earlier than most people would think. Before the sun, but it means they get to greet the sunrise each beautiful day. The grass is green, the birds chirp, someone's passed out under a tree-
Well. That last one might need a little investigation.
She's not visibly wounded, nor does she look particularly ill, but what could be another peaceful sleep is decidedly not. Tension radiates from her, hands clenched and frowning deeply, locked in the depths of her dreams.
"No..."
What does our beloved Godpoke and wielder of words do?
Well, the answer to that is quite simple. There is, in fact, only one thing to do when one encounters a body on the ground, alive or dead.
Being far more precious about it than is strictly necessary, Godpoke selects a stick from the ground, ensuring the tip isn't sharp. And then, with the gentleness of a mother and the precision of a surgeon, they poke her in the side.
Following this conversation, Erik picks up his sending stone to call Fever. He's planning to have an in-person conversation with Max and he may as well ask Fever if she'd like one, too. It's one of several things he really ought to discuss with her.
He thinks of Fever and speaks into the stone, "It's Erik. Could I have a moment of your time?"
The answer is readily given, though she has only a few guesses as to what he might be calling about. Hopefully it's mundane. Remarkable, how many people are coping with having their secrets in full view by an understanding to not speak of it. Though the perpetrator being dead has to help things.
Would you trust it, if it was just given to you? Or would it be more honest to know you made me hand it over?
It doesn't have to be me. But it could be.
The words linger like cobwebs in her head. She doesn't know what they mean, not really. Control is no more specific than the hypothetical giving or taking of it, and her efforts to mold it into a discernible shape fail miserably. Control could be as simple as getting a leg-up during a spar. Taking, synonymous to a single or double-legged takedown. It was the way she'd said it, though. With chin tipped imploringly up at her, fingers splayed and challenging across her chest.
Carolina entertains the offer only to the extent of scrutinizing it. She has enough control in her life, thank you.
Today, they're in Carolina's yard. Using Carolina's space. Surrounded by Carolina's things; guns and targets and makeshift punching bags strung to trees. A wicker basket of strawberries, half eaten, sits on the front porch. The door is swung wide open as she drags an old, large rug out onto the grass.
It's her day to teach.
(What was that about not needing control?)
Carolina claps dust off her hands. "Hope you stretched. We're grappling today."
"And let me guess - no magic. Even if I have a perfect counter to being grappled in the first place."
Because the first rule is to not let yourself get grabbed to start with. But she's still here nevertheless - dressed down, save for the circlet Carolina will never have seen her without. No staff, just herself and her own four limbs. Because she needs to know, she needs to add one more thing to her arsenal. Power like this hasn't been worth anything in trying to keep pain from her loved ones - but it can end the torment all the swifter. Let her learn, let her do something that helps, let her feel like she's accomplishing something. The rapier alone won't save them.
Still, dutiful, she's shown up. Complaining for the sake of it, not out of sincerity.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
town hall
But -- that's for later. Paperwork first. He elbows open the door and starts to hobble in, only realizing once he's halfway to the front desk that he recognizes the woman behind it.
....well. That's, um.
He stops in his tracks for a couple seconds. When he picks up his stride again, it's slower than before; he can't stop staring.
Unlike the cuts the bugs left along his arms, the scar on his neck hasn't faded since he came back.
no subject
And also stopping in place. To her credit, she looks taken aback, before it smooths itself into a wary resolve. This was inevitable, since his return, since she hadn't thought to seek him out, discuss things. That mark across his neck - at the least, she thinks, it's neat.
"...How can I help you?"
Not the affected tones of caring. Just the normalcy of two strangers when one has to be professional. If he's showed up to talk about what happened, then so he has. If he's got paperwork, she can handle that too.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
Early May - Sail memorial
She's wearing her usual uniform. Ordinarily the remembrance of the dead would merit more formality, but she doesn't have anything more formal, won't be able to afford anything more formal for quite some time (an uncomfortable thought) and there's not much about this that's conventional anyway. There are no bodies. They're in a forest, on a planet equally alien to the two survivors and the comrades they're mourning.
When she sights Fever, she sets down her backpack and waves. 'Peace and prosperity!' she calls over - and then, when Fever draws nearer: 'I... uh, I should say that I haven't actually done this before. I've seen it done. And I know what a couple of them wanted.' She should have asked every single one. They were her team. Too late for that now.
no subject
"You've got a better idea than me, then. The most I managed to sort out in my memories is that there's so many different things one could do - but what I chose to involve, I think they'll approve of." A pause. "What did you bring with you?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
outside town hall
He waves her down, closing the distance between them.
"Hey! It's been a bit. How're you holding up?"
no subject
It's been a lot of busy work at Town Hall, but the good news is that there's less to redo than she'd expected. Things in cabinets seem pretty untouched by the floods, and instead it's just mostly cleaning.
"I'm doing well enough. Better now that we're back here. And what about you?"
cw: reference to past infestation/parasitism and mind control
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw: non-graphic discussion of past character death
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
delivery; thx for murdering me when i was full of bugs (which hasn't been rped yet but will be)
Thanks for the assist.
-CvR
Via sending stone
"What do you think the minimum amount of alcohol needed to scrub a guy's memories is, and follow-up question, want to watch me drink it?"
no subject
Or otherwise, but regardless, she'll come over with it. It's a nice red, the same that she had been drinking at the gathering at the inn, so she can vouch for the effects.
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw flippant reference to animal death
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Outside Town Hall, Just After Work | May
Erin has brought a tankard of ale. The word BRIBE is carved into it.
no subject
She's already walking with you, Erin. Enlighten her as to your machinations.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Wrap?
wrap.
just over twenty-four hours after the house of cards
A tentative voice: "Miss Fever? You there? It's, um, it's Radar."
no subject
There's warmth in her voice, friendliness, just like the day before.
"Got any rest? I couldn't find you after everything - I thought you went home to catch your breath."
Which, her tone implies, she doesn't blame him for. The entire experience had been truly difficult. At least with this downtime, she's been able to fix herself back to functioning, even if she hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Stone Call
"Hey, Fever? Can you...um. Are you free?"
no subject
What does it need? What does it want? It'll be better than what she's currently doing.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
A Letter | October | Probably Not A Thread
The subject of this sketch is one Alice Dyer, as she appeared at the Gala. She is terrified but is, curiously, not depicted wearing one of Mendel's masks; instead, Ms. Dyer is caught in the act of retrieving a blue sword from her dress, with the cloth hiked up over her leg, half-looking at the viewer of the sketch. The blade is the only element of this piece that has any color, though it is not quite the sword Jean was holding - the blade is straighter, shorter, done in another style. And yet the color is exactly the same, rendered in blends of chalk that must have taken hours to get right.
At the bottom of the paper, three words: She needs help.
The art style is unmistakably Jean's; the picture could go on Fever's wall and never be noticed as anything different, save for the color.
givingstide!
Inside is a notebook. As neatly as he could, Radar hand-lettered the first page with "WYVERN CARE," then filled the rest of it with everything he knows -- or could find in the library -- about taking care of reptiles in general and wyverns in particular. As for the lumpiness? That's because there's also a pair of blue-and-silver knit hats, one human sized and one wyvern sized, that he got from the same stall as the hats for him and Nibbles.
An included note reads:
Dear Miss Fever,
Most of what I already knew in here's about snakes and turtles, but I bet some of it'll work for Chills. I also wrote down a bunch of stuff from the library about wyverns just in case. Hope you both like the hats too!
Happy Givingstide,
Your friend,
Radar
no subject
The package that comes to him is smaller, but picked with no less care. Inside is a handsome pocket knife, one that folds up, handle of a warm wood. There's a small scroll of a note with it, as well.
When and if you want, I'll teach you that spell I use to reach the high shelves. Having an extra hand has infinite possibility, and I can't think of anyone more deserving.
Happy Givingstide, Radar.
-F
givingstide
There's a specificity to the feather. Fever will recognize it, of course.
Happy Givingstide! I hope you like it.
- Phil
no subject
To strike down foes, or cut a piece of bread, or simply be reassurance, kept close.
no subject
"Thank You <3 FEVER
Mother said that when someone does something nice Elsie should say thank you. Fever is showing Elsie how to write better so she can say thank you like this. Thank you from Elsie"
no subject
As soon as she sees her friend again, she's getting tightly hugged, no matter where they are.
at fever's apartment!
He is, though. It's just something about Fever— she frightens him just as much as she radiates patience and kindness. The two perceptions clash in Dankovsky's mind and make for a mixed opinion of the woman. Why, though?
Easy. She makes you feel like exactly how Aglaya did.
Daniil chases away that train of thought, uncomfortable with it. He does not like the implications of it at all.
He stands straighter, raises his chin, and confidently knocks on the door. Nothing weird about visiting a friend, for God's sake.
no subject
The sound at the door pulls her from her reverie. A surprise? She'll take it, opening the door not long after his knock.
"Oh! Dankovsky! I didn't know you were in the area - would you like to come in?"
Today is a kinder day, if how warm her expression is means anything.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Town Hall, Late April
“Fever, love! Oh, you’re going to enjoy this one, I think! I’ve found you one: an offering! One suited more for you than anyone else.” He wiggles like a small child on a sugar high.
no subject
Who knows what will happen in the future. Apparently, she's getting offerings now?
"What did you find?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
One, two.
One-two, three-four.
One-two, one-two-three.
She can't remember how long she's been at it. Her knuckles aren't black and blue yet and she doesn't have a headache— so not long enough. But she's drenched in sweat under the morning sun and her brain's buzzing inside her skull, and for once Carolina feels right.
Fists hit hard the sandbag she's tied up to the nearest tree. It hangs like a P.O.W. Limp and lifeless, but heavy. It takes shock like one too. Swings back and forward, saying nothing. Silent, just the way she likes.
It's nice, not having FILSS droning in her ear.
Not having York over her shoulder.
She's alone, just the way she likes it.
For a while, at least.
no subject
The words ring in her head in their familiar lilt as she beholds the woman from a ways off. The angle of the early sun behind her, she could be trying to fight her own shadow cast upon the bag, meeting it blow for blow in silence. The gun, as Father had said - precise, brutal, explosive. She's met enough soldiers by now to know the type. And to know you don't sneak up on them even when it's to their benefit.
Let's take a more personal measure, shall we?
Deliberately, Fever steps on a twig she would have otherwise avoided, letting the snap enter the air. Enough of a herald, when a face that's the picture of innocent surprise pops out to accompany it.
"Oh! Sorry - I guess I wasn't the only one with the idea to train today."
There is genuine interest in her for what the stranger's doing, but she knows that saying my unearthly father sent me to help a desperate case doesn't make for a great start.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
no subject
While Fever is out walking, there is something in the woods.
In the evening, in the spaces between trees where shadows gather and thicken as sunset draws near, there is a negative space that breathes. A living shadow that looks more like a hole in the world than a presence. And suspended in that form, within a spindly, shattered, beckoning rib cage,
there is
a heart.
Glowing bright red and hanging in the void.
"Daughter of Death and Madness," speaks a low and rumbling voice. "A moment of your time, if you please."
no subject
There is a moment where she considers running. On her own, should this turn bad, she has nothing. No quick teleport out, no defenses that will last until help arrives, only a stubborn determination to survive. But she has always been a fool who presses onward, and she holds one thing as certainty - nothing in her recollection makes her believe she's earned his wrath. Not yet, not knowingly.
"Your Majesty."
Look, erring on the side of instinctive courtesy from time to time never backfired. It doesn't hurt that later, her ego will be reveling in that title.
"I'm at leisure with many moments to give."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
After Fever's Thread with Eligos
The list goes on further than it would have three years ago, before the Eterna, before Pumpkin Hollow.
But it is Fever she needs. The one who understands the need for violence, the unfortunate ties to gods who wish to use you, the struggle of keeping yourself while wielding the powers given to you. So it is Fever she seeks in this moment, following the pull of her love for the other woman, the bond between them brings her to exactly where she is, wherever that may be.
no subject
Both of them are attuned to eyes on their back, and when Fever feels them, she half turns, curious as to who. When recognition sets in, she smiles, waving from where she is - of course Valdis is welcome here.
"Now that you're out here, I'm roping you into being my assistant."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
CW: Mention of Suicide
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
may.
Well. That last one might need a little investigation.
She's not visibly wounded, nor does she look particularly ill, but what could be another peaceful sleep is decidedly not. Tension radiates from her, hands clenched and frowning deeply, locked in the depths of her dreams.
"No..."
What does our beloved Godpoke and wielder of words do?
no subject
Being far more precious about it than is strictly necessary, Godpoke selects a stick from the ground, ensuring the tip isn't sharp. And then, with the gentleness of a mother and the precision of a surgeon, they poke her in the side.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
Backdated Call about Valdis
He thinks of Fever and speaks into the stone, "It's Erik. Could I have a moment of your time?"
no subject
The answer is readily given, though she has only a few guesses as to what he might be calling about. Hopefully it's mundane. Remarkable, how many people are coping with having their secrets in full view by an understanding to not speak of it. Though the perpetrator being dead has to help things.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
Mid-June, Carolina's backyard
Would you trust it, if it was just given to you? Or would it be more honest to know you made me hand it over?
It doesn't have to be me. But it could be.
The words linger like cobwebs in her head. She doesn't know what they mean, not really. Control is no more specific than the hypothetical giving or taking of it, and her efforts to mold it into a discernible shape fail miserably. Control could be as simple as getting a leg-up during a spar. Taking, synonymous to a single or double-legged takedown. It was the way she'd said it, though. With chin tipped imploringly up at her, fingers splayed and challenging across her chest.
Carolina entertains the offer only to the extent of scrutinizing it. She has enough control in her life, thank you.
Today, they're in Carolina's yard. Using Carolina's space. Surrounded by Carolina's things; guns and targets and makeshift punching bags strung to trees. A wicker basket of strawberries, half eaten, sits on the front porch. The door is swung wide open as she drags an old, large rug out onto the grass.
It's her day to teach.
(What was that about not needing control?)
Carolina claps dust off her hands. "Hope you stretched. We're grappling today."
no subject
Because the first rule is to not let yourself get grabbed to start with. But she's still here nevertheless - dressed down, save for the circlet Carolina will never have seen her without. No staff, just herself and her own four limbs. Because she needs to know, she needs to add one more thing to her arsenal. Power like this hasn't been worth anything in trying to keep pain from her loved ones - but it can end the torment all the swifter. Let her learn, let her do something that helps, let her feel like she's accomplishing something. The rapier alone won't save them.
Still, dutiful, she's shown up. Complaining for the sake of it, not out of sincerity.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
meanwhile back on the island
late june/early july-ish
"Fever!" yells the familiar voice on the other end of the line. "She's here! Helga had her baby!"
no subject
There's a sound like scrambling - Fever was on the roof watching the sunset, and now she's gotten up, ready to scramble down and make for Baker Ranch.
"It's here?! The baby's really here?"
As soon as she can, she's going to be flying down, immediately eager. It's here. It's here. New life in this world, ready to run from birth.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
mid-november
"Hello. This is Father Mulcahy. Fever, may I speak to you in person? It's not an emergency, but it is important."
no subject
The most she had planned for the rest of the day is reading, after all - that can happen any time.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...