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[IC] ◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈ Page 4

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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Tlazolteotl
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Lost in Translation
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The man looks at Sirpa. His mouth opens, closes. He looks down at his hands. Back up at her. At Morgan. At Teresa. Something uncertain passes over his face.

A glass hits the table with a clink—whiskey, neat, amber in the light. Another follows, something pale with a silver shimmer swirling through it. A third, lavender and fizzing, a lemon slice on the rim. The employee sets the last in front of the man: dark, still, swallowing light.

"Way I see it," she says, "what's there to lose? Either nothing changes and you stay here, or something does. And maybe you won't need this place anymore."

He stares at the drink. Then, slowly, looks up.

A nod from the one without a voice—or is it that no one's listening? Small, hesitant, but there.

The track ends. Another begins—just as loud, just as relentless, though not quite the same.
Hidden 6 mos ago Post by silver21
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Sirpa didn't hear the employee approach and was startled to see a set of drinks placed in front of them. She didn't place any order. She looked up at the employee quizzically, listened to what they had to say, then looked back at her drink. She picked it up, sniffed it, and took a sip. Sparkling lavender lemonade, like Sprite and lemonade with a pump or two or lavender syrup---non-alcoholic. She set her drink down and felt a small wave of relief when the man agreed to accept some help. Sirpa was glad to not feel like she was forcing his hand.

"Would you tell us your name?" she asked, noting the change in the atmosphere. "Or write it? I'm Sirpa. Oh but, um, I did already say that, huh?"
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Tlazolteotl
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A small smile tugs at the man's face, strained at the edges. Brows drawn up and together.

He reaches into his coat and produces a small notepad. It's a cheap thing, pocket-sized, plastic cover scratched and slightly warped. As he flips through the pages, brief glimpses of ink flash by: a half-finished sketch here, a margin crowded with tiny words there, doodles tangled with what might have been phone numbers or grocery lists.

The man finds a blank page, pulls a pen from the same pocket, and clicks the top. Writes. Turns the notepad around.

My name is the refrigerator owes me an apology.

Each word legible. Handwriting neat enough. But strung together, they collapse into meaningless nonsense.

He lets them look, then pulls out his smartphone and thumbs open a notes app. A few tapped words, and he turns the screen toward the group.

Pleasant to treadmill you, I'm called westbound.
Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Auragreedia
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Morgan pauses for a moment as the employee stops at the table.

"Way I see it," she says, "what's there to lose? Either nothing changes and you stay here, or something does. And maybe you won't need this place anymore."

He resists the urge to raise an eyebrow and remains quiet, he'd let Sirpa and Teresa dictate the conversation for now. Seemed like a better idea than letting a half-drunk, half-somewhat-pissed-off cowboy with a delicate situation such as this. But it was strange. This was the first time an employee or person-- excluding his little group-- spoke some actual sense.

Then the song changes, it's not the same. He tries to look at the mass of dancing bodies again, see if they shifted to the new beat. Whatever he observes, he looks back at the drink set in front of him courtesy of the employee and stares it. He wasn't gonna drink a damn thing in here, too much risk, too weird.

"Sure you already overheard my introduction earlier, but I'll say it again for the lady over 'ere," he extends a hand to Teresa, "name's Morgan. Got blasted through a wall, into a bar, 'n' now I'm here."

He returns his attention back to the name: it seems even his writing was effected similarly to the rest of what he's seen. There was more ground to be tread here, more sense to be made. They couldn't even get the poor man's name without some odd interference. The writing is fine, guy has neat handwriting; sentences are mostly understandable 'cept for a single confused word replacing another, but his actual name? Devolves into the same crap the rest of the bar-goers spoke excluding the one employee from earlier.

He taps a metal finger on the table and rests his head in his hand.

Still not enough to complete the puzzle.

"Know it probably ain't your real name," he muses, "but, Westbound makes for a mighty fine moniker, don't it?"
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by spiral origin
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((This is a character experiment, not meant to offend anyone))

A newcomer walked into the lantern-lit tavern. Aelvira Aerenesse, an elven lady with long silver hair sweeping behind her. She eyed the establishment's interior, getting a feel for its history and lineage. Upon seeing the patrons which consisted of varying races and species, a familiar shard of disdain rose from deep within her core. Diversity. Aelvira rolled her eyes, veiling her distaste. It was difficult seeing inferior cultures taint the environment of the tavern, which had traces of sylvan roots. But she was tired, and the place was reasonably tolerable.

A brutish beast of an orc waddled across her vision, assaulting her senses. Subtly, she took a step back, hands ready above the hilts of her blades as she waited for the greenskin to pass. When he was at a safe distance away, Aelvira could breathe easy again. She had to question once more her choice to stay, before finally approaching the bar.

With an understated wave, she hailed the bartender over. An elf, fortunately. She studied the geography of his face, and the musculature of his body. An adequate specimen, she supposed.

"Evermead, please. Natural-brewed; none of that composite slop." She declared.

Her drink was soon placed on the counter in front of her. She picked up the cup, studying its carved designs, which depicted the history of elves and humans working alongside each other.

"Did you know that in the Tournament of Groves, the renowned human champion of forty-seven years was defeated in humiliating fashion by an elven child with but one season of combat experience?" She chuckled, staring idly at the cup. "Guess the humans don't like to mention that bit of history in their books." She glanced up at the bartender with a smirk. "Cheers." She said, and downed her drink.
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Stanifly
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It seemed the cyber-cowboy had found much of the same from his time at this mindscape’s bar: unintelligible nonsense. It was more evidence for the budding suspicion Teresa had about this man’s dilemma. Behind her mask, she squinted at him. She opened her mouth–

Clink. A glass – and a second, and a third, and a fourth – set neatly down onto the table between them. Teresa’s gaze lingered on the silver drink shimmering innocently in front of her, then whipped up to the waitress, who spoke in polite, perfect sense. She sounded nothing like the server or the employee with the dyed hair, but something in Teresa’s gut just knew that she was connected to this catharsis business the same way the rest of them were.

‘Wait,’ started Teresa, but then the waitress was gone, like she was never there. Teresa lowered her hand to the table. Her gaze flicked to her drink. It shimmered mockingly back.

Her attention was brought back to the group when Morgan introduced himself. Teresa took his proffered hand, and thought nothing of the feel of metal against skin. Cybernetic implants weren’t uncommon in her city, especially for Unnaturals.

‘Silver Blade,’ she responded in kind. ‘I was... in the middle of something when I was sent here.’

It was a reminder she hadn’t known she'd needed until she said it. She had a mission here. She needed to figure this out, so she could figure her own “catharsis” out and get back. It seemed as though the waitress’ intervention and Sirpa’s questioning had gotten them somewhere with the man, but it didn’t take long at all to devolve. The more he wrote, the more his messages fell back into incoherence, and Teresa could swear her glass was winking at her from her peripheral vision. This place was mocking her. Caden–Eri–they were in trouble elsewhere and here she was, wasting time!

‘Answer this, if you can,’ she said, right on the heels of Morgan’s attempt at good humour. Her voice was steel, with none of the earlier gentleness she’d offered earlier. ‘Do you know what happens if the music stops?’ The white lens of her mask creased with her frown. ‘Are you capable of stopping the music?’
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Tlazolteotl
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The man—Westbound, now, it seems—nods at Morgan's suggestion. It isn't as if he could stop them. And it is infinitely better than being someone without a name.

A no one.

His expression darkens, gaze drifting somewhere past the noise and the writhing crowd, into a private memory. A familiar ache given shape. It holds him for only a moment before Teresa cuts through.

The steel in her voice is sharper now, colder for the contrast against her earlier calm. Westbound flinches at the shift. His expression crumples, closer to shame, and he turns away from her entirely, unable or unwilling to meet her eyes.

He shakes his head.

No, he doesn't know what happens if the music stops. He has never tried to stop it. Has never even left this seat since he arrived—just... settled into the background. Melted into it. It was easier that way.

Out there, no one ever cared about him.

In here, he could still be part of something, even from the edges.
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The Elven Supremacist
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The bartender listens, unhurried, polishing a glass with a cloth that has surely seen a thousand nights like this one, and there is no rush in him—he is old enough to have seen and heard it all.

"History rarely gets the details right," he says, and behind Aelvira the low murmur of conversation continues, the clink of cups, a burst of laughter from somewhere near the hearth. "Stories get simplified, embellished—the uncomfortable parts smoothed away until what remains is only the shape of what happened, and none of the weight." He sets the glass down and reaches for her empty cup. "They forget how hard the child 'with but one season of combat experience' must have trained to defeat a champion of forty-seven years, even if she was naturally talented."

The older elf refills it, and the Evermead catches the lantern light, honey-gold and slow.

"Or why the child entered the tournament at all."

He slides the cup back toward her, and lets the unasked question settle between them.
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by silver21
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Sirpa's smile fell ever so slightly as she read Westbound's(?) writing, unable to stop herself from facepalming at his introduction. This was going to be a lot more difficult than she thought.

As the others spoke, she thought to herself about their predicament. She took another sip of her drink, a less tentative one now that she could see it wouldn't fatally poison her. It was all just a little overwhelming, actually. The overstimulation from the lights and noise was still at bay, but she hated the feeling of a puzzle she couldn't solve. It was like an annoying itch she couldn't scratch deep within her skin, the kind that makes you wriggle around in your seat.

Sirpa allowed herself a little wiggle.

Then, Silver Blade's question recaptured Sirpa's attention. A little harsh, she thought. This poor man was just troubled and didn't seem to know his way. Weren't they all in a similar situation? She turned back to Westbound and asked, "You've been here for a while, haven't you? Or, maybe? Do you think you could find or locate the dish rack?"

What the fuck?

"Dish rack."

Am I having a stroke?

"I measured to ask if you had served the Dawn soap."

Oh my god, it's a stroke.

No. Sirpa quickly ran through the FAST acronym in her head, as she had done countless times before. No, not a stroke.

Then, it clicked. Sirpa slowly eyed her drink. It seemed brighter now, calling to her for another sip. She felt parched as she stared. But her anxiety was stronger and she pushed the drink away, then sat back and folded her arms. No more of that.

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The silver simmered in its glass cage.

Teresa had been right to be wary of her drink, considering Sirpa’s deteriorating speech capabilities after a mere few sips of her own. Alarm rose somewhere in her chest. Were they ingesting a part of the man when they drank something here?

‘Are you alright?’ she asked Sirpa. ‘Speech aside. Is the drink affecting you in any other way?’


Vicis’ Catharsis
@Tlazolteotl@spiral origin


Oh? How intriguing.

The weather was particularly splendid today, so much that Vicis had been moved to make his merry way to the village of Theseus (not to be mistaken for that philosophising human king he’d heard of). Clear skies on a sunny afternoon; a perfect accompaniment for an early dinner! Whoever said elder wyrms held no taste for good weather was an uneducated nitwit.

Then again, Vicis supposed such products of society were unavoidable when humans held the reigns for most of the open land. Any human who stumbled across Vicis typically had two predictable responses: screaming, or running and screaming. This was because Vicis was a 20-metre-long... how did the humans put it? A monstrous snake with the spines and scales of a dragon. Was it too much to ask them to notice the dashing stripes of sandpaper yellow that patterned his scales? What about the sharp ridges along his jaw? Truly, humans were nothing if not reductive with their descriptions of species that failed to resemble them.

Their geographical landmarks, too, seemed to be taking blows from their collectively stunted intellect. The path he had taken that was supposed to lead him to Theseus was leading him underground instead, with an unnaturally steep slope that disappeared into the bowels of the forest. With great bemusement, Vicis found himself wandering into a spacious cavern, dimly lit by glowstones set in the walls. It seemed a place between the constructed and the natural – rock formations hewn into artfully placed tables and stools, jutting stone ledges turned into platforms for visitors to sit themselves.

And there were visitors in this strange place. Mostly creatures – mage beetles, storm dragons, a couple of elder wyrms that Vicis sent awkward polite blinks to – but there were a few humans loitering around too. They all seemed unbothered by the company they shared. Everything in this place seemed to accommodate everyone present, from the shortest human to the biggest dragon.

Were the villagers I ate last week drunkards? wondered Vicis. No, this is far too late for an onset of second-hand ill effects. What in Serpent's name is this place?

At the head of all this stood an entity behind a bar of stone. It was neither human nor creature; this, Vicis deduced from the strange aura emanating off its form. Difficult to look at, even with the lack of shadows or miasma enshrouding its form. If anything, it exuded a pleasant demeanour as it went about serving the guests sitting at the bar. Vicis noted one of them to resemble a human, but he had never before seen one with silver hair. He wondered if it did anything for flavour.

Best not to stir trouble in another’s domain, for the moment. He slithered up to the bar, skipping a stone stool in favour of pressing up against the countertop to loom over the entity.

‘Quite the charming establishment you have here.’ His words were raspy around the edges, sibilance more pronounced than it might have been from other creatures. He blinked slit pupils of poison green down at the silver-haired woman, then reverted his gaze to the entity. ‘Do you perhaps offer cuisine for those of an... acquired palate?’
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Hidden 6 mos ago → 6 mos ago Post by Tlazolteotl
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Vicis' Catharsis
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From behind the bar, the entity—a soft flicker of golden light, no taller than a child—answers in a surprisingly cheery voice. "Why, thank you!" They bob in place. "An acquired palate! Oh, wonderful. We have options. So many options." They lean over the counter, light pooling warm on the stone. "Depends on how hungry you are!"

A smaller flame splits off and pops up. "Let's see, let's see. Faerie hearts on a bitter herb salad with a sharp vinegar dressing!" Another little flame joins it. "Cherub cheeks! Rich and fatty, seared rare so the fat just melts. Served in peppercorn cream sauce."

The entity's flames swirl brighter. "Crystallized déjà vu if you want something sweet. Tastes like something you've had before. Some guests order it twice without realizing!"

A spark snaps against the stone. "And oh! If you're the cannibalistic type? Soft-boiled wyrm egg. You crack the crown, drink the broth first. Thick and savory, faint sulfur bite. Inside there's a little wyrm, soft enough to eat whole, bones and all."

Their light softens, and warmth spreads across the bar. "Any of those pique your interest?"
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Hidden 6 mos ago → 6 mos ago Post by Tlazolteotl
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Westbound's face drains of color. He half-rises from his seat, one hand outstretched toward Sirpa as if he could catch the words spilling wrong from her mouth and stuff them back in, fix them, undo whatever just happened.

"Huh."

The employee appears from behind Westbound, watching Sirpa with raised eyebrows.

"You must be pretty damn empathetic." Her head tilts. "To let someone else's Catharsis bleed into you that easily."

She steps toward Sirpa. Leans in, close enough that Sirpa can see the party lights shimmering in her eyes, and says:

"You'll need to be careful. Get too lost in the fog and you won't make it home."

The employee straightens and raises a palm toward the silver hero and the cybernetic cowboy.

"Not a threat. A fact." The words come clipped, matter-of-fact. "Got somewhere to be? Help him."

She looks at the three of them, then jerks her chin at the venue.

"Is it loud? Find a way to stop the music." A glance at Teresa. "Walking in circles? That's 'cause you gotta have a destination in mind."

Her gaze shifts to Westbound. "And names have meaning."

Morgan says something. So does Teresa. To Sirpa, they sound just like the crowd did before—words twisted into nonsense.

The conversations around them, on the other hand, make sense now.

"—no way, he actually said that to her face?—"
"—this song is so overplayed—"
"—I need another drink before I deal with that—"

The notepad on the table—the same one Westbound wrote in earlier—reads differently now.

My name is Wesley.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

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Hidden 6 mos ago → 6 mos ago Post by silver21
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”U-um, uh…” Sirpa’s voice trembled. She looked from Silver Blade to Morgan and back again. “Is the door asking you about going astray?” Was Silver Blade talking to her like that on purpose? Was she mocking her? Or trying to break through the barrier? “Why-…”

At Westbound’s alarmed response, Sirpa felt a wave of panic seize her chest. It’s not a stroke it’s not a stroke it’s not a stroke I promise it’s not-

And then the employee was back. Come to drop the bomb that she did in fact poison their drinks? But then she spoke, and Sirpa listened.

And what she said did nothing to quell her building anxiety.

For a brief moment, she wondered whether she did still want to make it home. The woman’s words looped in Sirpa’s brain. “To let someone else’s Catharsis bleed into you that easily.” The woman wasn’t wrong. She could feel it now, the beginning of Westbound’s pain. Something throbbing. Did the other people here feel it too? Were they even real? It felt…good, like how a massage could be painful yet pleasurable. Sirpa sat there with the feeling for a moment before quickly shutting it away. She knew it wouldn’t feel good for long.

Knowing that she was holding onto the wrong part of the employee’s message, Sirpa dropped her gaze to the table in front of her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glance of Westbound’s notebook. But to her surprise, it was not gibberish. She turned her head to get a real look.

“Wesley,” she said, still looking at his handwriting on the paper. Her voice was quiet and unsteady as she continued. “That makes more sense and honestly is what I thought might have actually been your name.” She looked up at him now and made eye contact.

The swirl of music and lights and people began to blend into one auditory experience rather than a million little stimulants.

Thump. Thump.

The music moved with her breath and simultaneously stabilized and placated her. Wesley’s pain hit her again and she let it drag for a few seconds before shaking it off. She couldn’t tell if this time was easier or more difficult. But all the sounds were clear and organized and meaningful.

Sirpa stood and reached for Wesley’s wrist. “I think I know what to do,” she said, preparing to pull him from his seat toward the throng of dancing people. She wasn’t sure if she could stop the music. She also wasn’t sure if she wanted to right now. But it felt right to get into the heart of everything.

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Morgan pinches the bridge of his nose as Sliver Blade addresses Westbound again. "Go easy on the damn guy," he wasn't in a position to talk, but still, this was an odd situation for everyone, "still, you make a good point, but cut him some slack. Ain't nobody 'ere understands a damn thing."

"Hey, Westbound." Morgan snaps his fingers. "If you ain't try explorin' or turnin' the music off, then there ain't no reason not to try now."

That suggestion falls to the wayside, though.

"You've been here for a while, haven't you? Or, maybe? Do you think you could find or locate the dish rack?"

Sirpa's speech begins to resemble the rest of the people here; he's loosing track of what she's saying. At the same time, thank god neither he nor Silver Blade drank anything. He watches as she pushes the drink away, brows furrowed and heavy with concern. "You alright there, Sirpa?"

What she says in response, he doesn't understand, and frankly it seems like she doesn't understand him either.

Shit.

Sirpa begins to take Westbound away; Morgan turns to Sliver Blade, a hand placed firmly on the table. "Well, I'm sure as hell glad I didn't buy anyone drink. You got a plan? 'Figure it'd be a good idea to keep up with those two, but I don't mind takin' another look around."
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Sirpa didn’t answer her question. She did, however, start conversing with Westbound with renewed vigour. Nothing she said made any sense but it didn’t change the way he looked at her with newfound understanding. Something about the nonsense she spoke was reaching him in ways that Teresa and Morgan couldn’t understand. Teresa eyed her drink.

The silver raised itself out of liquid containment. It was a spire that curled in the air, silver stripped away to reveal dull grey, and reached toward Teresa. Drooped towards her chest. Her heart ached, even though all her wounds had long healed since she’d arrived here, even though Arts’ shot had never met its mark.

For the first time in this unknown place, Teresa felt fear for herself.

She immediately hated herself for it. A cowardly hero wasn’t a hero at all. A hero who couldn’t help someone, who couldn’t help herself, was of no help to others. Morgan had been less than pleased with her inimical approach to Westbound’s problem, but it had been necessary; the man clearly wasn’t about to face his devils without someone dragging him along. That was just the way things were – heroes were supposed to be the answer to the problems civilians brought onto themselves.

Eri scoffed. ‘And you seriously believe that?’

The silver shimmered in her drink. The waitress had returned. As Teresa blinked back up at them, Sirpa made to move Westbound back onto the dance floor. Morgan was speaking to her.

‘There’s no need to look around,’ said Teresa. The waitress’ words lingered. She rose from her seat, gripped the hilt of her sword. ‘If the waitress is right, then we’ll find what we need to find. And I intend to stop the music, through whatever means necessary.’

It was for Westbound’s own good. It was for all of their own good. If he wanted to stick his head in the sand and pretend that everything was fine, he could do that in his own time without dragging the people around him down with him.

Decision made, Teresa moved not into the throng of dancing people, but along the outskirts of the crowd, towards the venue’s west side. She glanced at the speakers dotting the wall, ever distant.

A destination in mind, huh? Fine. Show me, then. Whatever drowns this man’s soul in endless, gratifying noise. The grip on her sword hilt tightened. Show me where the music comes from.

Dulled silver lay at the bottom of her abandoned drink.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

@Tlazolteotl@silver21@Auragreedia




Vicis’ Catharsis
@Tlazolteotl@spiral origin


The mention of wyrm egg in an otherwise delightfully exotic menu made Vicis’ growing grin falter.

‘Wyrm egg?’ he repeated, reeling in disgust. ‘What self-respecting wyrm would eat their own young?’ He peeked another look at the two elder wyrms he had spotted earlier. They did not seem to be indulging in the cannibalism the light had suggested, but for them to be here at all, knowing of this particular local delicacy... ‘I shall pass on that.’

Admittedly, the rest of the menu was a fair bit tempting. Perhaps he could overlook this light entity’s transgressions on his kin this one time. In the name of research. Yes.

‘I will have the cherub cheeks, if you please. And perhaps some of that crystallised déjà vu, afterward.’

He had been seeking a pick-me-up, after all. If the scrumptious, sweet fat of fearful villagers was not what fate sought to offer him today, he would settle for seared... cherub. Whatever that may be. That peppercorn did sound appetising. He gave the pleasant light a slight nod in thanks.

As he waited for his food, he found his attention drifting to the silver-haired woman sat next to him. She, like all the other patrons in this mystifying place, did not seem to fear his presence. He leered at her, forked tongue flicking in greeting.

‘Hello, human. Fancy yourself a daring adventurer, do you?’
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Hidden 6 mos ago → 6 mos ago Post by silver21
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Damien's Catharsis
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Damien was at the edge of the Pride Ring, facing the vast expanse of canyons and nothingness. He couldn't bring himself to go back to his hometown, not for this. What would his mother say?

What would anyone say, honestly?

The rope was tied. His herbs were mixed. It wouldn't hurt. He'd be asleep by the time it happened.

What would Charlie say?

But he couldn't do it anymore, could he? At Viné's beck and call, he just couldn't do it to her or to anyone else at that silly hotel. Damien smiled weakly. He had promised to help. His new friends were sweet. But he couldn't be a planted bomb anymore, waiting for his "master's" order to bring, well, hell. He hadn't wanted this. He hadn't foreseen this. It was free rent, it was a good cause, it was a tiny hope that maybe a soulless baphomet could be redeemed too?

Damien chuckled. What was he thinking? It was all silly, really.

On his knees, he took in his last moments. He had hoped at this point he would feel at peace, but in reality he didn't feel much of anything. After a few seconds, he was just heavy. His bones ached, like they always did. His head hurt. A bit of pink wax dripped from his candle and fell to the dirt beneath him.

Damien closed his eyes. The goetia demon was hundreds of miles away. He wasn't sure how he could feel it, but he could. He just couldn't take the torture anymore, physical and mental and emotional. He loved his friends. This was how he could keep them safe.

His tea was ready. Damien picked up his cup, claws steady. He took a sip and waited for its effects to begin.

He felt heavier, like his body was giving up before he had the chance to tell it to, and his gaze unfocused past the horizon. He watched as the red sky began to fade...

...into a bar, what the fuck?

Had he done it?



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Lost in Translation
@Tlazolteotl@Stanifly


It's easy for Morgan to notice how Sliver Blade has been staring at her drink. She keeps darting her eyes away to the glass. He stares at it too, but frankly? Just looks like a normal drink, not special enough to warrant a glance, let alone the staring contest Sliver Blade was having with it. He looks back at her just as she begins speaking.

‘There’s no need to look around,’ said Teresa. The waitress’ words lingered. She rose from her seat, gripped the hilt of her sword. ‘If the waitress is right, then we’ll find what we need to find. And I intend to stop the music, through whatever means necessary.’

She begins to walk toward the speakers, Morgan leaps off his chair and follows. He has to walk faster than he'd like to keep up with her, but it beats sitting alone.

"Right, well, count me in." Morgan finally catches up to her. "And maybe put the sword away 'til you reach the speakers. Don't wanna hit nobody on accident."

Actually, what would happen if one of the partygoers were injured? Would they just die? Would their deaths affect Westbound in any way? Better safe than sorry, but damn if he wasn't curious. He takes a quick look around--she was avoiding the crowd, but there was no telling if a stray person or two could appear.

"'n pardon my language, but what's gotten into you? Somethin' troublin' you?"
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Hidden 6 mos ago → 4 mos ago Post by DaftJive
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DaftJive

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Silas’ Catharsis


Music, noise, people, darkness, vices. Sounds like a good time to some. Though for Silas right now it feels like he’s getting hit with a high that’s past its peak into something that leaves him feeling sick and upset. Doesn’t even feel good when he presses a hand to his forehead with eyes clenched tight to fight off a dull pain at the edges, almost stumbling through the metal doors to what he swears is a backalley nightclub with heavy steps as if he’s on something.

He’s not.
Or is he? He forgot.

Last time he took all of it and it ended at the ER and hasn’t felt right since. Does he still have some left over?
Hell, he doesn’t fucking remember.

The thoughts and the buzzing in his head eat at him like rabid wild dogs at his heels, annoying and grating. The music in the club itself isn’t that loud, unless it is. Is it? People talk and laugh too loud all the same anyway, all an irritating orchestra upon his nerves.

The young man forces himself to trudge through people who mean nothing to him and honestly seem formless to him but he couldn’t care any less about that with his destination to the bar out near the other end of the place, quieter. He always does this, needs quiet corners even though he curses himself to go out into public spaces alone. Nowhere ever feels good, but if there's the drinks and drugs? It's tolerable.

Nearly collapsing into a bar stool at the counter, he leans onto the surface of it, not really thinking about much else aside from wanting something to make the pain ease, always looking for something to numb himself. And yet, he doesn’t make the effort to get the bartender’s attention to earn the sweet sweet substance to do the numbing, instead silently lowering his hand from under his mop of dirty blonde hair and looking down at the countertop at the way his tattooed knuckles seem bruised raw under the dim bar lighting overhead away from the rest of the blacklight overlay in the building. Real in some way.

His brows furrow at the juvenile neon pattern bandaids on his fingers as they curl against the smooth glass surface, flexing his digits to look at the designs more after a second.
When the hell did he put those on.

A glance at his wrists peeking from under his worn flannel shirt serving as a light coat, some more cutesy neon bandaids wrapped onto his skin makes him frown.

He feels so out of sorts. Dizzy, pained, tired…

Is he dead? Do the dead still bruise and need silly little star bandaids? He has no idea. He’s not dead. Surely. He'd be betraying someone if he were.
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Tlazolteotl
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Tlazolteotl Tlaelcuani

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Lost in Translation
@silver21


Wesley doesn't resist as she leads him into the throng.

Bodies shift and press. Strobing lights cut through the dark. He stumbles and the tug on Sirpa's hand is immediate.

When she glances back at Wesley, guilt tightens his expression. But it's not from the stumble. Another word or two from her and the reason clicks. He doesn't understand a word she said.

Loneliness finds her standing in the crowd. It presses down on her chest and doesn't lift.

Then his hand tightens around hers. Gentle, meant as comfort. Even if he can't follow her words. He would never ignore her.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

Lost in Translation
@Stanifly@Auragreedia


With a destination in mind, it takes only a few steps westward. Teresa and Morgan move past a couple of dancers and the stage appears in front of them. Turntables and mixers and speakers clutter the platform. Two figures stand among the equipment: a woman and a child.

The woman crouches to the child's eye level. At first glance, they could be strangers. "Be a good boy while mama works, okay?" She kisses his forehead and leaves.

He stays with others. Caregivers, maybe. Other children.

Time moves strangely here. Days bleed together. The boy plays with the other kids. Words are misunderstood, gestures misread. The other children adapt without thinking about it, filling in gaps the way kids do.

Adults don't.

One caregiver watches him sit quietly in the corner, coloring. "Such a well-behaved boy," she tells someone else. That's the last time she looks his way. Other kids who cause problems get attention. But the child can't be trouble. Can't make a mistake. His mother works hard enough. He won't add to her burden.

Another day. Another adult. This one's voice rises, sharp with irritation. "Why don't you ever listen? I've told you three times already!" He stares, uncomprehending. The adult walks away muttering about rebellious kids.

The scene shifts—not abruptly, but like turning a page.

A man looms in the doorway. The belt slides free.

Leather cracks against skin. He flinches but his father keeps talking, frustrated the boy can't grasp something so simple. Never slows down to explain it differently, never asks what part isn't clear. Another strike lands.

From where the child stands, there's no logic to any of this. Just punishment for being who he is.
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Hidden 6 mos ago Post by Object 452k
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Object 452k The Heavy MBT

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*just as then a man walks in from the main entrance, his hesitance visible as he takes a look around, he didnt know what happened but he got to play along.*
"Hi...?"
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