Tlazolteotl

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

No problem 😄

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

@Auragreedia The one constant is the boy (who appears at different ages) so Morgan can interact with him

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

@DaftJive


And @BaronOBeefDip too! How you been doing?

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

Lost in Translation

@silver21

Wesley watches Sirpa move, bewildered at first. But then again, this is a club. Dancing is the whole point. Everyone else loses themselves on the floor while he anchors himself to a table.

The thing is, he doesn't hate dancing. He's terrible at it, objectively graceless, the kind of movement that gives people secondhand embarrassment. The same way his drawings look like children's scribbles and his singing could clear a room. Every art form he's ever attempted falls laughably short of skill.

He loves all of it anyway.

Art gives him something words never could. An outlet that doesn't demand comprehension. And somewhere in the act itself—in the middle of doodling, humming off-key, moving his body in clumsy rhythms alone in his apartment—what anyone might think stops mattering.

Slowly, awkwardly, Wesley begins to sway. His movements are stiff, uncertain. But he tries to match hers.

━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━

Lost in Translation

@Stanifly@Auragreedia

Teresa grabs the father's wrist. The belt freezes mid-swing, the child flinching beneath a blow that doesn't land—but only for a moment. His arm strains against her grip, pushing forward like a film fighting to resume.

Other memories press in. In a classroom, the boy tells a joke and no one laughs, the silence stretching until someone coughs. At dinner, his mouth opens to speak. Another voice cuts in before the first word gets out.

"He's just shy." A label stuck on and never peeled off.

Group project. He suggests an idea. Nothing. Five minutes later, a classmate says the same thing and gets the credit.

"Why are you being so passive aggressive?" He reads it over and over, trying to figure out what went wrong.

Friends who drifted because he didn't reach out. Others who pulled away because he did.
Once, he tried to comfort someone. Watched their face close off mid-sentence.

Whatever word comes to mind is never quite right. He uses it anyway, then spends the next five minutes trying to correct himself while the other person's patience thins.
The memories keep cycling. Teresa holds one thread in place, the father's arm still straining against her grip.

And the music hasn't stopped.

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

For group Damien@silver21, Vicis@Stanifly, Aelvira@spiral origin, Silas@DaftJive: anyone want to tackle their troubles first?

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

@Object 452k Okie dokie, when you want people to interact with your character, don't hesitate to let everyone know then! Otherwise Neorch will be left alone.

@DaftJive Gotcha! In which case, go ahead and @ any of the available players whenever you write your next post and dive right in. Based on how things are going it's probably be Aelvira/Vicis/Damien 🤔

@silver21Ah, makes sense! I sometimes use it as a heads-up to other people.

@silver21 Your newest reply is so sweet, holy shit (positive) sirpa is such a sweetheart!!

@Auragreedia

💯 very sweet!

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

Neorch's Catharsis | Damien's Catharsis | Silas's Catharsis

@Object 452k@silver21@DaftJive

Catharsis makes room, as it always does, for those who find their way inside.

For the ronin who steps through the entrance with his hand hovering near his blade, it is a small izakaya tucked at the end of an alley that wasn't there a moment ago. A red paper lantern sways outside despite the lack of wind. Inside, the space is narrow and warm, barely room for eight at the counter. Handwritten menu boards line the wall, their characters faded to ghosts. At the grill, a man tends to something sizzling. His movements are unhurried, practiced. He glances up. Nods once. A woman beside him wipes her hands on her apron. She is perhaps fifty, perhaps older, grey streaking her tied-back hair.

"Welcome," she calls out. "Sit anywhere you like."

For the baphomet who arrived mid-sip with a cup that is no longer tea, it is a bar overgrown. The counter is there, yes, and the stools, and the bottles lined up behind. But vines climb the shelves where top-shelf liquor ought to be. Flowers bloom from old glass bottles, pale petals catching what light filters through the canopy overhead. Bundles of dried lavender hang from the ceiling alongside rosemary and sage. The air is thick, humid, alive.

Behind the counter, someone is watching him. They are slight, soft-bodied, with dusty brown wings folded against their back and antennae that curve gently from their forehead. Fine fuzz covers their arms. Their eyes are large, dark, unblinking. They wear a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and hold a ceramic cup between their palms as if warming it for him.

"You brought your own drink," they observe, gaze flicking to the cocktail in his claws. A beat. "Would you like a different one?"

For the young man at the bar, Catharsis is a pulsing, blacklit thing. Music thuds low and constant. Bodies move at the edges, silhouettes against the glow. The counter is glass, slick, reflecting neon.

Someone is sitting on the stool beside him.

A young woman with a sharp jaw and dark hair cut blunt at her shoulders, nursing something clear in a rocks glass. She doesn't look at him directly. Just sits there, comfortable, like she's been waiting for someone and doesn't mind if that someone turns out to be him.

After a long moment, she speaks without turning her head.

"You ordering, or just here to fall apart?"

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

Ah! Hello! Welcome @Object 452k! Is Neorch alone right now, or are any of the other characters able to interact with him? (To give more context one group is off adventuring in someone's Catharsis, there's a wyrm and elf that are kind of hanging out, and some people are currently alone)

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

@Auragreedia@StaniflyThanks for rolling out the welcome wagon!


@DaftJiveWelcome! We're glad to have you join! Let me know if you have questions or specific requests. Is Silas alone? Can other people interact with him right now?

@silver21 For Damien's posts, could you also tag other players just so that they can get a notification, just in case?

◈ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒 | Κάθαρσις ◈

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.