Kol Mikaelson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
itchtokill) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-07-15 01:00 pm
itchtokill) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-07-15 01:00 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO: Kol Mikaelson
WHERE: His house; #8
WHEN: Narrative spans a bit from the 14th-16th, action takes place Saturday, 7/16
OPEN TO: Jo Harvelle
WARNINGS: Vague glossed-over violent descriptions; language pending; possible anxiety triggers
STATUS: Closed
Kol has spent the last couple of weeks in a blissful level of utter ignorance, mostly because he was still completely and totally convinced this wouldn't last. The side-trips never did, why would this one be any different? He'd settled, reasonably enough, but he really wasn't debating rearranging furniture to his liking or getting to know the surrounding areas all too intimately since in the end, it wouldn't matter.
There had been things to give him clues that his assumption wasn't quite right— like Jo not being the Jo he vaguely knew and had banned him from her bar back in Lawrence, Emma not snarking at him out of spite on sight that first day by the fountain, the inordinate number of completely unrecognizable people he'd seen then and in the days between. But he'd taken it all with a grain of salt. Kept hold of his presumptions because it was easier that way.
Morning of the 14th brought a different feeling with it than the previous ones had, a heaviness that clung to the air and refused to leave, a sinking feeling that burned its way into his bones. Something was wrong. He'd marked off the days wrong, somehow, maybe. Or the Seal was just playing tricks. He'd pop back in Lawrence any second now and everything would be fine again.
He spent most of the day on pins and needles. Waiting. He has always hated waiting, and this was worse than any queue line he'd ever stood in. Boundless nervous energy had him bouncing on his toes, pacing a path into the grass, wandering aimlessly in the shambles of the village. He'd be doing something completely mundane when it happened. Tying his shoe. Taking a drink. And snap. Gone. Back in a city full of familiar streets and faces. It was simple. Right?
The next two days were much the same. Doing anything and everything to keep his mind busy, off of the inevitable wait. Except in doing everything to avoid it, it seemed his mind could only focus on that one thing. Siblings waiting for his return, and with every day beyond those two weeks assuming he'd gone back home, back to The Other Side, back to dead. The idea makes his chest tight and he wonders if maybe even Nik cared about that assumption, but he wouldn't hold his breath for it. Not for how things were left. Which only leads to a downward spiral of what if's and never said's—
What if this is it?
What about all the things I never told Nik?
Is Elijah burning half the city down in my name already?
He pushes it down. For days, he ignores it. Stays as busy as possible, to the point of exhaustion. And if the days are hard, well. The nights are worse. Empty spaces in the bed next to him, no weight on his shoulder, a distinct lack of a leg thrown across his to pin him, just a little.
And the mornings are no better. No light filtered in the slightest tint of red for hair fanned across his face in the middle of the night. No ticklish nudge of a beard against his neck behind him. Just natural light and more emptiness that threatens to sink him like a stone.
He makes it through mid-morning before every piece of carefully constructed barriers falters. He feels it as everything unravels, slow but steady, a single string being tugged on, untwisting the web of everything he had tried to keep together. Walls, weakly constructed on hopes and assumptions, were tumbling to the ground in heaps for all the doubt and realization that came crashing in.
Except Kol doesn't handle onslaughts of emotions well, and every single piece of this is completely out of his hands. The lack of control, of choice, the stolen agency, is all enough to just let him allow everything to bubble out in anger and rage and anything that isn't at all like the loss or the pain that he hasn't yet let filter through. There's a distinct shout of rage, walls in his immediate vicinity took beatings they really didn't need to sustain, a bookcase thrown, a window shattered, he's the living embodiment of a tornado in the poor, less-than-perfect condition house.
And as suddenly as the whirlwind of damage had begun, he stops, mid-step in the doorway to the kitchen and he slinks against the nearest wall and crumbles into a heap on the floor, palms pressed to his eyes, hard, hard enough to make him see colored shapes in the deep black of his vision. He won't cry, he refuses, no matter the involuntary stinging in his eyes he can feel on the other side of his palms, but he does scream. Just once. Long, loud and ringing in his ears. Enough to fill every ounce of his being, to let out every drop of pain and fear and longing and loss.
WHO: Kol Mikaelson
WHERE: Various; around the village, by the river,
WHEN: Saturday (7/16) & Sunday (7/17)
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Language pending; TBD will edit as needed
STATUS: Open
[Evening, Saturday, 7/16]
Eventually, sometime after Jo left and everything was still and quiet in the house again, Kol decides he can't stand being there any more. He doesn't really go anywhere in particular, just wanders, aimless and mostly listless. There's a distinct lack of spirit about him that any given person that's interacted with him prior to now would be able to notice nearly instantly, even those from only a passing glance of interaction. The change was big, noticeable, and he didn't care. He wouldn't be explaining it if asked, and might snap something fierce if pressed.
He can be found just about anywhere, wandering the broken streets in the village, or down by the river skipping stones across the water.
[Sunday, 7/17]
He's back to doing anything and everything possible to keep himself busy. Mostly, this takes form in actually setting out to explore around, get the lay of the land, a feel for what there is and isn't in the place. He hadn't bothered figuring much of any of it out before, assuming he'd be gone from the place in a couple weeks' time.
He's still not feeling really social, so chances are he won't be initiating any conversations with anyone he happens across, but he won't outright ignore someone who speaks to him.
WHERE: His house; #8
WHEN: Narrative spans a bit from the 14th-16th, action takes place Saturday, 7/16
OPEN TO: Jo Harvelle
WARNINGS: Vague glossed-over violent descriptions; language pending; possible anxiety triggers
STATUS: Closed
Kol has spent the last couple of weeks in a blissful level of utter ignorance, mostly because he was still completely and totally convinced this wouldn't last. The side-trips never did, why would this one be any different? He'd settled, reasonably enough, but he really wasn't debating rearranging furniture to his liking or getting to know the surrounding areas all too intimately since in the end, it wouldn't matter.
There had been things to give him clues that his assumption wasn't quite right— like Jo not being the Jo he vaguely knew and had banned him from her bar back in Lawrence, Emma not snarking at him out of spite on sight that first day by the fountain, the inordinate number of completely unrecognizable people he'd seen then and in the days between. But he'd taken it all with a grain of salt. Kept hold of his presumptions because it was easier that way.
Morning of the 14th brought a different feeling with it than the previous ones had, a heaviness that clung to the air and refused to leave, a sinking feeling that burned its way into his bones. Something was wrong. He'd marked off the days wrong, somehow, maybe. Or the Seal was just playing tricks. He'd pop back in Lawrence any second now and everything would be fine again.
He spent most of the day on pins and needles. Waiting. He has always hated waiting, and this was worse than any queue line he'd ever stood in. Boundless nervous energy had him bouncing on his toes, pacing a path into the grass, wandering aimlessly in the shambles of the village. He'd be doing something completely mundane when it happened. Tying his shoe. Taking a drink. And snap. Gone. Back in a city full of familiar streets and faces. It was simple. Right?
The next two days were much the same. Doing anything and everything to keep his mind busy, off of the inevitable wait. Except in doing everything to avoid it, it seemed his mind could only focus on that one thing. Siblings waiting for his return, and with every day beyond those two weeks assuming he'd gone back home, back to The Other Side, back to dead. The idea makes his chest tight and he wonders if maybe even Nik cared about that assumption, but he wouldn't hold his breath for it. Not for how things were left. Which only leads to a downward spiral of what if's and never said's—
What if this is it?
What if I left them like that, in frayed shambles, no resolution?
What about all the things I never told Nik?
Will Rebekah ever recover? How far will this set her back?
Is Elijah burning half the city down in my name already?
Will Henrik forget all about me, in time?
He pushes it down. For days, he ignores it. Stays as busy as possible, to the point of exhaustion. And if the days are hard, well. The nights are worse. Empty spaces in the bed next to him, no weight on his shoulder, a distinct lack of a leg thrown across his to pin him, just a little.
And the mornings are no better. No light filtered in the slightest tint of red for hair fanned across his face in the middle of the night. No ticklish nudge of a beard against his neck behind him. Just natural light and more emptiness that threatens to sink him like a stone.
He makes it through mid-morning before every piece of carefully constructed barriers falters. He feels it as everything unravels, slow but steady, a single string being tugged on, untwisting the web of everything he had tried to keep together. Walls, weakly constructed on hopes and assumptions, were tumbling to the ground in heaps for all the doubt and realization that came crashing in.
Except Kol doesn't handle onslaughts of emotions well, and every single piece of this is completely out of his hands. The lack of control, of choice, the stolen agency, is all enough to just let him allow everything to bubble out in anger and rage and anything that isn't at all like the loss or the pain that he hasn't yet let filter through. There's a distinct shout of rage, walls in his immediate vicinity took beatings they really didn't need to sustain, a bookcase thrown, a window shattered, he's the living embodiment of a tornado in the poor, less-than-perfect condition house.
And as suddenly as the whirlwind of damage had begun, he stops, mid-step in the doorway to the kitchen and he slinks against the nearest wall and crumbles into a heap on the floor, palms pressed to his eyes, hard, hard enough to make him see colored shapes in the deep black of his vision. He won't cry, he refuses, no matter the involuntary stinging in his eyes he can feel on the other side of his palms, but he does scream. Just once. Long, loud and ringing in his ears. Enough to fill every ounce of his being, to let out every drop of pain and fear and longing and loss.
WHO: Kol Mikaelson
WHERE: Various; around the village, by the river,
WHEN: Saturday (7/16) & Sunday (7/17)
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Language pending; TBD will edit as needed
STATUS: Open
[Evening, Saturday, 7/16]
Eventually, sometime after Jo left and everything was still and quiet in the house again, Kol decides he can't stand being there any more. He doesn't really go anywhere in particular, just wanders, aimless and mostly listless. There's a distinct lack of spirit about him that any given person that's interacted with him prior to now would be able to notice nearly instantly, even those from only a passing glance of interaction. The change was big, noticeable, and he didn't care. He wouldn't be explaining it if asked, and might snap something fierce if pressed.
He can be found just about anywhere, wandering the broken streets in the village, or down by the river skipping stones across the water.
[Sunday, 7/17]
He's back to doing anything and everything possible to keep himself busy. Mostly, this takes form in actually setting out to explore around, get the lay of the land, a feel for what there is and isn't in the place. He hadn't bothered figuring much of any of it out before, assuming he'd be gone from the place in a couple weeks' time.
He's still not feeling really social, so chances are he won't be initiating any conversations with anyone he happens across, but he won't outright ignore someone who speaks to him.
Sunday
He had yet to find something to tie his long hair back with. So it was blowing in the breeze as he stood in the woods looking around himself, he turned hearing the crunch of leaves, more the presence of someone else near by. His old instincts screamed be on guard, his new fround peace said to just be calm and see what it was.
"Halló? Er einhver þarna?"
no subject
“Hvað?” The word, achingly old but strikingly familiar to him still, falls out of his mouth before he actually processes anything else. He moves through a bit of overgrown shrubbery and finds the man who, in all honestly, could have been a blasted cousin for all he knew. Except that he didn’t have any of those. But details. "Ég Kol Mikaelson. Hver ert þú?"
no subject
He took a breath to steady his emotions and keep from moving forward towards the other man. He knew things that appeared to be good were not always good. As Kol introduced himself Thorfinn nodded his head in greeting, that hope rising again. The man looked like he could be kin to Einar, the dark hair and dark eyes and fair formed face.
"Ég Þorfinnur Þórsson. Ég vissi ekki að einhver annar gæti talað norrænni tungu."
no subject
Ekki margir gera lengur. Ég hef ekki hitt neinn sem hefur í langan tíma. He answers, still taking a silent, mental assessment of the bloke. He didn't seem like he was going to do anything stupid, so Kol relaxes a bit. But only just.
no subject
"Annar staður sem ég var tekin til ... svona stað með enga skýringu á því hvers vegna það gerðist eða hvernig undarlegt hlutirnir líka gerst ... The guð Loki sagði mér tungumálið okkar var dáinn."
He spoke with a wave of his hand. He still did not moving any closer. He didn't want to give off a dangerous vibe, even if he was covered in scars that could be seen under the white tank top, and the scar down his right cheek.
no subject
"Þú hefur verið í stað eins og þetta áður? Flótta í einu og setja ekki eigin spýtur?"
That was intriguing. It seemed this village was a bit of a grab-bag of both, people familiar with the multiverse and those who were not. No rhyme or reason or pattern had evolved as to why each of them were chosen as they were, near as he could tell just yet, either. But then, he'd only just accepted his fate here, so perhaps he's just missed it.
no subject
"Já, einu sinni áður. Það var ár síðan fyrir mig, en það var fyrir nokkrum mánuðum á undarlega sett af eyjum fullur af galdra. Ég hitti Jo Harvelle þar. Þekkirðu hana?"
Thorfinn spoke with a wave of his hand as he spoke stepping closer only now. It was a good thing to have someone he could talk to. Something he had desperately missed since he was snatched up to here.
no subject
He watched as the other man moved closer, but Kol didn’t show any sign of being bothered by it at all. Just...watching. Reading the subtle cues and tiny moves that most people weren’t aware they even made as they made a decision. He’d been a patient observer for much of his too-long-life and learned to read those things. Nothing about Thorfinn was setting off alarm bells, however, so he doesn’t worry much.
”Ég hef verið í stað svipað þessu. Nútímalegri, þó. Þetta er hluti af skrefi aftur í tímann fyrir mig.” He explains a bit, ”Þú sagðir þessar eyjar þú varst á undan voru galdur. Þú heldur að það er meira af því í vinnunni hér eins og heilbrigður?” Because Kol certainly does. He just hasn’t figured out exactly what kind of magic yet because he hasn’t felt fussed to bother looking into.
no subject
The small man had a blade but it was no danger to Kol,he had no taste for violence anymore, even if he did he likely couldn't have hurt Kol.
"Þetta er allt of framúrstefnulegt að mér ... en aðrar eyjar voru miklu verri. Ekkert vit. Ég viðurkenni mest af því hræddi mig, þó að þá gæti ég aldrei viðurkenna það. A kappi sýnir óttast." He nodded to Kol's question, yes he thought higher powers had a hand in this. Yes he did.
no subject
Kol nods, he can picture it, being completely displaced in time, thrust into something newer and futuristic that he couldn't understand. He'd had it happen a handful of times through the centuries, and none bigger a gap than the last time he'd been daggered, nearly an entire century missed. And he'd known, in a certain sense, the time passing, dragging on, darkness in every direction, trapped in his own mind, stuck in a coma in a box because his brother saw fit to teach him a lesson. Trying to take Rebekah away was probably the most unforgivable sin he could've committed, and he knew the trouble it would bring the second he had begged her to come away with him. He'd never really anticipated her agreeing, she'd always denied his attempts to save her in the past, why should this one be different? Getting caught was the worst thing that could have happened.
"Það er erfitt, aðlagast öllum nýju ... en ekki allt það er svo skrítið, þegar þú venst því. There er a einhver fjöldi af gagnlegur uppfinningu í framtíðinni."