001 | i've got bruises with their fingerprints

[cannily]

WHO: Cael Lupei
WHERE: South Village - Inn roof, Schoolhouse Library, Jailhouse and animal pens, the Spring
WHEN: Early and Mid October
OPEN TO: All (See headers for limits)
WARNINGS: As always for Cael, his history involves death, arson, and human sacrifice. Please put thread warnings in comment titles.

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FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

open to two

Appearances and disappearances; copies of copies of copies, with all the memories and all of the little marks of a life lived in the right place. Cael has always wanted information, always wanted stories--and that hasn't changed. But it's an odd thing to puzzle over, into the late hours. It's an odd thing to wonder: as a copy of himself, with no delivered purpose, set loose in a place where no one knows him and none of his old life seems to apply, does he diverge at that point? Is he the same person, with his audience gone, with his revenge had, and swept so far from home by the uncaring sea?

He is the same person enough to do the same things, if not for the same reasons. Music used to be a tool, a way to perform magic, a way to ingratiate himself to a crowd. Now there's just the joy of it. Just the itch of his fingers and the fear of going out of practice.

In the early morning, just after breakfast, he wears down a piece of bees wax on the strings and wooden frames of his instruments, preparing them against wear and the deepening cold. On plenty of afternoons, when the sun shines strong enough to keep him warm, he climbs from his room onto the roof of the Inn, one instrument pulled to his back while he tunes and plays the other. A pity no one's come forward with the skill to accompany on the spare, but plenty have offered new music to learn.

As the afternoon wanes, the odd pull and drone of his wheel fiddle shifts from tunes that might seem familiar but unknown, to something more and more recognizable with practice. They're strange tunes, requiring shorter turns of the wheel, harder stops, but a good way to keep his fingers nimble and improvising across strings and keys.

FOR YOUR REFERENCE

open to two

When music isn't enough to keep his mind off his own past or future, he returns to the books and boards. The schoolhouse has proven full of guides, and he can often be found there with tea and a candle enclosed in a jar or kitchen glass, what he's copied from the Inn's records laid out on a desk while he searches for corresponding reference.

And, next to that pile, references for his references.

It's slow going, trying to match events to the alchemical and natural magic that seems to rule this land, but he tries for a page each day. An event, it's solution. Some of the books gain notes in their margins, references to rituals and magic from home, a lens of his own understanding for when he picks up the book again.

At home he'd conceal his notes, his efforts, but paper seems in short supply, and the privacy his mind prefers seems frowned upon. So he leaves it as open as the records in the odd little tavern beneath his room: books strewn, notes visible, his small, neat handwriting working its way through events and corresponding supplies and jobs to combat reoccurence.

If he can contribute nothing but his quick and far reaching memory, at least he'll have made the effort.

FORM VERSUS FUNCTION

open to two per location

There are a few books he brings with him from the schoolhouse, applicable as they are. Those afforded horses in Glasdant certainly didn't learn from books, and while he hadn't seen many in his lifetime, they certainly hadn't had antlers and such skittish temperament.

For now, he isn't trying to ride the Kirin Peter had helped him rescue from Owen's wire-strung homestead. Books on horses, books on wildlife: he does his best to cross reference the diets of horses and deer, and offer them what they'll eat from the middle circle. The pack of brushes and leather tack hadn't offered any instruction, but he finds it in the library--grooming, the importance of diet and hooves, a love of sweets and salt.

Within the weeks, Brindle and Oughts are getting back to their old shine and then some. Owen hadn't seemed to care for their looks: labeled blankets tossed over against the chill of sundown, a long lead to give them the walk of some grass. From what Cael has learned, he often as not took them back to their home on the plains, and perhaps he'll get there eventually.

For now, he can be found at the communal pens, taking them out of the jailhouse on their leads and tying them to the fence for general care. He brushes their coats, braids their manes and tails, pays what attention he can to their scales. And he talks to them, about everything and nothing. Whispered bits of gossip about the strange people at the Inn, hummed snatches of songs he's trying to learn. If they get used to him, maybe they'll stop kicking him so hard when he flubs the hoof picking.

For those who don't catch him brushing down his new charges and being kicked into the grass, he ends his work with them at the Spring, letting them pass by their home and lick moss from the stones while he soaks his bruises away. He hasn't quite been able to see it well enough to confirm, but from what he's read, it might one day erase his scars as well, and it's easier to relax with skittish animals to spook at an approach.

Comments

form versus function

[quinientos]

Vasquez is outside, smoking.

Most of the time, this is where he is, but with it getting colder, he thinks he's going to need to find a spare house with a fireplace to do this in, otherwise he's going to freeze (never mind that it isn't even that cold yet, but he's got hot blood and he doesn't want to see snow). When he sees Cael leading animals from the jailhouse, ones that look like horses, he snorts and puts out the cigarette under his foot so he can approach, hand on his lasso carefully.

He meets them at the Spring, but this time, he doesn't intend to take any of his clothes off. "Don't take this as an insult, but you look about as comfortable with those as I do with this weather," he points out.

[cannily]

"I thought insulting each other was how we communicate," he counters, hardly insulted at all. "I've certainly said worse." Generally in better positions than this, stood at a branch with his tunic on his arms and their lead going taut behind him on the branch.

He doesn't know, if with a different meeting, or none at all, Vasquez would cut an imposing figure. There's certainly something that holds attention, when he moves in with the hand at his hip, fingers resting a curve of rope. In some contexts, it could be considered dangerous.

As it is: Cael can make himself look away, if only to check on the Kirin. "I'm perfectly comfortable when I'm not at the front or back of them."

[quinientos]

"I insult everyone that I meet, it's just how I communicate to all," Vasquez has to admit, making a face that means he has to admit that yes, he's not so good about the fact that kindness and politeness aren't the first things he jumps to. He leans against the nearest tree to watch him, amused by the work that he's doing.

Gesturing to the horse-like thing, he gives Cael a curious look. "You haven't broken them in yet to trust you?" he asks, pushing himself off the tree to approach, clucking his tongue a little as he gets near, but stays a good distance.

Always let the horse come to you at first, he knows this. "I was a vaquero, worked farms," he says, staring at the horse, not Cael. "I never rustled these things, but it's similar, yes?"

[cannily]

"My apologies if I tried to separate myself from the herd." The smile behind his face remains; he has few illusions and expectations left to spare, and he'd rather cling to the idea that he might ever feel natural in the steps of this place. He might be the only one to come through a window, but he doubts he'd be first or last in the room.

At the question, he slides another look along the kirin, having never been on a farm in his life. He could see them sometimes, from the towers of other districts: Amber living up to its name in the summers, waves of gold resting on waves of blue and black.

"I've mostly ingratiated myself with treats," he admits, not quite the depths of his ignorance. "They were broken in by someone else, from what I hear, but he's disappeared. I was giving them a bit of a mourning period, and reading up on deer just in case." One lifts its head, antlers catching light, and gives a soft bellow more ungulate than equine. When nothing answers, it drops to graze.

[quinientos]

"Don't worry, you're definitely not like everyone else I insult." Not everyone, but some of them. There's some people he likes to insult a little more than the others and that's because he likes to pull at hair and see what he can get in return for his give.

Truthfully, he likes a bit of meanness in return for what he doles out. It means the other person can keep up. Vasquez is still looking at the animals, staring at them with wonder and appreciation, reaching a hand out to offer a stroke to its muzzle, gently easing his fingers in. "I'd like to ride something like a horse again. I still miss mine, very much."

for your reference.

[scathefires]

Jason's just glad there are books around, no matter that there's no fiction to be found in any of the library volume's pages. He's full of restless energy and not enough to keep his hours occupied, so. Reading it is. It's a decently distracting way to pass the time, and he borrows books from the new library with some frequency.

Today, he's returning instructional guides on how to properly shine leather shoes, control mole damage in a garden, and tie a hundred different types of knots - some of which are obviously a little more useful than others. Jason's a little surprised to find someone else here, because it's usually deserted when he visits, but the surprise takes a back seat to interest in whatever he's scribbling down.

"Writing your own book? Hope it wasn't about moles, 'cause if so, someone already beat you to the punch."

[cannily]

"Research," he doesn't quite correct, knowing well enough when a question is facetious It takes a moment, to remember what he might mean about moles: they hadn't had much but the rats and gulls native to the city, with the rest brought in. At this point, he's used to villagers coming and going in the same fashion.

All the same sad surface potential for companionship. It's fine: he's used to dealing with people across a steep divide of experience.

"They're having that gathering of the minds," he elaborates. "I suppose I'm hoping to contribute."

[scathefires]

Yeah, Jason's heard about that meeting. He's not entirely sure what to think about it, but he definitely plans to attend and investigate. If nothing else, it'll be a good pulse check for whoever else from the village shows up.

"So what kinda research are you hoping to contribute?"

[cannily]

"What happened before, what we might do to keep it from happening again." It's vague, but he's still piecing together threat of lightning with threat of mental control. "A lot of this--a lot of what we have at our disposal here, to deal with and frame this place, it isn't anything like where I'm from. I'd say I'm learning from scratch, but at least I'm not learning a language."

It's own curiosity, but such magic exists, to facilitate cultural exchange and negotiation. "Honestly? The most common thread I can find is people separating from the herd. When someone's died, they're usually alone. I don't know if there's more to it than that, but at least it's something to start with."

Fiddler on the Roof

[succored]

Music had been a big portion of his life, and though there was the possibility of getting a guitar here, as far as Ty was concerned, it wasn't going to happen soon enough. In his down time he had liked to make little melodies, practice songs he thought would be crowd pleasers, and had written a few songs just for kicks. Humming had barely scratched the itch for it, but there had been bigger things to focus on since he'd been dropped here.

It didn't mean he didn't stop when he heard music wafting from the rooftop of the inn, taking a seat to listen, the sound entrancing.

When there seemed to be a pause, he got to his feet to applaud, before shielding his eyes against the sun. "That's some instrument you got there! I can't believe you were playing Guns n' Roses on it. What's it called?"

[cannily]

Is that what he's been playing? It must be, the one with a title like a lullaby and a tune that's anything but. Cael winds the handle down, the wheel ceasing to move against the strings. He'll wax that later, when he can pull apart the deck in the safty of his room.

checking the binding around his waist, he moved carefully, closer to the edge of the roof to find his audience of one. "It's a wheel-fiddle," he calls back, squinting as the wind pulls his hair forward around his face. "Come up and have a look, if you'd like. There's a tree over there, you can get out a window and climb up."

Foot braced on thatch and one arm around the instrument, he points toward his usual exit.

[succored]

A 'wheel-fiddle' seemed like an odd instrument, but Ty wasn't going to question it too closely. It certainly didn't look like anything he had seen before, and his curiosity got the better of him. Since it didn't seem like the musician was going to go anywhere, he waved a hand in thanks as he headed into the inn to go to the aforementioned window.

He clambered up the tree, and then onto the roof easily enough, whistling slightly as he paused to look around and enjoy the sight of the village from a different perspective. From atop the roof, it could have just been a normal sleepy little town and not what it actually was.

He turned back to the musician to give the wheel fiddle a closer look, intrigued.

"It looks heavy. How does it work?"

[cannily]

As the young man finds his way up, Cael moves back to the apex of the roof, securing himself by dividing his weight over it. His instruments are all the more precious in a place where replacements would be at the whim of higher powers, but he's been climbing buildings and swimming canals for most of his life.

Whatever that amounts to, in the current understanding of the village.

"It's certainly heavier than the usual," he concedes, rolling his shoulders against the lyre on his back. Positioning the wheel fiddle on his lap, he taps his fingers in quick succession along the bridge. "As for how it works, how long have you to spare?"

For Your Reference

[unraisehell]

Wynonna isn't light on her feet, and the hiking boots certainly don't help matters. She also doesn't really care if anyone hears her coming or not. She doesn't seem to pay Cael much mind, until, while bending down to take a better look at one of the books he has set aside, that she notices some of the sketches and notes, and frowns deeply.

The symbols aren't anything like the ones on Peacemaker's barrel, but she's seen enough of the library Waverly had collected for herself to recognize things that are at least occult-adjacent.

"Please tell me magic is a thing I have to deal with here to," she says, sounding more weary and annoyed than angry or judgmental about his writings. "No curses was the only thing making this place not suck." Pause. "Well, ok. No Nickelback isn't a bad thing either."

[cannily]

Cael doesn't pay her much more, except for a slight lift of his head and arch of his brow, at the indelicate clop of feet and obvious interest in the books. To each their own: she certainly doesn't seem to be trying at anything and failing, where subtlety is concerned.

"Are you often cursed," he asks, casual as anything. He has no idea what Nickelback is and doesn't think it warrants the question.

Unless the topic veers into something uncomfortable, but that's most of them these days. "I would rather it did, honestly. Better the all powerful force you understand than the one you don't, wouldn't you say?"

[unraisehell]

"Not so much often as born into it. One's enough," she says, pulling up a chair uninvited to look at some of the pages set aside or discarded- whatever won't get in the way of what he's already doing.

She nods in something resembling agreement, or at least not arguing against his point, maybe because at least some of the shapes look like things she's seen. Some symbols must transcend realities like that.

"So you know this shit. Like really know it?" She tries not to let the tiny thread of hope in her voice come through too much.

[cannily]

"So, all of your life," he parses, watching her pull up a chair and pick up his notes. Straightforward interest can't much be denied, even if it always sort of rankles to watch someone be so overt. It simply wasn't done that way in Cobal: he'd have an easier time catching her stuffing pages in her shirt.

Lips pursed, he lifts his head and shakes back his hair, centering on the question.

"I know what I know, same as anyone. Whether it makes sense to the rest of you, whether any of it works here. I'm certainly not above writing a bunch of false notes for you all to find, but I'd write it in cipher if I thought it important to hide. Why--do you recognize it?" When he drops a finger to the note in question, similar symbols start in a ring on his finger and travel across his hand.

Fiddler on the Roof

[notsoangry]

Bruce has been there long enough to get a feel for most of the central locations, but he's fairly sure he's just scratched the surface in who is around and what people are doing day by day. This is proven when he's walking by the inn and hears the sound of music, and backs up several steps in order to try and get a glimpse of who it is. He know Wanda can play a little now, but he doubts that she'll feel like being on an instrument without Clint around to teach her. It's not someone he knows, and Bruce doesn't plan on interrupting. Instead he takes a moment and simply listens.

He smiles at the familiar tunes and let's the music linger for awhile before saying anything. He considers not speaking up at all, since maybe the musician wants to play and not talk, but then he'd probably stay inside and not in public view if that were the case. Bruce bites his lip, and then decides to go for it. This place is doing wonders for kicking him out of his shell by necessity. "That was great, thank you." He claps, because it seems like the right thing to do, cleaning his glasses and glancing toward the strange man. "I would toss some change in an instrument case, if I had any."

[cannily]

Cael moves toward the edge of the roof, over the Inn's second floor balcony. It's as good a place as any to swing his legs down and put eyes on his audience, wheel fiddle strapped at the waist and the other turned over one shoulder. His hair floods down over the other in a loose braid, wind lifting tendrils to obscure his view.

"Well I'm not singing for my supper anymore," he allows. Or for thanks, or for invitations and pretty coats and lodging in gilt side-rooms.

Just for the joy of it, and maybe not just his own. "I do take requests, but you'll have to come up and help me learn the tune."

[notsoangry]

Bruce loves music. He had several playlists when he lived in the Tower, Jarvis knew them all. The ones they used for after the Hulk were operatic and classical, meant to soothe his mind, but in the lab he had all kinds of tastes to suit his mood. He simply never had the talent himself. At the offer, he pauses. He typically isn't the kind to say yes to things, but he's been changing since coming here. Allowing himself moments that didn't involve work or research.

"Okay." Bruce has been around the inn long enough to vaguely figure out how to get where he needs to. Or at least up to the second floor balcony. He's clearly not someone who is used to climbing anywhere, but determination is what matters and he makes it up there. He's not out of shape, just clumsy and awkward. "What was it you were playing? That sounded a lot like a song I know." Which felt a little out of place here.

[cannily]

There's always been something comforting about rooftops: being above things, having enough of a view to see, or feel like he could see, the world coming. He'd always been safer on his own, and he's never felt more alone than this place.

Stands to reason he feels safer here than any eave or alley of Caridis.

Rooftops also let him bank on being quicker footed than anyone apt to complain about the noise and bull-headed enough to do something about it. "Something Mr. Stark insisted I learn," he answers, taking up his seat on the edge, but not quite making the move to come down. From a troupe called Guns and Roses?"

Form versus function

[fooloftheking]

Bobo has seen the vaguely horse like creatures around, considering working with them if only that it's familiar. Not that he is one that was close to them, but he knows horses well enough both historically and presently.

So when he sees the pair out by the springs during one of his walks, he considers the pair a moment, kind of overlooking their master for the moment as he gets a peach from the pocket of his coat.

Despite his usual bluster and aggression, he is much softer with them, breaking it open so they can smell the scent as he holds half out. "Come on now. Got to be better than licking salt from rocks," he murmurs, amused though at how things can be so much the same despite how different this place is.

[cannily]

Cael looks up at the voice, halfway out of his shirt. He lets the immediate alarm rise, settle, lets it go and continues the movement. Shirt hung on the branch, he braces with one hand and ducks below it, out of the way as the kirin turn immediately to the sweeter option.

"You'd be surprised," he says, wondering how much of their opinion is swayed by food. "They're rather fond of salt."

Which isn't stopping them from approaching, on the cusp of eating from the man's hands. He isn't offering it in thirds, but their ease lets Cael hold onto his own. He'd met the man days after his own arrival, before he understood--anything about anything. Lifting his leg and crossing ankle over knee, posture shifting to balance on one foot, he starts on the lacing of his boots.

"The spring water helps that one," he adds, pointing to the one he's decided is the Brindle of the named pair. "It got caught in a wire." The ring of cut flesh has glossed over and started growing short fur, again.

[fooloftheking]

Much like an animal, Bobo's head comes up, eyes wide and almost scenting the air for a minute. Just the time it takes before his mind registers a voice he knows, that he isn't in as much fear for his life here as he's known in the past.

Old habits die hard though, so it's a few moments before he feels more settled into the situation to speak, though his gaze is still on the kirin.

"Most equines do, as well as deer. They used them a lot for hunting a while back. Mostly dragged up the kind of salt blocks they kept in the cellar and sprinkled it around but it worked," he admits, shrugging at the thought. Despite that, it's his only movement, showing a patience with the creatures that he doesn't often show with people.

He glances at Cael then. "You should feel lucky then he didn't fight so hard he hurt himself. Saw a horse once break his leg trying to get free from some twine. Had to put him down. My father didn't let that go until the day he died.'

Bobo doesn't often talk about his past, but that is removed from himself, not the man he was, and some of that knowledge he suspects is going to help him in the long run.

[cannily]

"So said all the books I pulled on the subject," Cael agrees, lip tucking in the smile he'd learned for things only he finds amusing. It happens more often in the village than it did at home, but for a very different reason: his experiences seem so outside the rest that he's left with only himself as an audience.

It isn't a smile that lasts, discussing the injury. Putting down animals always sounds too much like--like Hanzi, injured in the war and told his remaining duty would be to die for his district. His father hadn't been half so helpless as they thought.

"It had been raining," he explains, hands a little quicker, a little harsher on his laces. "The stakes pulled loose before that point. Their old owner hadn't been around to mind the wires any more than the animals."