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.

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."

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?"

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."

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."

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.