sixthiterationlogs | { raining blood, from a lacerated sky

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{ raining blood, from a lacerated sky

WHO: Jo Harvelle, a dead elk, and you!
WHERE: In front of The Inn
WHEN: November 13
OPEN TO: Everyone (Especially those in the inn or close enough to hear!)
WARNINGS: Animal Death's w/ Mutilation, Manipulation, Gore, Blood
STATUS: Open

People have been sticking close to the buildings, to each other, to not being out late after dark if they can help it, and even then, almost never alone. There's a charged air to everything, like a shot about to crack, or like they are strung up and held in a never ending loop on that second of shock the moment after the crack sounds, before the body can relax again.

Mapping has slowed to nothing this week, and Jo's among the many who remind people to be more careful when hunting right now. The Village seeming less and less safe with the animals that had appeared in the wide open of the buildings and fountain, with no one seeing anything, which made the dark, closed in shadows of the forest seems even darker and even more closed in.

She's as much not expecting it as expecting it, whens she opens the door, intending to head to the house she's sharing with Kol and Thorfinn, and there's a huge hulking animal form mountained right in front of the path into and out of the Inn. The same path people walked all day to get food, and everything else.

"Fuck," is revulsion for the smell, black and bloody and something else, the sheer size of the body, the still towering form, with its cracked and somehow dangling antlers, before her hand is tightening on the door still in it and she's calling back inside. "We've got another one!"

Jo goes for the knife in her boot even though there hasn't been an attacked attached to one yet, before she's headed down to the huge beast. It looks like the others have all reported in, and gotten written down by her. Ripped apart by teeth and claws, chunks of flesh hanging here and there, but nothing taken, nothing missing. Limbs twisted and contort in impossible ways, pointing toward the door.

The blood everywhere all around it. On the steps. On porch. On the door.

More like it was thrown than like it sprayed in an attack.

The same as the animal that looks like it was dropped -- no, placed -- so far from where it ever might be found in this place. Leaving Jo looking quickly all around there. The whole wide space of the creeping, settling early night dark of this place.

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There's a knock on the open door, and Kate peers in. Her blue skirt, the one she'd been wearing downstairs when Miss Jo yelled, is gone. It's downstairs, soaking in the kitchen because she couldn't bring herself to walk across to the laundry, get the bloodstains out that way. Which means that she's wearing petticoats, except... Well. She's the one who puts such emphasis on her clothing. If she doesn't mention that the plain white garment isn't meant to be seen, few here would know.

Her hands, reddened from the wet work in cold weather, twist a little. Nervously. It's not just fear, although she's afraid. She's so afraid.

"Hey," is what she winds up saying.

She's not unaware that he's without his shirt, but it registers somewhere unconnected with lust and affection and butterflies in her stomach. A suggestion of one way to warm up and feel safe, which she tries to dismiss. She's being rash, but she's trying not to be that rash.

It's true, he doesn't realize that the white skirt she wears isn't meant to be seen. Granted, he hasn't seen it very much, but that hardly means anything. Miss Kate has always been very resourceful when it came to dressing herself. And it's not his place to comment on her clothing, regardless.

"Miss Kate," he replies, looking up when he hears the knock on the door and her voice greeting him.

He's aware that he's shirtless, and that it's not very proper for her to see him in this manor of dishabille, but he's equally rattled by the dead animals left for them to find, and he's honestly too tired to feel the need to maintain such a strict sense of propriety.

Looking at her, he can tell from her face that she's more than just rattled. "Are you alright?" he asks, his hands still submerged in the water in the sink.

"...No. Not really." Her voice is quiet, small, and turns her words into the confession they are rather than a ploy of meekness. She's not all right. She's frightened and she's exhausted and she feels sick to her stomach.

She and Miss Jo, she and all the other residents at this inn, they've worked. Fix what needs to be fix, what's in their power to fix. Make it welcoming. Make it somewhere to gather.

And now there's blood soaked into the entrance.

"I was, um."

No, that's rude, to launch straight in.

"Are you? All right?"

Benedict straightens and looks around for something to wipe his hands on, realizing only after the fact that all the towels had been taken to mop up the blood staining the wood on the porch, and there's nothing for him but his trousers. Grimacing, he wipes his hands on them as he shakes his head in response to her question.

"Not particularly." He's a good soldier. He does what he's told and he doesn't shy away from his duties, but he's never been fond of blood, and the smell is stuck to the inside of his nostrils. He'll be smelling it for days. It makes him feel vaguely ill.

"Are you—?" He can't just ask her if she's alright again, she already said she wasn't and he literally just asked. Her answer will not have changed in the past twenty seconds.

"Can I do anything to help?" Maybe focusing on Kate will help him keep his mind off his own disquiet.

Maybe it'd been a mistake to use all that was to hand, because she hadn't managed to think of that at the time. She'd just wanted to the blood off. She still does. Tomorrow, she'll rake what she can of the ground with some sturdy branches. Mix the blood away. Maybe that'll help with the smell.

At least it hadn't been burnt. She knows how hard it is to get that stench out of things.

She's still feeling off-balance, tumbling around and around like the earth isn't steady. She wants to tell him, yes. Yes, he can help. He can magically get rid of what happened. He can reassure her that Mr Crowder's disappearance has nothing to do with a debt incurred when he and Miss Tauriel rescued her from the forest, that if he's gone he hasn't been ripped apart like that poor beast. He can make the Inn safe. He can -

But no. Benedict is just a man, and all of that is impossible and too much to demand of anyone. And none of that is really why she came here. It'd been an impulse, yes, because her bedroom is right next door, but her reasons are nothing that she just thought.

"Would you spend the night with me?" Kate blurts out. "Um. I don't mean anythin'... conjugal. Just, I don't want to be alone."

Of course he's uneasy about people disappearing at the same time the animal carcasses are turning up. The only solace he can take is that he didn't know those who are suddenly gone very well, that he wasn't close to them, doesn't really miss them. Which, he knows, makes him sound like a despicable person, but the thoughts in your own head are safe, and he doesn't voice them aloud.

"Of course," he agrees, although at the moment he's agreeing to her clarification that she doesn't mean she wants him to spend the night. He might have idly thought about it — the thoughts in your own head are safe, the thoughts in your own head are safe — but he wouldn't expect her to just offer like that, and especially not when things have been as fraught as they have been.

"Yes, of course," he repeats, this time to the larger question she posed. "I, uh. Hope I won't take up too much room." He's aware that he's taller than average, here, and especially taller than Miss Kate, who reaches his shoulder and not much higher. Surely she hasn't had any trouble finding a bed that fits her, although Benedict sadly can't say the same. The first few weeks, he'd rotated between rooms, trying to find a bed that was comfortable, all to no avail.

Still aware of his lack of clothing but dismissing it as unimportant, he takes a few steps closer to her, his hand lifting to gently cup her elbow in his palm. He can't take the look on her face, that mixture of fear and confusion, and he wants to do something to dispel it. "It will be alright," he promises, aware that that's a promise he can't actually make, but feeling compelled to make it regardless.

"Thank you."

She's too frightened to truly relax, but something uncoils within her, a little. A screw on a weak point of her defences, because she can let go of that, because he'll be with her.

When he cups her elbow, she moves. Moves forwards, arms going around him in an embrace that is more than half a cling. She's too tired, too scared, for propriety. She turns her head, hair pressing against her check as she hugs him, and closes her eyes.

Much like after the earthquake, the beat of Benedict's heart is reassuringly loud and steady and here.

"It's a big bed. I was the only here for a bit, so, I figured why not. Stole one. Should be room."

Benedict had somewhat just expected her to nod at him, to let him squeeze her arm gently, maybe to take his hand in hers. When Kate steps right in to his personal space and winds her arms around his bare torso, it's instinct to lift his arms to curl around her in response, an instinct he follows with ducking his head slightly so that he can nose into her hair as she presses her face into his chest.

One hand lifts to cup the back of her head and he holds on, letting her cling as much as she likes, planting his feet so he'll be as solid a presence for her as he can.

"So you're the reason I haven't had a good night's sleep since I came here," he rumbles, hoping that she won't be upset at his teasing. He doesn't know how to lighten the mood, doesn't know if it's even appropriate to try.

Kate wants to be held. She wants to feel safe, protected. She's not sure any of them, really, could do anything against whatever has been making such a mess of the animals, but she wants to close her eyes and just feel safe. Just for a moment. Just for a night.

And then, miracle of miracles, she smiles. Not a lot, but it's a smile that curls her mouth and warms her voice.

"Guilty," Kate whispers. "Except maybe I've just been keepin' it all safe. So no one else would get to it."

In that case, Benedict will do everything he can in order to make her feel safe again, even if they're both just pretending.

He can't feel her smile against his skin, but he can hear it in her voice when she speaks, and it makes a small smile curl his own lips in response.

"That was very kind of you, Miss Kelly," he drawls, letting his arms tighten around her briefly in a little squeeze that he hopes feels reassuring. He's not had a lot of practice with comforting upset young women; even his sisters didn't turn to him for comfort, preferring each other or their parents when they were in tears, not their warriorborn brother. "Except I could never kick you out of your own bed, so I think we'll just have to share."

The thought of sharing Miss Kate's bed certainly isn't a hardship, he won't lie.

Another time, she'd laugh. Flirt, tease back. My, Mr Sorellin-

Now, her exhalation is a little heavier, a little hitched, and that's the closest she can get to even a chuckle. "I don't even have to argue with you on that, how marvellous," is what Kate winds up saying.

She'd been bracing herself for that argument. She didn't want him to be a gentleman, all proper. Here and now, that isn't as reassuring as it normally is. Now, it would get in the way of human contact.

"Miss Hoppity's probably under it. My bed, I mean. She tends to run there when she's scared."

The joke falls a little flat, but he can't bring himself to mind too much. At least she hasn't pushed him away.

"That's alright." Benedict is passing fond of Miss Kate's little cat, and it seems she likes him just as much. He wouldn't be surprised if they woke up to find Miss Hoppity had inserted herself between them on the bed, curled up to enjoy the warmth and safety that large bodies bring. "I can't say I blame her."

He holds her for a moment longer, enjoying the simple human contact, before he huffs out a sigh that ruffles her dark hair.

"Let me hang my washing and find something else to wear, and then I'll come join you," he says, lifting his head from hers and glancing around the bathroom. He might as well just hang his shirt over the empty towel bar, it seems as good a place for it as any.

Kate feels that huff of breath, and in a way it's more intimate than sending her with her body pressed against the man, her arms around him. The breath of his body, or something along those lines.

She doesn't want to pull away, but he's right: he's being sensible. So she nods and then steps back, trying to ignore the way her body retains the feel of his like a ghost along herself.

"All right. Just, knock first. I'll be gettin' out of my things, too."

Before the events of today, Miss Kate telling him she'd be getting undressed would most likely have brought up images that he should definitely not be thinking about in his mind's eye, sending a traitorous blush darkening his cheeks. Now, while the images flicker a little, like a picture on a string that's twisted quickly between pinched fingers, he's too tired and too rattled to focus much on them, and his blush does not manifest.

"I'll close my eyes," he says with a small smile, his hand falling back to her elbow when she steps away from him, already missing the contact her touch had brought. "So you can keep your modesty."

Unlike some of the women who live in these parts, Miss Kate is careful to keep covered. He understands that need, and he'll do what he can to respect that.

He does wind up hanging his shirt on the towel bar, leaving it to drip dry onto the floor overnight, and then heads off to his own room so he can find something new to wear. Unfortunately, most of his clothing is dirty, as he's been tending the garden with Mr Watney and hasn't done his laundry yet. Still, he finds something relatively clean to change into, and heads for Miss Kate's room. After only a few steps, he turns back, and strips the blanket off of his bed. If they're going to share, they might as well share their bedding, too, that way they'll stay even warmer.

Standing with the blanket bundled in his arms, he knocks on her door.

"Thank you."

And there, right there, is the first why she's so comfortable in his presence: he not only lets her be with how she dresses and interacts, but actually understands some of why. Why she does it, and why in another setting it wouldn't make her strange.

Back in her room, she undresses with the quickness of one who is used to getting rid of her layers in cold environment. The slowest garment to be removed is her corset, and that is more to allow her lungs to adjust without making her feel faint. As it is, she's still just pulling on her other chemise (alternate, alternate, alternate and it's not so bad) when the knock comes.

"One minute!" Kate calls out, and then quickly scurries over to her bed. It's only once she's in, covers mostly over her, that she calls, "All right, come in."

True to his word, when Benedict pokes his head in her room, his eyes are closed.

"Are you decent?" he asks, smiling a little. It would be difficult to shake out the blanket over her bed and climb in beside her if he kept his eyes closed the whole time, but dammit, he told her he would, and if that's what she needs to feel comfortable with him in her bed like that, then he'll just have to muddle along.

Some bruised shins are nothing in the long run.

"As decent as I'll be, considerin' the situation," she responds, voice warm and dry. It could have been a sarcastic comment, but here, it's not. The situation is awful, but he's kind and being a little silly, and you need kindness and lightness to combat the dark.

In the actual, physical dark of her room, with the only light coming from the windows with the curtains that don't quite cover everything, the pale of her skin and the pale of her chemise stand out, but nothing to be done about that.

"I won't hold it against you, then."

He opens his eyes and peers in at her, grateful for his excellent eyesight and better than average night-vision so that he doesn't have to wait long for his eye to adjust. The door gets closed carefully behind him, and then he makes his way into her room, the blanket still in his arms.

Snapping it out over her, he huffs. "Why the smallest girl in this house needs the biggest bed..."

But when the blanket settles, he's smiling at her, and perches on the edge of the mattress, his hand settling on her knee above the covers. "Are you sure you don't want me to sleep on the floor?"

There are so many things she could say, but chooses not to. She likes him; she knows he's been slowly, shyly courting her, and she likes that, too. He's a beautiful man and she remembers the heat and desire of making love now with an ache of missing that isn't all tied up with Joe Byrne.

However, that's not what tonight is, and so she doesn't say anything about indulging herself or anything about, well, it's a good thing now that I chose it. Or anything that might lead to kisses and rolling around in the sheets.

Instead, Kate just smirks at him. "If you have the choice of all the beds, why not?"

Then she reaches out, and curls her fingers around the hand he's placed on her knee. It's intimate, an intimate position, but she's ignoring that. Focusing on other things.

"I'm used to sharing my bed," Kate says, quietly. "With my siblings. If you're on the floor, I'm alone. So. Yes, I'm sure."

Kate's hand is small, and hard with a life of toil, but strong enough to circle his wrist and have him feeling it.

Benedict has been shyly trying to court her, not really sure what he was doing but attempting to do it nonetheless. It was immediately apparent to him that Kate either didn't know what the warriorborn were, or simply didn't care, because she never treated him as if he was anything other than a man just like any other. It had immediately endeared her to him, if her fair face and dogged determination wasn't enough to impress him.

He hadn't felt comfortable asking for help from anyone in the village, and so he'd fumbled along, bringing her flowers and trying to be helpful, and there are times he thinks she's receptive to his advances, and times he's not so sure. It's confusing, and sometimes disheartening, but every time he resigns himself to having set his sights on the wrong girl, she gives him a shy little smile that kindles his hopes anew.

Tonight is a time outside of those concerns, however, a time not for flirting or quiet longing, but for seeking and providing comfort where one can.

"I am not," he confesses, but doesn't bother elaborating. He only has sisters, which meant they weren't likely to slip into his bed when they were scared of a bad dream, and the Lancaster home was, is, the largest in Habble Landing. They had no need to share with him, even if they had wanted to. There were more than enough beds to go around. "I will try not to kick you in my sleep, but if I do, you have my permission to roll me out of bed onto the floor."

"I have pointy elbows and knees," Kate says, half confession and mostly warning. She doesn't comment on his sleeping habits: she's already well gotten the impression his family was far, far, far wealthier than hers. Even his name tastes of wealth.

So instead, she just shifts a little more towards the wall and pulls back the blankets for him.

"We'll make it work."

Well, with an invitation like that, how's he supposed to say no?

Carefully crawling into her bed, he settles himself down on his side, curling one arm beneath his head and draping the other over the blankets, his hand dangling near his hip, nowhere close to her so he's not being improper. This whole situation is improper enough as it stands.

He can only guess what Gwen might say if she knew what he was getting up to.

"I've been told I snore."

It's such a normal thing to be worried about. Snoring. When there's blood on the steps and animals being killed left and right (and front and back of her inn), but this is why she gave in and asked, isn't it?

Comfort. Another person.

Something human to hang onto so the fear doesn't swamp and drown them all. Drown her.

So there's a smile in her voice when she responds.

"I'll manage. I grew up in a one room shack with three older brothers. Won't be the worst thing I've heard, Benedict."

Edited 2016-11-18 04:27 (UTC)

It's not like he was unaware that Miss Kate grew up poor, but he hadn't ever asked about just how poor she'd been.

He can't even fathom growing up in a one-room house, let alone with three older siblings.

Luckily, he's quickly distracted.

"You called me Benedict," he points out, a helpless smile curling his lips. It's not like the others don't call him by name — although quite a few people tend to refer to him the way his comrades did in the Spirearch's Guard: as Sorellin — but he'd been quietly hoping she'd grow comfortable enough with him to call him by his name without prompting. It seems his wish has come true.

One day, she will tell him that she's the seventh of twelve. About the cloth partitions for walls, about the day Ned made an extension to the house so they had another room and he was shining proud. But not now, because five of her siblings are dead and she's trying to escape the ghosts.

His pleasure seems to be a nice distraction, and she smiles back as she settles herself down in the bed.

"I guess I did. Do you mind?"

{ raining blood, from a lacerated sky

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