Jo Harvelle runs on 100 proof attitude power (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tobeclosetohim) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-11-13 07:11 pm
tobeclosetohim) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-11-13 07:11 pm
{ 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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
So instead, she just shifts a little more towards the wall and pulls back the blankets for him.
"We'll make it work."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"On the contrary," he assures her, his hand sliding off his side to rest on the blankets between them. "We have known each other three months, now. I had rather hoped we would be good enough friends by now that you might call me by name."
He'd like to be able to call her Kate without fearing for her life, too, but he's not going to push his luck right now.
no subject
"In private conversation... You can call me Kate, in return."
It is different from granting Thorfinn her name. That had been due to language bridges being too shaky to explain: that her name has always felt safe in his mouth had been reassuring. Here, with Benedict, it is far more deliberate and intimate.
no subject
Strange, how after just three months, he's almost stopped thinking about it.
On some level, it feels like a betrayal, that he does not think about his home every minute of the day. In fact, he can almost go a whole day without thinking about Gwen, or the Temple, or Habble Morning at all. But then again, he has much to think about here.
"Thank you," he murmurs quietly, stroking his thumb over the side of her hand. After a moment's hesitation, looking at their hands, he speaks up again. "You're very special to me, Kate. I-I hope you know that."
no subject
"I... I do know," Kate says, just as quiet. "All those flowers, yeah?" There's a gentle tease in her voice that she hopes won't take away from Benedict's confession. "You're..."
This hurts, suddenly. The ghost of Joe Byrne clutching at her heart going, mine, mine, mine.
But he's dead, and Benedict is not.
"You're very dear to me, too, Benedict."
no subject
It's not a thought he had ever expected to wrestle with, but he can't help it. Here, he's not warriorborn, he's just a man. Nobody sneers at him and then flinches when he stands to his full height, disdaining him but fearing him at the same time. Nobody cares what House he's from, nobody knows anything about him except for what he tells them. His injuries have been wiped away, his burns healed, and he can lie here curled up with a pretty girl, feeling her hand tucked in his palm, no bandages and no scars to dull the sensation.
"I thought you deserved something pretty to look at," he replies absently, his yellow eyes still looking intently at her face as if he was memorizing this moment. The implication that he didn't need any pretty flowers to look at because he was looking at something far prettier goes unsaid.
The urge to kiss her is strong. He's never kissed a girl before, and he has to admit the thought makes him nervous, but it's not just nerves that are holding him back. He doesn't want their first kiss to be in the aftermath of bloodshed. Pulling her hand a little closer, he kisses that instead, ducking his head and pressing his lips fervently to her pale fingers.
no subject
"I've liked them. The flowers. It's been nice, havin' them around."
His lips on her skin, even the skin of her fingers, makes her breath catch. Maybe especially the skin of her fingers. She's not got a lady's hand, a lady who has only handled needles and cups of tea and books. She has a farm-daughter's hands, roughened by work. The kind of hands she only recently could afford the gloves to hide.
But Benedict's kissing her fingers like they are worthy of admiration, not to be hidden away.
Kate lets out a slightly shaky exhalation, and she's not sure if she wants to kiss him or just lie still in wonder. In the end, she does neither. In the end, she just whispers a quiet instruction of him to move closer, lie on his back, and then she curls up next to him. Head on his arm, hand in his. Her body is along his, yes, she knows that, but it feels right. Safe. Like she's wanted, like he'll protect her.
no subject
Kate does so much for everyone without asking for any kind of recognition for it. He's glad his small gesture, as frivolous as it might seem to others, has been well-received. It's only too bad the cold weather makes continuing it impossible. Benedict has never experienced seasons in his life, and it's rather difficult to get used to.
She pokes and prods at him until he does as she pleases, and he's more than happy to roll onto his back and shift himself to make space for her. Letting a girl curl up against his side like this is definitely a new experience, but he does it without hesitation, curling his arm around her shoulders and holding her hand across his chest, feeling the warm line of her pressed down his side.
Perhaps at any other time, he'd be blushing and squirming and all too aware of the soft press of her flesh through her clothing, but tonight those concerns seem far away, the hush of the room and the darkness lending a chastity to the gesture that he doesn't even think to break.
He squeezes her lightly in a gentle hug, and closes his eyes. Hopefully the gentle rhythm of her breath and the faint lub-dub of her heart will lull him into sleep and he won't dream of anything at all.