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.
no subject
"What difference does it make to you?" he snaps, anger hiding the pain he's trying not to think about now, here, in front of her. Because he can't fall apart again, but he damn sure can't do it in front of her. He's too prideful for that, and it's even beyond the fact of her being a hunter, but circled around to simply another person seeing him that low, that broken, that gone. It's a risk he isn't willing to take.
no subject
"Maybe I like making sure the only vampire among us doesn't decide tonight is the perfect night to go batshit crazy on what looks like absolutely no reason so far." Beat. A bland blink, as she let her head list just barely one direction. Refusing to let what he was, or the fact he was most of a foot taller than her seem like it had any power over her. "Maybe you'd call it my job."
She didn't want to call it caring. But there was something else there.
Something that prickled under. Better people that her had been broken by the multiverse.
"I'd really rather this wasn't the third world I woke up to an unexpected and absolute bloodbath in." Even if there's nothing unexpected sounding to her sentence or the use of that exact word. Like there was a part of her that did expect to wake up to that sooner or later. Nonspecific on whether it would him or just something, anything, anyone, else in this place just as likely.
no subject
He doesn't even say a word to the second thing, because there is nothing for him to say. But that doesn't stop the ghost of a sly smirk to slide across his lips. Oh, she couldn't even begin to fathom the kind of damage he could do, should he want to. Luckily, his time back in Lawrence had influenced him far more than even he had realized, and for now she doesn't have to try to do her job and get rather brutally killed for it.
For now.