Credence Barebone (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
repressings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-12-08 12:50 am
repressings) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-12-08 12:50 am
I want to live where soul meets body
WHO: Credence Barebone and you (ft Annie Cresta)
WHERE: Fountain, inn, and around the village
WHEN: 12/8
OPEN TO: Legit everyone
WARNINGS: Most likely mentions of abuse in tags, will edit accordingly. Spoilers for Fantastic Beasts!
STATUS: Open.
i. Bᴀᴛʜᴇ ᴍʏ sᴋɪɴ ɪɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴsɪɴɢ ⇾ closed to annie cresta
It's probably not a good thing to scream when you're underwater. That's Credence's first instinct, to scream, but something instinctual stops him. He feels pressure, an unusual sensation that he soon identifies as being surrounded by something other than air. Credence Barebone is drowning.
Blind panic sets in. Somehow, he's underwater. How isn't exactly the first thought on his mind--instead, it's I can't swim, and he kicks in the strange mixture of somehow warm-and-cold water, though it winds up more as a flail, and tries to reach the dim light that signals the surface.
He's going to die.
Credence is going to survive so much only to wake up somewhere unfamiliar and drown. Sheer stubbornness doesn't quite describe how much he's clawing at the water haphazardly--it's more instinct to stay alive. To endure. He's done it before, he can do it again. He has to, even if he feels consciousness starting to slip away. He's tired. He's so, so tired of fighting. It's all he's done these past few days.
Finally, he manages to struggle his way upwards--just enough to splash a large wave of water over the fountain, pale hand surfacing from the dark waters of the fountain to grasp feebly at the edge before slipping under once more. Credence may be tired, but he's not done yet.
ii. Aɴᴅ ғᴇᴇʟ⇾ inn
Credence has been counting. It's been exactly two days since the girl with the long hair helped him out of the fountain, sputtering and incomprehensible. Two days since he first stayed at the warm inn, and he's still there. He can't quite put an emotion on what he's feeling--it's certainly not homesickness, nor is it restlessness. He feels uneasy, and it's a different type than what's usually ingrained in his mind.
Two days of doing nearly nothing.
Idle hands are the devil's workshop. He tries to not take the phrase that flickers through his mind quite so literally, but after the events in New York City--after what he's done to everyone--it's hard not to. He'd been sitting in a corner, quiet and out of the way, when he decides to fix things.
Maybe it's a small way to fix things--to get rid of the feeling in his chest and the guilt of not actually doing anything when everyone is pitching in to survive. Somehow, he wants to make up for all of the damage he's done. This isn't the best way to go about it but it's a start. With an amount of courage that's abnormal from him, he clears his throat and speaks to the nearest person.
"I want to help." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper, as if raising it will somehow detract from something.
"I used to run--used to help--a church." It's the only equivalent to New Salem Philanthropic Society he can think of. "I want to help," He repeats, and finally chances a look at the other person's face.
"Please."
iii. Fᴇᴇʟ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ's ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɴᴇᴡ ⇾ village
It's cold. It's cold and it's not snowing but there's a bunch on the ground, and Credence hasn't really it like this before. Not piled up. He's never been outside of New York City, never further than Broadway and 42nd street except for that one time he walked all the way to Harlem. He's left with the strangest urge to just jump in it, even though he swears he can still feel the chill the air had when it was biting down on wet skin upon his arrival.
He settles instead for smiling. Just a tad, of course, because he doesn't deserve to smile, but it's just him and the sky and someone passing by. Once he notices that someone's there his face immediately returns to it's neutral state, gaze to his shoes.
"It's beautiful," he says in that same soft voice he always does, as if misspeaking will bring forth something unpleasant. "It's not like New York."
iv. I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ɢᴜᴇss ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ᴅɪsᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ⇾ wildcard
Credence can be seen wherever there is warmth--he is the quiet, lurking presence in the inn, always listening to conversations. When he's walking around the village, he waits until the night time, and can be found staring at houses in a forlorn fashion. He might even bump into others if his mind is preoccupied, though his reaction to doing so will be abnormal.
WHERE: Fountain, inn, and around the village
WHEN: 12/8
OPEN TO: Legit everyone
WARNINGS: Most likely mentions of abuse in tags, will edit accordingly. Spoilers for Fantastic Beasts!
STATUS: Open.
i. Bᴀᴛʜᴇ ᴍʏ sᴋɪɴ ɪɴ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴsɪɴɢ ⇾ closed to annie cresta
It's probably not a good thing to scream when you're underwater. That's Credence's first instinct, to scream, but something instinctual stops him. He feels pressure, an unusual sensation that he soon identifies as being surrounded by something other than air. Credence Barebone is drowning.
Blind panic sets in. Somehow, he's underwater. How isn't exactly the first thought on his mind--instead, it's I can't swim, and he kicks in the strange mixture of somehow warm-and-cold water, though it winds up more as a flail, and tries to reach the dim light that signals the surface.
He's going to die.
Credence is going to survive so much only to wake up somewhere unfamiliar and drown. Sheer stubbornness doesn't quite describe how much he's clawing at the water haphazardly--it's more instinct to stay alive. To endure. He's done it before, he can do it again. He has to, even if he feels consciousness starting to slip away. He's tired. He's so, so tired of fighting. It's all he's done these past few days.
Finally, he manages to struggle his way upwards--just enough to splash a large wave of water over the fountain, pale hand surfacing from the dark waters of the fountain to grasp feebly at the edge before slipping under once more. Credence may be tired, but he's not done yet.
ii. Aɴᴅ ғᴇᴇʟ⇾ inn
Credence has been counting. It's been exactly two days since the girl with the long hair helped him out of the fountain, sputtering and incomprehensible. Two days since he first stayed at the warm inn, and he's still there. He can't quite put an emotion on what he's feeling--it's certainly not homesickness, nor is it restlessness. He feels uneasy, and it's a different type than what's usually ingrained in his mind.
Two days of doing nearly nothing.
Idle hands are the devil's workshop. He tries to not take the phrase that flickers through his mind quite so literally, but after the events in New York City--after what he's done to everyone--it's hard not to. He'd been sitting in a corner, quiet and out of the way, when he decides to fix things.
Maybe it's a small way to fix things--to get rid of the feeling in his chest and the guilt of not actually doing anything when everyone is pitching in to survive. Somehow, he wants to make up for all of the damage he's done. This isn't the best way to go about it but it's a start. With an amount of courage that's abnormal from him, he clears his throat and speaks to the nearest person.
"I want to help." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper, as if raising it will somehow detract from something.
"I used to run--used to help--a church." It's the only equivalent to New Salem Philanthropic Society he can think of. "I want to help," He repeats, and finally chances a look at the other person's face.
"Please."
iii. Fᴇᴇʟ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ's ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɴᴇᴡ ⇾ village
It's cold. It's cold and it's not snowing but there's a bunch on the ground, and Credence hasn't really it like this before. Not piled up. He's never been outside of New York City, never further than Broadway and 42nd street except for that one time he walked all the way to Harlem. He's left with the strangest urge to just jump in it, even though he swears he can still feel the chill the air had when it was biting down on wet skin upon his arrival.
He settles instead for smiling. Just a tad, of course, because he doesn't deserve to smile, but it's just him and the sky and someone passing by. Once he notices that someone's there his face immediately returns to it's neutral state, gaze to his shoes.
"It's beautiful," he says in that same soft voice he always does, as if misspeaking will bring forth something unpleasant. "It's not like New York."
iv. I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ɢᴜᴇss ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ'ʟʟ ᴅɪsᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ⇾ wildcard
Credence can be seen wherever there is warmth--he is the quiet, lurking presence in the inn, always listening to conversations. When he's walking around the village, he waits until the night time, and can be found staring at houses in a forlorn fashion. He might even bump into others if his mind is preoccupied, though his reaction to doing so will be abnormal.
village
"Have you ever seen snow like this before?" she asks.
no subject
"Times Square at night," He supplies. His voice is barely above a whisper but it's hard to keep the tone of relief in it--someone who's been to New York. That's when he spares an actual glance at the other, trying to time it for when she's not looking. When he's done, or she looks, or both, he's back to staring at the snow like nothing's ever happened.
"I've never even left the city. Not until--" This. The fountain. He takes a few steps forward, tempted to squat down and grab a bunch of snow, letting his words hang in the air. He doesn't feel like finishing it, even if it's impolite. He can, instead, try something new. Ask a question to a stranger.
It's thrilling.
"Does seeing this get old?"
no subject
Even back home, snow didn't look quite like this. This is the sort of fairytale book snow that you enjoy from afar. Now, it feels like she's living in the snowglobe. "The last time I was in Times Square, it was a bit of a crowded mess. I tried to avoid it for a while," she says, because the celebrations had gone on for some time and it had become a sweethearts' spot, to a degree, after that man's kiss with the nurse had been captured in all the papers.
no subject
He's glad this village is smaller, at least. He's glad this woman has a pretty accent, the same as the freckled fellow that had tried to save him. He decides he likes British accents a lot more than he likes anything else at the moment.
Except, maybe, this snow.
"What's Los Angeles like?" He asks, because he feels he can be particularly adventurous with his questions. "Palm trees?"
no subject
"Honestly, there is so much to see. Polo grounds, grasses, and quite a lot of glitz and glamour from the stars, if that's the sort of thing you like." Peggy's Los Angeles had been offices and plants, investigations in lakes and morgues, but she had been hoping to see some of the actual city, at some point.
no subject
The observatory--that's where he'd like to go, he decides. It's not like he can go out now, but if they ever go back, it's something he can set his sights on. Maybe by the time they do return, he won't be wanted. Maybe he will have dealt with what's inside him. It would be easy, they think he's dead anyway.
"I like Rudolph Valentino," He confesses, as if somehow liking an actor makes him seem like he's a bad person.
no subject
"I have a friend who's now in directing. He's not here, though," she says, though Tony is, and she wonders if Tony is also a multi-tasker to the point of throwing his lot in with the movie stars. "Do you have a favourite, of his works?"
no subject
It's not because Peggy's a girl--although she is, and quite beautiful--it's because Peggy knows who he is and that means she's from his world. From his time, too, or around it. There's a smile he can't help, and it flickers on his face, fluttering briefly before he casts his gaze to the snow and forces himself to behave. It's unbecoming to act out.
"I haven't actually seen them," he confesses, and that's an embarrassment he feels like he could do without, but lying just seems silly. "But I read his interviews."
no subject
She wants to tip his chin up slightly, but knows that sometimes people can't manage eye contact quite the same as others and doesn't intend to force it. "There's no films here, but if there are, perhaps we'll be lucky enough to see one of Rudolph. I was always rather partial to Humphrey Bogart and Cary Grant myself."
no subject
He wonders, not for the first time, what he's gotten himself into.
"I'm sorry, I haven't heard of those two." He means it, and after a brief pause he decides to be a little more braver than he usually would:
"What movies did they do?" He thinks he could listen to her all day. The fact that it's an interesting subject doesn't hurt, either.
no subject
"I haven't seen anything in so long, though, it would be very nice to get to see them again. I'm sure there's been plenty made since then, as well. There's been quite a number of years that have passed."
no subject
"Why did you stop?" He asks, perplexed and not bothering to--or incapable of--hiding it. He shoves his hands in the peacoat's pockets, glancing over at her as discreetly as he can.
"If I was allowed to, I'd go every day." Though he knows not everyone is him, and he already feels a little foolish, admitting it out loud. He decides to concentrate on looking at how white the snow is.
no subject
"I wish that I could give you that, here," she says. "Come," she says. "We can't take you to the movies, but perhaps I can give you a bit of a show. The snow is very pretty from the woods."
no subject
The girl's words are still strange to him, foreign in the same way her accent is--she doesn't have to give Credence anything, no one ever has. No one owes him, nor should they think of him, in his opinion, he's simply one to exist and nothing more. He's used to it.
"Are we allowed to go?" He asks, and while there's no more confusion, it's still tempered with caution. Not of her, but rather what's out there.
no subject
It's as she takes a few steps forward that she then waits for him, giving him an encouraging look. "Back home, did you have limits on where you were?" she prods lightly. "Restrictions of a sort from your family? Boss?"