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.
no subject
Thinking back on it, it's a silly thing to be startled by--humans are humans and this is a small place, of course someone's going to talk to Credence, especially if he talks first--but he's always been a little caught off guard by things that seem perfectly normal to others.
He blinks, looking down at her shoes and then up, but only to up to where her collarbone would be before replying.
"New York City," He answers. "Um--near 42nd street, if you've ever been." He's never been outside the city. He's never been in a place like this, either. But this girl--red hair, pretty, the type of person his Ma would say is probably full of sin--is starting a conversation with him. He's happy to oblige. He's happy to pretend he's normal.
"I like how the moon looks on it. It's like powdered sugar."
no subject
When he explained the moon making the snow look like powdered sugar, she couldn't help but nod in agreement. She smiled a little, thinking it was a good comparison.
"My name's Jean, by the way. I don't know if I said?"
no subject
He remembers a rushed explanation from the redheaded British man before everything happened, and the others came. He wonders how much of it is true.
"Credence, Miss Jean. It's--it's nice to meet you, even if it's like this."
It's impulse to stick his hand out, skin as white as the snow beneath their feet. There are unruly scars on his palms, rough hand coarse and noticeable, but Credence's mind goes to politeness over anything else.
no subject
"You don't have to call me Miss, though. I'm really just the same age as you, probably," she said. It would have been easier if she had her abilities at their full strength. She could read him better, see what had him so nervous and untangle it and soothe it out. As it was, she just had to go on instinct.
"Jean is fine. It's good to meet you, Credence."
no subject
"Are you sure?" He asks, even though he knows it's a redundant question. "About your name," comes the quick clarification. Not that it's nice to meet him. He's fairly certain she's just not got a proper bead on him and then she, too, will only smile politely from across the room.
"Isn't that impolite?"
no subject
"I'm sure. It's just Jean," she assured him. "I wouldn't be comfortable if you kept calling me miss, really. It just isn't my thing. I'm not that formal."
Jean figured it came with being at the school for so long. Half the professors went by their first names, after all. Being referred to as Miss was just completely foreign to her, especially by someone who was likely just a peer.
"Just Jean, okay?"
no subject
Maybe Credence can make friends here. Maybe he can have one for the first time that wasn't an adoptive sister. Maybe this time, he won't hear Mr. Graves whispering in his ear, or the stern voice of Mary Lou telling him all of the ways he doesn't deserve a friend.
"Okay," he says, and there's a touch of cautiousness in his voice that's tinged this time with hope. "Did I offend you? I didn't mean to--if I did, I mean."
no subject
"It's pretty hard to offend me, Credence, I promise. I've lived...I look young but I've seen a lot of things. I don't think I'm going to be offended just because you were overly polite. If anything, it's kind of nice that you'd want to be. I don't think people do enough of that anymore. At least not where I come from."
no subject
Maybe, Credence thinks, just maybe, Jean is like him, too. Or similar enough that it won't matter. He knows he has to be careful, though, because even if Ma isn't here he still fears that belt on some level. He fears the wizards and witches who lashed out, too. Who destroyed him, who made him splinter off and then wake up here.
"What sort of things have you seen?" his voice is quiet and timid, but his breath catches in his throat.
no subject
"Sometimes...sometimes people are cruel to what they don't understand," Jean said softly. She wasn't sure if Credence was a mutant, or anything, and she didn't want to pry. With her abilities not working the way she was used to them working, it was hard to tell if they were going to be subtle in the way she was used to or end up doing more harm than good. It was easier just not to try.
"Sometimes a person lashes out at what they understand and try to hurt it rather than understand it and empathize. I've never been that kind of person myself but I've seen it. That's the kind of world I come from."
no subject
He wonders if she's a witch, if that pretty red hair is spun with the brilliance of magic and enchantment. He wonders if she has a familiar at home, a black cat or a toad, or if she can disappear and reappear like the man who called himself Mr. Graves did. It would certainly explain a lot of things and make the most sense. She emanates charisma, natural and confident.
Or maybe Credence is just completely and utterly unused to girls that aren't his sisters.
"I'm sorry," he says, because he really is--he knows what it's like. He has the scars from people who don't understand; from people who hate. From his arms and up his body, a harsh reminder of the adoptive mother that hates him. If he closes his eyes he can still feel the sharp slap of the man who wasn't and was Mr. Graves, beautiful and charming and promising, just like how Jean's words seem right now, luring him in.
Someone who understands.
Credence scrunches his eyes up tight, wishing he didn't feel so divisive about what was going on, before he very quietly, very timidly, says the one thing that's on his mind:
"Do you think some of us are here because of that?" And, after a short pause. "Is this a second chance, Jean?"
no subject
"I think it could be. I mean, none of us really know what it's about," she conceded. "I think it could be a second chance, if that's what you're looking for. Is it?"