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
A hand, or he hopes it's a hand, grips his wrist. He doesn't have time to think, doesn't have time to instinctually yank his hand away because his hands are sin incarnate, capable only of destruction. Instead, he's hauled up and there's strength, an amount Credence wishes he had, and it's just enough to get one arm hooked over a slippery surface.
That's when he feels the cold. It hits him the same time he breaks the surface like an absolute punch in the gut, and he nearly slips from the precarious hold he has on the side of the fountain. That pale hand keeps him in place, though, long enough for Credence to sputter.
An attempt at breathing only gets him to cough, and when he does it's violent and watery and nearly upheaves him only to send him back into the water he's half in. He doesn't realize it, wild and frightened, but he uses his second hand not to hold the other's wrist like they had before, but to grab the other's hand.
"Please--" It's a hoarse, unusual sound, and he looks up and his saviour. "Help me--" he can't physically get out of the water, not right now, and the winter bite buffets his already wet face. If he wasn't continuing to cough, he'd let out a whimper.
no subject
She does. One good hold, one bad. His hand that's grabbed her other one is cold, thin, desperate: it's a weak hold. But it's a hold. She'll work with it. She has no other choice.
Annie looks at him, the young man. The boy, maybe. She looks at him, and her sea-green eyes are dark, intense, boring into his face until he looks up and pays attention.
"I got you," Annie repeats. "Okay? You're not gonna drown. Not gonna let ya. But I need you to help, right? I'm gonna move my left hand to the fountain edge. And when you can feel the stone, I want you to slide your arm over so you can hook your arm over the edge. And then I want you to let me go."
He looks like he's from District Three. District Six, maybe. Five. Eight. Pasty.
She tries not to remember the names of the children who looked like him.
"Once you do that, we can get you out more easily. Okay?"
no subject
It causes him to look, sharply, up. Despite everything--this isn't about manners and politeness, this is survival now, and the girl with the green eyes and the stern voice is explaining what he needs to do. Credence, shaking and scared and cold, now, so very cold, tries to hold onto the words as best as he can--until, of course, she comes up to the last part of it.
"I don't want to let go--" it's quick it's clipped and his grip tightens, if that's even possible, heart hammering in his chest. His brain is fixating on the fact that her grip equals his life, and nothing else.
He's going to chastise himself for it, later.
no subject
It is, Annie thinks, a good thing that she isn't in the water with him.
"Okay," she says. It is. She'll work with it. She's not letting him drown. "But I still need you to hook your arms over the edge like I said, yeah? So come in closer, and I'll help. We get your elbows over the edge, you're secure."
It's not a bucking, wild sea, after all. He's not trying to get into a boat. Nothing is moving except them.
no subject
He wonders if he's dead. He wonders if the wizards and witches truly picked him off. He wonders if this girl is an angel, or a devil. But he can't wonder--at least, not for very long. He needs to listen to that voice, treat it like the voice of the witch who had stopped Ma.
He can do this.
He calms, visibly, and a does as he's told. A slim, pale hand curls on the edge like she says, and then a hand turns into his arm, and after a moment's debate he finally lets go of the girl together to grip tightly onto the edge of the well. Hell--because this isn't heaven, it can't be, he shouldn't be there--is awfully cold. Enough that his teeth are chattering.
Credence suddenly feels like a fool--all of that panicking, all of that frightened movement, and Annie's right. As long as he has his elbows over the fountain, he can probably lift himself up. Had he not been so cold, a rush of colour would flood over his pallid face.
"I'm sorry," he says, and it's almost a whisper.
no subject
"You can do this," she says, because she thinks a disagreement might be too much. Might drive him backwards. "I can pull you if you get stuck. Fishergirl, I've been hauling around fish since I was tiny."
Watching him, she finally lets go of his wrist, but her hand lingers for a moment. Seeing if she needs to grab him again.
no subject
Slowly, he does as he's told. It's easier now with a clear mind, when impending death isn't flashing over him. When he sees not wizards and witches with their wands raised, throwing curse after curse at him like he's the enemy, but instead a girl with pretty eyes and red hair.
It's careful, and it's slow, but he manages to halfway pull himself out of the well, teeth chattering and a small whimper forming from his lips.
"Where am I?"
no subject
She takes another risk: she doesn't stand up. She straightens, hovering, waiting to swoop in if she needs to, but she doesn't stand. If things go wrong, she needs to be low.
"I'll explain once we're inside. There's an inn. With a fire."
Now, now Annie stands. Slowly. No sudden movements.
"Okay. Now get one knee on the edge first, don't try and haul yourself out all at once."
no subject
He lets Annie motivate him by sheer presence alone, her voice calming, and the promise of a fire helps as well. Warmth can happen if he just slides his leg over and--there. He does it, and naturally and instinctively begins to slowly haul himself up.
It works--for the most part. Credence slides, water hitting ice, but he falls forward instead of backwards back into the water. He gives a startled cry, eyes wide as he unceremoniously tumbles towards the snow.