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.
ii
The weather hadn't exactly been pleasant after all. Sam had tried passing the time recently by patrolling the village and keeping an eye out for danger. There had been no new attacks, but a few new people had joined their ranks. That just meant more people to worry about and Sam was so tired of worrying.
He had started thinking again of his talk with Nerys. They needed a distraction from all this snow and being so helpless and the idea of starting a game night of some kind was poking at the back of his mind again. Sam had decided it might be a good project to start trying to "make" his own games out of stuff he found in the woods. Game pieces didn't have to be fancy carved plastic or metal -- it could be rocks, twig, and debris from the broken homes. A game board didn't have to be freshly painted and printed with words -- it could be a big enough piece of wood from one of the broken houses from the earthquakes.
Sam probably looked strange coming in to the inn with this junk, but he did it all the same. It was while he was setting the materials down that he felt someone watching him. Sam looked over and realized that the inn's main room was currently occupied with one of their newest arrivals. He might have waved the request off if it was someone else. After all, he really didn't need help with this project and he was hoping to keep it as a bit of a surprise. But as soon as he'd looked at the kid and really heard the request he'd immediately reconsidered.
"Yeah? My dad's a minister at a church." He looked around, but they were pretty alone in the inn right now, "You just got here right? I'm working on a surprise for the others. Mind helping with that? It's nothing big, but I"m trying to make something that will break up the monotony that comes from endless snow days."
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Not that the would, of course. He considers it admirable. People that have their own projects should be respected--they can gather up little tasks and make one big one that, when finished, has a sense of accomplishment Credence doesn't think he's ever experienced before.
Credence surprises even himself when he speaks up--the words had burst forth like a damn finally giving way--but he's caught off guard with how easily the man takes it in stride. Calm, official without being authoritative. Credence likes his voice; enjoys the cadence. It's soothing without acting like some sort of lullaby. It's nothing like his Ma's strict voice.
He nods at the other's words--a small one for the first question, a larger one for the second. The idea of something like that is certainly thoughtful. He wonders if anyone will thank him for that virtue after everything's said and done.
"It's a really good idea," he says softly, and looks not at the other but at the pieces. He's trying to figure out the exact game. He doesn't move to join him simply because he hasn't been invited fully.
"Do you have rules or anything yet?" Rules, he's learned are important.
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"I ruled out chess because that would take too much carving and we don't exactly have paint," he paused, studying his pile of odds and ends, "I guess I could technically carve the letters into the pieces." He picks up one of the small, smooth pebbles he'd picked up on a recent walk, "I guess a mancala board wouldn't be hard to make." He looked back to the young man, "You ever play that? Or know any games that might be easy to make from random bits? I'm open to suggestions."
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She's more lenient on his sisters.
Sam talks and Credence stares, listening and looking at the carved pieces already. There's something about the other that's inherently likable, something that Credence can't put a finger on. He's not ready to trust Sam--he doesn't trust anyone--but he feels like he can speak. Like just maybe, he can hold a conversation.
"Chutes and ladders doesn't need a lot of pieces," he suggests, quiet and almost to himself. "May I?" he gestures to a wooden piece, asking if he can examine it.
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"Oh," he realized he'd gotten ahead of himself and slid a piece toward Credence, "Sure, help yourself."
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He does, however, compose himself after his initial jump and flinch, trying not to feel too embarrassed. This man is kind to him, and isn't like anything else he's experienced. He's just excited about the prospect of a new game, nothing more.
So he reaches over, long, slender fingers sliding over a small piece of wood.
"My sister played a game like hopscotch often, too. To pass the time" He says carefully, "Though I don't think there are children in the village." At least, he hasn't seen any.
He does like chutes and ladders, though. Credence picks up the game piece, silently reveling in the fact that someone actually likes his idea.
no subject
He watches Credence for a second as the other mulls over the small wooden figure. He considers the observation and then nods, "You're right. I mean...that's probably a good thing, but I never really thought about it. There doesn't seem to be anyone much younger than in their teens here." He wasn't 100 percent sure how old Jess or Raven were, but he was pretty sure they were some of their youngest and they had to be at least over 15.
"And while it would be amusing to see, it might be difficult enough to convince people to play some of these board games -- let alone hopscotch. But the suggestion is appreciated all the same," Sam observes.
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Besides, Sam's voice is nice and warm and Credence is also kind of excited about this sort of stuff, too.
"It wasn't a very nice game," He admits, reciting the rhyme over in his head as he stares at the wooden figure before setting it down and pressing his lips into a thin line.
"Do you wonder why there aren't any children or elderly here?" Credence does, maybe a little more often than he should.
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He pauses in his sorting and looks back to Credence, "Until now? I hadn't really thought about it. I mean...this place raises so many questions to begin with." It was a good observation though, one he kind of hates himself for not realizing sooner. Another piece of information that narrowed the pool of who they were bringing here but still didn't really answer anything else. "It could be that whoever is behind this isn't a complete monster after all and is leaving children and the elderly out of whatever is going on here. But somehow I doubt that. If they're willing enough to kidnap all these other folks I don't see why age would be a factor in that decision, unless they're wanting to make sure there is a higher survival rate." It sounded cold, but the fact remained that kids would have trouble surviving here on their own and the same went for the elderly.
Although, now that he was thinking about it, Steve was technically over 90, as was Bucky, so it couldn't be literal age restrictions. Of course, those two hardly LOOKED like they were 90 so there was that to consider.
"What do you think? I've been here too long, sometimes it's good to hear some fresh ideas."
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It isn't, he knows, but it's a knee jerk reaction. Had he said something silly? A poor observation? No, that's not it. It's only after his mind circles different possibilities and comes to a blank that it occurs to him that Sam really is asking for his input.
He chooses his words carefully, next. He picks up a smooth stone and rubs it with his thumb, enjoying the soft texture on his hand.
"I think" his voice is bashful, "I think this was purgatory, sir." It seems foolish, now that he's said it out loud--like a childish sort of whimsy--and Credence lowers his chin, physically retreating into himself.
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And honestly, given their strange environment, Sam can't even immediately dismiss the notion. What would make it any less ridiculous than inter-dimensional abductions? He, unfortunately, has to seriously consider it. Although, now he had some follow up questions.
"All right. I'll bite. What makes you think this is Purgatory? Cause given your earlier question, shouldn't there be more children and elderly here?" And he asks the questions seriously, he doesn't want Credence to think he's just asking to humor him, he's sincere in his inquiry.
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He thinks, suddenly, that this is the most he's ever spoken to someone in a very, very long time. The last time had been a diner and a well dressed man explaining that he wasn't normal, or anything like the others he's lived with.
His voice is a little scratchy, but he continues.
"We were only mostly right about Salem. Or planets. Or science--maybe we were only mostly right about this. Maybe children and elderly don't belong in purgatory. Maybe it's for people that have sinned, but their hearts are still good."
If he tells himself this, at least he'll feel better.
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Sam considered that and listened as Credence walked him through his reasoning a bit more. "I can see that...though I'm not sure if that would still carry to the eldery. I would reason that old people have lived longer and would have just as much sin as any adult," he was starting to feel the heaviness of this conversation, but for some reason he was also kind of enjoying. Perhaps because he hadn't really talked about theories with anyone in awhile. "What about this? What if there is an age limit or bracket and there might be another section out there that's more for older people or younger," he began but then trailed off.
"No...that wouldn't work either. One of the people here may not look it, but they're well past 80 years old. So unless that bracket is really wide or doesn't factor in physical age...," Sam trailed off, frowning in thought as he tried to work it out logically. Maybe you really couldn't apply logic to religion.
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Credence's brows knit, confused, and then he leans a little forward. Had he not heard that right? Had he--was that possible? He supposes with Wizards, everything and anything was possible. Maybe Sam is from the same world as he is--maybe he knows about that secret community.
Shoulders still hunched, he leans just a little forward, and scarred palms are placed flat against the table so his knuckles show instead. He drops his voice, lower than usual, and speaks:
"Are they--how?"
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"I don't know all the details," more like he doesn't want to gossip and SHARE all of the details, but he continues, "...but I guess the simplest way to put it would be to say that it was a science experiment that they didn't fully understand." Which, if he had known Credence was thinking "magic" he might have found amusing how far off he was.
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"Is it that they're immortal now?"
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"Hmmm," he considered it and frowned, "I don't think so."
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That's right. His voice lowers, and he leans forward, like he's about to tell Sam a secret that can never leave the room.
"Are they wizards?"
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"No, they aren't wizards. Like I said, what happened to them was science. It's not magic and they sure as heck aren't wizards."
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Maybe one day, someone with magical powers will come out of the fountain. Maybe we'll all be saved thanks to them."
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No offense to Thor, but if one of the most powerful members of the Avengers was stuck here too then he didn't see how a couple of people waving wands was going to do much.
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What if they find out what he's done?
No. No, there's no way that man calling himself a Norse God is real. That's pagan--that's heretical, even. He's probably just a wizard. That's the only explanation.
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