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
He tries his best to ignore the word prisoner and instead focuses on the other's words. He apologizes, for example, and Credence is so thrown off that anyone is even remotely considering saying sorry to him, let alone actually doing it, his brows furrow and he looks up and at Jess, just to make sure he hasn't misheard.
"I thought--" There it is, that sudden nervousness. He licks his lips despite the harsh winter cold, sure to have them chapped, and his head ducks down again. The snow is a lot more interesting now, it seems. "Since it was the village it was okay, I didn't mean to cause trouble." It's genuine, and something else crosses his mind--he asks carefully, cautiously, and curls his fists as he does so.
"Does anyone know what it is?" Credence's knee-jerk reaction is that, somehow, it's him again.
no subject
In contrast, if Jess is the bush here, Credence is most certainly beating around him.
Not one for speaking openly, apparently. Or speaking, period. Between the downcast head and faltering voice, Credence is the very picture of timid submission--and considering Jess is the farthest thing from a figure of authority, he finds the deference off-putting. Cause trouble? He's in danger, not getting ticketed for jaywalking.
"It's about playing it smart so you aren't walking yourself into the middle of trouble," Jess replies, not sure what to do with the implied apology other than brush it aside. "Do you have a weapon? Anything to defend yourself with? I'd stick to touring in the daytime, but if you're going to be out here, I'd advise not straying far."
The thing could be anywhere, and other dangers, too. People have a way of disappearing around here and he'd rather not wake up tomorrow morning and find out the young man with the severe haircut was the next to vanish.
"Best guess: an animal of some kind. It's already killed once. You probably don't want to find out."
no subject
It's not him, is it? It can't be. He just got here, and they've been wary for a while. Or has he always been here, just the other him, scanning the sky with inky black smoke, looking for destruction and chaos. Looking for those who have wronged him, for everyone that's called him a freak. If they find out, Credence wonders if there will be a lynching, or perhaps burning at the stake. Just to keep it traditional.
He decides he doesn't like this conversation very much.
"I don't," he agrees, and forces his fists to unfurl. This one doesn't know. If it isn't him--and he prays it isn't--then there's nothing to worry about. If it is?
Credence doesn't want to think about that. But he'll talk about weapons--even if he's certain Grindelwald had been grooming him to be one. "Um, no weapons, though. I really thought the village is safe."
no subject
Fear is good. It might just keep this guy alive.
"We haven't officially met yet. I'm Jess Brightwell. I'm set up at the inn, too," he says, stepping forward with hand outstretched, deciding he ought to at least make introductions if he's going to continue to be an alarmist in front of newcomers.
Plus, a handshake gives him an excuse to do what he does next. From under his coat, Jess pulls out one of his knives and flips it around, holding the grip out to Credence. It's not a pretty piece of work, being a repurposed piece of scrap metal sharpened and reshaped into a blade with a handle he'd wrapped himself, but it gets the job done.
The other can repeat that he'd thought the village was safe as much as he wants. It's not going to get any less false.
"Here. You'll be needing one of these, then. You need something on you even you don't wind up using it for self-defence."
no subject
He hopes he won't find Jess crumpled and lifeless because whatever is inside him took his scare tactics to heart. He wanted to say something, to thank him, but all he can really say is "Credence" in a hushed, reverent tone as he tries to repeat the phrase 'go away' over and over in his head. Maybe then the smoky blackness will leave him.
This man, the one that jumps around rooftops like it's nothing, is just trying to help in his own way. He hopes.
He knows handshakes, though. Even if his hands are scarred and calloused, he still does it to be polite. What Credence isn't expecting is something to be pressed into his palm, firmly and confidently. When he looks down, he doesn't bother to mask his confusion.
'hello, how are you? be careful.'
'okay.'
'have a knife.'
"Are you--" He cuts himself off. Jess Brightwell looks nothing if not sure. He looks at the other--really looks--and then back at the makeshift knife.
"I don't know how to use it."
He doesn't want to tell Jess he doesn't need to.
no subject
In Jess' experience, a person learns to walk on eggshells because the repercussions for smashing them underfoot aren't worth the trouble. If he had to guess, that's what Credence is doing. Treading lightly, waiting for the repercussions to hit. There's a fear response in that, older and more ingrained than the last few days in this place could have taught him.
Maybe about as old as his scars?
They're hard to miss, especially when Credence extends his hand to meet Jess halfway and the moonlight catches on the discolored marks striping his skin. Most of them are small, but some must have been deep. Not accidental, too many of them for that.
Taking in Credence's exposed skin in at a glance, Jess flicks his gaze back to the other's face without giving anything away, briefly squeezing the hand in his in a genial manner before releasing.
He wishes he could say he hasn't seen these kinds of lash marks before, but a sane world isn't any safer than this insane one. It's why Jess had learned to defend himself early, even if he'd never been able to bring himself to use those skills on his father and brother. Why almost everyone Jess knows goes armed in some way or another. And it's why he keeps holding the knife out until Credence takes it, not about to take it back.
"You'll figure it out if you have cause to use it," he assures. Instincts have a way of kicking in when it's fight or flight. "And if you don't have cause to use it, you'll cut rope a lot easier with it. Either way."
Take it.
no subject
Credence can't help but wonder why, though the answer is obvious as it pricks the back of his mind--he wants something later. The necklace given to him by Grindelwald was something similar, summoning stone or not. The knife isn't a talisman like that thing was, sure, but he can't help but feel a little wrong as he takes it and gingerly puts it in one of his pockets.
He owes Jess Brightwell something, now. But what, he wonders, will he want? Especially if it's figured out he has something inside him, something terrible and awesome? Something wonderful and depraved, full of fear and hatred and the driving desire to be wanted?
"Thank you," he says, and it's quiet. "I'll be more careful."
And, after a brief pause: "Do you usually--" A vague motion to the roofs. 'Is that how you travel?' he wants to say, but winds up hunching back over.
no subject
Credence has that part backward--the point of setting him up with need-to-know information and a survival tool is so that the other won't be indebted to anyone, least of all to Jess. Make no mistake, were it Callum Brightwell standing here instead of his son, he'd lean on Credence in just the way Credence imagines, trading promises for loyalty, protection for servitude. There's a reason the Brightwells dominate the smuggling market; his father had been the one to teach Jess there's more than one way to hold a knife to someone's throat.
But the last thing he wants is for a sense of obligation to shackle them together. What he really wants, what he's wordlessly hoping as Credence pockets the blade, is that Credence will be able to stand on his own feet without the help.
(Because if he isn't able to, then Jess will be the one to feel obliged to help him, and he can't be responsible for someone and fail them again. He can't have another Morgan. Another Thomas. He can't. He can't.)
It's why he shakes his head emphatically and says, "No need," in response to Credence's thanks. "We were all new once. You're doing yourself the favor by keeping your eyes sharp."
The gesture to the rooftops momentarily draws Jess' gaze back up to the narrow ledge he'd swung down from. It's only a two storey drop, and he hadn't jumped from its full height; in the course of his career as a runner, a small feat like that was like taking the stairs to Jess.
"I was already up there on watch. Good vantage point." He assumes what Credence really wants to know is how and why Jess had snuck up on him, not about his climbing habits. "Some of us do regular sweeps, but it's not always enough. I wanted to catch you before you got too far."
no subject
He shifts uncomfortably, swaying just a touch to the left, and he allows himself to look at Jess--really look at him, gaze meeting gaze for a split second before dropping down once more. He thinks this is the most times he's looked someone in the eye in a very long while, except for maybe Mr. Graves.
Credence is suddenly very glad that he's alone. That the other man isn't here. It's just him and a British boy who travels by rooftops.
"Is there some sort of watch?"
no subject
God only knows what a person has to have done to them to make this kind of apprehensiveness a learned habit. How high up his arms do those marks go? If Credence took his shirt off, what kind of history would he find mapped out on his skin?
Jess isn't sure he wants to know.
In that second of shy eye contact, Jess makes the decision to say more. With anyone else, he might have left it at that, but the more time around Credence, the more it's apparent Credence isn't quite like everyone else. And that's not just in reference to his unflattering hairstyle.
"We'll probably see each other around the inn more often than not if you're sticking around. If you'd feel more comfortable learning some knife handling firsthand, I can show you a few things," he offers. Maybe that'd help get him more relaxed with the idea of carrying a weapon. "And yeah, of the unofficial variety, but I do it on my own time. What about you? What brought you out tonight?"
no subject
"If you wouldn't mind," Credence says shyly, and his hand moves over the pocket, ghosting where the knife is through the black fabric. He's not sure if he can even hold a knife, let alone stab with it. He imagines it's pretty easy.
Anything to use himself as the last measure. After all, for all he knows he's the one causing all of this. He just has to control it. He has to learn to harness whatever it is inside him. His gift, his curse, whatever it is.
"Walking helps me think," he says, voice as soft as ever. "And everything looks prettier at night, don't you think?"
no subject
He doesn't mind truthfully. When he's not working or out scouting the canyon in vain for a new lead, the hours pass slowly and beg to be filled; showing Credence a few tricks can eat up time just as well as carving away at his game board. The best thing he could do to help settle a new arrival is get them ready to actually live in their new home away from home, he supposes.
And the exposure to keeping a weapon on his person can't hurt. The more Credence does it, the quicker he'll hopefully go from 'monkey see' to 'monkey do.'
Teamwork is all well and good, but they can't trust that one or more of them won't be separated or stranded somewhere and have to rely on their own wits, absent of the safety in numbers Jess had advised Credence to take advantage of not a moment ago. It'd happened to Kate and Margaery when they'd been lost in the woods. It'd happened to Peggy, stuck on a high ridge without a way down. It'd been most of Jess' life.
The remark that there's still beauty to be found despite what this place has already done to get Credence here sounds like something Thomas would say, and Jess feels a strange pang of homesickness. He doesn't want to confess that the same upbringing that had drilled in him the skills and instincts necessary to keep his head attached to his shoulders has made him rather blind to pretty views. Where Credence sees beauty, Jess sees the ill-intentioned effort put into designing this town. It had always fell to Thomas to remind him there are other sides to life besides just the bad and the grey areas in between.
... And now Thomas is gone, leaving Jess with his bleak views.
"First time away from the city lights?" he says instead of any of that, delivered with the same light tone as one would toss out an observation like 'cool out tonight, huh?' "That was me when I first arrived here. The nights seemed darker than normal somehow. No street lights or carriages trundling past. It was a little weird."