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
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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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Maybe he would, though. Anything to free himself of Mary Lou. But if he leaves, who would help Modesty? His lips pull into a frown, mulling it over, before something he says doesn't quite make sense.
"A counselor? What do you mean, one for veterans?"
no subject
"Well. A lot of bad things happen overseas when you're in combat. Coming back home, it can be hard to adjust back to civilian life after everything you've experienced. Sounds make you jump, shadows moving in the corner of your eye make you think they're enemy combatants, and even the door bell ringing unexpectedly can send some people into an unexpected fit." Sam let that sink in, not sure if it made sense or not. People who hadn't experienced PTSD for themselves usually had the wrong idea about it or found it difficult to imagine. "And that's not even getting in to psychological trauma that can occur. You see people you care about die and you're responsible for some of those deaths as well. It sticks with you and people like that need help." Sam leaned back, thinking about his own trauma, "Sorry. That might have been a little much...but, that's why veterans need counselors. I went through some similar stuff and got help too...so I guess I'm returning the favor."
no subject
He's just trying not to think that some of what Sam is describing happens to him, too. That's impossible, though, he's never been in war. It must work differently in his world, or something to that effect.
"I'm not sure what PTSD is, but it sounds like something when people were in the war from my world. It's called Shellshock, I think."
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"Guess I could have started with that," he considered the term Credence used and nodded, "I think shellshock eventually evolved into that term. They wanted a term that could describe trauma that might occur outside of the war I guess. Since there are people out there who suffer from other types of stress and trauma besides just war." He remembered learning about that in one of his college classes -- though at the moment he couldn't exactly remember when shellshock turned into the catch-all term of PTSD.