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)
sixthiterationlogs2017-02-15 06:27 pm
repressings) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-15 06:27 pm
Angels causing accidents;
WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: The edge of the village, the inn
WHEN: 2/15
OPEN TO: OTA with a closed section for Graves
WARNINGS: severe injury via explodey lightning, mentions of Credence's history re: blacking out, talk of severe abuse in the threat with Rory
STATUS: (Is it open to new threads?)
ɪ. ɢʀᴀᴠᴇs ⇼ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ;
It's a strange sort of dance, pushing and pulling. Credence doesn't trust Graves, even if the man holds all of the answers. He hasn't lorded it from him, not yet, but he's waiting. It's a matter of time, he thinks, before Graves pulls the carpet out from under him. Soon, he will somehow turn into that blonde man, and soon, it will be too late and Credence will have to do what he wishes.
Now, though, it's peaceful. It's odd, but in the same way that the fact that speakeasies are illegal and yet there are thousands of them where he's from. A strange sort of familiar type of peculiar that lets Credence feel somewhat balanced. Despite everything, he finds the village peaceful. He finds the place safe.
Even though he should be more wary of Mr. Graves--and he is, extremely--he's walking along with him. Walks, Credence had explained to the older man softly, are the best thing to do around the village perimeters, so long as you had a knife. They clear the mind and you can either think about things or not think about anything at all.
"And Mr. Graves, if you'll let me be a little bold," he had inquired, "I think maybe if you had a walk without a purpose, you might feel better." That's how the both of them are near the village outskirts, Credence bundled in his peacoat and scarf and his wool gloves. He's relinquished his extra pair, made of fine fur, over to the older man in order to keep him warm.
They talk. It's quiet, and almost like more of their games in the evening. A question for an answer, and an answer for a question. Credence has learned that this is the best way to get information, and he's quite pleased that it's moving forward so quickly.
"If you can perform magic without a wand, then why do you need one?" He asks, and it's as he turns his head to actually look at Graves that it happens. White, hot light, and then a blazing heat surges down his spine, causing every part of his body to stiffen and spasm before he immediately drops to the ground. He doesn't know what happened.
Credence, struck by lightning, falls unconscious and stops breathing.
ɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ;
He wakes up with a jolt. Panic claws through him, and there's that scratching, whispering, hissing voice in the back of his head that all but confirms his initial thought: he'd passed out again.
This time, he doesn't wake up in the subway, or in his bed at NSPS headquarters--this time, it's in the inn, sides bandaged and eyes wide. A hand immediately holds his injured side--burn marks, perhaps--and he whimpers from the unexpected pain.
"I did it again," he manages, trembling. His throat is sore, hoarse, and he has no idea how long he's been out. Hours? Days? His dark eyes scan the room, wildly, and settle on whoever is there, be it passing the hallway while the door's open or sitting in the room with him:
"Is everyone safe?"
ɪɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴘᴀᴄᴇ;
Credence will be recovering for a while, not just on the 15th. When he can make it upright, he'll be in the inn, closest to the fire and writing everything he can in his journal. He may even be staring at whomever's closest to him, friend or stranger, lost in thought.
WHERE: The edge of the village, the inn
WHEN: 2/15
OPEN TO: OTA with a closed section for Graves
WARNINGS: severe injury via explodey lightning, mentions of Credence's history re: blacking out, talk of severe abuse in the threat with Rory
STATUS: (Is it open to new threads?)
ɪ. ɢʀᴀᴠᴇs ⇼ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ;
It's a strange sort of dance, pushing and pulling. Credence doesn't trust Graves, even if the man holds all of the answers. He hasn't lorded it from him, not yet, but he's waiting. It's a matter of time, he thinks, before Graves pulls the carpet out from under him. Soon, he will somehow turn into that blonde man, and soon, it will be too late and Credence will have to do what he wishes.
Now, though, it's peaceful. It's odd, but in the same way that the fact that speakeasies are illegal and yet there are thousands of them where he's from. A strange sort of familiar type of peculiar that lets Credence feel somewhat balanced. Despite everything, he finds the village peaceful. He finds the place safe.
Even though he should be more wary of Mr. Graves--and he is, extremely--he's walking along with him. Walks, Credence had explained to the older man softly, are the best thing to do around the village perimeters, so long as you had a knife. They clear the mind and you can either think about things or not think about anything at all.
"And Mr. Graves, if you'll let me be a little bold," he had inquired, "I think maybe if you had a walk without a purpose, you might feel better." That's how the both of them are near the village outskirts, Credence bundled in his peacoat and scarf and his wool gloves. He's relinquished his extra pair, made of fine fur, over to the older man in order to keep him warm.
They talk. It's quiet, and almost like more of their games in the evening. A question for an answer, and an answer for a question. Credence has learned that this is the best way to get information, and he's quite pleased that it's moving forward so quickly.
"If you can perform magic without a wand, then why do you need one?" He asks, and it's as he turns his head to actually look at Graves that it happens. White, hot light, and then a blazing heat surges down his spine, causing every part of his body to stiffen and spasm before he immediately drops to the ground. He doesn't know what happened.
Credence, struck by lightning, falls unconscious and stops breathing.
ɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ;
He wakes up with a jolt. Panic claws through him, and there's that scratching, whispering, hissing voice in the back of his head that all but confirms his initial thought: he'd passed out again.
This time, he doesn't wake up in the subway, or in his bed at NSPS headquarters--this time, it's in the inn, sides bandaged and eyes wide. A hand immediately holds his injured side--burn marks, perhaps--and he whimpers from the unexpected pain.
"I did it again," he manages, trembling. His throat is sore, hoarse, and he has no idea how long he's been out. Hours? Days? His dark eyes scan the room, wildly, and settle on whoever is there, be it passing the hallway while the door's open or sitting in the room with him:
"Is everyone safe?"
ɪɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴘᴀᴄᴇ;
Credence will be recovering for a while, not just on the 15th. When he can make it upright, he'll be in the inn, closest to the fire and writing everything he can in his journal. He may even be staring at whomever's closest to him, friend or stranger, lost in thought.
no subject
Glass houses and stones, after all.
"December - it hadn't snowed yet, though. But when I came here, there was so much snow I thought I was going to get sick. Especially since it was wet." He pauses a little more, tilting his head to the side as he examines the lattice-like work of the wooden blocks.
"Are you scared of leaving New York?"
no subject
Still. Anybody from 1926 is likely to be dead in his time. It's sort of a surreal moment for him.
He watches Credence stack the blocks as the instructions state, thinking back to all the times he played it with his sisters. He likes having Credence around, likes spending time with him — he feels like the other boy is someone he can be a big brother to, and it reminds him a little bit of home.
It never occurred to him what it might be like to have a little brother. But when he talks to Credence, he doesn't have to.
"Not New York," Sonny says, after thinking for a moment. "I'm scared of leaving my family. They just happen to be in New York."
no subject
"Do you have a big family? My sister Modesty comes from a family of 12," he explains, "I can't begin to imagine what it's like."
no subject
Of course, they're just theories. Sonny can't know for sure, and he's not about to pry and ask, either.
"Oh, yeah," Sonny confirms, laughing. "We're Italian. I've got three sisters, both my mom and dad have siblings, and they all have kids, and some of them have kids. I've got more cousins than I can keep track of. Family get-togethers are insane."
no subject
He bets Sonny buys the paper every single day. He seems like the type of person to buy baked goods for breakfast, too, to splurge on something sweet like a doughnut and not worry about that 5 cents going to something else. Two doughnuts is a small loaf of bread, and that can easily feed Credence, Modesty and Chastity for a week...
Sonny is someone Credence wishes he was.
"What's your mother like?"