Farm Livin' [open]

[abheirrant]

Who: Carlisle Longinmouth, farm animals, and anyone else who might wander into the area
What: With Anchor's #1 Ranch Hand gone, someone had to take care of the animals.
When: Late June/throughout July
Where: Agricultural Level, mostly near the barns/livestock and the adjacent forested area
Warnings: Will update as necessary!


As someone who had everything he ever knew either ruined, upended, or permanently changed for the worse within the near-year he's been aware of himself, Carlisle is glad to have some semblance of a routine back. True, it came at an awful cost, but in an effort to maintain his nerves — and therefore keep his more volatile, necrotic energies in check — he will take what victories he can get, however small they may be.

It started when he first moved into the barn. He's been there for well over a month now, and it took most of that time for the animals to adjust to his presence; with his head-to-toe outfit and fastidious nature, Carlisle is a far cry from their former farmhand, but he simply couldn't let Kieran's animals be without a caretaker. Given the man disappeared so soon after he'd been healed — and after Carlisle had begun to form the barest notion that they could be friends — the former clergyman is quick to blame himself for Kieran's vanishing. What's one more addition to his long list of sins? He has so much to atone for already, and a seemingly endless existence to do it. Who better to be responsible for Anchor's loss but him?

It's self-fulfilling prophecy, of course, but Carlisle is hesitant to label it as such. He felt a genuine bond with Reynir, who then disappeared. The same goes for Kieran, and now he's gone. Carlisle has yet to be proven wrong, shown that the misfortune he's said to breed with his very presence isn't a guarantee, but with only his own experiences to go on, he cannot say he believes otherwise. The only reason he remains in the colony at all is because of the insistence of a few individuals — that, and his own cowardice toward what lies in the wasteland outside of Anchor. The vast, open expanse is enough to have him reeling.

As it is, he told those same few individuals that he was moving from the housing quarters to the barn, slowly converting one of the sheds into a private home as the days went by. He claimed it was for the sake of the animals, and that it'd be a good exercise for him. By surrounding himself with living creatures who depended on him, he'd have to not only have to continue to live withing Anchor, but he would have to master his often destructive energies, keeping them in line lest he wanted their deaths on his hands. It was grim motivation, but motivation none the less. There was a heavier truth lying just beneath that reasoning: he felt that if any animals disappeared, no one would notice, whereas being in proximity of people put them at risk — those he would consider his friends included.

And so, he moved away from them, keeping his distance much as he did in life. It didn't do him any good then, either.

Well, that's not to say that living at the barn hasn't done him some good. Carlisle has indeed gotten a better hold on the necrotic magic that animates him, been able to practice wielding them in the safety of his solitude. He no longer rots everything he touches, can walk across the grasses of the fields without leaving a trail of dying, withered stalks behind him. Animals do not shift uncomfortably at his touch, and there some satisfaction in that. Each day, he feeds them, brushes them, goes about his prayer, watches over those who need him, works a little more on making the barn habitable. It's a routine, and one that often has him interacting less and less with people.

But just because he doesn't seek them out doesn't mean he's completely away from them. He actually has help on the farm some days: there's Pratt, who has shown him how to more or less manage the animals, and Ami, who comes by the brush the horses on a regular basis. Try as he might to fully isolate himself, Carlisle finds that he can't... and deep down, he isn't sure he wants to, no matter how he may seclude himself, both unconsciously or otherwise. Despite everything that's happened in his vicinity, everything he's done as the Blight Heir, Carlisle doesn't want to be alone. He's constantly trying to make amends for an endless guilt that festers in his gut. At least the animals don't judge him as harshly as he judges himself.

When dropping by the agricultural area, one might see Carlisle tending to the start of his garden: he's built up a bed of soil and surrounded it with rocks, hoping to deter the few chickens he has from plucking the new sprouts as they emerge. Acting as an additional deterrent is a tiny dragon, the blue-and-white wyrmling often nestled atop a pole in the center of the bed. Though barely bigger than a chicken himself, he does his best to act as a guard dog, keeping watch over the budding plants and hissing at anyone who would approach, letting loose a breath of chilling air.

When not there, Carlisle can be found over by the field as he tends to the cattle, letting them graze on the grasses to their hearts' content while he prepares their hay or (badly) fixes the fence. Sitting among the cattle is their protector: a hulking beast of an undead abomination. Its malformed body is no less than eight feet tall when sitting, closer to nine or ten when standing, making it out like a sore thumb among the cows and bulls; its rib cage has far too many ribs, and houses a vibrant, blue light that blazes like fire within its cavernous torso. Its frame is built of materials of all sorts, mismatched fragments of both human and animal bone, as well as a twisted branch or two making up its many limbs. The skull of a long-dead cow acts as its head, its eyes shining with the same blue light that burns in its chest. Most notable is a collar that hangs from the human-spine-turned-neck, a shiny bell dangling there for all to see.

And on rare occasion, Carlisle is outside the barn, etching into its walls an elaborate glyph. He accomplishes this with what appears to be a screw with a crude handle added to it. While it may not be a precision tool, it gets the job done, so long as he can work uninterrupted. No matter where one sees him, it's apparent he's attempting to adjust to his new life: in addition to his usual garb, Carlisle now tends to wear a pair of work gloves right on top of his normal ones, as well as a leather apron. With only one proper outfit that masks his emaciated frame, he's not eager to get stains on it.

Then again, he's not always eager for company, either. There are just some things he cannot avoid.

[ooc: alternatively, if none of these prompts are up your alley, hit me up on Discord or Plurk, and we can plot!]

Comments

[superposition]

[ Qubit watches Carlisle at first, but soon changes his mind and wanders off a few steps, allowing his friend some time to process. It's a lot to take in, he knows. When Carlisle finally speaks, he doesn't come back right away. ]

Honestly? I'm not sure it matters.

[ He bends to pull out a twig sticking into the path, and tosses it further back into the trees. ]

I can tell you how history will remember me. Assuming I don't die in exile, I'll probably be looking over my shoulder for lynch mobs the rest of my life. [ Hm. He mutters a darkly amusing thought - ] Says something when the fact there's no justice in the world is your best hope for survival.

[ As little thought as he's given to finding a way home, he's given even less to what he'll do when he gets there. If he conceals his guilt long enough, he might stand a chance of living into old age; buy a few more decades to try and make himself useful, at least. But he doesn't trust his luck that far. Cary told him, once, that if the truth came out, no one on Earth would hide him - and that was when the death toll stood at a few million. Cary was wrong about most things, but even a broken clock is right twice a day. ]

For what it's worth, I still want to help people. Try to, where I can. [ He shrugs. ] Nothing as ambitious as the old days, though. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, as they say.

[ And having walked that road once... ]

[abheirrant]

As someone who will only be remembered for what I became in death, and for the ruin I brought to both my family and the people we swore to serve, I believe I can empathize.

[How they got there is not nearly the same, of course, but the end result is. Both of them are monsters by their own accounts: one by decisions made in desperation, and the other largely by unfortunate circumstance.

Still, Carlisle can't ignore that Qubit made those decisions with good — albeit misguided — intentions. Horrific as the blood on his hands may be, that is worth remembering. He's still trying to do good, still trying to help. He hasn't simply given up even when spirited worlds away; he's trying to make amends however he can, and that's a significant choice. Carlisle can empathize with that, too.

And he wants to help him, and perhaps in doing so, help himself. After all, if Qubit cannot succeed, what hope does he have? In that interest, he returns to his question, his look softer as he brings his hands before him, his palms upturned as though willing to help Qubit bear his burden.]

While it may not matter to the people of your world, how you view yourself is more important than you think. After all, you may never see them again, but you will live with yourself every passing day. So again, do you think you're a better man, trying to do good for all the knowledge you have now about your principles and convictions? Does what you did invalidate the good you did prior, and have done since?

[superposition]

[ Qubit frowns to himself. Carlisle's acting awfully calm about all this, he's noticed. A little too calm. Nevertheless, he has a point. The court of public opinion can only try him in absentia, so for now, its judgment is a hypothetical. On the other hand, Qubit's day-to-day judgment of himself is very real. And if anyone can sympathize with that scenario, it's Carlisle.

He is going to make Qubit answer the question, though, apparently. But as Qubit turns back to do so, Carlisle's posture makes him pause. Between his gentle tone and the open-handed gesture, it's pretty clear what answer he's fishing for. What reassurance he's trying to offer. And... suddenly, the pieces click. ]

... Sometimes I almost forget you're a priest. [ He says it with fondness, though. ]

You already know what I'm going to say, of course they don't cancel out. They exist alongside each other, they're both part of who I am. But I still made those choices, Carlisle. It's not as if I didn't know there would be consequences - if anything, the fact I didn't care to think them through makes it worse.

[ He looks Carlisle in the eye, gently shaking his head. He sees what you're doing, and he is not letting it go unchallenged. ]

I'm not any better than Tony. You can't condemn him and pardon me.

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle almost corrects him — cleric — but lets it pass for now. He allows Qubit to challenge him, is honestly happy for it, in a way. He's prepared to explain himself, to defend Qubit when he will not do it himself.]

Your decisions were not the same, Mister Qubit. He drove you to that point.

[superposition]

And that's supposed to absolve me? The classic excuse. "Look what you made me do." Tony didn't force me to do anything.

[ Except once. "Say it. I want to hear those words come out of your hypocritical mouth so bad." ]

The circumstances were dire, that's true, but - it doesn't make it all right. Especially when my decisions helped create those circumstances. I put myself in those situations, time and time again. My actions were my own.

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle remains firm in his position, though he attempts to reel in his professional tone.]

I said nothing of absolution. I said your decisions were not the same, and they weren't, as the motivations behind them are quite different. Such context is important when it comes to judgements, be they from others, or yourself. You do not deserve to bear the guilt of his sins as well as your own.

[So says the man who blames himself for both his father's death and his uncles' disappearance, but they're not talking about him right now.]

[superposition]

[ Qubit scowls, hands on his hips. Absolution, excuses, rationalization, whatever you want to call it - it just figures his friend would jump straight to that where he's concerned. ]

Oh, all right, so we'll just - divvy it up, shall we? Work out what percentage of sins I can waive responsibility for? Do we divide by context before or after subtracting human lives? Don't be absurd, it doesn't work that way.

[ That day at the Grand Canyon, when he stole Bette's shot - "She's finally free," Cary had said. "She no longer has to carry the guilt of six million dead. You do." But as usual, Cary was wrong. He used to shuffle blame around like a money-laundering scheme, assigning ownership of it to (predictably) anyone but himself. Concepts like good and evil, honor, love - they were all just transactions to him, and fully transferable.

Bette never stopped carrying that weight. She was never free. ]

[abheirrant]

Why not?

[He's impassive with that question, one possibly posed to make Qubit reflect upon his own reasoning as well as help Carlisle figure out said reasoning. Qubit focuses on the measurable, as usual, but as far as Carlisle is concerned, he seems determined to bear the brunt of more guilt that he ought to.

How familiar.]

[superposition]

Because it's not just about the numbers! We were never supposed to kill anyone, full stop!

[ This isn't working. He shouldn't let himself get riled up, he knows that, but - why does it have to be such an exercise in frustration? Why isn't Carlisle getting it? ]

[abheirrant]

And yet you did. You even had to kill the man who meant so much to you, in the end. You tried to help him time and time again — saving him from death, rescuing him from exile — and I assume he repaid your efforts and sacrifices by spitting in your face. I like to think that determination, however misguided it may have been, is one of your more admirable qualities.

[After all, Carlisle suspects it may be a part of the reason Qubit has stuck with him for so long, determined to help him in spite of the trouble he presents for Anchor. He sighs quietly, but his voice remains even.]

He chose to be a monster. You made monstrous decisions in the hopes he would choose otherwise. He sacrificed his principles to save himself, and you yours to save him. Only one of you seems to have felt genuine remorse. You are not of the same breed, and that matters, Mister Qubit.

[superposition]

[ He still doesn't get it. He doesn't understand the problem, and right now, Qubit's not sure how to explain it any better. He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. ]

Well. It's... kind of you to think so.

[ That's about as close to acceptance as you're going to get today, Carlisle, you should probably take it. He straightens up, gazing ahead of them down the path. They've come further out than he thought, but there's still a ways to go. He motions that way with his head, and if Carlisle's coming with, he'll resume walking. ]

... Sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. [ He'll work on that. ] Let me... cool my head a bit. Ask me something else.

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle will take what he can get as far as understanding goes, especially on a topic that is clearly too close to the heart. No one finds forgiveness within themselves overnight — even he hasn't managed to do so after death. They are ever works-in-progress.

However, that doesn't mean Carlisle is giving up on this matter, or on Qubit. His friend has clearly spent far longer focusing on the problems of others than on himself, swallowing this grief down time and time again, refusing to let it escape. It's a unique kind of suffering, a strangling, suffocating creature that infests in the back of one's mind; it colors their perception of not only the past, but the present and future, as well. It taints every decision, turning them into ones that must be considered and reconsidered over and over again, lest they bring to light one's mistakes, one's fatal flaws and unforgivable sins. If they ever did, they could be the end of them.

And they would deserve it, or so they believe: they see themselves as monsters, after all.

As Qubit gets moving, Carlisle follows along without hesitation. Apparently, not even all Qubit has revealed is enough to make Carlisle abandon him. He silently accepts Qubit's apology, deciding to steer clear of Tony for the moment.]

Tell me of your other friends. You said there were still two when you left?

[superposition]

[ Honestly, Qubit's astonished at how well Carlisle's taking this. Then again, maybe he shouldn't be. Carlisle's stood by him through thick and thin, even after the night Qubit came close to throttling him, and his reasoning now echoes what he said then. You apologized. You are clearly remorseful. ... Sometimes our true nature gets the better of us, no matter how much we may fight against it. Qubit may have very little faith in himself, but Carlisle's faith in him is as strong as ever.

And he does it because he cares. That's the truly astonishing part. Carlisle still cares that much about him, in spite of all the times Qubit's hurt him, manipulated him, withdrawn or withheld from him... despite seeing the ugly truth behind the professional facade, despite learning his most terrible secret... Carlisle is still there.

I can't function like this, Qubit told him that night. I need help. And that's... still true, now that he thinks of it. If Carlisle's willing to give him a chance, well... he'd be a fool to push him away.

They're kindred spirits, after all.

... Even so, he's glad to be switching topics, perking up just a bit. ]

That's right. Gilgamos and Kaidan.

[ He has more to say about Kaidan, so he starts with Gil, only remembering to bring up the hologram a few seconds in. Another muscular figure, this one bearded and sporting a pair of feathered wings. ]

Gil's an interesting one, actually. He's the closest thing to immortal I've ever encountered on Earth.

[abheirrant]

[Kaidan. Carlisle thinks he's heard that name before from Qubit, but can't place where. Thankfully, he might have time to figure it out, as Qubit is starting with the other one. He speaks easier already — putting some distance between himself and the heavier topic was clearly the right choice for the moment.

It's the wings that catch Carlisle's eyes first and foremost: a prominent, unusual feature even for someone from a magic-filled world like himself.]

An immortal? Was he a god of some sort?

[superposition]

No, no. He's been called a demigod, among many other things, but ... no.

[ He sounds quite confident of that, but it's to be expected. They may not have discussed comparative religions in any real depth, but on the occasions the topic has come up, Qubit's approached it with the same analytical eye he applies to practically everything. Even with amnesia, when he asked Carlisle about the Clarity's beliefs, his interest was clearly more practical than spiritual. ]

You know how I said instances of the supernatural used to pass into myth? Well, Gilgamos is a textbook example. In fact, he's the subject of the oldest surviving work of literature on the planet.

[abheirrant]

He's that old, considered by some to be a demigod, and yet he chooses to mingle with mortals. Is his devotion to the living that strong? Or does he simply have nothing better to do?

[Because the very thought is inconceivable by the standards of the demigods from his own world... well, save for maybe one notable exception in the god of the kitten-kind of Bear Den. Then again, Bear Den seems to be the birthplace of many exceptions to the norm, himself included.]

[superposition]

[ Qubit shrugs, mildly amused. ] You're not far off, actually, at least at the outset. He'd been living in seclusion for quite some time, I believe. But when he heard about the Paradigm, he said, it took him back to the good old days. Called it a "new Age of Heroes."

[ wryly - ] Of course, the first thing he did was challenge Plutonian to a fistfight. Gave him quite a run for his money, as I recall. But, having read The Epic of Gilgamesh, apparently that's just how the "heroes of old" make friends.

[ "Fighters are weird," said the mage. ]

[abheirrant]

Yes, there are a number of people who seem to prefer exchanging welts to words. Some consider it akin to courtship.

[Judging by his tone, Carlisle is not one of those people, but he likely knew someone who was.]

[superposition]

[ Snort. Wow, Carlisle isn't into getting beaten up? Surprise of the century right there. He shrugs casually. ]

Well, it takes all sorts, I suppose.

[ Far be it from him to kinkshame. Heck, he's been to a handful of planets where violence-as-foreplay was the standard. But then that tangent draws to mind a couple of people nearer to him who also equated violence with love, and...

Oof. Yeah, let's not go there. Qubit clears his throat. ]

Anyway, moving on. Now, Kaidan -

[ The hologram this time depicts a young woman, remarkably pretty in spite of the low resolution. Although she was in the portrait as well, she might be hard to recognize at first, having traded in the blue-and-white unitard for a puff jacket and miniskirt - not to mention her stark white hair. ]

Her power is over ghost stories. She can summon and command any spirit whose story she tells.

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle doesn't quite recognize Kaidan due to the considerable differences between her holographic appearance and that in the portrait, and thus studies the presented image just a bit longer than the rest, committing the details to memory. He's still trying to recall when he's heard Qubit mention her, but her power distracts him immediately.]

She- is she a lich of sorts?

[superposition]

What? Oh, no, no no no, she's quite alive.

[ Or at least she was when he left her. Carlisle's explained the concept of liches to him at some point - necromancers who sacrifice their souls in exchange for power, or something like that. Nothing at all like our Kaidan. ]

It's more - [ waving his hand in search of the right phrasing ] - I don't want to share too much behind her back, but it's nothing like that. It'd be more, ah... School of Evocation, I think you'd classify it. She doesn't raise the dead, just calls them from... wherever it is they go.

[abheirrant]

From wherever it is they go.

[That sound? That's the barest of chuckles coming from Carlisle, muted by his mask. Her power sounds too akin to necromancy for his comfort, but comparing it to evocation helps.]

You're usually so adamant about how such abilities work. Do you not know where they come from, or are you simply not telling me?

[superposition]

[ Qubit rolls his eyes. ] Fine, fine. I don't know exactly. I mean, there is a physical place she's drawing them from - in fact, she'd recently worked out how to go there - but as to whether that place is the afterlife, or an afterlife, or something else altogether - that, I don't know.

[ Not that he had time to look into it, what with averting the apocalypse and all. But that's not the only reason. ]

... And frankly, it's a can of worms even I'm reluctant to open.

[abheirrant]

[Carlisle's brow knits. While the concept of an 'afterlife' is relatively foreign to him, he gets the basic idea: it would be as though she were pulling souls directly from his goddess' maw to use as weapons, traveling through a divine realm the likes of which no mortal should ever witness.

Or, perhaps, like jaunting through the Land Beyond Living. Either way, it's a horrific concept, now that he lingers on it.]

I do not blame you, for then you would have to ask if she is the only one able to access that plane, to summon those who dwell there. And what limits would there be to such a gift? Could she draw anyone from there, so long as she could tell their story? Are they aware of what has happened to them? And if so, what do they think of their spirits being used in such a way, treated as tools rather than the people they used to be?

[superposition]

[ Although he has the answers to some of those questions, Qubit lets them stay rhetorical for now, merely nodding in acknowledgement. ]

And that's not even to mention the theological implications. But then...

[ He frowns, dissatisfied. This isn't quite the direction he wanted to take. Maybe he shouldn't have led with her powers, if he wants to leave Carlisle with a positive impression of her. ]

... I think she sees it as a way to honor the dead, not exploit them. To keep their memory alive. Whatever the case, the important thing to me is that she's at peace with it. She's always preferred to focus on what she can do for the living.

[ There's unmistakable fondness in his tone, but it's not the same as the fondness he showed for Tony. It lacks the same undercurrent of guilt, for a start. ]