redshiftlogs | Farm Livin' [open]

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original: carlisle longinmouth

Farm Livin' [open]

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!]

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I suspect she flattens herself out somehow and squeezes through the window. I have yet to get it closed all the way.

[He meanders over to his makeshift home and pushes the door open. The quietest cluck comes from beneath the bed, behind the stacks of pots he keeps under there.]

I regret raising the bed and giving her a better place to hide. She's as bad as any kitten.

[He sighs in mock weariness, leaving the door open for Qubit as he makes his way to the worktable to prepare their tea.]

Tch. It's still sticking? I thought we took care of that.

[ Qubit shuts the door behind him as he follows, making sure it latches, and kneels by the bed to peer underneath. Sure enough, as his eyes adjust, he can make out Walaric's outline and the bobbing of her head. ]

There you are. Come on out, you.

[ He reaches for her at a pace he thinks is slow enough. But Walaric disagrees, if the drawn-out warning cry is any indication, and a second later Qubit flinches - ] Ow! [ - as she makes her argument via peck. ]

[Carlisle shakes his head, collecting their respective mugs. He's trying not to smile as he watches Qubit trying to coax out Walaric.]

As I've said before, no matter the size or how unassuming the appearance, a bird is a bird. And they're all dangerous.

[He conjures water and drops it into the electric kettle, futzing with the knob to turn it on. It doesn't hum as pleasantly as the lamp Qubit made for him, but it's still an interesting device he's been learning how to use, despite how much its very nature intimidates him.]

The kitten-kind were like that, you know. People thought, based on their small stature and ah, endearing appearance that they were relatively harmless. But few kinds were as ferociously clever as the kitten-kind near my home. They had to be.

That'll be the dinosaur in them. [ - he mutters to himself. He makes a couple more attempts to grab the chicken, but all he gets for his trouble is an earful and several more pecks, and he finally withdraws. They'll have to get her out eventually, but for the moment she isn't bothering anyone, so as long as Carlisle doesn't mind, he can let her be. He shakes his hand out - at least she didn't draw blood this time - and gets to his feet, then shrugs off his coat and hangs it up next to Carlisle's (still ridiculous) fluffy bathrobe. ]

Right, you said they used to be hunted, didn't you? Before your family started protecting them.

[ Which is pretty fucked up! They stand upright, wear clothes, and speak - how could anyone possibly mistake the kind for ordinary animals? ]

[Please, never explain dinosaurs to him, Qubit. Carlisle's brow tightens just a hair.]

They were. For the kind near Bear Den, it was more that they didn't get along with those moving into the valley. They kept to their forest, blessed as it was by their deity, and the people to the town they had built. Our estate was nearly between the two. Other kinds beyond the mountains were not so lucky.

[He chooses a tea from his wall of bottles — not paw plant, but something more traditional, perhaps with a slight kick to fight away the morning chill — and continues, his voice even, impassive.]

The pelts of Forest Folk sold well when they could be harvested. Their parts were rare, their resources rarer still, and many viewed them as more akin to animals than people.

Edited 2021-03-17 09:45 (UTC)

[ Qubit frowns and shakes his head. Icily - ] Deplorable.

[ Boy, they jumped right back into a heavy topic, didn't they? Not much they can do about it from here, unfortunately. But at least the kitten-kind had Carlisle there to look after them, while he was alive. They'd be hard-pressed to find another patron so attentive or devoted.

... While he was alive. What about after his death? Was the blessing of their god enough to protect them from the Blight Heir? He is absolutely not going to voice that thought, of course - no doubt it's already been weighing on Carlisle's mind.

Qubit doesn't take a seat just yet, but wanders the tiny house, looking over the clutter with fresh eyes. It feels somehow different from a few days ago, though he can't put his finger on how. Maybe it's just that he's different. ]

... Their forest. [ - he adds, recalling something from a prior conversation. ] How is that accessed again? Some kind of ... magical gateway?

[The fate of the kind so near and dear to him is a dark subject, and one Carlisle has considered several times, despite his best efforts to do otherwise. Following the disappearance of his uncles, they had been the closest thing to a family he had. He'd occasionally see them in the trees near his home, watching from afar, darting out of sight when he looked their way. While he'd felt annoyed at the time that they thought him in need of baby-sitting (he suspected Uncle Benistad had something to do with that), he came to realize they were just trying to protect him in their own way. They were as invested in his safety as he was in theirs.

They seemed to know his end was nearing in his final month of life, each of them demanding attention before he left their village for what would unfortunately be the last time. Were they safe? Or was their forest as withered and decayed as the trees of Bear Den? He couldn't know — he doesn't want to know. His heart couldn't bear it.

Carlisle seems grateful for the subject change, his tone suitably warmer as he answers.]

The forest itself was imbued with magic, but one simply walked through it to reach their village. The enchantments made the trees seem to move and change the moment you took your eyes off them, but there were signs of where to go, if you knew what you were looking for. It was the resting place of their deity, Ul Bereth, that was beyond a gateway, or so they say.

Edited 2021-03-17 22:26 (UTC)

Ah, right, right. So that isn't one you've been through, then.

[ Not disappointed, just getting confirmation. ]

The gateway?

[He shakes his head as he prepares the mugs; the kettle pops as it heats up.]

No no, no one has. Frankly, I'm not sure of the validity of the old tales about Ul Bereth, myself.

Really. [ It's a question, but with downward inflection. That's mildly surprising, actually - not that he'd call Carlisle a credulous sort per se, but he certainly doesn't view the world with the the same reflexive skepticism as Qubit. ] Not sure he's real, or...?

[Carlisle shakes his head again, returning the bottles of leaves to the shelf.]

Oh no, I'm quite certain they're real. There are records of Ul Bereth having met with the people of Bear Den, particularly in the early days of the town. Ul Bereth certainly existed. It's just...

[His hands still on the countertop near the kettle, his eyes resting on it as he ponders.]

I have a difficult time imagining beings such as deities — even minor ones — mingling with the rabble beneath them.

[ Qubit pauses a moment, watching Carlisle's hands, then his face. What he's left unsaid comes through loud and clear. Carlisle's often spoken of his goddess's aloofness, a long silence that his religion has chosen to interpret (perhaps charitably) as slumber. Even after devoting most of his life to her, he has no way of knowing whether she's heard a word he said.

Once again, Qubit finds himself struck by mutually exclusive impulses. (It catches him off guard - but no, of course that's still a thing, did he really expect it to vanish after a single moment of clarity?) On the one hand, he'd like to commiserate, but on the other...

Religion is a forbidden topic for the same reason family is - because the mere act of confirming or denying he has one could be enough to put innocent people in mortal danger. Conveniently, everyone sort of defaults to assuming he's an atheist, which he will also neither confirm nor deny.

It's unfortunate - another subject close to Carlisle's heart that Qubit can't share with him. In the end, he settles on a compromise. ]

... I know the feeling.

[ That's all he has to say on that, and he pivots back to his original topic without waiting for a response. ]

It's interesting, though. Extradimensional travel via magic. I didn't make the connection at first, [ since, you know, he'd forgotten all his quantum physics, ] but that gateway isn't the first example you've mentioned to me, is it?

[Qubit's avoidance does not go unnoticed, but Carlisle lets it slide. There will always be some secrets between them, he's sure, and though he'd love to hear Qubit's take on a theological discussion spanning multiple worlds, it's clear he either won't or can't talk about it. As a man who has rarely had the privilege of privacy, Carlisle tries to respect Qubit and his superhero business, no matter how frustrating he may find them.

At least there are other, equally interesting topics at hand.]

Perhaps not. Planeswalking is not entirely unheard of in my world, though there are few who would risk attempting it. That's a part of what makes Ul Bereth's supposed predicament so strange.

[ Planeswalking, huh? He makes a mental note of the term. Based on his own experience, though, he's not surprised to hear it's uncommon. The mere process of developing teleportals can be extremely dangerous, with a lot that can go wrong even if you manage not to cut yourself in half - and that's to say nothing of the hazards you'll encounter at your destination.

(Granted, for a solo explorer, that's arguably half the fun.) ]

Strange? How so? [ He finally pulls up a chair and takes a seat. ] Your family tree's full of one-in-a-generation mages, if memory serves.

Right, but none of them foolhardy enough to attempt planeswalking.

[Carlisle says that as though it's absurd, though Qubit is right in that his bloodline is littered with magicians who, even on their worst days, were of a caliber most people would never achieve, not even if they spent their entire lives honing their craft. If anyone would attempt planeswalking, it ought to be a Longinmouth, right?

He turns back to the kettle and stares at it as though it'd hold some answers for him rather than just water.]

And if they did attempt it, surely there would be records of such an event. It would be written down, a story told to each generation. Such a feat would not be merely lost to time.

[And yet, if his tone says anything, it's that he suspects it might have been.]

[ Qubit picks up on that implication right away. ]

... Unless someone wanted it to be.

[Carlisle snorts at the very idea, despite that he's the one who made the implication.]

Preposterous. Why would we hide such knowledge from ourselves? And what reason would we have to experiment with such a dangerous art in the first place? Even if Ul Bereth were truly sealed away in the Glen, surely no one thought to risk their very lives just to find out.

[ Qubit shrugs. ] I can't speak to that. They might have had any number of reasons.

[ Not that he can't think of any - he is kind of an expert on keeping things quiet, after all. He can think of enough possibilities, just off the top of his head, that it'd be tough to whittle them down without more information. As it stands, it's functionally little more than a thought experiment. ]

Could be they simply wanted to spare their children the temptation.

The Longinmouths would not have the legacy we do were we to easily cave to temptation, Mister Qubit.

[The kettle hisses; he continues with the tea preparations.]

Regardless, the oddity of Ul Bereth's situation is that the kitten-kind were the ones to seal away their own deity.

[ Okay, citation needed. He's sure the family encouraged some temptations. Like, you know, the temptations of wanderlust, discovery, fame, fortune...

But that's beside the point. Qubit's about to ask "how so" when he makes a connection he'd previously missed. ]

... The kind can't do magic.

[Carlisle hms softly in agreement.]

No, no they cannot. None of them can. The Forest Folk as a whole have no tether to magic that allows them to cast in any way. Kinds are largely distrustful of magic on principle. The kitten-kind near Bear Den were more often an exception to the rule, given their odd choice in patron deity, their enchanted forest, their connection to my family... but never did I see them perform magic in any way. As I've said, they needed me as a healer for that reason.

[ Qubit presses a hand to his chin, resting his elbow on the table. ] Which means they couldn't possibly have done it themselves. They'd have needed outside help. [ He pauses to consider a few alternate scenarios, but none is as plausible as the obvious, and after a moment he shrugs. ]

Well, if I were them, I'd start by asking the family of magicians in my backyard.

[Carlisle glances Qubit's way.]

You're suggesting that we had a hand opening a rift between the planes and sealing away a demigod.

I'm saying it's plausible. If you didn't, who did?

I don't know, but—

[He shifts in place, clearly uncomfortable with the very idea.]

Bargaining with a god is not something simply lost to time. Certainly not with my family.

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