redshiftlogs | Farm Livin' [open]

Entry tags:

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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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.

[ Now, Qubit could keep playing devil's advocate here, but Carlisle's obvious discomfort makes him reconsider. It's not like there's any need to convince him; anyway, it's only speculation, and could be completely wrong. What's more interesting to him is how Carlisle feels about the subject. ]

... Does it bother you?

[ I mean it's pretty clear it does, but he's still trying to avoid putting words in Carlisle's mouth. ]

[Carlisle sighs softly behind his mask, his brow tight.]

It does.

[Leaving the tea to steep, he turns to Qubit fully.]

Deities — those of my world, at least — are complicated beings, Mister Qubit. One does not simply tear open a rift between the planes of existence and seal one away, not even a demigod like Ul Bereth. That would take- take phenomenal power, and if it didn't kill the caster outright or rend their essence in twain, there would be consequences, surely. It- it would likely take something akin to a pact with such a being to accomplish, but—

[He shakes his head. There's no other logical answer, and he knows it. He's known it for some time, and simply refused to accept it.]

A pact? [ Qubit leans forward, tenting his fingers. He feels like he should understand by now, if he just had a bit more context. ]

I'm not sure I follow. What would that entail, exactly?

I don't- [He shakes his head.] I don't know, exactly. Pacts are ancient magic, spoken of only in myths and folklore. Some said Pendlebrook Brimstone once made a pact with one of the wild gods, but he was a legend of a man himself, not- not...

[He peters out, unable to vocalize his tangled thoughts. He takes a deep breath and tries again.]

The Longinmouths were powerful, but our bloodline was mortal. Painfully so. We could not do the impossible, but to say we were not capable of more than those around us would be disingenuous. Did our bloodline's gifts come from the Clarity? From ourselves? Or were they given to us in a secret lost even to our own?

[A beat. He collects the mugs and moves them to the table, his eyes on them rather than on Qubit.]

I have one goddess to whom I make my eternal atonement, and I know not if she even sees my efforts. I ill need another deity to have ignored my plight, selfish as that may sound.

Ah. [ So that's it. Qubit pulls his mug over and nods, sympathetic. Carlisle has a long list of reasons for his dislike of the idea, but there is one common thread that runs through them all. ]

So it's not the feat itself, it's the questions it would raise.

[ Not small questions, either. It would call into doubt some foundational truths about the Longinmouths - their origins, their powers, their purpose. Things that Carlisle's known from childhood, around which he's shaped the very core of his identity. Moreover, though, it paves the way for a Pandora's box of further questions. If his family could bury the truth about something this consequential, what other secrets might still be lying hidden? ]

I see what you mean. If your ancestors did go and pledge you to a pagan god before you were born, they at least could have left a note.

[Carlisle nods, setting his own mug before him as though he would drink it.]

When would it have happened? When the town met with Ul Bereth, or much later? And what would the terms of their pact be? Was there an end to it, or do we serve them still?

[All hypotheticals, all exhausting to think about. Such questions make his stomach churn.]

In the years before his disappearance, Uncle Benistad became... obsessed with the gateway. It was a curiosity for him at first, or so we believed. He took measurements, notes for his journal — nothing too troubling. Then, he'd lock himself in his office for hours at a time with some of the journals of our family, dusty tomes of personal records and musings from two, three generations prior. He started experimenting with his own energies and how they interacted with the old stones that framed the gateway, pouring his magic into the worn glyphs in the hopes something would happen, anything. Uncle Boris and I didn't know what to make of it, but whenever we asked, he insisted it was just his latest hobby. Magical theory was nothing new to him, and such a puzzle was perfectly aligned with his usual interests.

[Carlisle's hands wrap around the mug, his expression hardening.]

And now, I wonder just what it was he was doing out there with that gateway, and why. Did he hope to release Ul Bereth for the kind? Or was he put to the task by Ul Bereth themself?

Edited 2021-04-19 06:33 (UTC)

[ Qubit doesn't answer.

More to the point, he doesn't have an answer. He doesn't know the facts of the situation. Most likely, Benistad had only the best of intentions - but as he never knew the man personally, any effort to reassure Carlisle of that would feel disingenuous.

Anyway, we all know what good intentions are worth.

He tries the tea. Probably should have let it cool a bit longer, but it's fine. ]

[Yes, this is fine. Carlisle's eyes remain on his mug for a moment longer, his mind making its way down every possible road of questioning, turning over every rock in the hopes of finding an answer he hadn't yet considered. Failing that, he pushes one last sigh out of himself, rubbing at his temple.]

I suppose there is not sense in vexing myself over it now. I am worlds away, my bloodline is gone, and the last Longinmouth left is hardly one at all.

[ At that, Qubit lets out a sigh. ] It's not a contest.

[ Look, Carlisle, he's not going to tell you how to feel, but he does wish you wouldn't keep calling yourself "the least," or "the failure," or any of the other thousand synonyms you have for it. Language shapes our ideas, after all. He doesn't want to harangue him about it right now, though, so he goes on without waiting for a response. ]

But, family shapes who we become. Their choices do affect you, for better or worse, so you're not wrong to wonder. I just... wish I had more to offer than speculation.

[ He almost takes another sip, but lowers the mug as an afterthought occurs to him. ]

I do appreciate you telling me, though. I may not have all the answers, but I am always willing to listen.

[Perhaps Carlisle will one day unlearn those bad habits, including that constant need to debase himself. He did it while he was alive as well, long before he saw himself as a creature, as the very antithesis of all he stood for. It might take him years before he naturally starts to do otherwise; at least he has all the time in the world for it, given the nature of his existence.

For now, he smiles, his mask subtly moving with his expression. Qubit admitting he doesn't have all the answers is still unfamiliar, but he's willing to listen, to try to understand and empathize. He's a slightly different Qubit now from when they first met, that's for certain, but a good man nonetheless.]

Of course, of course. Perhaps one day, I will have more to talk about than my family, but you are right. I would not be who I am without them — [he nods toward Qubit as he repeats his words] — for better and for worse. But simply having someone who will listen to you is... an immeasurable comfort, and one I've rarely had in life. Thank you.

Edited 2021-04-21 05:03 (UTC)

[ It's always subtle when Carlisle smiles. Over time, Qubit's learned to recognize it - the crinkling of his eyes, the slight leftward shift of his mask. He smiles back, feeling some of that strange warmth return to him. Come to think of it, he's probably seen more of that expression in the last six weeks than he did all the months prior combined... but he decides to take that as a challenge. Let's keep that rate on the increase, shall we? ]

Anytime. [ To clarify, he adds - ] And I do mean any time, day or night. You shouldn't have to face these things alone, either.

[ It's only fair, but not only out of fairness. He just cares too much for Carlisle to let him suffer in isolation.

That said, however, this feels like a good time to segue into a different topic. He lets the sentiment steep for a few seconds, enough for a long sip of his tea, before moving on. ]

I admit, though, I'd be curious to find out how it works myself. The gate, I mean, that's why I brought it up. Teleportation's a longtime interest of mine, it's where my real expertise lies.

[Touched as he is by Qubit's insistence that Carlisle call on him at any time, day or night, he's likely to never do that. Qubit needs his sleep. He'd better be getting his sleep. He follows up on his work, instead.]

Right, I believe you mentioned that.

[So he's not a planeswalker — Qubit wouldn't call it something else if he didn't feel there was a need for such a discrepancy, much like with Psionics and magic.]

What does that entail, exactly? Aside from moving from one place to another — teleportation as I know it.

Edited 2021-04-23 03:51 (UTC)

[ Qubit sits back and rubs his chin, thinking. Comparing his teleportals to the magic available in Carlisle's world is a bit like apples and oranges. As Carlisle's explained it to him, teleportation is a form of Evocation, only it attempts to draw a specific object from a specific place, as opposed to pulling a type of object from the ether (with Evocation much better suited to the latter). Qubit's portals, on the other hand... ]

... It's hard to put into layman's terms. Or even the terms of modern quantum mechanics. [ Suffice to say, there is a lot of very difficult physics involved, even if he stays well clear of the technical specs. ]

So this is a gross oversimplification, but - teleportation is, in effect, achieved by forcing two discontiguous regions of spacetime to coincide. That is, to exist in two different reference frames simultaneously.

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