Carlisle Longinmouth ❧ ɹᴉǝH ʇɥƃᴉlq ǝɥʇ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
abheirrant) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
redshiftlogs2020-07-06 11:23 pm
abheirrant) wrote in redshiftlogs2020-07-06 11:23 pm
Entry tags:
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!]
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!]
no subject
I hope so.
[ He rests his hands on the table, fingers loosely interlaced, observing a dark knot in the wood without interest. It's a moment before he elaborates, his voice subdued. ]
I'm not proud of it, but there was a time when I was... profoundly disillusioned with the human race. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was wickedness. Hatred, cruelty, shortsightedness and greed... A species doomed by its own hubris, competing to see who could destroy the world most efficiently. And as far as I was concerned... [ a halfhearted shrug ] if humankind was so eager to go extinct, who was I to stop them.
[ He pauses, then adds a quick clarification. ] This was, ah, many years ago, of course.
no subject
And yet, he'd still tried. Their ideals still existed even once they were gone, after all.]
What was it that changed your mind?
no subject
The first was perspective. Once I'd perfected my teleportals, I set out to explore the universe. And in my travels, I encountered multitudes of alien lifeforms - some so bizarre that they stretched the boundaries of the word "life."
But before long, I realized - they're not so different from you and me, not really. Humankind is not unique in the cosmos. Neither in its humanity, nor its inhumanity. That... humbled me, somewhat. [ And he still came out of it pretty damn arrogant, which tells you something about how insufferable he was before. ]
... The second was Tony. [ As you might have guessed. ] Not just his incredible feats, or even his apparently limitless capacity for altruism, but ...
Before we actually met, I'd sometimes follow behind him - help out with the post-rescue cleanup, follow up with the people he'd saved, that sort of thing. [ Ironically, he hadn't done much travel on Earth prior to that, so that was itself an important learning experience - but that's beside the point. ] And I discovered that, everywhere he went, there was something he left behind. Something small and unassuming, yet indescribably powerful...
[ He pauses for dramatic effect, then, in a tone that approaches reverence, gives it its name. ]
Hope.
no subject
To be let down by one's heroes is its own brand of suffering. Carlisle knows that well enough. What's unexpected is what Tony left behind — something he himself seemed to abandon. Hope is an immeasurably strong force, one seemingly able to change the world all on its lonesome. Carlisle's entire life has been hinged on the hope he held: hope that his goddess would forgive him for accursed existence, hope his uncles would return after their long absence, hope he could live up to his family name despite every aspect of his life that said otherwise. Even now, there is an element of hope in his unlife — the hope that he can someday, somehow make amends for what happened to his home.
It is that hope — and the guilt, of course — that keeps him moving, even more than the magic that animates him. He wonders just how much of it motivates Qubit, too.
For a moment, he believes he understands why Qubit was so drawn to Tony: what he left in his wake was much the same as his uncles. That's what the Longinmouths offered to people — not just protection or guidance, but the hope for something better, for a brighter future. They changed the world wherever they went in ways both big and small, grand and personal.]
Do you believe that will remain, after what happened? After what he did?
no subject
Well. Therein lies the question, doesn't it?
[ The same question, in fact, that he himself posed minutes ago, albeit with a different coat of paint. What do humans do when the social contract breaks down? When their institutions disintegrate, and their heroes betray them? They help others, or they help themselves. So, which will win out? ]
You see, that's the true power we as superheroes have. Not flight, or x-ray vision, or technokinesis, but the power to inspire. Back then, the Plutonian, the symbol of him, embodied everything good in human nature - but even more extraordinary was how he brought out the best in everyone around him. He was living proof that the impossible was possible, that it was worth it to strive for something better.
That's what really drew me in. Not a desire to be with him, or to be him - but I wanted to be like him, to have the same effect on others that he'd had on me. Because when that hope spreads far enough, when it rouses the hopeful to action... there's no force on Earth more potent. I still believe that.
[ The firmness in his voice brooks no debate on that point; whether it's out of conviction or stubbornness shall be left to the listener.
But he hasn't really answered Carlisle's question yet, he's aware of that. The unspoken counterpoint hangs thickly in the air. He rests his face against interlaced fingers a moment, somber, before addressing it. ]
... But that influence is a double-edged sword. Tony didn't lose that when he turned - the only difference was what he inspired.
no subject
He instead inspired fear, and all the ugliness that comes with it.
[He's well-versed in that himself. He saw it often in his confessional, where the vulnerable would admit to him why they turned down a dark path. It was often fear that drove them: the fear of poverty, of insignificance, of destitution, of death. That fear applied to him, as well: as respected as his family name was, just knowing he was cursed was enough to cause people to look at him differently, despite all his bloodline had done. There was the fear of the affliction, of what it was said to do and all the superstitions surrounding it. Bitter as he was in life, he's not sure he can entirely blame them. He's almost certain he'd have been just as judgmental were he not the one afflicted.
There are times he wonders who he'd be if he weren't cursed. Would he be a better man? Or at least not the aberration he is now?]
And what was it he inspired in you, after he turned? Other than the desperation that you could help save him from the consequences of his own actions.
no subject
no subject
Yes, consequences. Surely he didn't believe that the hope and respect he'd once garnered would remain untarnished, or that no one would rise to stand against a tyrant. Even if he did, by some miracle, come to his senses, there would be the guilt of what he'd done, the shame and distrust that would follow him for the rest of his existence. Consequences.
no subject
I'm familiar with the concept, Carlisle. That's not - he'd committed crimes against humanity, for God's sake, of course he'd have to answer for them. I never wanted to let him off the hook.
[ Like, seriously, man, come on. He's honestly a little offended you'd think that of him? ]
no subject
I did not mean his crimes would go wholly unpunished. But were you not trying to mitigate what damage he'd caused himself and those around him, then why did you try so hard to save him?
no subject
[ He pauses a moment, finding the right words. ]
... The thing to understand here is that ... the Paradigm was more than a team. It stood for something greater than itself. If Ton- the Plutonian was human nature at its best individually, the Paradigm was its best collectively. That's what we promised the world at our founding - that we'd hold ourselves to the highest moral standards. That people could trust us. Tony had to be stopped, yes, and the sooner the better, but -
[ Here his resolve starts to flag, conflict sneaking back into his features. ]
- my thought was - it was just as important not to renege on that promise. We had to stop him without resorting to murder. Otherwise, what was the point of us?
no subject
How do you stop a wrathful god? [Yes, he knows Tony wasn't a god, but with the phenomenal powers he had and the scale of destruction he caused, he might as well have been. He holds up a hand, hoping to preemptively halt any protest Qubit might have for that turn of the phrase, and keeps going.] At what point is your hesitance an equal danger to those still alive? When are your principles more important than the living who may yet be saved?
[His eyes squeeze shut for a moment as he contemplates those words himself; neither he, nor his bloodline, is a stranger to such moral quandaries. The fact he's even here, animated and wandering Anchor freely, is an absolute conflict with his own principles on every level, and Qubit knows it.]
While I argue that everyone has a right to exist, I also believe that there are those who forfeit that right. Sometimes, the greater good requires sacrifice... for better or for worse. Unfortunately, there are times it comes at the cost of a good person, or the life of a hero. Or one who was once both, in this terrible case.
[Ah, there's that sympathetic gentleness he usually has — particularly for Qubit — creeping back in.]
No choice you made would have been fully just.
[And therein lies the answer to Carlisle's question, he supposes inwardly: what Tony inspired in Qubit after he turned was doubt in his own actions, and an overwhelming feeling of responsibility for those around him, those looking to the Paradigm for salvation. He inspired guilt so heavy that it weighs Qubit down even now, makes him feel as though he, too, is a monster for doing what he felt he had to do. He was trying to save lives, the Paradigm, and Tony all at once — and there was simply no way to accomplish such an impossible task.]
no subject
How do you stop an unstoppable force? Desperate times call for desperate measures, but how desperate? How much should you be willing to sacrifice? At what point do you have to cut your losses and solve that cold equation? How many innocent lives are "too many"?
One, he thinks automatically. Even one is too many.
Carlisle seems to understand the thorny situation he was in, at least. The tradeoffs, the impossible trolley problems. Qubit's always loathed trolley problems, naturally - they're false dichotomies, no room for nuance, no allowance for third options. He'd always liked to point out (to the asker's universal annoyance) that a clever operator could derail the trolley without even leaving the switch.
Anyway, in reality, the decision was never so clearly defined. Even if you truly had only one option, you could never be sure how many people were tied up down either track. And whether or not you pull the proverbial switch, just by being there, you're partly responsible for any deaths that occur. It might be fewer deaths, overall, but what does that matter to the victims' loved ones? Does it make you any less culpable?
It's kind of Carlisle to try and be gentle about it, but his logic still doesn't sit right. Well-intentioned or no, it's not the first time he's heard this argument, either. ]
... I can't accept that.
[ To clarify, though - ] You're probably correct. It was a complex situation, too many factors I had no control over. I tried to make the best decisions I could with the information I had, but there was no way to save everyone. I know that.
[ You can rarely save everyone. That's just an unpleasant reality of working as a first responder, one he had to come to terms with long before any of this. It's not the point at issue here. ]
What I can't accept is... "sacrifice for the greater good." Who defines the "greater good"? How great a "sacrifice" is acceptable? One for a hundred? A million for one? What about three billion for four billion, would that be worth it? Once you start playing the numbers game, where does it stop?
[ He throws his hands up and sighs, then shakes his head and leans forward again, resting his forehead against his fingers. ]
If you're smart, you don't get into that kind of situation in the first place.
no subject
[Carlisle has said before that Qubit is the smartest man he knows, and he absolutely means it every time; however, that doesn't mean that the technomancer is able to outsmart misfortune, or even the inevitable, terrible end of someone like Tony.
Seemingly realizing how judgmental that sounded, he reins it in.]
That's not to say that what happened is your fault in any way, as though with all your intellect, you ought have divined the future. You cannot avoid every tragedy, no matter how prepared you are. Some situations cannot be foreseen no matter our preparation, and must be dealt with when presented to us.
[But that's veering dangerously close to talking about his own woes again, and he'd rather not continue to do that. Qubit is well aware of them already.]
no subject
No, I'm aware of that. What's the expression? "No plan survives contact with the enemy."
[ Honestly, Qubit's not a big planner to begin with. Preparing for every conceivable permutation of events is a waste of time and resources; it's more efficient to make general plans for a handful of the most likely scenarios, and leave the rest to improvisation, which he's better at anyway. ]
But how you respond in the moment is critical. Every time you commit to a course of action, you change the kind of responses you'll have available in future.
When you're a force for good, for justice, people respond to you one way - they trust you, cooperate, make resources available to you. But the moment you start performing summary executions, you can kiss all of that goodbye. Once we let ourselves become killers, the Paradigm would be nothing more than a gang of dangerous vigilantes. A glorified lynch mob.
[ It's clear he and Carlisle disagree on the morality of taking one life to save others, but that wasn't the only reason the Paradigm was so strictly against it. ]