inbox; deerington

[danzan]

un: wolverine history t @ hs, lit prof @ college, volunteer @ S.T.R.A.N.G.E. living at 2008 howard hill, dunwich hollow more info + plots here ( TXT AUTO-REPLY ) This Fluid is in DO NOT DISTURB mode. If you would like your message to appear as a notification, send "URGENT". ( VOICEMAIL MSG ) "It's Logan. You know what to do."

[ text | call | video | action | etc. ]

Comments

cw mentions of violence as is the medieval way

[thenovice]

[It's a strange thing — memories. Even just a month before now, he had only remembered them sparingly from time to time, and almost always fondly. If something terrible happened to his family when he was a toddler, he'd never recollect it, and there are blissfully limited times he'd been terrified. When he had a fever, once, in childhood. When he found the half-dead mute. When he saw riders in the distance, and panicked to his brothers; all for nothing, as those men on horseback were kind men in the end.

Now, memories are sometimes like snakes. They strike so hard and fast, he'd believe his heart was stopped by it. A snowball, entirely innocent, paints his vision with the sounds of rock hitting skull and men collapsing to their knees, cradling faces and hair smeared in blood. And from a snowball! He should feel foolish, but in the moment, he only feels like he must duck low and protect himself, lest he be struck across the face or pierced in the lung by some flying arrow looking for a mortal resting place.

There's certainly a strangled yelp of surprise at both the snowball and the man tugging him down behind the wall; once Logan glances at the boy, he might find him to look a little pale and startled, staring over with wide eyes. He doesn't mean to look afraid, but it is an instinctive punch of adrenaline and panic that crashes into him like a wave. He gulps and tries to swallow it down — because it's just snow, it's not arrows or slung rocks, just snow, just snow—

He peers nervously over the lip like a soldier in a trench, one hand clamoring for the edge of the terribly cold snow. It grounds him a little more; it's just snow. Snow! Harmless snow from fairies who are not demons in disguise. He feels another swell of sickness in his stomach at the thought. He looks to the trees. Like the Hollows, he'd never see them coming.

(Nobody is coming, Diarmuid, this is just a game; are you a halfwit?)
(This is foolish. Nobody is giving chase. Nobody is coming after you.)
(There is no reliquary here, just a gruff, strange man and his fairy friends.)]

Are you sure? Are you sure they will not harm us?

i feel so bad always sending potatoes in reply to your poetry

[danzan]

[ God, nothing is more pungent than the scent of fear. And Diarmuid reeks of it suddenly-- had started like a small tickle in his nose he thought was just the initial reaction of surprise and graduated to a full on stench. Logan's nose crinkles with it; the animal says this meat will not be very good.

Still, it's the man who turns to look back at him with hands curled gently around a cold snowball, concern evident on his face. ]

The faeries don't wanna hurt you. [ The giggling that comes from their side of the small battlefield is prevalent, but not malicious. They sound more like children in their excitement-- pure-hearted, only really wanting a harmless game with the visitors that've come. Logan tosses the snowball up and down in his palm a bit, then puts it in Diarmuid's hand.

It's cold. Rounded perfectly, though. ]

This is snow, not ice. It's soft, see? [ He smiles slightly, head tilting as he tries to catch Diarmuid's gaze. It's an attempt at being comforting, to seem more approachable than he looks.

But he pats Diarmuid on the shoulder. ] If you don't wanna play, all you gotta do is tell 'em. They're good kids. Like you.

i mean the irish loved their potatoes, hush you

[thenovice]

... I... No. No, you're right. They're just playing a game.

I —

[His eyes still linger on the trees afar, as if something will prove him wrong in this moment — but then he sits with the snowball in hand and feels like a fool. He clears his throat, looks like he's at odds with himself — he absolutely is — and he swallows a lump in his throat that threatens to suffocate him.

He closes his eyes, breathes in to calm his heart as Logan speaks, and then he wrinkles his nose.

Indignantly:]

I know what snow is!

[Which is spoken just before he takes the snowball and smashes it into the back of Logan's jacket collar, sending frigid lumps all down the back of the man's shirt; the little and somewhat mischievous smile comes a beat after, as if he's relieved that he's capable of smiling at all in the moment.

Time to scamper to safety.]

end thread maybe? o:

[danzan]

[ The sudden burst of cold against his skin makes Logan flinch up, hands moving quickly towards his back in an attempt to shake the snow off. ] Ah, fuck--! [ So that's how the kid wants to play it? Is that it?

Logan sheds the jacket off entirely, dropping it to the snow with a soft thump, and lets out a low growl. It's not menacing in the least, though, sounding more playful than anything, and with Diarmuid running away, he gives chase right after him. ]

C'mere, you monkey brat!

[ The faeries, appalled at this apparently mutiny, stare at the big man chasing the little flurry of robes for a grand total of two seconds. Then they giggle and give chase, too, their wings fluttering prettily under the sun. ]