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@oz-oneil
What would you say to your younger self?
Don't kill Sam and Patty. They get you caught. Don't worry, you'll find River again. It doesn't get any better, but it does get easier. You just have to grow into being an Entity. Give it time.
Best and worst foster parents?
I think that would be somewhat rude. I mean, I didn't get along with them all, but I don't think that that one is actually on them.
What's your favorite food? Breakfast food? Beverage?
I'm going to say that my favorite food is parfaits now that I've had time to miss them. My favorite breakfast food is probably bacon. And as far as drinks go...
Well I always drank a lot of water, but coffee is good too.
But then again, I don't eat much. I probably don't even need to.
[River had known love like ants had known planets beyond their atmosphere. Like human observation would tell them that they knew nothing of the sort — knew nothing beyond their mounds, their hulking and growing fragility bound to be stepped on and ended.
But without proof. Without sustainable reason other than: they could not. Because how could they? How could the smallest of the small know of that largest of the large and continue with their building? Enter all benign ability and wonder away the expanse of the universe because… survival deems it so.
River had built a pyre around herself and set it aflame with the thoughts she’d given others. Lit herself blazing, glorified anger in the presence of absence and the absence of purpose.
But laying here fixated on fire, she still melts when she hears him. Still manages to let the echo of his voice in the room rattle her deep in her bones until constellations are shifted and there are new stars to count. New beings to be.
She feels him in her core, the way she had always felt him, even when he was gone. Solid. Aching. Just so very far away.
The smile she cracks skin on with her lips is the first she’s seen in days, months, years.]
Death could make any being absurd, I think. [She, most of all.]
[The smile he falls back on is almost too genuine. It's nothing he has to think about, or concentrate on. River simply makes him happy, and that says enough for itself. She is every human part of him, and he hates to think he'd be the same to her if she did not want it. But a small -- as if small has ever been the word for it -- part of him is selfish. He wants her to feel just as human as he does around her, if only because it means they are together in that.
But he is so far away. Death cannot touch the Real Girl, and distance spans between them like whole worlds. An aisle away, a foot away, a country away. It makes no difference when even at their closest, they are never in the same place.]
I did not make them, River.
[And the words are no form of admission. No prefix to blame. But they are honest, and open in a way that she inspires in him, and that is perhaps the best that he can give her.
In this moment, and in these many years he's known her.]
I only pass them through.
[A loss of life could hardly be so changing -- he means, but does not believe. Knowing what he'd give to have lived a human life, Oz thinks he'd give the whole of his domain for the chance. Though he stands at the same time repulsed by how ignorant the souls have to remain.
When he was younger, he told himself that it was better to know the truth alone, than be one amongst a clueless crowd, That is harder to believe the lonelier he gets.
But River has always made time stop in such a funny, eternal way. And Oz does not worry about feeling human, or alone, or irresponsible when it comes to her. Death could never quite say he was missing out when he got to know her in the stead of human beings.]
Maybe it is your doing. [The words are playful in his own way.]
[She was something old, like the chapel claimed to be. Something panting with want for purpose, stripped down of propaganda and left bare for the taking.
I am — and then nothing.
River had never spent her time bothering with the abandoned thing: the chapel. That which could not make its loyalties known, but bore the outline of imagery torn down in time long passed. And she liked the emptiness that filled its pews — the wooden seats that flickered light upon them through stained-glass windows, blown out and then boarded up like to keep its secrets in.
Secrets like: I was worshiped here. It was false and upon the idol with the face of many men, but the sentiment was there.
Now River finds all of her moments stolen by this place. Its darkness. The quiet murmur of a stray faithful whispering in corners to whichever god they thought true. Sitting in the same room with that which made creation unknowingly, but trying.
Today it is empty — was empty when she’d walked in and laid herself flat across the floor of the middle aisle.
Commune down me, she’d thought. Made blaspheme out of something not real.
River had never been God, but she had been something with whispers in the same ear. God felt closest, if she had wanted worship. If she had wanted praise.
She doesn’t. And with her head against the ground and eyes fixed to the ceiling, she thinks that their god had killed the earth in a great flood, and they had loved him more for it. For the cleansing.
What of hers by fire? What of hers by falling of sky?
What of her?
Hail River, full of grace.
Full of eyes rolling at the ridiculousness of that statement.
When she speaks, it’s filled with a new candor she’s still learning on her tongue.]
This is bullshit.
[He doesn't expect to find her there, but then maybe that is why it shouldn't be surprising. It's not like it was his own intention to visit the chapel either. Death had simply walked on lazy feet to the closest new thing he could find. Whether to explore it or force age on it, he wasn't sure. His intentions rose and fell like the sun, predictable, but still somehow varying day by day in heat, and will, and intention.
Oz never rose with the intent to scald and burn, but it did not mean he never accomplished that.
If chapels were meant to be houses of the holy, then surely, he could only mar one.
His own god was not kind -- was not the kind that the souls would worship. Not even truly known to them; less a god and better simply put as his boss. The one with no face, or voice, but who made the rules anyways. An entity perhaps based in simply existence.
One who never walked the world, and perhaps was then not really qualified to rule over it.
But it is nature.]
The living are absurd.
[Natalie had decided to take a break, a break from the continuous treks to training grounds and the library. Instead she had decided to buzz aimlessly towards the music room.
The music room, a completely unexplored treasure that had filled her with something close to wonder the moment she’d stepped into it. There were all kinds of instruments, all kinds of new toys to play with, and it was easy for her to lose hours in there. And when Natalie learned about the checkout system, well, there was no holding her back.]
[She’d decided upon a little Ukulele. She’d always wanted to learn how to play some instrument. Andrew and Elie had both been musicians. And of course, knowing them, they had been stellar musicians. Drew played the cello and Elie was magic on the piano.
—Nat, well, not so much of either.]
[Better late than never though, right? Cheesy to the core, the excuse was enough to satisfy Nat who didn’t want to think of this as some way of her to find a purpose, or a connection to what once was. No, no, this was just Nat’s first step. She’d always wanted to be able to play the guitar—to have that level of mastery over music. Tackling the ukulele was just making way to that.]
[So here she was, sitting comfortably on one of the many benches that were scattered all around the Colony, ukulele in hand and a simple hum fluttering from her lips.]
That’s not how it’s supposed to sound at all…is it?
Probably not.
[Oz's lips turn up at the the thought, and it is perhaps the closest thing to friendly that he gets.
Her fingers grace the neck of the instrument at an angle he assumes is probably uncomfortable, and the noises that ring out as a result sound harsh and cluttered. Or to him, they do. But Oz has never played the ukulele and perhaps he simply doesn't know what it is meant to sound like.
Hearing it in a song or two hardly seems to qualify him as an expert on that particular topic.]
Though it seems to be good effort? Perhaps you could find a book in the library to help you. [He hopes the words come across as encouraging rather than patronizing.
He himself has spent far too much time lingering between the shelves, and when he'd decided to pick piano back up on a fleeting impulse. the library had had a book full of sheet music. None of the songs were ones he liked, or knew. But he'd given them a go anyways; trying to imagine how they might sound from a band instead of just him.
Sound, it seems, while harder to weave, is much more comforting than death and existence. No one bleeds when he plays the piano. And that in and of itself is probably a good thing for the souls.]
[The world comes to him in black and white today -- a lack of color not actually present, but perceived anyhow with how simply stale he feels. Like his very being has leached all the life out of the world, far further than it ought to. And Oz should be used to this, but still it sits bitter on the tip of his tongue.
How cruel it seems to be the very thing that makes others wilt, and want to touch them anyways.
He is, is always, simply wisps of a thing. Not whole since the last time he was truly free to step foot in the world. Death will never wilt or wither; only falter in his footsteps until one day he simply stops walking. What is left then? Oz doesn't know. But he'll find out, perhaps sooner than later at the rate he's going.
The world is just a hollow place; full of echoes bouncing off of walls. The people around him are only static -- temporary, and 'living' on repeat. He cannot step foot where they walk, but Oz has been taught he ought to see it the other way around.
Maybe, though, the ones making the rules were never forced to live beneath them. Maybe it takes experience to know that standing above everything else you know, and not as a part of it, has never been powerful exactly. If isolation is meant to breed caring, then isolation does not suit him well.
He'd always felt much closer to those he was supposed to watch over then he was with them, hands resting atop their fading flesh and making use of the leftovers.
Now, he is a world away from the gray, gray space built to house the souls.
It only ever seems to remind him of that which he was never given; never allowed to have.]
I probably shouldn't be wasteful. [He mutters at his plate. The food atop it has gone cold in the half an hour or so he's spent simply sitting at the dining hall table. But he hadn't picked it up with intention to eat it in the first place. Rather because if it was noticed that it had been days since he'd properly eaten, a soul might comment.
He'd been places before where people watched for that sort of thing. They probably do here too. Not like Oz really knows. And though it feels silly to him, he knows for them that it isn't.
And if he is to fit in, it shouldn't be for him either.]
[He probably like, shouldn’t be surprised, but he sort of it. No wait, that’s not surprise, that’s, uh, vague disappointment.
Yeah, well, serves you right Lake for actually for a second thinking you could be bros with Oz.
Still, this is a lot closer than he was like, a month ago. A week ago. Hell, a day ago.
He sort of almost laughs at the look on Oz face when he recalls his apparent other experience with a bro shake.] Probably because it wasn’t with me man. But okay, man, no problem. Um, so like, if we’re friends now though, like, does that mean we like, talk over breakfast? Do I like, say hi to you in the hall? I dunno man, this is new territory for us.
[He’s sort of joking at this point, but it’s pretty friggin’ awesome because like, he’s not sure if he’s EVER made a joke with Oz man.]
[Instinctively, he wants to say no. But this isn't so new to him that he doesn't know how he'll adjust. It's a far more human practice than he wants to be open to these days, but he can remember times when he wasn't so closed off.
Every so often, he misses Scarlet and the way she'd show up at his door every Saturday at noon, like clockwork. Always to pull him off into the world, because she loved it too much to leave it be.
He thinks it wouldn't kill him -- ha -- to spend the same effort on someone now.]
You could, if you wanted to. I wouldn't mind.
[And it feels like spider silk on his tongue; spinning words that sound too stiff to be truly friendly, even though he means them to be open.]
Let's just try things. See how they go;
[There’s something terrifically calm about the man in front of her, and Natalie doesn’t know how it settles with her. She’s used to the loud and the boisterous, aware of the jaded and the bitter and used to the venomous and isolated—but he doesn’t appear to burrow into any certain mold that the people around here usually dwell in. But Nat doesn’t let that be a bother, finding simple conversation pleasant enough of a task to accompany their chores.]
I lived in Manchester. [Nat replied, finding the question generally harmless enough to not pave way for deeper inquiries.] It wasn’t terrible when it came to rain, but England’s pretty familiar with rain as it is. Plus bein’ up in the North West meant a whole lot more water for us than the drier parts of the country, I suppose.
Oh, I see. From America, then. I always planned on traveling there, but I didn’t quite make it in time. [Nat responded with a slight chuckle, drying another plate as she nodded at his addition.] How’d you find your way over to this side of the waters? [She asked, keeping her tone conversational enough to allow for his answer to be a brush away if he so wished. Natalie had no intention of prying, yet she could only assume this was an understandable follow up to his statement.]
[Oz grants his mind a moment to linger on America. On Oregon, and every place he had lived in between. With River, he thinks of New Orleans, and Gram's farm. But the country is vast, to say the least, and he'd parted ways with her for many years. He has no one here to remind him of every other home; just has to keep them alive in his head in moments like these.
He doesn't mind stealing the moment that it takes to think, given that there is no quite true answer for her question. It's a better answer than it would be had she asked how he got here, specifically. But if she listens right, his words will still carry the weight of one too many families. Of years and years passed between houses, feeling like a ghost.
And Oz knows how the souls work. Knows what to look for in their faces on the few occasions that he is honest about himself, and not just the story he makes sure they know. Which adds a whole new level of unpleasantness to the response, given that two months into living there, he'd already restarted his body count.
Perhaps it doesn't matter though. She'd have to read quite a lot into it to pick up on all of that.
And he's only concerned about the things he isn't saying, as if it makes sense that she could crawl into his mind the way he and River do with one another. Oz is fairly sure she can't.]
My family wanted to move. It was celebratory. They were tried of Maryland and having just adopted me, they thought it would be fun.
Took months, though. There was a lot of paperwork to go with that particular idea.
[Lake sort of makes one of those snorting-laugh sounds.
It’s probably pretty unappealing, but like, whatever, he’s pretty sure that if Oz likes any part of him, it isn’t much to do with his being sexy or appealing or auditorially appealing. Not that that’s a word, but whatever. Is now. It’s how words get made. People say ‘em. Then ta-da! Word.
Word.
Anyway.
He sort of grins. This is weird, but it’s a weird he’s okay with.]
Cool. And uh, I won’t.
So like… should we make like a bro-shake or something? You probably think that’s stupid but you know what, I bet you’d like it. I bet you’d surprise yourself.
We're not making a bro-shake.
[The words are firm, immediate; if only because he can remember the last time someone had attempted a 'bro-shake.' Oz hadn't liked being pulled to the guy's chest, hand clenched too-tight in his. He hadn't liked to be touched at all. Still didn't, to an extent.
It felt too wrong to touch the souls. And while that never particularly stopped him, he could draw a line here.
Burning fingertips, lingering, cold touches --
those were reserved for the right hands, the right beings.]
Been there, done that. The experience was awful.
[That phrase that rings like bells through River’s mind. All rhythmic in tones she hardly remembered him having, from the before. From the life of which she was still so very new to being a part of. But then, he’d always been far in his own sense. Always take her by the buttons and split her at the seams. Let her wind up herself, even if no one else wanted her to be.
That was the point of it all, wasn’t it? To let River wander and exact herself under the knife until she knew what she was. Align herself with the planets 2, 3, 10 times a day until she knew them and they knew her and River was the name of the star’s lady.
She’s been that for them for so long that she’s almost forgotten what it flet like to want something different. To be the lady of another heart. Another sky.
And he’d been miles below her as long as she could remember. Asking questions and sinning tales like he’d come from the core of the Earth just so that River could know what it looked like.
A man born of flame itself. A man formed for stars.
Her leg swings down, foot dangling almost enough to touch him. But they both know how that would burn.] You’d have to pay be millions. [And a grin he cannot see, but she knows he’ll feel.] Buckets of gold. And one of those masks I used to buy in the square. [Cliche things they known they’d never find.]
Well. [Oz grins, and matches, but it is -- as it is so rarely -- pure humor welling at the base of it this time. His lips dip, and curve, and slide until they are a reflection of emotion -- human emotion. And Death shows this face, this feeling, this honesty, and doesn't shut it down. Doesn't try to, just yet, because if River deserves anything then it is his honesty.
Even in the moments that it makes him weak. Even when it likens him to the souls they both live so far above. He is flawed, with this. But he knows she will not hold it against him.
He is an open book, but one that does not look up at her just yet.]
I can get you the buckets of gold, but the mask might be a little harder.
[He lets it all fall away for a moment. When it's just him, and her, and the ground beneath him left in the front of his mind, he speaks again. But not aloud, and not at all with volume.
It's far from dejected or cold. Not curious, or prodding. Just a wisp of a sentence, like rain, coming in on the weakest of storms. And the words drift softly, into his mind. And then softly, into hers.
'Does that mean that you won't tell me?']
True point. We’re already making good progress as it is. [Natalie nodded, a smile present on her face. It wouldn’t be long now until they were through with the chore. She obviously didn’t actively enjoy it, it was a chore at the end of the day—but Nat didn’t mind helping out. She sought the purpose actually, finding something rewarding in contributing productively, even if that entailed washing dishes and helping kitchen work. Small and insignificant as it may seem, help was help.]
[Perhaps it was a reflection of the help the people who’d rescued her had showed that was now making a full circle, but she didn’t bother pondering over it.]
I grew up in rainy places for most of my life too, although it seemed to have the opposite effect of me. …I grew to shun it a bit, seeking sunny regions more. I dunno, a bright day makes quite the difference in the mood, doesn’t it? [Nat conversed, a gentle smile on her face as her hands continued to do the work in a systematic manner.] But I don’t mind the rain too much anymore. Anything that reminds me of home is welcome. [She added, shrugging a bit as one plate passed onto another.]
It's understandable. [He hums. The words are like silk on his tongue; smooth to hear, and effortless to spin. But they don't sound all real in his head. They ring and ring until all he hears is the echo of it, and not the full sound.
But this is a light moment, amongst months and months of not-quite dark. Oz has never felt shrouded or weighted down by his duty, his world. All the same, this day -- it feels like the vacation he'll never be granted. Maybe just because he'd gotten his work done early. Or maybe because he's actually doing the things the souls as of him, and for once, they're normal things.
Oz doesn't really try to chase it down the the root. He just holds it for what it is, and allows himself to be amiable. He still has rules working towards what he can and cannot say, but at the moment, Death cannot find anything wrong with the question:] Where did you live? Where it was rainy, I mean.
I lived in Oregon for quite a while. I never got anywhere quite as rainy as that until I moved to England.
[mun question] - how has Oz changed since you started playing him?
[mun] - I think Oz’s growth is less of like, severe change, and more him growing into himself?
When I first made him, he was at Rosewood, and he was this distinctly solitary being for like the five minutes he existed before he met River. But even then, there was a specific mindset that went with it.
And it was a heavily guilty, very lonely, very resigned one.
He knew he was there are punishment, and he knew it would be a long stay. But he was Death, and he had earned this.
Fast forward a bit to Belvedere, and Oz is somewhat different. I brought him in feeling less lonely, and more used to his situation. It was less something he viewed as a punishment (though that was still what it was) and just, an unfortunate new way of life? He wasn’t mourning the loss of what he’d had anymore. He was just going with what was in front of him.
And he was allowed to be more curious in that, because he was settled into the truth of it. Yes, he was Death, but what else could he get away with? If he couldn’t kill freely, could he beg time to move just that much faster? If he wasn’t allowed to connect with the souls, could he still touch them through the veil? Could he make them fond of him? Could he make them feel the things he couldn’t, if only as a surrogate?
Belv Oz was just very curious. He wasn’t as young anymore. He was old, and tired, and with River written into his past the way that she was, he was a lot more in tune with who, and what he was, even if he was playing around with it.
He was still lonely, but it didn’t bother him as much as it could have. Because where he had let it sit before, he now used it to establish himself.
Colony Oz has sort of, stepped back and forward at the same time. He’s entirely sure of himself as an entity, and he feels a lot less of a need to play with the souls to make himself into something whole. But he’s still not at home in his skin. And for all that he’s come to terms with, he’s starting to feel lonely again.
He has River, but they’re in physically different places, and he can’t fully reach her. And platonics with souls are nice enough, but they don’t really mean anything. They couldn’t if they wanted to, because they’re so fleeting.
Basically, if Oz started out his existence having just moved back into a new home, he is now the cracks in the flooring and the ghosts in its halls. And he doesn’t want to be.
[mun question] - what's the most difficult thing about playing each of your characters?
[mun] - Uhg honestly most of it is probably just my muse living on the run?
Oz - Oz is really hard to socialize. He's so stuck in his own world that he just, doesn't connect to the people outside of it. And then, when he does it's a mess. Because he spends most of his time interacting then sitting there going 'this isn't allowed, this isn't allowed, this isn't allowed.' Dude just doesn't let go.
That and he tends to come across flat, which he isn't. He fluctuates a lot, but he's not immediately menacing, or mean. He's not particularly volatile, and it's easy to forget in his perpetual calm that he literally murdered people and made things with their skin and bones.
Lissy - Lissy is so cautious. She's not shy, which I think is how it comes off sometimes? It's not shyness, it's caution. But it's hard to write past that caution without sometimes sounding like I'm erasing it entirely? I don't know, I love Lissy to death, but I'm still trying to solidify how I want to write for her.
Verne - There's just honestly a lot I can't say about Verne yet. I know what I want for him in the future, and I know where his head, and where his personality are headed. But I can't say a lot of it yet, and so I end up writing him as this puppy-ish thing. And I promise you, that while Verne is friendly enough by nature, he is not soft. He will bite, he will lash out. He's going to be headed for rough spots, and there's honestly a lot of just fucked up stuff that he was raised believing.
And that all balances out somewhere, but he's not at a place yet where it can. So. I think Verne is just giving people the wrong first impression. Or not wrong, just one that won't hold up, even if it's true of this stage of his person?
[mun] where does oz fall in a ranking of characters you've created?
[mun] - I have my characters separated in my head kind of weirdly. Because there's an entire group (a small group) of characters that I consider my essentials, my all time faves, but they don't really live in the same realm of liking?
Oz isn't there. Oz isn't a Danny, or Nigel (vague character references ~). But he is probably one of the most important characters I've created? And he's definitely one of the ones who stands out if you just, like, look at my history.
If I had to choose four characters that defined my entire rp experience, he probably wouldn't be number one, but he would be one of them.
So IDK, that's kind of the most I can say.
(And I can't just give an order of favorites for the ones I just have here, because they're all very different. I love them in different ways.)
