arkham

the horror—-

[rkhum]

📌 @ RKHUM. sideblog for characters inspired by but not beholden to the lovecraftian world of arkham horror by fantasy flight games. default setting is fantasy usa or modern city with ambiguous geography.

rex murphy. broke investigative journalist/paranormal investigator with a cause to expose the hidden world of eldritch horrors. he/him. mid to late 30s.

wendy adams. orphan in search of answers about her missing father and captive mother. she/her. 13 (minor under rex's care).

caesar. sailor turned pirate king in an unwilling pact with the deep ones. 6'3ft of man(gn), 10ft of werefish. they/he. 30s.

i. what it says on the tin: this is an independent rp sideblog for an assortment of characters. i use standard sized font because the small text is hard on my eyes. i would appreciate if you do too if we were to write together.

there is a background theme of colonialism and queerness as politics of resistance to this blog. rex's late mother was indian/english as a result of the uk's colonial legacy in the indian subcontinent. caesar is the child of chinese immigrant laborers. only wendy is born to a white nuclear family, but hers is a story precisely about the vulnerability of such a system. she was raised on the streets by queer people and community of color, then rex & co. in a nontraditional familial system.

ii. mature content may be present, within reason, ethics, and mutual agreement. i am over 30 and ask for my writing partners to be 21+.

iii. there are certain settings, characters, and subjects that i steer away from—typically because they are subjects i personally am/have grown unable to abstract from reality and romanticize to the extent necessary for me to engage with in rp as a form/genre, not because i think they shouldn't be written/studied/explored. among them:

characters that are current or aspiring police (including fantasy cops, and military special forces; foot soldiers and ex-cops evaluated on a case by case basis), nuclear destruction, organized sports, and settings/plots that centrally engages with modern warfare or military campaign.

iv. there is no catch-all list that can stipulate the comfort level in every scenario with everyone, so if anything emerges for me or for you, we will catch it during plotting.

v. i try to be intentional about who i follow, only when i can see the possibility of our characters interacting. if i follow you, i likely already have an idea in my mind. this does not mean that i am only interested in that initial idea. it could just serve as a springboard for plotting and we could end up with something entirely different.

vi. i operate under the understanding that sometimes ideas, styles, availability, timing, etc don't work out. unfollowing, softblocking, and blocking are useful tools to keep the dash organized and enjoyable. there's no hard feelings about it. i hope this goes both ways.

OPERATOR.

sommer. he/him. 30+. queer poc surviving the fall of the empire. it informs my writing and my approach to media. i make mistakes, change my minds, learn new things and revise my opinions; open to corrections and conversations.

[astrophager]

rex starts to sit down and ryland eyes the motion cautiously, a flighty bird ready to turn tail and run at the slightest sudden movement. that being said, it makes his refusal to play ball sorely obvious, so he opts for a lean against the surface of the booth, arms folded in a guise of nonchalance. he doesn't think he's being very convincing. certainly less so when his company begins to deep dive into the real meat of the reason they're here, at a volume so alarming to ryland — despite truthfully not being all that loud — that he pricks his ears up and looks left and right to see if anyone catches onto their subject matter.

❛ jeez, louise— ❜ he hisses under his breath, slips into a seat with head low, his words breezing past clenched teeth with a restrained quietude. standing lasted all of thirty seconds, he is ashamed to admit. ❛ you want to keep your materials to yourself instead of the whole class ? i'm risking my butt out here. ❜ he's already had enough of the speeches, the never satiated questions and microphones and requests to go on televised shows and offer a cover article for science magazines. a café offers at least some semblance of reprieve, if only he is permitted it. ❛ and do you always believe everything you see on the internet ? no, wait. who am i kidding, of course you do. ❜ it is stated matter - of - fact rather than any pointed jab, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache slowly coming to nudge at his brain.

i need a coffee, maybe something stronger. i'm going to kill stratt. this is the last time i'm doing this, so they better make it count and get all their measly last drops of information, because i. am. done.

❛ so you admit it. you want to spin a tale. there's no tale to spin here. astrophage eats the sun, we go out to see what the heck's going on with that — not me personally, the other guys — and with a little luck and science on our side, we stop the sun getting munched on. end of story. ❜ it's not going to appease him and he knows it. ryland's sigh could shake the table, palms pressing against a surface sticky and stained with coffee rings, some of them naturally rex's. ❛ look, can i get a drink first ? ❜

[rkhum]

"if the world's gotta end, the world's got a right to know, don't you think?" the government keeps its secrets, REX is all too familiar with that. the charitable interpretation is not to incite panic, letting the public know what it needs to know and keep the rest of the trouble to those who can actually do something about it. otherwise, it's just a matter of control. knowledge is power. he wouldn't be doing what he does if he didn't believe that. however terrifying the truth, it is better than living in ignorance; he will not flinch from it (what about the rest of the world? a little nagging voice sounds off in the back of his mind. rex quickly dismisses it).

"if it's really as simple as that, your boss wouldn't have come to me." he raises his hand at the bar, getting the attention of the waitress behind it. "uh, black coffee, please. and whatever he wants. you can put it on the same tab." he looks to ryland and shrugs. "it's your boss. she paid me for the... expenses. honestly it feels more like an allowance, but only if this became a regular thing..."

let's not put the cart before the horse, rex reminds himself, seeing as he's barely gotten ryland to talk. he waits patiently for ryland to make his order, scratching a little burnt mark on his wrist from when he tried to make scrambled eggs for wendy. she's just turned fourteen, and only started to feel comfortable asking rex for the things she wants.

"...how bad is it? like ten years, twenty years, five? is there still any point in investing in a retirement account?" he couldn't help but ask, gaze drifting past ryland to the tables behind him. men and women enjoying a little afternoon respite as life goes on. how many of them have children? if any of them just got a promotion, or entered a new relationship? how a little spec of space dust irreparably changed the timeline of their lives. "don't worry, i'm not gonna print that. not in those words anyway. i gathered that your boss wanted a more... professional tone. it's just for me—for... background."

[ofdruigh]

Dradeel's increasing agitation makes her nervous. Everything's come apart at the seams and suddenly there are too many unpredictable variables for her to keep track of. Fish people, monsters, like them ... Deep ones. Whatever the fuck that means. As the torrential rain pours down on them, the thought of a flooding bringing fish monsters into the city seems much more plausible than it might have on a sunny day.

She pulls Dradeel closer to her; water drips from her face when she tilts it to speak sharply and only to him. "Did you know about this?!" He would have told her. She has to believe he would have, and yet seeks the confirmation anyway. Too much has been shaken up by this storm.

Kara meets Caesar's bulging eyes without flinching. They've grown as accustomed to this sight as can be perhaps, though never as endeared as they are to the captain's human beauty. The warning makes them shift their weight, all the waiting tension in their body moving from readiness to fight to the expectation they will be leaving soon. They've lost much time already. "We better go, Cae." It's the first time they've spoken, and the rain almost swallows their alto voice. "Get back 'fore they show up. We're losin' time."

Brynn watches the shift in their body, the intensity with which they look at this fish-creature. She notices them suppressing a shiver, drenched as they are, and dressed far too lightly for the rain. A window feels like it's closing. "What's their way then?" She almost has to shout to speak over the wind. "You still haven't told us what the fuck they want."

[rkhum]

"what? NO!" dradeel shrieks. finally, his companion thinking for herself and questioning how much she really knows of the meek looking man with watery eyes. caesar wishes they had done so themself. dradeel looks so harmless, vulnerable even. but the ocean vast as it is has no room for the weak. they should've known better than to underestimate a seaman. if that was their oversight, if dradeel was somehow connected to the deep ones and their plot...

caesar snarls. but dradeel doesn't seem to notice. his entire attention now fixed on the tall brunette. "i didn't know anything! please, brynn, i swear... i would've told you if i did—"

words become drown out in the pouring rain. caesar growls in acknowledgement to kara's warning. they are right. as much as caesar would like to get to the bottom of this link between dradeel and the deep ones, they would not like to be here when the fish folk come to claim the streets.

"why don't you ask him?" caesar sneers, feeling the tug of their lips over the sharp fangs. "perhaps start by askin' why he never came t' check in with his ol' cap if he survived, huh? not many men did that day..." they turn around to kara then, tail splashing across the flooded street. "hop on," they cock their head toward their back, lowering their front legs to make for an easier climb. "be faster this way than you treading water."

[rkhum]

"c'mon, there shouldn't be anybody on duty at this hour. there is rest for the dead after all, i suppose..." they didn't break in. technically. he didn't pick the lock or break the window... not this time, at least. if he accidentally broke the handle on the backdoor trying to get a smoke the last time he was here and nobody found and fixed it... well. it is just his luck; 364 days of mishaps and one day it works out.

REX holds the door open for the other detective @waylays while his eyes adjust to the darkness inside the after-hour morgue. it's always cold in here (makes sense), the ceramic tiles and metal tables, shelves, and human drawers add another layer of chilliness to the place. par for the course and all—it's going to get a lot creepier soon.

rex pushes his round thin rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, smoothing a hand over his dark hair. he has forgone the usual pomade this evening, not wanting to risk leaving a scent where he's not supposed to be, so the hair is now falling out of its usual place into his eyes. small inconvenience, considering the payoff (hopefully).

"here." with a flashlight, he goes down the rows of drawers until he finds the name tag he's looking for. rex pauses in front of the shelf, taking a deep breath as he lets it all sink in—what happened, and what is going to happen. "...he's in there."

[astrophager]

assertive. he's forced to bark a laugh at that, although the notion of rex meeting stratt — a waxing and waning of two circles within a venn diagram, their space between diminishing — is sufficient to leave him visibly disconcerted. is there no limit to stratt's perseverance, no low she won't stoop to ? there is a strange and intuitive need to ward rex off, to forewarn him of stratt's ways, despite demeaning their impact on himself, adamant that there is no impact. he chose this, after all.

he has the same number and rex's texts had drowned amidst a sea of other attempts at contact from the same era, circles of would - be friends and associates left behind to fade. rex had reached out the longest. it hadn't changed anything. ❛ business. right. my apologies, mr. murphy, how could i forget. ❜ it is not laced with the poison vial of spite, instead an irony coating his words like liquor around ice in a glass, rattling and lively. ❛ so, you're telling me she twisted the narrative to get you on board. good to know. ❜

the situation itself is a horror, but not in the way i know rex craves and pursues, evidently so much so as to bypass — or exploit ? — whatever historical situation we had going on once upon a time. he looks different. i imagine we both do, but he looks good. i can't say the same for myself, raggedy teacher now worn down by lab work and the pressure of a world dying. this isn't helping.

he knows stratt well enough, knows that like a dog with a bone, she won't let go. her teeth are hooked barbs, already latched into the meat of his leg — ryland was facing his fate long before entering this place, far sooner than spotting rex across the room. a begrudging sigh leaves him, hand planted on the table for support, the untaken seat like a resignation he refuses to accept and chooses to stand instead. he is still stubborn despite the years.

❛ what is it you want here, rex ? ❜

[rkhum]

"well..." it has stung a little, ryland mirroring his formality. touché. REX has to give him that. mr. murphy is my father. he wants to say, out of cliche, but that wouldn't be true. his father has never achieved the kind of station in life to receive a mr. murphy with any consistency outside of appointments and other less than personable settings. so he's left standing awkwardly by the table and chew on the pang.

"she's not wrong." he starts to sit down, albeit tentatively, and hopes that ryland would follow. the man isn't exactly being friendly, but if rex knows anything about ryland grace is that he has things to say. even if he tries to suppress them or speak in jest as a defense mechanism, there is a glimpse of his honest thought. if rex could keep him talking...

"what's happening—the discovery of alien life—is as about as extraordinary as they come. and unexpected. i suppose people have been a little limited in our imagination of what life would look like from outer space. and technically it didn't make contact with us... we sort of went out and... grabbed it. is my understanding." or rex could keep talking, and hope ryland would listen. "we made contact with it. our government did anyway. and that's... several layers deep on the paranormal 'iceberg,' as they call it on the internet."

he shuffles the paper around (organizing them back into order, mostly), pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as they begin to slide.

"i want what i always want, ry—land." good save. well. decent save. hopefully. rex swallows, finding the notepad he was looking for. he's already scribbled down some thoughts and questions the night before preparing for the meeting, and then some while he was waiting. (what do you imagine i would be doing if this had happened back then? not an appropriate question.) "—i want information. data. you don't have to spin me a tale or tell me a story. that's my job. i just need... the basis for it. you know this. materials. i want materials, and i want—... i was told you have them for me."

[astrophager]

⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆ AFFECTIONATE GESTURES. ACCEPTING.

snuggle. receiver snuggles into sender's side. — @rkhum (rex).

he can't blame the crisp hiemal chill for his shuffle closer : while the air certainly carries a breathy coolness to it, his cheeks are warm. they sit atop a blanket in the clearing, the view of the stars truly something serene to witness out here with less light pollution. he can't even blame the diminishing space on an attempt at balance, their arms overlapping as he stretches to point out constellations — everyone talks about orion's belt, but actually if you look closely, see, there's all of orion — and he certainly can't blame rex for it when it is ryland that has moved pressed palms until they plant in the blanketed ground behind rex's back instead of his own.

it was subconscious to an extent : i hadn't really realised how close i was until it was done, but i'm not exactly pulling away or rectifying the issue. i don't even know if i'd be so hasty to call it an issue. i wonder if it's as noticeable as i'm making it in my head, or if this is a socially acceptable distance to share between friends that rex isn't even thinking twice about. i need to learn how to keep my cool.

❛ the belt actually points all the way down to sirius, too. the brightest star in our sky. ❜ he rambles in an attempt to distract from something between them that maybe he is the only perceiver of, but equally simply because he rambles. it is what he does, when not assessing his words like a chessboard, when speaking of things he is passionate about, to people he is passionate about. he wonders how close their hands are, wonders if should he make a wrong move he might find fingers that are not his, get a static shock. he's always been a curious person, and right now it is damning, a curse.

❛ i don't think there's any cryptid ones, unfortunately. most of them are steeped in myth, though. the hydra, cetus, draco, monoceros. maybe in another lifetime, eh ? our descendants can look up and find mothman and bigfoot in the cosmos. ❜ a playful nudge, one arm into another, shoulder warm where the contact had been. he's thankful for the crepuscular dusk, thinks the flush in his face and ears might be all too prevalent in broad daylight. he doesn't know why he's getting all worked up, doesn't typically care for others' opinions, but suddenly impressing his company feels paramount.

[astrophager]

the words he could successfully ignore, a commotion he doesn't choose to zone in on until he's referred to directly — formal blending into colloquial in a confusing mixture. the touch however stops him short, a shock to the system that has him gripping still ajar doorpane and turning sharply back to look at the man accosting him. ❛ "dr. grace", really ? what the heck is your prob— get— off me. you're a mess. ❜ ryland takes in coffee stains and the general dishevelment of rex having rushed after him in a hurry, a trail of documentation ( most likely confidential ) in his wake. he rolls his eyes against his own awareness, shakes his arm free without much resistance and dusts it off. next to be noticed is the turning of heads on their axes, snooping gazes meeting the two men clearly having some sort of unorthodox encounter in the only route of entry or exit to the place.

i feel strangely stared at, and for once it isn't just my imagination. even the barista is peering over while making a flat white, two sugars, and i'm left between standing on business and possibly causing more of a mess, or relenting to at least clean up the havoc that, need i remind, i wasn't the one to create.

❛ you're making a scene. ❜ ryland states quietly through gritted teeth, heads in closer and secretive proximity for a moment before he's pushing gently back past and into the building, stooping to collect some sheafs of paper. he doesn't exactly flick through the pages but catches that familiar handwriting amidst sheets and feels a pang of— nostalgia ? he isn't sure, works at tidying whatever isn't sopping with coffee back onto the table where rex sat. a sigh as he prepares for the hard part now, remains stubbornly standing : back to business. ❛ i'm not doing this. they can find another lapdog to dripfeed you information. this isn't even your schtick, what, you moved on from cryptids to environmental crises now ? and get that sticky note off your shoe. jesus. ❜

[rkhum]

"that's... your name, so—" and title. it's not where they left things off, REX knows. but given how things were left off—and that this was a business call and all—he didn't want to offend with informality... it seems like he's done the opposite. or... perhaps he would've offended either way, judging by how ryland pulls away from him. ( he still thinks of him as ryland, rex realizes faintly in the back of his mind. even if the contact in his phone never changed from dr. ryland grace, long after they were past the threshold of familiarity. )

rex stumbles a small step back from losing his grip, making just enough room for ryland to blow past him. at least it is toward the inside of the cafe this time.

"look i..." he turns to follow, picking up the loose leaves of paper on the ground as he does. "i thought you knew. i thought your boss...—the woman. stratt? very assertive, by the way. authoritative—i thought she would've told you. i did consider sending you a message, but i didn't know if..." he pauses, holding onto the back of the chair to balance himself as he peels the sticky note off his shoe. he looks at it. a string of numbers scribbled across the center of the paper. a phone number. "...i asked her for your number," he sticks the note to the corner of the table, not looking up from it. "just in case you changed it, or something. but uh... no. it's the same."

which means ryland has been purposefully ignoring his message. the realization has stung, left him with a hollow confusion. (wendy had asked. he seemed distracted on the days leading up to the meeting, turning on his phone screen and turning it off again without doing anything with it. she's smart enough not to press, but rex knows her watchful eyes.)

"anyway this is... business." rex inches back to the table, but hesitates to sit down. (in case ryland runs again...) "i told her we could handle it. ms. stratt—or, rather—she told me that we will... assertive. again. definitely. and like she said... alien beam. dimming sky. sun-eater—if that's not COSMIC HORROR, what is?"

[astrophager]

⋆ ⭒ ˚ . ⋆ RADIO CHECK : @rkhum. ♡

it'll be good for morale, stratt said. you're the most personable in the team, stratt said. i'm not really giving you a choice here, stratt said. i don't know exactly when my life became so dictated by the astrophage crisis — no, that's a lie, i recall the precise day on which stratt sauntered into my classroom with that gosh darn paper, but i'm not sure when i became about three other roles on top of leading astrophage expert. time to add pr spokesperson to my resume.

ryland won't do public speeches or presentations, that much became clear after one particularly unexpected board meeting, but those desperate enough for a scoop might have private discussions in which he can elucidate some very tightly controlled details about the project. it is well on the way now, and he can speak with confidence on the progress they're making and the scientific backing behind the mission. when he heads to designated meet - up spot today however ( it's always a quiet greasy spoon diner or tucked away coffee shop, a level of seclusion ryland appreciates ) he is barely through the door before stopping short. he's in the habit of scouting out his company, typically easy to spot even without a description — journalists just have a type about them — and when eyes land on equally matched gaze, ryland's face sinks.

❛ . . . nope. nope, nope, nope - nope - nope. ❜ people he knew weren't part of the planned agenda, and his mumblings come fast as he turns on his heel and pushes that entryway right back open. stratt may not have known ( debatable ) but rex certainly did. maybe it's an exceptionally ryland thing to cut off the majority of ties to his former academic life, but can't they get someone else to do this one ? maybe he didn't spot him, despite looking directly at him, maybe he can get away with pretending he couldn't make it. maybe — maybe he just heard a voice that very much affirms he is not getting away with it.

[rkhum]

—why me? i'm not a science reporter. i investigate paranormal activities... —is extraterrestrial life not paranormal enough?

he should've asked more questions. the answer had, at the time, seemed... not reasonable but unquestionable. like a perfect come-back. clever too, in hindsight. REX would be hard pressed to take seriously anyone who considers him even a d-list science communicator, but he could believe his name making the short list of credible paranormal investigators. it stopped him from asking more questions. his first count of negligence. the second came when he saw the name of the scientist he's supposed to interview.

—he doesn't want to talk to me. —he doesn't have a choice.

that should've been a red flag the color of a firetruck. but it wasn't surprising. he's expected that out of corporations and government entities by this point. it's just his luck. he could never tell where it would take him. so when he opened and closed the text thread (the last message left on read) and elected not to give the other a heads up... it was perhaps less negligence and more opportunistic. he wanted to see where this goes. this time.

"HEY—!" following up on an unfinished story would be easier if the subject wouldn't run away from him like he's the paparazzi. it's not the first time he has to chase down someone for an interview (but usually he's more prepared because usually he hasn't been promised an interview and usually it isn't someone he's... —whatever. time for that later)... rex jumps up from his seat, bumping into the corner of the table and knocking the ceramic cup over. dark coffee spills over the deck of documents and notebook (screw him for trying to study up before the meeting). "ah, fuck— dammit...!" he fumbles to right the cup in the coffee-flooded saucer, looking up to see the other man just out the door. "wait—" rex rushes to follow, hearing and having no time to care for the papers falling off the table and scattering on the floor behind him. "dr. grace! dr. ... —RYLAND!"

he didn't mean to grab the man by his arm like that. but there's a sticky note stuck to the bottom of his shoe and the ground is slippery. so. here they are.

[rkhum]

werefish caesar

[ofdruigh]

Their voice might be the strangest thing. Had she not seen them transform, Brynn would not have expected speech from this creature's mouth, let alone for it to sound, faintly, still like its human variant. Dradeel's grip on her arm is an anchor, while she holds him tight enough to bruise. She doesn't notice, her gaze similarly glued to the ... to Caesar, whose measure she doesn't yet have.

A brief flicker of doubt courses through her. What has Dradeel kept quiet? Its breeze isn't strong enough to topple the wall of trust she has built for the anxious barkeep, but it sways ever so briefly. Now is not the time, Brynn thinks, not now, when the icy rain whips their faces, and the scaly creature before them seems only to grow angrier, foaming like waves. Caesar's companion's face glints in the lantern light. The blond—by their stance and attire, Brynn assumes them to be a sailor too—hovers over a nasty looking knife in their belt, as if awaiting permission, or simply some reason to escalate into violence.

She suddenly wonders... Would her bullets even pierce those scales?

It's an acid truth in her gut: she doesn't like their odds were this to escalate. She could only hope to hold them off long enough for Dradeel to run to safety. It brings with it a fear the likes of which she hasn't felt in a long time—not for her own life, but for his, which has grown so precious to her.

Their interrogations of each other make skips the huntress can't follow. "Who's 'they'? What do you want from him?!"

[rkhum]

for a moment, they see it—DOUBT. this woman has not known dradeel well enough to fully dismiss the possibility of treachery. it makes them a little smug. a grin grows on their face that stretches not quite right; muscles and skin pulling in all the wrong places, showing too much teeth. they are long and thin, slightly curved, lining up the inside of their maw like a mouthful of nails that they swallowed too long ago.

"the fish folk under the sea—" they spit out those words with the rain water running into their mouth. "THE DEEP ONES. they were waiting in the storm... hell. let's not kid—they caused the storm. ... they talked to you, didn't they? or... perhaps you talked to them—"

"NO—!!" dradeel shrieks, almost lurching out but held back by his own grip on brynn's shirt sleeve. "i didn't... i don't! i swear. i saw... it just came to me. i didn't do anything before and i didn't... i don't know what you're talking about... fish... fish people? like sirens?"

that's almost fanciful. CAESAR lets out an ugly sound in their throat. sirens and shipwrecks... wouldn't it be nice if it were such a storybook tale to tell. "like monsters. like me—" the rainfall is heavy on their back. they feel an itch under their skin, like crustaceans skittering under a rock before a storm. "...they're comin'." their body knows before their mind. bulging eyes turning, scanning from dradeel to his companion to settle on kara. "soon enough the streets will be crawlin' with them things, if they have their way." it will be clear then, whose side anyone is truly on.

[anmehil]

i want adventure in the great wide somewhere. (caesar for ren when i spell caesar right lol)

❦ ﹕ @spellheld accepting.

it didn't take long for the rumours to reach young'un ears. even less so for parents hushing their children from speaking wild things. the forests and their leaves will hear .. the halla will grunt and become restless because words have power. yet their keeper is quick to remain with facts than wild stories.

ilerien was picking a cluster of herbs for his mother when the sound of something harsh was rustling through the grass and dried leaves. untrained, heavy, and the boy gasped in surprise to see an unknown face tumble beside him. ren barely able to grasp the now-crumpled roots, scrambling to the nearest, safest body. caesar. the heavy-footed elf? .. panting as he stares at the pair of dalish children. ren, smaller, more frightened, quivering. caesar, the proud and ever curious.

it wasn't long before a couple of dalish hunters burst from the meadow's treeline, alerted to ren's cry, and brandishing their bows towards the stranger. :: my name's .. tarin .. i-i heard there was a clan here. i ran .. the humans, shem! i ran away from them. ::

he doesn't know what happened after that. caesar and ren were shooed away, back towards the clan where more of their elders rushed to interrogate the lost city elf. eventually, tarin slowly began integrating with them. eating at their circles, joining their stories. their timidness melted away to confidence and words spilled from their lips started rough at first, now flowed and easily understood.

ren, of course, kept their distance, merely observing mannerisms before they became one of them. yet they were still there, in a sense, the way their eyes flickered, their tongue occasionally slipped. one particular thing he noticed was the way he offered to help. with the halla, the keeper's minor duties, to sweating the summer days under the weaponmaster. and where ren was, caesar was ahead. asking questions, begging for more details of life outside the tirashan forest.

it was like this for many weeks. and ren, sitting beside caesar, fiddling with a branch, freezes the words come out of his companion.

i want adventure in the great wide somewhere!

the dusk of fire and gold is whisked away as ren eyes caesar from the corner of his gaze. shoulders cautiously droop, as they always do, the boy would suddenly flinch when a broken piece pokes him enough to leave a sliver in his palm.

" but that would mean leaving.. " :: " .. leaving. "

ren would suck in a gentle breath. eyes bleary in the dark of their little tavern room. something flutters in the cool, summery breeze. a hand rubs the tiredness out of his face as he moves to lean on his elbow. a warm body rustles a little beside him .. without so much as remembrance ( it's instinct ) hands and body seek their instant comfort and warmth. the grey warden smushes his lips against caesar's shoulder lined with tattoos, body curled to press every inch of skin against them. " mm, what a strange dream.. "

[rkhum]

sea air does you a lot of good. / tess @k1tch3n

it's not like tess would know how caesar had drank half the ocean to crawl back to land. their lungs lined with salt like the inside of a crystal cave, turned into gills that filtered the water for bitter survival.

tess doesn't know any of that, of course. and caesar laughs at her shot in the dark whiffing by the target where it might truly hurt.

"ah, it's the secret to my youthful look." the pirate captain chuckles, long dark hair whipping in the wind as they push themself off the mast they leaned on, looking down at the smuggler on the approaching dock. sailors throw down the anchor and lower the ramp that connects with dock with a heavy thud. caesar grins, skipping forward past their crew only to vault over the railing to land in front of tess.

a breath. their lungs fill with arkham's cold humid air, like an old chest that has been left in the cellar and forgotten for too long.

"can't say the same 'bout you, ol' hag." they have a hearty laugh, that is just sharp enough to put people on edge, or command attention. knowing the ship would dock soon, they are wearing one of their finer clothes—a linen top (the least weathered one) and a loose kung fu shirt unbuttoned hangs easy on their broad shoulders. their pants are rather standard high-waist trousers tucked into a pair of functional boots.

the heels of the boots drum against the wooden plank as caesar marches up to the smuggler; the sailors hollering and unloading the cargo behind them. they grin and slap tess on the back, dragging her in for a side-way hug and shake. "how's the business, eh? i got all sorts of goods for you. so don't get cheap on me now!"

[obfusquer-deactivated20260502]

Frustration rose with a fist almost crumpling the ten dollar bill in a very tight fist, but she knew this would happen. Almost expected it. She would've been surprised if he had immediately went along with it. Though, to his credit, he was actually listening to her, even if it was to say he was not the one to go to for this. She would've agreed with him, once, perhaps weeks ago, but police inaction had made her desperate enough to seek out said tour guide peddling conspiracy theories to a crowd of high college students with nothing better to do. At least she was exhausting all her resources, trying to find a lead to go on even when found in the most unlikeliest of places.

There just needed to be a lead in the first place.

❛ I already tried the police, but they don't listen to me. She went missing two weeks ago, they promised me they would search the mountain trails, but they never did. I know for a fact they didn't lift a finger and now they're telling me she's dead, ❜ Nithya explained in a rush, voice quiet and taking only one breath as she stepped closer to him. A plea carved into her features.

She wasn't too sure it was Umbrella, a shot in the dark to pique interest due to the area it all happened in, but she was sure that there was foul play to be had when not even the police made an attempt at searching. They didn't even try just to look good in the eyes of the worried public. Instead, there had only been one news report and then it was covered completely by a deluge of breakthroughs Umbrella suddenly had as if there were no missing people. As if her sister never existed and Nithya was supposed to move on.

❛ She and her friends were up in Arklay Mountains, the public trail there, you know about it?—they hiked there often, ❜ Nithya explained further, noticing she had his ear. Perhaps he was just being polite, giving this stranger a small moment before turning her down, but she went on regardless. ❛ She's not inexperienced in hiking, so it's just odd that the trail that gets close to old man Spencer's mansion up there is also where she suddenly goes missing. All six of them too, and no public uproar. I went up there, trying to look for her myself, and there was no sign they were ever up there. I couldn't even find their car in the lot. So, you tell me what I should think. You're good at connecting pieces together, I've heard your show. Doesn't this strike you as odd at all? ❜

[rkhum]

ARKLAY MOUNTAINS. the spencer mansion... mysterious disappearances that get swept under the rug. suddenly, she's hitting all the key words and reeling in REX's interest. —if she were a troll, she's damn dedicated to her craft. rex could appreciate someone who's done their homework, and it's too outlandish a lie to be simply throwing around. he pauses, standing back to cross his arms before his chest, hand stroking his goatee as he digests the information, looking for clues or holes in her story.

"hmmm. that's quite a tale," he concedes. "do you have any proof? six people vanishing, even if quietly, has got to leave some evidence. friends and family that are looking for them, a job they never returned to... people are gonna need to see a little more than your words to believe you. i would've mentioned that if i had a show where i would talk about this stuff."

all odds is a pirate radio station that he runs out of his rundown apartment, with a junkyard transmitter and caffeinated optimism. or perhaps it's stubbornness. if no reputable press would publish his findings, he would find his own way to get the word out. what's more, radio is an ephemeral medium, which is an advantage as rex has come to appreciate the danger in poking the largest predator in raccoon city. if he put his words down on paper and ink, he could be sued for libel. radio talk, where the poor audio quality works to mask his voice, and the frequency disposable and relatively untraceable, makes for a more secure method of disseminating information. the only problem being that he's unlicensed (registering with the government would defeat the whole purpose), and would do well not admitting to running such an operation out in the open.

...maybe she's sent by the fcc to bust him on unlicensed broadcasting. the thought amuses himself. to disguise the snicker, he looks down and reaches into his pocket for a smoke. his fingers touches the edge of the list of tourist names on a piece of folded paper. that could be a start. he leaves the paper in his pocket for now, taking out only the pipe and box of matches instead. "what did you say your name was?"

[ofdruigh]

Brynn bristles at the sharp familiarity with which the stranger addresses Dradeel. What might've once been a teasing nickname seems now more like a knife she can't deflect. Most unsettling, perhaps, is that she can't read this tension; she has walked into a hallway of memory she doesn't know. But before long the wallpaper peels off and the walls fall away, when in the unceasing rain, Caesar appears to melt.

And it isn't the tug of a hand grasping for support that makes her stumble, but her own horrified surprise. She takes an involuntary step back, reaching behind herself to hold onto Dradeel's forearm—to keep him upright and in place. All the while she looks on to the transformation taking place right in front of them. As if a true form had burst out behind a skin-suit, freed at last by the downpour. Was it a mask washed away? It would explain how they survived, would it not?

Movement draws her attention, and she had almost forgotten the ... creature's companion. The smaller figure has taken a few steps to the side, stepping over the seaweed-like hair, slowly moving with the water that runs and runs, into overflowing sewage. They seem rather unimpressed with it all, more curious to get a peek at the man behind Brynn's back. She grasps his arm tighter.

"Your plan, then?" She shouts over the wind and the rain, and to pass over her own shock. "What the fuck are you?! And why are you here?"

[rkhum]

their tongue tastes like salt. sea water in their mouth and bones. it still feels like drowning, those first few moments where their skin turns into scales. CAESAR has never been afraid of the waves nor storm, but the deep ones have turned their source of freedom into shackles. now every drink of rum tastes sour, and the waves carry with them a grotesque sneer, reminding caesar of their bind. to see dradeel here, apparently alive and well, triggers something in them like deep sea volcano erupting, boiling the salt water that bloats their limbs.

"—mine? HA, so he's got you fooled too!" they hear themself screech, the terrible sound of wood crashing against sharp rocks or the weight of the water slamming down from every direction. a nearby cart splinters from the whipping of their tale. the MONSTER shakes their gills loose in the rain and looks their eyes on the red haired wretch. "what, dradeel? don't tell me you found someone else to hide behind? didn't you tell your friend nothin'? are you surprised to see me alive?" the amphibian beast croaks, pacing from side to side. their spiny tail sweeps across the wet cobblestone, whipping up curtains of water in the rain. "i wondered how you knew the storm was comin'... there was no signs of it in the sky or water. no. you knew it through other means. did they speak to you? better question... —how did you live? i know what it took me to come back from that storm... but you—what did you sacrifice?"

"caesar..." in the roaring rain, dradeel's voice is nearly drowned out by his own tremor. hand clinging onto brynn's arm, he seems unable to peel his eyes off the horrible creature transformed before them, no matter how terrifying the sight. "no... what are you talking about? i saw-... i told you, i couldn't explain it either but... what do you mean what it took you? are you saying this is—... are you saying the storm did this- the storm caused you to become... this?!"

[obfusquer-deactivated20260502]

Nithya stared up at the distant time face of the Saint Michael Clock Tower, the beacon of Raccoon City. She could remember when it reopened five years ago and the deep, resounding chime of the bells that soon become part of her day-to-day. A symbol of pride, but also a place for tourists to walk through and remark on its beautiful architecture. One such that could not be denied, but like all old buildings around the world there were darker aspects to its beauty. She faintly listened to the tour guide explain such history to a rapt audience of ten tourists all in a voice she had heard many a time inside of dorm rooms crackling through the damaged speakers of someone's boombox.

She wished it was only for that reason alone she sought him out, like a crazy stalker ex showing up at his place of work. But well ... desperate times call for desperate measures and Nithya wasn't going to give up on her sister and believe she was dead like the police wanted her to do.

Pulling out a folded up ten dollar bill from her jeans when he finished the tour, she waited patiently for the group to stop talking to him and break away, before approaching. There was a chance he could simply be making up a lot of what he talked about on his show, but they felt far too close to home of what she was stepping in looking for her sister. She had to try. For Maari, she must. ❛ You ever wonder if the people who take your tours retain the information you're telling them? ❜ She asked, holding out the money as a tip but she kept a firm grip on her side so that when he went to grab the bill, she held fast. Her voice quieted as she spoke again: ❛ Listen, I'm desperate and I need your help. No one will listen to me, but I think my sister has been taken by Umbrella and I don't know where to start. You spoke of them before, you know of their dealings— ❜

@allodds !

[rkhum]

IT'S A DECENT LIVING. not the most glamorous profession—one might less generously call it a gimmick—and pays modestly, but REX allows himself the enjoyment of investigating and sharing local histories with otherwise passive tourists waiting to be entertained. perhaps he overstates the significance; if racoon city were an amusement park, his tour is the c-list attraction—not even the haunted house, but the souvenir stand next to it, with plastic key chains and fridge magnets being the main source of profit. but he likes to imagine, just maybe, every once in a while, someone will read the description on the postcards, or pick up an album and find something captivating in the fleeting details caught in amber. a man can dream.

the young woman's voice puts his thoughts into words, giving rex a pause and causing him to momentarily forget about being annoyed by her hold on the ten dollar bill. some people do that. like a conversation is something he needed to be baited into, some strange ritual of power dynamic usually with other men, or the occasional disgruntled customers lodging a complaint. this young lady, however, does not fit into any of the archetypes in rex's mind as he tries to figure out what she could've wanted.

he doesn't have to wonder long before she leans in with her whisper. ah. so she belongs to the other, less common, kind of folk. it's rare, but someone occasionally takes him, or at least what he says, seriously. rex pauses, stilling his racing heart. he reminds himself that there are two other possibilities: one, she's one of the conspiracy whack jobs that would soon be ranting about chlorine in their water, and he would have to find a way to artfully extract himself. two, she doesn't actually take him seriously and is simply putting on a ploy so she could mock him. both of which are, sadly, more likely than what he hopes is the case. he's about to give her his fake smile and standard business card with a phone number he barely answers, but something stops him.

—she's south asian (or so he's fairly certain). not that this stranger should know what that means to him; it's unlikely that she could look into his past and see the raven dark of his mother's hair, and her light brown eyes that often oscillated between pensive and irritable (rex much preferred the former). he's ambiguous enough, through his irish father and english grandfather he never met, that he's not often recognized for his mother in him. there is an uncertain ennui in wondering what he could've learned about her if she had lived longer or he was thoughtful enough a boy to ask. but that boy's curiosity had always looked outwards, as though he's afraid of finding what's behind the closed doors in his own house. and now that boy digs around racoon city, like the city's namesake, finding other people's haunting.

"well. lots of people are on desperate times these days," he hums, giving the bill a light tug (undignified. but a man must eat). the mention of a kidnapped sister makes him frown, but he's not ready to go all in yet. "i loathe the corporation as much as the next poor bastard they screwed over. but i dunno what i'm supposed to do about it besides... raising awareness." he waves his hand vaguely in the air, in the process inadvertently letting go of the bill. —ah. he's ever so easily distracted by mystery... this is why you're broke. he could hear wendy's voice in his ear. "your sister... the company is quite vicious with their packs of lawyers and media reps, but there hasn't been any...—credible evidence of them going full mob rule about the city. why do you think they 'took' your sister? and isn't that something you go to the police for, not some random tour guide you found on internet, or—however you learned about the tour."