Soot and Grime

Independent Selective Multi-Fandom RP Blog || OC (Sooter) and Canon Divergent Grimey (who might as well be an OC)

[sootngrime]

The object dangles from twisted hand- an age worn leather cord, from which hangs upon it a small orb encased in rusted brass. In the low light, it can be seen pulsing almost imperceptivity a faint green. The hum that comes from within the object no higher than the pulse of a moths wing. The unnatural nature of the object is clear, however. // a lil nod to the future teehee

The door won't open. It opened before. Not now. They push, and they pull, but it won't move. That's... Bad. Right...? They don't know. All their thoughts feel wrong and fluffy and not-there. Maybe the room has an answer? Or another way?

When they turn to look they almost don't see Friend at first. Everything keeps turning into smudged colors trying to be shapes, trying to be all one shape, and they try to make it stop. And the shapes and the colors listen a little. Behave enough that motion can be seen on the ceiling.

Insides lurch.

Then colors and shapes figure themselves out more, and Friend's shape can be seen. It's fuzzy at the edges, and their head seems to smear as it moves, but that's very much Friend.

A soft gurgle. A greeting. Relief. They'd missed Friend.

Then they notice what Friend is holding down to them.

They can't see it very well. Not right away. The smudging keeps trying to come back but they can't let it, not now, not when Friend is trying to show them something. They move closer to look better but it's... hard. Hard to see. Hard to think. They don't know what they're looking at, in the tiny moments they can make the smudging go away. Don't recognize it for anything beyond pretty. Maybe Scholar would...?

The pretty thing is in their hand now. They... Don't remember reaching for it. But it's in their hand now, and they can feel the strange small whisper ripples it's making in their matter where it touches. Even when Friend lets go.

It almost feels like the Light did before. Not the same. But Important.

They look to Friend. Friend doesn't seem to want it back. Is it... For them, then?

More confusion. A quiet, perplexed gargle. But they gently wrap their fingers around the Important Gift, and hold it close all the same.

[creatorne]

ITS EYES WERE WATCHFUL OF THE OTHER, BUT KEPT THEM NEUTRAL. Not like the predator that had learned what it felt like to be prey, but its observations were no longer ever just CURIOSITY. A learned trait of long survival-- - every 'strange' behavior of the other was noted. Different from most humans it ran into, CERTAINLY, and there were questions that bubbled 'neath the surface it had yet to pry about. One part self preservation, another part waiting. Collecting. Extraction by the eyes. “&– - You truly needn't worry- if I need it, I'll grab it. How about that?” The Vesseled One plays decent, while trying to assuage into a belief it just saw the actions as 'normal'.

A QUESTION ASKED, AND A CONTEMPLATION HUNG. It was not as if debating it-- - there was always an answer that came of simple necessities. Hunger had been its closest friend and MOST BRUTAL ENEMY since its birth, and there had been no hushing of it even after the erasure. Exasperated even; mortal food did nothing to fill its eternal struggle, but it provided momentary distractions of tongue and bodies more literal stomach. “&– - I know it is a touch early but.... how are you feeling about lunch?” An offer, not a request for it to be made. NEWER GUEST IT WAS, best to have some sense of restraint for a bit.

[sootngrime]

Scrutiny, however subtle, is familiar. For the unit to be on the receiving end is for them to exist, the sensation etched into their cells so deeply it persists even in its absence. They recognize when they're being studied, even by strange eyes -- it's far more difficult to tell when they aren't.

But scrutiny is familiar. It warrants no outward reaction. Neither can be said for Mora's attempt to reassure.

A fraction of a pause follows it, then a nod -- the slightest bit slower than would be standard in a casual conversation. Sooter doesn't understand their guest's sudden shift to apparent compromise. There's no need for it.

...Unless words are to be taken at face-value, unlikely as that seems.

It shouldn't matter. It's not their place to question her(?) decision, and they'll abide by it regardless.

The matter of lunch is simpler. Offer, request, the response is the same. A task has been given. They must fulfill it. A query is returned, automatically, to better facilitate that.

[Do you have a preferred food type?]

It's not the first time they've asked. It likely won't be the last.

[sootngrime]

@creatorne continued from HERE

Processing. Assessing. Caught between what was long ago ingrained, and what has since been difficultly learned. Offered garments are kept extended longer than would be appropriate for a unit's dismissal (no matter how gently given) -- are withdrawn, almost mechanically, sooner than a proper host would surely insist.

(The discrepancy feels like static beneath their skin.)

...Oh. They've been staring again, haven't they? People don't usually like that.

Sooter deliberately shifts their head to glance out the window, then to consider the articles they hold. For now the weather is holding as expected. More pertinently, Mora has made their (?) stance clear enough. The clothing is tucked beneath one arm and gaze returns to the feminine figure before them. The items will be stowed later; kept somewhere more easily accessible just in case. In the immediate, however, gloved hands raise to speak.

[Is anything else needed?]

(And the soldier wonders, briefly, if it will ever stop feeling like they're trying to follow a set of protocols they were supposedly released from.)

(They wonder also about the etiquette of pronouns when a person is apparently open to the use of any. This is not the first time. This is also given significantly more attention than the previous thought.)

[eyehunger]

Mouth tentacles moved out of the way, horrific beak on display. An obvious request for a bite of food IT LIKED TO BELIEVE.

[sootngrime]

Motion in the corner of their vision. Masked head turns, and dark lenses consider the large cephalopod. Sooter still isn't quite sure what to make of their strangely friendly company -- isn't sure they ever will be -- but they've picked up enough that the gesture feels... Expectant.

A glance at the bowl of fish they'd just finished filleting, intended to be made a meal. Gaze shifts back to the Nu Udra, waiting patiently with maw agape.

...Well.

They rise to their feet with bowl in hand and take the risk of approach. It's not without caution. Weapons are easily accessible, and awareness is kept on the multiple tentacles as the Hunter carefully ventures between the lengthy limbs, stopping with distance kept from the main body. Gloved hand retrieves a small portion of fish then tossed into that waiting beak. Just enough to hopefully minimize adverse reactions, given that this likely isn't a normal part of the creature's diet.

[sootngrime]

@negativeroom

It's difficult to describe just how different Skyrim and Apocrypha are. A list of every unlikeness could surely span the distance from Winterhold to Falkreath at the least, even written in grain-sized letters. To leave the familiar lands of the province — to leave Nirn itself — for the alien landscape of the Endless Library has been a difficult adjustment to make for the amalgam in particular.

(They want to move back. They hadn't thought they would ever want that, but they do.)

Maybe something's wrong with them. Their family's been able to take to the change just fine — even their caretaker who'd at first been more hesitant about coming, and shared in a sense of unease at arrival, has since settled in without trouble. Grimey doesn't know why they can't do the same.

It's been safer here. Almost peaceful. Here they don't have to fear the Vigilants, or the hold guards, or even random townsfolk. The people, and even a number of the daedra, here are... Maybe not quite always kinder, but much more accepting than the people of the holds. It reminds Grimey of the College, and of the students and scholars there. Not all quite friends, not all quite friendly, but mostly involved in their studies and generally decent at the least.

But... Apocrypha itself...

It feels wrong. It feels hungry.

They don't understand how, or why; only that it does. But they've learned there are places where the wrongness and the hunger seem to be less. Places where the unease is seemingly gone, or is at least bearable, ignorable, even... Even when they're alone.

(They'd gotten better. They thought they'd gotten better, but coming to Apocrypha did something and now they have to tell their family they'll be fine alone but it's a lie, it's a lie-)

So they retreat to the Tunnels. The shroom jellies keep them company enough, when their family is kept busy and away.

Clicks and chitters and gaseous squeaks sound through the cavern as dark form sits and settles upon ancient, whorled stone, legs drawn close and body hunched over. One hand comes to rest on the ground as if to steady themselves. A shudder through their frame, as of a held breath finally released, and Grimey lets their vision slip. Even the small journey to get here had frayed their nerves and left their matter unpleasantly churning. The tendrils that loom from the sky, and the noises, the noises they make, certainly did not help.

But the noises of the cave and its inhabitants are only soothing. Squish lightly trumpets at their back. Gurgle and Gargle and the rest talk back and forth at each other as they drift above. The texture of the rock beneath, with its little bumps and grooves and ridges, is rough and solid and grounding. Something the amalgam can anchor to until the tide stops threatening to pull them under. It takes time. It always does.

It's time they aren't fully granted.

As they steady enough to turn their gaze upon the cave, upon their floating friends, something...Changes. A strange, crawling weight seeps into the air. Previously subsiding tension drags to a halt and holds its position firm.

The jellies are quiet now. They're never quiet. Not... Not like this. Lulls and lapses in the calls aren't uncommon but this... This is different. Like the sound's being sucked away. Even rising to their feet, alarm stuttering up their spine, seems unusually silent.

Yet ink's howling, burbling rumble only grows ever louder. Whispers slink in, an undercurrent that erodes whatever frayed semblance of peace still remained.

They want to run.

They can't.

Liquid pillar is distorting, and the jellies closest quickly flee from it. Every ounce of the amalgam screams to do the same. They can't. They're stuck, frozen, as countless eyes form to stare them down and their own matter quavers and roils, particles peeling away into nothingness beneath that scrutinizing gaze.

They...

They want to go home.

[sootngrime]

@acuityfeed

       They don’t know how long it’s been.

       They've lost track of how many times the hourglass has run out — of how many times they've flipped it, over and over, hoping that maybe the next one would bring her back. The turns are more than they can even think to try counting.

       (She'd said she'd teach them more numbers when she came back. She'd promised.)

       Inky digits reset the timepiece once more. They stare at it, for a moment, watching the grains slip down yet again into a new pile, only for gaze to drift to the small doll held close in their other arm.

       She’s never been gone so long before.

       They're not sure what to do. They want her to come back — are tempted to go find her. It's gotten harder and harder with each turn to not go looking. But they aren't supposed to leave. They're supposed to be good, and stay home, and not go outside without her.

       Maybe... Maybe looking from the entrance would be okay though?

       The thought scares them a little. They've never gone even that far on their own before. But...

       Hesitant, conflicted, they nonetheless tuck their doll away and make for the stairs.

       Dangling bones are carefully avoided on the ascent. Emergence onto the upper floor is met with the faint glimmer of a destructive rune at the corner of vision, a warning and a reminder that makes resolve flinch. Still, they continue on — added caution in their movements as they manage to safely navigate the next room and the passage beyond — until noise halts them at the turn to the central chamber ahead.

       Is someone there?

       ...Scholar?

       Is their scholar home?

       There's speed to their step now at the thought, at the simple possibility, heedless of the alternatives. They hasten down the remaining stretch of hallway, quickly slipping past the pressure plate near the end, hurrying into the open room to —

       To very abruptly freeze because oh.

       Oh that isn't their scholar at all.

[chaosoriginsa]

With their hands full, Sooter can't exactly sign. So they're going to let the note on the specialized container do the talking for them.

"We both know you stole my heart. I'm giving you this one to show there's no hard feelings. Happy Valentine's Day."

Sooter may have also stashed a small jar of fireweed honey inside. For additional flavoring, of course.

     As per typical, the scientist busied themselves in a lab so ISOLATED that it provided ignorance to the passing days (THEY'VE BEEN WORKING ON A PROJECT FOR THE BETTER PART OF A MONTH, MY HOW THE DAYS PASSED). However, it didn't mean presence was disliked- especially Sooters. Mandibles twitched and moved in an approximation of a SMILE that the insectoid could provide.  “&– -  Ah- -- I am happy to see you, любимый! I was just messing with this and-”

  Curiosity came before a rambling of project could begin as they noted the container, soft chittering the replacement for QUESTIONING as they approached (GIVING THE FACSIMILE OF NECESSITY A CREATURE WITH EYES WOULD NEED TO OBSERVE). First thing that brought attention being the organ nestled within its glass containment, then the sweet aroma of the honey they could smell even BEHIND what it was held in. A natural reaction of mouth movement that came with it. And last but not least the note- reactions SHOWING in their silent reading from cheerful raising and swaying of gooey antennas-- -

    That was until they read the last part- those lower just a tad.       “&– - Valentine's Day.... I totally forgot. I completely lost track of the days on yet another project- forgive me, I will make up for it.”      A statement they meant in earnest, as they softly rest hands on either side of Sooters frame // HEAD LIGHTLY LEANING AGAINST THE OTHERS MASK. A soft chuckle came from them as they regarded the gift again.     “&– - I adore it though-- - and to think you've taken mine as well, despite me thinking I never had one. You are far too good to me.”  // @sootngrime

[sootngrime]

There are countless times, even now (perhaps especially now) where they find themselves marveling over Chaos. Over the ways they express themself in their body language, their gestures, their mannerisms — the little twitches and shifts, points of glow, and even the subtle currents where their less solid matter is visible.

любимый, the Agent calls them. Darling. They marvel at that too, and everything it means. And when speech falters, supplanted by a wordless noise as alien as familiar and more physical emotives, Sooter takes a brief moment to silently catalogue each reaction and unspoken communication and goes to add them to the list of things they appreciate about Chaos, but find all are present already. The arsonist is left to simply feel their own hushed gladness in the wake of their partner's apparent delight.

(To be certain, the firestarter wouldn't have minded in the slightest had Chaos continued to speak on their latest project. There's a measure of comfort to be found in listening to their other half's explanations and endeavors — and, yes, ramblings — and a certain quiet joy often arises in witnessing their enthusiasm over their passions and experiments.)

But then comes the dip in antenna and there's an instant of concern, of regret, for the arsonist hadn't intended to upset the Agent in the slightest. It's cut short. Apologetic dialogue, warm sentiment, familiar touch, and Sooter eases. How easy it is now. They take a moment to savour the contact — leaning into it as much as Chaos does — before pulling back just enough for them to set the gift down on the counter beside them, so their hands might be free to speak.

[You're here,] they respond. [We're together. That's enough.]

It's all they can really say. All that really needs to be said, in that moment. They don't feel they have ones that can properly express just how much they appreciate Chaos for merely existing.

— And that's on the list, too. It's on there many, many times, with all their quirks and marvels and faults, and Sooter will not hesitate to add it many more.

[riftrive]

A certain humanoid goo creature is more than a little lost at the moment, and is perhaps wandering a bit too much and a bit too close to places they really shouldn't be. But that wandering abruptly pauses when they spot the figure in white. Oh... Maybe he's nice?

(sootngrime)

`IMPATIENT FOOTS TAPPING WAS THE RHYTHM OF THIS QUIET ALLEY. That and the soft click-click-click of a pick // MORE JUST IDLY PLAYING WITH IT SO BOREDOM DIDN'T EAT HIM WHOLE (BEING THE DRIVER AND THE ESCAPE ARTIST WAS A DOUBLE EDGED SWORD). It meant when they separated into different vehicles, Clubs was more oft then not stood waiting for the others. Most of the time they were there by the time he had bust open a lock, but not today. No, they said they were back tracked by some hairs splitting on the plan-- - it happened, the criminal wasn't worried. But he sure as hell was bored. (AND MAYBE A BIT WORRIED, BUT NONE WOULD HEAR THAT).

`FINALLY DRUG OUT OF IT BY A PASSING SHADOW CAUSED BY NEARBY LIGHTS. A clear exasperated sigh escaped the Card-   “&– - About time- what took you so goddamn long?” Spoken without masked face turning to look // BUT THAT ONLY LASTED SECONDS SURMOUNTING. (THOUGH IT WAS REPLACED WITH SCRUTINIZING BEYOND PLASTIC FRAMES).  “&– - We never discussed new costumes.”

`SOMETHING WAS CLEARLY OFF ABOUT THIS THING. Clubs was certain this wasn't one of the other three-- - only one of them had any real artistic skills, and honestly he trusted them to DISCUSS such a decision with all of them (BESIDES, THEY DIDN'T LOOK HUMAN). Now it wasn't impossible for costuming, but it was a stretch for sure right now. Still, the wildcard was seeing what the other would do-- - or if by small chance his suspicions were incorrect (THOUGH HE WOULDN'T PUT IT PAST BEING FROM ONE OF THOSE OTHER GANGS THAT HAVE BEEN POPPING UP // AND MIGHT LIE). // @sootngrime

[sootngrime]

Initial tone and wording are enough to make the newcomer flinch back, increased uncertainty (some fear, maybe) prompting form to tense as if it had any true muscles with which to do so.

Maybe they should just keep moving. They're not supposed to talk to strangers, after all. They're not even sure if it's okay for them to be near strangers. Not alone, at least, and to that end they'd kept to the less people-y ways as much as they could to avoid people in general as much as any police.

But... This person doesn't seem like the regular people. Regular people don't wear a suit and mask (Is it a mask?) and wait in more secluded alleyways... Right? That sounds like something their family and the "associates" might do.

Hands hesitantly raise to sign. They fumble over the gestures.

[Please- I'm sorry. Help- Can you help me? I'm lost.]

They want to go home. They just want to go home.

[sootngrime]

@riftrive — Catrina

It's peaceful, for the moment. The arsonist doesn't know how long that will last with the crew they now find themself a part of. They hardly even know what to make of the other members — present company perhaps least of all.

They glance at her, and their gaze is automatically drawn to vibrant orange petals. Part of them is tempted to ask what kind of flowers they are.

...

Attention returns to the lighter they hold, and Sooter goes back to thumbing the lid. It's not fire, nor clay, but it distracts from quiet anxiety well enough.

[chaosvice]

In a clear, easily visible, spot in Chaos's workspace, Sooter lays down a new text on molecular biology, then rests a new SMG beside it. After a moment of hesitation, they set two other books down as well. They're not sure if Chaos will like H.P. Lovecraft, or The King in Yellow, but they hope so. If not... Well. They're fairly certain that the MP5 will at least see some use.

  To call the scientist a hater of holidays would be INACCURATE-- - the fact he seemed unaware of the day was not due to this. It was a blend of plenty of factors // MOST OF WHICH ACTUALLY SEWN A SEED OF IGNORANCE. Decorations strewn gave little indication of the day by day when they existed for weeks- it didn’t help that his physical clock was incorrect if not paying attention. The windowless bowels of INTERNAL LABS, the less frequent need for SLEEP, and general distractions left plenty of days when Chaos had been greeted by a colleague with ‘you’ve been down here for 3 days? wow.’ (ALWAYS GRANTED WITH A CHUCKLE BACK, ‘MUST HAVE LOST TRACK’). The place was not absent of clocks, many had just learn to retrieve Chaos if really needed.

    Truthfully, this was indeed one of those occasions. The masked horror finally had left an experiment of focus for return to higher floors // LEAVING THE BACKGROUND NOISE OF FADED BUZZING OF CURRENT PROJECT TO FADE WITH DOORS. A place heavily deemed as his own office was entered, initially for the sake of just grabbing something simple. (SOMETHING PUT ON HOLD WHEN ATTENTION WENT TO NEW OBJECTS WITHIN THE ROOM). Lithe form redirected attention and movement towards them- gloved digits almost gentle in the manner that they examine each.

   Books gain focus first- each taken time to examine intricate covers, open up pages (AND STOP SELF FROM GETTING ENGROSSED INTO READING ALL THREE RIGHT THEN AND THERE). From what is absorbed into mentality from mere glimpses, however, there is the instant realization of how exact the selection is (SPECIFIC TO HIM // AND TASTES). Then it’s the weapons turn- an object just as familiar in the palms of the Agent. Ooze seeps from between the barrier of sleeve and gloves, bathing the gun in a wash of inky tones much like the others he comes in contact with. Each bit and piece felt by him, the capability of it told alone by this manner. 

  Chuckle that lifted into the air of silence was audience to him alone // BUT ITS NATURE WAS THERE (SOFT, APPRECIATIVE, AND PERHAPS A BIT OFF-GUARDED). Chaos knew exactly who had left these for him- and perhaps he was a bit regretful of having been lacking of times attention.   

    That itself did not last long, HOWEVER, as the gifts were put down for the sake of collection- he was not the type to have colorful boxes or decorated bags on hand. What he did have was a selection of basics // WHITE SAFETY WRAPS AND THE LIKE. They worked was the thought the voidial one had-- - more intent on the actual supplying of the objects than what they were held in.

   But before that, the room was left yet again- for there was something that had to be finished. And the source of buzzing was yet again greeted; after all, he had to complete the primary gift for such a dear friend. // @sootngrime

[sootngrime]

@chaosvice:

“мой друг-“  Native tongue said with the normal jubilance as was typical with him. Chaos was not the type to hide things to find later, nor wrap them (unless something devious was planned, but this was not the case).

"I thought I would restock your materials a bit."  That was the explanation for the first of the items- a bag full of different chemicals and concentrates to be mixed and matched into different colors. Whether this be for fires or other reactives, it didn’t matter. Mixed in with these bottles was some various new metal bits to help building- and under that an evidently custom designed flare gun.

The other two items were not explained- one, another bag. Inside lay it a simple sweater with a cartoonish fire design along it. 

The second of those- this was obviously something more of Chaos’ time and focus. It was a box with obvious air holes and very light movement. Inside would be found a firefly, but much larger than one should be. And with some coloration and attentiveness that was not natural by any means.

       They’re tending to their flamethrower when Chaos approaches — considering a tear in the tubing as they work on disconnecting it, wondering if it would be worth trying to mend or if they’d be better off replacing the whole line. But the other’s presence pulls their attention away. Their hands pause and they look to him. Offer a small greeting. Gaze inevitably, subtly drifts to the objects held, and the firebug finds themself curious as to what project their friend might be working on this time.

       Maybe Chaos notices the minute shift because then come the words, and — Restock?

       …Oh. Those are for them, then. That sort of makes sense. They were starting to run low on a small handful of supplies. They… Don’t recall having said anything though. Or putting in any requests for materials. And they certainly didn’t need so much that it would require two bags, or for Chaos to deliver the items in person. That last part, though not entirely out of character, does make the arsonist wonder if maybe he wants to work on things together again. That would be nice. They’d like that. But the entire scenario still feels strange and is more reminiscent of the others around the facility giving presents to each other than anything and —

       …

       Oh.

       The arsonist falls very, very still. Can only watch as the items (Gifts? For them? That can’t be right, can it?) are set on the unused end of the work table. One of them has something too soft in it to really make any noise. The other clinks faintly with the sound of glass and metal. (That one makes sense, at least, based on what Chaos had claimed to have brought.)

       They register the box last.

       Air holes. Light.

       (Maybe it can be right, and it is.)

       Their brain struggles to process what’s happening. They know this feeling. It’s familiar.

       Surprise, they think. This is what surprise feels like. Or maybe shock. It’s never been easy for them to tell the difference.

       But there’s a new, warm weight in their chest now too. One that doesn’t have anything to do with the fire they wield. One that slowly builds, and grows, as their focus departs from the collection of gifts (gifts for them) to return to the friend who’d seen fit to give them.

       Suddenly they’re not by the flamethrower anymore. Suddenly, their mask is buried in black fabric and their arms are wrapped around something that probably shouldn’t feel as solid as it does.

       Later, once they’ve actually taken a proper look at the gifts and put everything away and the firefly (Zuri, the firestarter names them, because they’re beautiful and and good and precious) is left to settle in their new home, Sooter will seek Chaos out while wearing the sweater so thoughtfully given, and ask if he liked the presents they’d left for him to find earlier. Later, after he answers, they’ll make a tentative, almost nervous request to hug him again.

       Right now, as their mind catches up to what their body has done, they find themselves utterly frozen and unable to think at all.

       Oh.

       So this is shock.