#;mori threads

[anend1ng]

@miewstory // plotted

You don't say much to him. You never do. You sit in relative silence, which is how you like it. It's at least what you've convinced yourself you like, anyway. He's been here a few days. Maybe it's been longer. You don't keep track of the passage of time much anymore. It goes, it goes, it goes. You stay the same. You stare at him. You know he's hungry.

You also know the fish, the clams, the lobster, the pickled vegetables, the canned fruits, none of it will satisfy him. You have a good store here. It won't do him any good.

You shut your eyes briefly. Try and conjure up some words. It takes you awhile, and when you do speak, your voice is gravelly and ragged, as if you haven't used it for months. It tears from your throat as cats claws do over fabric, ripping and shredding as it goes.

"you're hungry." Obvious. Then, a vague motion to himself. Very indistinct but still clear where he's made the motion towards. "then eat."

[anend1ng]

@endless-youth // plotted

Life was not as hard as it once was. It was, in fact, getting on to be quite comfortable, at least for the end of the world. Although this tiny island off the coast of Maine had once been an escape, had once been a prison, had once been a great many things, it was now, above all else, home.

Basil Hallward made it home. Others came and went on occasion, but Basil stayed, and Mori was settled into the idea that they would spend whatever time they were still granted together. This was an idea he ruminated on often, and one that never failed to get him up in the morning despite his various aches and pains. If Basil was there, Mori could face anything this world had left to offer.

The routines were simple enough. Mori got up before dawn, checked the horizon for boats, made breakfast. Then, sometime shortly thereafter, he would gather his fishing equipment and go out. Sometimes Basil joined him, sometimes he didn't. Mori didn't mind going out alone, silence, for as long back as his memory went, never bothered him.

Today is such a day he is on his own. He has made a decision to go a little further down the beach than he normally does, and on cold, rainy days such as today he moves a little slower. But there's something near the far end of the beach he wants to check. A special something he set out a few mornings ago that he hoped would produce treat for he and Basil.

As he's pulling the line that he's set in he spies the person walking up towards him. He thinks, at first, on appearance alone that it must be Sass. It would be odd, as they usually dock much closer to the lighthouse, but not the oddest thing in the world. Even as the stranger comes closer, Mori is sure it's them, the resemblance really is uncanny, but he realizes, finally, that it can't be them. The figure is too tall. His brow furrows.

Mori is an older man. His silvery-gray hair is long and blows a bit wildly in the wind. His beard too, is gray, and he has a scar on his chin and across the bridge of his nose. His eyes are the same color as his hair, though much more dull. He's very tall, but of relatively average build otherwise. He watches the stranger move towards him and continues to reel in his lobster traps, not calling out to him. It isn't until the other man is relatively close that Mori says anything at all. And even that isn't much. He nods, and mutters, tone raspy and a little strained, "good aft'noon."

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@drwlf // continued

There aren't normally that many people hanging around the mainland. I have to wonder if it was the noise of his bike that pulled his attackers out hiding. I've pondered over it from the time I carried him, and not my desired supplies, back to the lighthouse and up the many stairs to where he's currently laying-- on an old, floral patterned couch. It's ugly as hell, but it works.

I made some fish, still wondering about why his attackers would want the bike, there were three of them, based on what I saw. Three would not fit on the bike. I don't know what to make of it, other than I won't be going inland for as long as I can manage. It's clear that people are getting even more antsy. That's not good.

I'm coming up the stairs with two plates when he starts to stir. Good. Maybe the smell of food has roused him somewhat. He doesn't sound great, but he sounds alive. That's good. I set my plate down at the table and go to him with his. It's nothing fancy, just some mackerel I've grilled-- though I cut it into filets first. I'm not sure how he'd feel about the heads and I don't know if he knows how to pull the bones out if they're left in. I also pulled out some canned potatoes and cooked those up, too. It's a treat I normally do without, but I figure the food'll help the man get back on his feet faster. I don't mind going without.

I come over to him and kneel down so I'm not hovering. There is probably much to be said, but the words stick awkwardly in my throat and all I can manage is to hold out the plate as an offering.

...it occurs to me, a few seconds later, that he might have trouble holding it. His hands looked pretty worse for wear. I swallow. Clear my throat. But still can't force anything out.

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@crestfallens // plotted

It wasn't often that people came to knock on his door. His door, of course, being the door of a lighthouse on a small, remote coastal town in Maine. Ever since everything went down, Mori could only remember a few that specifically came to him. None had good intentions, however, and, in the end, Mori protected himself. Protected the lighthouse.

And then went about his business as best he could. For what it was worth, Mori just wanted to be left alone now. It was better that way. It was, in some ways, what he deserved. It was the way things had to be for him. He saw little other in the way of choices or outcomes.

So when someone comes knocking, for the first time in such a long time, Mori does as he often does. He hesitates. Because, in truth, he doesn't want to deal with whoever is there. He doesn't want to deal with whatever unpleasantness might have to follow. He doesn't want to do anything but pass his days fishing and watching over the lighthouse.

Eventually, he does come down the winding staircase that encircles the inside of the lighthouse and to the door that leads to the outside. He peers out the small window there, his brows furrowed, his mouth turned downward in a frown. He brushes his gray hair out of his eyes and then opens the door. He regards the person there, hand resting on his hip, and says nothing.