Mushroom thingsā¦ :3 (heads up for some gore, there is a dead body but nobody dies in this, thereās a bit of fucking with throat gore but I can send anyone a version with that bit removed if needed)
[Ophi isnāt exactly a stranger to dropping by the arena for homework. He and Aurrel have a deal of sortsā¦ Aurrel tries to trade assignments with him, he talks the guy down into just helping each other out, and they talk at each other until something clicks. Or until the listening party gets tired of it. Aurrel is away for a sparring break, so Ophioc is left with the unchanging words of the textbook to try and wrestle his brain into behaving. To limited success, but heās sure Aurrel will help make sense of it when he gets back. And
Things are always normal, until they go tits-up, it seems.
Heās missing a bit of time, between someone raising a fuss and nowā¦ heās braced on the wall for balance. ā¦When did he get up? Andā¦ isnāt that a lot of bronze? He hopes Junieās alrightā¦ she has quite a lot of friends. It would be a shame for them to lose her.
Ophiocās bronze too. Wouldnāt it be a little funny if it were his? Heās not sure if he could even bleed that much anymore, after-
His knees start to buckle.]
[Mawris is hopeful, for this troll. A teal, discarded not too far from a courthouse, and surprisingly intact for it. She was still warm as they carried her home, and lighter than many of the corpses theyāve gathered recently. They donāt know if body mass lets their fungus take root any easier, butā¦ maybe they can find some of their old charts. It would be nice, to put forth more attempts again. They can learn from their failures, after all.
Preparing the corpse is familiar work, after all these sweeps, and theyāve worn the handle of their knife to fit their hand, even resting against the flesh where they had to carve skin from a rather ragged bite some decades past.
Not entirely unlike the task theyāve set at now. Uneven wounds catch more, so theyāre trimming the edges before their new guest is in any state to feel it again. Spare them the trouble by doing the dirty work while theyāre still dead. Take off jagged tears in the skin, only take away what muscle seems like it would be more trouble than itās worth, and preserve the bones wherever possible. Fortunately, itās simple here. A few points of impalement through the torso, and theyāre stepping aside for a moment to clean their hands and blade.
The cleaning is always the simplest part. It gives them a moment to steel themselves, before they attempt to share their gifts. Itās never terribly easy, plucking from their own mycelium, but they do what they must to help those they can. Even if it feels like theyāre tearing away a part of themselves.
ā¦Even if that might not be entirely apart from the truth of it.
The thought makes them err, as they carve at the troll beneath them one more time. Theyāre almost certain they cut into something they shouldnāt have, in the poor trollās throat, butā¦ they do hope that she wonāt mind, if theyāre able to convince the fungus to take hold.
They have their fingers buried into the flesh and fungus of their throat, when thereās a knock on the cellar door. A rather impatient one. And they know theyāre not going to be a very good host for some time, after the process is done, soā¦ they let themselves be interrupted, just this once.
Theyāre not familiar enough with the presence outside the door yet to recognize them by feel yet, so they take a moment to tidy the space before answering the door, and they hope whoever it is doesnāt mind if theyāre a little bloody.
Itās dark outside again, they note, as they take in the sight of two trolls. Ophioc, that darling bronze that they had mistaken for dead some time agoā¦ he seems to be in quite a poor state, given what they know of him. Heās nearly being carried by a shorter rust, who seemsā¦ rather uncomfortable with the situation. He doesnāt make eye contact while he shifts under their friendās weight, and his voice is harsh when he talks, rattling through words faster than they can keep up.
āHelp him. Jouren said you do this shit because you wanna help, so help him. Heās hurt, and my friends canāt do shit because of you, so fix him!!ā
The troll keeps going, butā¦ honestly, Mawris stops listening as soon as they get an arm around Ophioc. He doesnāt seem nearly as heavy, when heās conscious enough to at least try and take his own weight, although he falls into their armchair just as hard as when they thought he was dead.
The rust is still talking as they take a knee to look him over and take stock of the damage. They can see a rib through torn skin and fabric, and the living guest rises into shouting when they raise their blade away to cut away burned areas of the shirt.
ā¦He is rather disruptive, isnāt he?
āIf youāre going to continue to raise your voice, Iām afraid I might have to ask you to leave.ā
He falls silent for the moment, and they dedicate their focus back to the troll before them.
Itās fascinating, watching him breathe. They can feel an echo of his pain, but even still, they take a moment to justā¦ look. Theyāre almost certain that they can see hints of his hyphae, embedded in his flesh here and there, andā¦ if they didnāt care for him, they would almost be curious to take him apart, if only to see how it interacts with mostly living flesh.
But they do care. He is a friend, after all. So rather than indulging any darker trails of thought for the moment, they lay a hand gently along a span of his ribs that appears uninjured, and commune with his system of fungus. Compelling it to regrow is familiar, and not entirely dissimilar from the task they had before this, butā¦ it feels strange, here. Distantly, theyāre aware of the shifting of his heart and lungs, and the hyphae embedded in his muscle moving with it, andā¦ if they pay close enough attention, they can almost feel an echo of his pulse in their own chest.
Itās fascinating enough to distract them for a moment, until the rust is shouting again.
āIs that a body?!?ā
ā¦Mawris isnāt terribly fond of that troll, they decide.]
[There are scores of corpses to be found on Alternia, if one has the whim to look. Things vacated for the time being, waiting to find life anew in one form or another. Mawris likes to imagine theyāre one of the more preferable forms, if they might indulge their ego in the relative privacy of their own mind.Ā
Tonight, theyāve found a blessing in the form of a fresh kill, still warm to the touch and, from what they can see, surprisingly undamaged. Open wounds are never terribly pleasant, but theyāre near certain their mycelium can do a decent enough job at keeping a puncture as small as this from becoming too much more of an issue any time before the troll can adjust. ā¦If the process takes, that is. There is, of course, every chance that this troll will simply join the symphony of fungi that surrounds their reclaimed home. They can hope all theyād like, but the odds are only as favorable as they are for the sheer amount of work they put into sharing their gift, and theyāve let their efforts fall to the side, with their recent rates of success in revivals.
The weight they carry on their shoulders is heavy, as they enter the cellar, but bearable as ever.
The familiarity of it doesnāt keep the whispered apology from their lips as they let the corpse fall into an old and well-loved armchair, marked with the blood of all their guests, risen and buried alike. They adjust limbs to be less likely to damage muscle before making their way to the dining table, clearing away dishes and notebooks and a computer that Discos has left with them for a time. She plans to return to spend a few nights with them soon enough, she had said, but they never mind her company.
The work to move and prepare a body for the mycelium is familiar enough by now that even they find their mind wandering along the way, from time to time, especially with something as simple as a few impalements. Even the sacrifice of a piece of themself, given to a piece of flesh theyāve had to carve into, is at risk of becoming a mechanical action at times such as these.
Theyāre frankly surprised to find the process finished as quickly as it is, even with how little work they had found tending to wounds, and they nearly forget to clean the blood from their arms before lifting the body once more. There are a few cots in the back of the cellar set aside specifically for new guests, and as they lower the form to a mattress, they glance over to the other corpse in residenceā¦ and find a pair of wide eyes looking back. How delightful!
āOh, hello dear! I didnāt expect you to wake so soon!ā
They spare a thought to share the necessities with the troll as they adjust the corpse in their arms, giving their name and location with the troll in the time before they can turn to greet the guest proper.
Peonie, it seems. What a pretty name she has!
She opens her mouth to answer them, and their breath has a quiet wheeze to it- did they miss an injury in the cleaning? And when she speaksā¦ her voice fails her before she can even begin. Not, evidently, silent as the dead, but theyāre sure a comparison could be drawn, for the humor of it if nothing else. They see the spark of fear that crosses her face, and when she starts to brace herself against the mattress, cross to her side as quickly as they can to help.
āOh, Iām sorry! I didnāt realize that your injuries were deep enough to steal your voice- may I share a bit of my experience with you, dear?ā
Her gaze is a heavy thing, while she thinks, and only grows a fraction lighter when she nods. Mawris can understand- dying seems to be a very distressing matter for most trolls, after all, but they know she will come to understand they only mean to help.]
(heads up for mentions of death and some quickly discussed gore)
[Itās rare, lately, that Jouren feels that bone-deep pull back to Mawris. Discos said they all get it, but knowing that doesnāt make it any less unsettling to find himself drifting off into a daze and coming back to his senses in a field of scattered mushrooms, staring down old cellar doors, the sun-bleached paint chipping and wearing away with the sweeps.Ā
It feels like waking up again, when he breathes the stale air inside. Mawris is sat cross-legged on the floor, their eyes closed, and they lift their chin in a small nod to him. Heās not sure if theyāre smiling for him, or if theyāre just like that, anymore.Ā
āItās been some time, Jouren- I hope youāre well!ā
They donāt open their eyes to speak to him, but something tells him thatās a good sign. Affection, almost. He isnāt sure why he thinks that, butā¦ the thought is there nonetheless.Ā
He grunts as he joins them on the floor, the gashes in his ribs lighting up with pain as the broken stalks of crushed fungi scrape against the inside of his shirt, against the pressure of his coat.Ā
āI think I made a friendā¦ heās intimidating, but-ā
āI can tailor your shirts for you, if you need, you know.ā
They tilt their head at him, eyes wide as they look at him, and he feels too exposed under their gaze.Ā
āI knowā¦ I know, I do, butā¦ā
He stumbles over some excuse until they reach for his hand, the flesh of his palm meeting the coarse mycelium that fills the space that has filled the missing flesh of their own hand.Ā
āYou donāt need to be like them, anymore. I promise, you donāt have to ache just for the sensibilities of the living. It has to hurt- I know it does. And I do want to help.ā
Something about their tone makes his chest hurt, makes him too aware of his own unnecessary breathing. And he finds that he canāt hold their gaze.Ā
They let the silence draw out for a few moments before they clasp their other hand around his, giving it a light squeeze.Ā
āYou donāt have to, of course! I remember sentimentality about things like that, when I was much more freshly dead. But when youād like to stop hurting yourself, you can find me!ā
Their voice is back to its usual chipper tone in an instant, and it feels like thereās a weight that vanishes, one he hadnāt noticed until it was gone.Ā
Itās several months before he finds himself falling out of that daze again, nearly tripping over the stairs on the way back into the cellar.Ā
Mawris has dug out more space, it seems. Distantly, he wonders what it looked like originally, when they first made it their home.Ā
When he finds Mawris, they look deathly serious and theyāve got one hand gripping the edge of a blood soaked table, and the other is knuckles-deep in a corpse.Ā
A seadweller, mangled nearly beyond recognitionā¦ he only realizes they had fins at one point from the royal pink staining the table, the floor, Mawrisās arms, a recliner thatās been shoved out of the wayā¦
Jouren feels sick.Ā
He canāt bring himself to look away.Ā
Not as they take a blade from beside the bodyās head and start cutting away at the jagged flesh, making clean lines of the gashes torn through the trollā¦ deep enough that he thinks he can see spine. It looks like someone got a little too experimental with a dissection. With a fork.Ā
Mawris gathers the the scraps of removed flesh into a pile on the floor at their feet, and they take a deep breath. Steeling themselves for something.Ā
When they dig into their own throat, he feels suddenly like an intruder on something. Somethingā¦ not sacred, that isnāt the right word, but unholy doesnāt feel right either.Ā
He sees them clench their teeth as they find something, and he could swear he feels something snap free just as much as he hears it.Ā
They raise the blade again, and this time, he breaks his gaze, leaving the cellar as quickly as he can, discomfort of the setting sun be damned. Itās bearable, anymore, and he canā¦ count mushrooms, or something, until theyāre done. Heās sure they knew he was there, even if they didnāt acknowledge him.Ā
Dusk has fallen by the time they come to greet him, finally. Theyāve cleaned the viscera from their arms, and their smile is back.Ā
āJouren! Welcome back!ā
Their voice is far too gleeful, for someone whoās just been doingā¦ whatever that was.Ā
Not for the first time, he wonders if they held the same grim expression when theyā¦ what, revived him?
He can hear Carverās voice in his memory, chiding them for disrespecting the dead. exceptā¦ he doesnāt think heās talked with her about this?
Mawris takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, and for an instant, thereās this lonesome, hollow feeling in his chest, in his throat. But only for an instant.Ā
āAre you alright? Discos said she felt ill when she first saw me workingā¦ do you need a drink? Iāve got tea ready, even if it may be a bit cool by now!ā
He nods before he thinks about it. Sure, it shouldnāt be any surprise that theyāve had corpses in that cellar- he was one of them, after all- but the thought of going back down there feels like it should turn his stomach.Ā
āUm. Can we have it up here? Please?ā
His voice sounds small, pitiful. And their brows twitch a moment before they nod.Ā
āIāll be right back! Donāt go anywhere.ā
The tea is long cooled, by the time it reaches his hands, but itās bitter enough to make him aware of his own senses again. Worth the trouble, even if Mawris laughs when he makes a face.Ā
Beyond that, though, he says nothing. What would he even say? Would he ask them how they started digging around inside dead bodies like a purse? What they put in it? Why? Heās almost certain any new information heād learn would be something to turn his stomach. He still remembers their cheery, careless demeanor while he was in the depths of coming to terms with his own deathā¦ this would be no different. Heās sure of it.Ā
But after some time, hours it feels like, they clear their throat.Ā
āJourenā¦ why donāt you visit more?ā
He takes a breath, and finds he has no answer. Not one heād like to share, at least. Because they unsettle him? Because going any farther than the first open area reminds him of his death, of the fact that heās something strange now? Because, frankly, the fungus growing from the walls sends chills down his spine?
He closes his mouth and shrugs, and they hum in response. Theyāre on the wrong side for him to see what face theyāre making, but he hears them move, and when he looks, theyāve turned to face him.Ā
āJouren, weāre friends, arenāt we?ā
Looking at their wide eyes, heās aware of just how dry his mouth and throat are, and of how his shirt grazes against the mushrooms in his ribs as he breathes, and how, at this angle, those from his throat only just touch his chin.Ā
[Ophioc isnāt a terribly wise man. This isnāt news, of course, butā¦ he feels it at a new height, as he sinks back to the floor, tangling his fingers in his hair and bracing his arms on his knees to keep himself upright as he squeezes his eyes shut and just breathes.
The pain is an all-encompassing burn, that carries with it waves of nausea and disorientation, seemingly at random.
All this over a mushroom he didnāt expect to end up with to begin with.
It couldnāt have been enough to lose him a friend, maybe more; it couldnāt have been enough to have to carry the uncertainty of his fate- no.
It was an easy thing, breaking it off at the stem. Mushrooms arenāt terribly durable, and this seems to extend to the kind that cultivated undeath. An easy mistake to make, easily enough tossed into the trash before the consequences could reach him.
Heās still greeting the people that come to the door- of course he is, he craves something enjoyable of this holidayā¦ heās not going to let himself squander all of it for the sake of sitting with things that canāt be undone. Heās putting those years on the stage to use, smiling and chatting away with anyone that knocks, and if they notice somethingās off, at least they have the decency not to say anything.
He hears knuckles against the door again, far sooner than he hoped. Digs his fingers into his scalp another moment as he rallies himself, and takes a breath to standā¦
ā¦And the door opens. Shit, he didnātā¦ he didnāt think Jouren would come back tonight. They knew heād be here all nightā¦ heās been trying to make it easy to avoid him, theyāve been through enough as it isā¦
He stands too quickly, intending to tuck himself away into his room as long as needed, butā¦ he canāt move that quickly, right now. He canāt even catch himself on the way back down-
His meeting with the floor isnāt as jarring as he expects it to be, but a shoulder suffers for it, a firm grip around his arm, and another hand coming around to his ribs on the other side, all but carrying him to the couch to sit down proper. Itās more than heās bothered to do for the past few hours, for sure.
āWhat happened? Youāre, umā¦ you donāt look great.ā
Jouren trails off into mumbling for a moment, or maybe Ophioc just stops listening while he gestures vaguely, eyes falling closed once more.
āIām a dumbass, donāt worry about meā¦ itās. Iāll be fine. Iāll be fine.ā
He doesnāt have to look to see the face Jouren is making at him. He knows the sigh of it well enough on its own.
āCome on, work with me a little bit. āDāyou eat somethinā that didnāt agree with you, orā¦?ā
Ophi starts to shake his head, just enough to regret it, leaning into elbows on his knees while he tries to catch his breath again.
āā¦Noā¦ no, itās justā¦ dumb mushroom shit, ās my own faultā¦ā
The words take too long to get out, and his voice shakes too much, itās too telling, Jouren shouldnāt have to deal with thisā¦
Their hand on his jaw is gentle, just lifting his head enough to look him over. Ophi opens his eyes and all, some attempt to prove that heāll be fine, and he catches Jourenās wince as the manās eyes fall away from his face, down and to the side a bitā¦ it takes him a moment to fill in the blanks of the mushroom he broke off, and that Jouren would understand better than maybe anyone else, here.
He opens his mouth to say something, but the olive beats him to it.
āYeahā¦ thatāll do it. Donāt think Iāve been this bad for it yet, butā¦ yeah, no. Stay here, Iām gonna get you a drink-ā
āJouren, no. No, donāt let me- go have fun. Do halloween, you had plans-ā
āShut up.ā
All his attempts to rally fall away again with a stern word and a harsh point, but the look in their eye isā¦ soft. Something kind, somethingā¦ not quite pity, but he hasnāt got the brainpower to find the match for it.
āYouāre gonna stay there, and Iām gonna get you a drink, maybe call in some food, and grab some movies, and Iām not going anywhere ātill all this lets up some. Then we can go get Mawris to smooth it over a bit, and can go from there, alright?ā
Any sharpness to their voice falls away quickly, and Ophi lets his eyes fall closed again, leaning back into his elbows as he nods, just a little. Heād be lying if he said heād not be at least a little glad to have the companyā¦ and maybe he hopes, a little, that heās not chased Jouren off quite yet. Theyāre a good dude, andā¦ well. Ophioc has missed his roommate.]
Rabbit on da brain tonight... I have in my brain a events for them and several others but I yave not had the ideas for more around it to flesh it out ą«®ā āø ā į
1: thinking about the revants again. Specifically Rabidd
2: passing thought of haha remember joke Abt how he/him runs in their bloodline just as much as their teeth? Well so does their rage <3 quick to spark but they all handle it differently from there
3: rabidd and remind have similar flavors to their anger, to me. Which is odd. You have Remnis, who burned so hot that he was willing and intending to collide the sun with Alternia if he could manage it. And you have Rabidd. Who. I'm so normal about man I'm so normal about Rabidd and the image of a conversation of someone going 'rabid? You seem pretty tame to me,' and Rabidd just quietly responding some variation of 'Well, a rabid dog gets put down.' I'm normal about him I'm NORMAL GUYS and the determination he has that he's not to be trusted by the people they think Should be trusted, because he's a fleet worker, nevermind the side project of resurrecting a martyr's image in their armor to be able to do Something about things, and the fact that usually anything visible results in him blowing himself up because you can't get everyone else in trouble if the troll in the armor is supposed to be dead, and Rabidd doesn't LIKE reaching those scenarios of course he doesn't it fucking hurts but sometimes the little acts of sabotage go to shit or sometimes they need to be not quite little and hey man they had to stumble ass first into that fuckass gene of 'doesnt stay down' SOMEHOW and you know I just think about him a normal amount
What if I was sooooo funny and decided bex and bex can teleport but specifically only with each other
U look away and look back and the paint is mirrored and ur like oh god damnit we were having a conversation and of course the new bed is like of course we were :3 bc those two r little shits
God help u trying to keep track when they've decided to match
COMES SKIDDING IN HERE i remembered abt podsol's tangent with divinity and wanted to thinking abt godtier stuffs
OK SO THIS IS NOT NECESSARILY COHERENT BC DUE TO I AM A LITTLE HIGH AND HAVE HAD BOTH HORMONAL AND ACHY ON THE BRAINSPACE ALL DAY BUT
so like on vibes??? podsol doom player.... their vibes if they got godhood theyd b like decay and rot but in flavor of rebirth, not destruction but consumption and survival upon what remains, and maybe their god that's just taken a glance of a connection to their mind? maybe thats affecting them a lil bit but i mean they were already very pro bugs and if that advances into a thing abt rotting things then well theyre hardly the only one from their forest hiking buddies group to be a lil weird abt corpses
but like... like maybe i should research a thing on godtiers again bc ouh podsol doom player....... theyre a roly poly but like their godtier wings if they get em might b beetle style..... gonna come back and think striaght onto my keyboard in another readmore lol
ok so looks like on the circle setup life is opposite of doom and mayb isohel could b a life player or mayb light but those r off of aesthetics
i kind of want to say mage of doom podsol??? but like... idk if it fits or not.... i had the thought in passing and lost it again before i could process any actual comparisons....
wilyth as a thief of life is funny to me bc like. guy who eats energy from the dead to be able to cast magic.
i was gonna keep trying to classpect but i got back to thinking abt like god podsol with heavy buggy imagery... a painted depiction of them needing to include bugs around them, hiding in the hems of their cloak, getting a whole tie to bugs because they spend so much time on them,
even as a god though u know those talks are so unserious, those r their lil buddies :3 gotta catch them up on their stories and such
COMES SKIDDING IN HERE i remembered abt podsol's tangent with divinity and wanted to thinking abt godtier stuffs
OK SO THIS IS NOT NECESSARILY COHERENT BC DUE TO I AM A LITTLE HIGH AND HAVE HAD BOTH HORMONAL AND ACHY ON THE BRAINSPACE ALL DAY BUT
so like on vibes??? podsol doom player.... their vibes if they got godhood theyd b like decay and rot but in flavor of rebirth, not destruction but consumption and survival upon what remains, and maybe their god that's just taken a glance of a connection to their mind? maybe thats affecting them a lil bit but i mean they were already very pro bugs and if that advances into a thing abt rotting things then well theyre hardly the only one from their forest hiking buddies group to be a lil weird abt corpses
but like... like maybe i should research a thing on godtiers again bc ouh podsol doom player....... theyre a roly poly but like their godtier wings if they get em might b beetle style..... gonna come back and think striaght onto my keyboard in another readmore lol
