hello, beautiful people! you may call me ash (25+, they/them, gmt-7/8), and i'm excited to bring you sol graves, a tragicomedy poster child, the current keeper of grave hands the red fox tavern and a denizen of the farmer's barn! below the cut you'll find some basic info and some potential plots! the links right below here will take you to more detailed information. if you'd like to plot, feel free to like this post and i'll dm you! take care and remember to hydrate ✨
basics / bio / tavern
some sources of inspiration: kynseed, travellers rest, it will come back by hozier, buried at sea by david kushner, the hollow places by t. kingfisher, the click and drag of a lighter and the deep inhale on the first puff of a cigarette, the rumble of the pew (reverberating in your chest) when a tenor sings, the feel of a warm, crackling, fire on cold palms (etc!)
basic info!
graves was born in velgrove and has... technically lived there his entire life, not counting his time studying at the londai institute or the time he was missing
at the tender age of 21, graves went into the lake and never came back up. he was labeled missing until his miraculous return 10 years later; he has been back for about 6 months
his name went from 'kim sol' to 'sol graves' after his disappearance per kim family tradition (when a member goes missing they're given their own grave right in their name)
he obtained ownership of the tavern upon confirmation of his identity; he's the only member of his family left alive
his original motivation (and drive for living) was investigating his older sister's disappearance. now, it is trying to figure out the mysteries that plague his own life
the brain is a fickle thing and, unfortunately, he doesn't remember anything of his 10 years as a missing person; he's only recently started remembering more of his 21 years living at velgrove
he has acquired some strange new additions in his time...away... including (but not limited to) a fear of drowning, a hatred of shellfish, and a deep love of the sky.
some plots/connections!
customers: regulars! people who come into the tavern for their dinners and drinks!
someone who knew him from his time at the londai institute! maybe they studied together? maybe they traveled together? someone who would know his face and be surprised to see him alive after being missing for so long
an old... something, from graves' past! (does it hurt when he doesn't remember?)
someone who blooms into graves' life. for better. for worse. (are you an invasive plant? or a beneficial one? do you choke his lungs or give him more air to breathe?)
sound: what sort of sound would represent them best? what best captures their presence?
a tripartite soul, wherein —
( waves crash against the seashore; the deafening rumble before the splash against rock. the fizzle and moment of waiting silence and stillness before it begins again. nature in its finest, most rhythmic form. and in its depths their many dead dare to rest. )
well, i saw that boy at santhe bay! standin' there staring out into the ocean. bound to catch a chill, that one!
( birdsong amidst the trees, the crush of dirt underfoot, the whisper of grass from the wind's teasing caress. wait, don't you hear it? desperate hands digging into the dirt. is it up? ... down? )
sol graves! stop tracking mud onto my nice clean floors! / sorry, ma'am. i'll fix it.
( pure and utter silence. the absence of sound. of beat. of breath. stillness, stasis, quiet. until — a slow inhale, followed by a slower exhale. and then a lilting, bass-ridden hum. a song only he knows. )
“My father—he’s ill, I couldn’t leave him until he was asleep. I’ll stay late to make up for the time.”
@vel-jiel
the grave red fox tavern is known for its hospitality, its openness, its warmth. a good meal, a hot or cold drink, live music, and a clean bed were some of its many amenities curated by the kim family's careful direction. a family run business through and through.
and then in the spring of a long-forgotten year its doors opened up to any hand in need of work. trial, error, focus, and devotion shaped the tenants that linger in sol graves' not-so-fragile bones, claws sunk deep even as his broken mind waded through the murky waters of shattered memory.
always treat your coworkers with the utmost respect, pulsed like a heartbeat the second he claimed ownership and changed the tavern's name; shaping action, reaction, and tone.
in the year that followed new and old faces worked with him to keep the town of velgrove fed and comfortable through the long winter nights and scorching summer days. some left, some stayed and —
always treat your coworkers with the utmost respect; his mother's words linger in him like a phantom guiding his hand, his mouth, his mind.
so, when the bell above the door chimes and he looks up to see his newest worker step inside there is nothing in him but relief. that she is here, that she is alright, that whatever troubles plagued her weren't so serious that she was lost.
with wet hair, a hastily buttoned blouse, and an empty stomach she stands before him apologetic. and graves? he is rising, voice soft. "don't worry," he smiles slightly when she deigns to look up. "take a deep breath. it's okay."
and then, "if your father is still unwell, we can change your hours for today and tomorrow and move them to next week. would that be good for you?" a moment of consideration and, "before you make that decision, would you like to try the latest recipes narae sent over?" amusement colors his tone. "the citrus coconut steamed cod may not make the menu but her twist on garlic toast might. i need a second opinion."
he'd forgotten. in the hustle. in the bustle. in the busy bee of a day. in the many shared smiles, in the toasting of beer & wine, and in the fireplace heat of the tavern. had forgotten all the way up until now, dark eyes staring outside of his bedroom window with a steaming cup of apple spice tickling his nose.
a flash of light in the sky. once. twice. thrice. and —
the stars are falling.
it shakes the sleep from his body, the aching from his mind. cup to wood, socked feet thumping down the stairs. one shoe, two until sol graves is in the dark fields staring directly at the sky.
and it is there he beholds them: brilliant specks of celestial flame.
for the first time since he was but a boy, a wish bubbles out of his care-worn heart.
and like a beacon calling those sea salt weary ships home a star's light fills the night sky.
( i wish— )
just once, sol graves wishes, for himself. the rest that pure from his mind silently into the waiting star-speckled blackness of space are for everyone else. ( for jane's continued recovery; for misol's peace of mind; for hansol's serenity; for sumyeong's joy; for haeil's comfort. )
when the sky sits blank and dark does he finally go back inside, tucking cold limbs under thick blankets and finding a modicum of true rest.
( and in the morning, after a full and complete night's sleep, the weight he has carried for longer than he can remember has lifted until it is but a stone in his pocket. and so he rises, anew. reinvigorated for the day. unknowing that from that point forth it will be but a stone in his pocket and nothing more. )
@velidris | location: the tavern (and elsewhere) | tw: future weirdness
it begins the night sol graves breaks a hair tie in the middle of his shift.
not that he knows it just then.
nervous fingers pushing back and catching on black elastic, tugging free with a snap; loose locks fall to greet their new home around his face, neck, and a little bit past his shoulders. and he sighs, overheated by the sudden weight and press. and he tugs, enduring the customer before him's laughter with a smile.
rotten luck, mr. kang offers in his gruff, alcohol-soaked tone. one that slurs softly, cutting up and swallowing his syllables at the end. a quite drunk that let graves walk him home on the harder nights, on the nights he feels the loss of his son and daughter like a soldier’s phantom limb.
very, graves replies mildly; leaning forward to commiserate because, and i don’t have another. and mr. kang laughs a little at his expense, just how he’d intended.
and for the rest of the night sol graves endures the gravity, the sway, the brush of silky strands across his face, sticking to the sweat at his neck, interfering with his line of sight.
and he endures the playful hands of friends and drunk customers, of the bob and weave of each one, the coo, the playful volley ( I’m thinking of cutting it all off now / oh you wouldn’t dare! / wouldn’t i? ) until the night is through. he doesn’t think much else of it again as the cold pre-dawn air provides cool relief and he locks the red fox tavern’s back door until jinsu arrives for the morning shift.
it’s two days later that he notices the change. after quick, cold showers to get through the crush, the rush, there he sits. soaking. letting warm bathwater wash the dirt away. time, then, for an indulgence he allowed himself. of perfumed oils and deep conditioning. of allowing himself the time to let the stress bleed out slow. he finds it then, the change, of a lock of hair shorter than the rest. cut clean, he finds, after the water sloshes in his reach for the mirror on the counter beside the tub. sol graves puzzles at its appearance, fingertip drawing over its edges but like the whispers of the universe its source, its answer eludes him.
had someone cut it? but how? when? who?
they linger even as he finishes his routine, as he rises and dries, pressing in as he goes to sleep for the night.
but, like all things, they fade when faced with the noise of the day, tucked away as a curiosity to ponder over later.
later comes on a wintry wednesday morning; sitting on the bar top waiting for him to notice as he stomps the cold from his boots and unwinds the scarf wrapped around him.
sol graves notices it the second his dark eyes rise to study the state of their liquor supply, sitting innocently on the polished wood. waiting for him to see —
misol opened her mouth to speak— an answer sat on the tip of her tongue, but ultimately, no sound escaped her lips. despite knowing deep down that there was an obvious answer to his very simple question, misol's pride kept her from uttering the words out loud.
she in fact knew that the way she reacted to her uncle was wrong, and in doing so, she wound up treating him poorly each time. she was, indeed, conscious of how childish her antics were, but she couldn't explain why she continued to act the way she did. perhaps it was because misol knew that whatever she did, he would never retaliate back at her. or maybe she wanted a reaction.
"i have tried." though it was a stretch, there was a hint of truth mingled within her lies words. "but it's not my fault if he never listens, right?" she felt a frustration rise up in her bones as the image of her uncle's face flashed through her mind in that moment.
"isn't he your friend? has he ever talked to you about me at all? i'm sure he's just as frustrated having to house hansol and me out of the blue— who knows if he even believes if we are who we say we are!"
and the tide, oh the tide of misol's emotion. there in her sweet inhale, crashing to the shores of him when she exhales. there is a dreadful knowing in her, a prideful trembling so great it shook against the boundaries of her form. the silence is loud. and yet sol graves gentle rocks in its eddies. its swirls. a storm not meant for him. yet.
instead his gaze is on the lighthouse her need makes, the glowing eye at the center of her maelstrom. and so when she speaks, those truths and lies tumble free. "are you listening to him?" he asks instead laying fault or blame, tone mild and calm; one eye searching her from the shadows of a passing cloud. "have you told him you feel like he isn't hearing you?"
isn't he your friend? she asks. and it hurts. because yes. because no. because maybe so. can you still be friends with a ghost? "sumyeong hasn't spoken to me about your troubles." and then he grows solemn. serious. lifting onto one elbow to catch yang misol's eyes so she knows. "but he does not find you and your brother troubling or frustrating." a breath. "you look like your mother. both of you. we know."
"and the other animals? are they handling the cold okay? were you able to get the right covering for the overwintering crops?" / @velxgraves
sumyeong laughs at the though of becoming giants. the vision is entertaining / yet sumyeong also enjoys the thought of being able to cross lands with one step. to be one step away from his best friend was a merry thought compared to the reality they lived now.
if there’s anyone that will never fail to impress sumyeong, it’s sol. he doesn’t doubt the handiwork so clearly apparent in the book. anything that sol touched was handled with care. and sumyeong wasn’t materialistic / he truly wasn’t / he truly couldn’t afford taking up more space than he already did. but when blue moons rose, they always gave a little grace and carried something more for him.
he’s curious and he he feels the way his fingertips tingle, waiting eagerly to soak in whatever else sol has to tell of the world. so he’s glued to sol when the two go bounding back to the carriage to retrieve the last bag, argument in tow until the driver gives in.
“i made some curry last night. it’s been cold and soup’s been the only thing keeping the frost away. lady shim dropped off some fresh loaves of bread this morning if you’re feeling something lighter!”
sumyeong’s far too happy / the small frown that makes its way to his lips only last a few seconds having to deliver the news, “she had the calf just over a day ago. both mum and baby are doing good. everyone’s been keeping a good eye on the two.”
he’s about to answer sol’s next question when sol jolts and a rock skitters ahead. sumyeong can’t hide the laugh that catapults from his lungs as he grabs sol’s back keeping his dear friend upright. “let’s get you inside first in one piece.”
with the cold biting at their feet, it doesn’t take long to skitter inside where sumyeong helps graves settle in. bags in the living room, his new gift on the countertop / ready for the reading. sumyeong is quick in pulling cups and bowls from the cupboards, attention back on sol as he begins serving all the options.
“farm life is all you would think it is. nothing’s changed much. nothing in comparison to what’s out there.” as warmth seeps into sumyeong’s limbs, his tone softens but the excitement is still clear as ever. “what’s it like? the world-”
"curry," sol sighs with all the feeling of a dog coming home after a long winter starving. "curry, please. and some of that bread. don't taste right up north, you know?" even if sumyeong doesn't, so he — "it's like its missing some kinda dimension. some are too fancy, some are just... depressin'. like they weren't baked with any love."
and then sumyeong is laughing and sol's muttering a breathless, "shit," before he too joins the cacophony. it lasts but a moment, but the mirth lives in the way he smiles, the way he keeps them close, high on being home again. "yeah, please. feel like i'm gonna break my neck out here."
and then they're inside and sol finds his favorite spot against the countertop, hands itching to help but sumyeong is a whirlwind and it's like watching the sun rise in the early morning to see his friend in motion. at least until that tug in his gut pulls him to open the silverware drawer, to grab the napkins that feel like they were freshly laundered that morning. crisp. new. familiar in his hands.
"still matters," he chimes in, but melts under the force of a softened sumyeong. "loud," sol begins with a laugh. "everything is brighter, noisier. like... i told you about my dorm, right? how the window overlooks the city proper? well, their electricity doesn't go out so lots of shops keep their lights on all night. i had to get thicker curtains 'cause i couldn't sleep. and the birds? they sound so different." he devolves into a meandering examination of all the little city-critters, of londai at morning, midday, and midnight. he lingers in it before he comes to the people.
"they talk so fast, faster than mrs. kang after she's had her first cup of coffee. move fast too. not like running but near to, and they got this little slide step." he pushes away to demonstrate it's kick and drag, one he'd mastered in his first week, before settling back into his meal. "it's like they think time's always gonna run out," he pauses to dip a piece of bread into the heady curry warming him from the inside out. "my classes work the same. if you're even a minute late they kick ya out for the day and the professors talk like they're on a perpetual timer." he tilts his head. "a lot of what they say is important, but the other kids who are from outta town look lost a lot." sol shrugs, as if that isn't him. as if he had started to acclimate. except his first round of letters had told a different story. of excitement. of joy. of stress.
and then he pivots. "but after this break my advisor wants to travel and collect stories. she said she's gonna take me with her, so i suppose i'll see if other places are as fast as londai." and then he wanders his way through a few stories, of fire birds and sea serpents and children called away by a strange singer. sol talks until his voice gives way, reaching for the water by his plate.
feeling the weight of graves's hands pressed against his neck slowed his erratic heart. although hansol knew the reality of things would cause his heart to tremble once more, for a moment, time felt like it wasn't working against him. his shoulders lifted with a labored inhale. hansol needed to keep moving forward, even if it meant venturing into the unknown.
hansol was glad there was at least one person on his side, even if he was embarrassed by his own feelings. "you mean it? you'd do that?" hansol's eyes lit up. he couldn't help but pout. "that's very sweet of you, really. you're a great friend, graves." his tone was sincere, yet slightly strained from holding back more sentimental tears. his arms reached out to pull graves into a firm hug.
"we should get going soon." his voice hummed in a dissonant harmony with the warning creature, "things have been so strange around here. i'm not sure the two of us will be safe in the night." hansol pulled himself away from graves. a weight was lifted from his shoulders. "uh...thank you for the reassurance...i'm here for you too."
a shaking inhale to his silent, a shared exhale. graves waits for the momentary relief. "of course," he answers. simple. easy. of course i'll do it. whatever you need. his smile blooms at the corners, crinkling his eyes. "i will." and then he grins in full, charmed, thumb rubbing the line of hansol's nape. he does not reply to the kind words verbally, just goes in to the hug.
they linger there a moment, his arms encircling this child of his best friend's sister, body stooped. hold cradling and matching the firmness the younger man began this with. and graves wonders distantly, achingly, if she knew. if she knew how much her kids were loved. if she'd return if they loved hansol and misol enough.
and then it's gone, his focus snapping back into place as he runs fingers through soft hair. "yes," he agrees. there are miles to go and countless trees to comb for even the faintest trace of misol. he mulls the warning over as they step away from each other, as he studies the shadows feeling from the light. "we'll make it through," he decides. promises without speaking in a promise-way. no matter what happened that night sol graves would get them both to the other side. "i know you are, you're a kind soul yang hansol."
he bends to pick up the lamp he'd set to the ground somewhere along their meandering way and offers. "would you mind carrying this for me?"
and then they step into the dark to search for a wayward sister, a lost friend. and above them the crow flies south.
she would never dare say it out loud, but there were times in which misol was reminded of her mother when confiding in graves. he was always kind, calm, and never judgmental. he listened when she spoke and seemed to always have a proper response in return. graves never wavered and appeared all-knowing.
perhaps, in another life, they would have been great friends.
instead, she remained hidden— not a single trace of her found in velgrove, still. they were alike in that sense, too. both were mysterious, and despite the comfort she found in their presence, there was still so much about graves and her mother that she was unaware of.
but misol continued to claim ignorance as bliss, not ready to discover the answer to questions that might end up inflicting more harm than good.
"i have not mentioned this...to either uncle sumyeong or hansol. i just don't think they'd understand."
how could they understand something that she hadn't even understood herself?
there is no divinity in sol graves. no universal truth. no all-consuming and omniscient knowledge. back to the dirt and face to the sky, he is but one human among many other humans. one strange, but still common blip in the eternal life of the universe. an existence such as his walks along its path back to the dust from whence it came.
except...
i promise, he'd said a decade ago and against all odds something listened. and in his return sol graves gained a constant. not all but no less consuming. a place to set their worries down.
"how can you know if you haven't tried?" he asks without judgement. and then he deliberates. what is right and wrong in a life such as theirs?
"i think you are doing something," he begins, navigating the words like a seaman to the stars. "do you feel like it's wrong?"
EUNBYEOL FELT IT SETTLE IN HER BONES ONCE SHE REACHED THE STEPS — a subtle wrongness, a strange heaviness curling through the air. the change was small at first, faint but undeniable, pricking against her skin, threading through her veins, something forbidding pulling her from the artisan stall towards the town center. it was a curious thing — threatening, sinister, itching to pull one into the depths of darkness, swallow them in madness and despair, but curious all the same, like the majority of things she has crossed paths with upon her arrival here. there was always an undercurrent of uneasiness in town, but the townsfolk moved as if the disquiet was as natural as the sunrise. the hauntings persisted in all manners and forms, she had noticed, snaking around those who would lend itself to the trepidation, coil around those poor stars that would feed the belly of the beast with fresh fear, but even with that, those who resided here simply adjusted to the dread as though this was all routine.
what is it that you want? eunbyeol had thought one night, standing at the edge of the forest, watching the outline of shim yuzu drag herself across the ground. what is your purpose? she had questioned, wiping the blood from her hands at the foot of the lake. what are your intentions? she wonders the same thing now, feet carrying her towards the town center as though drawn in by something unnamed, something she couldn't quite place, but something that crept in and settled like thorns against her flesh. eunbyeol exhales through her nose, the buzz of something settling in her ears. something horrible marked itself here, but it's objective was unclear. are you weak? she wonders the closer she gets to the sheriff's office, the air beginning to shift into something sharp, something sour.
"brother graves," she calls to him once she's reached the front of the crowd, voice light and laced with sweetness, a stark contrast to the moldering air. the residents are huddled together, mummering, the stairs swarming with flies. "here, take this," eunbyeol smiles, offering up a small dagger from somewhere on her person, a small crescent and some kind of marking engraved into the handle. "my carving knife," she explains, encouraging him to take it as her head tilts, eyes scanning the stairs — the swarm buzzes again, her gaze fixed on them for a moment before drifting downward, landing on the pumpkins perched on the concrete steps. curious, she thinks, tasting something copper on the tip of her tongue, something uneasy curling in her stomach, watching all of them pulse as if holding some rotten secret.
she arrives with a familiar call, the nymph of wonder. brother graves, she entreats and like a moth to flame he finds her. right there in the front. where she wasn't before. such a sly thing, quiet thing, ponderous thing. a creature to hold in his palms only to watch her float there before flying away.
but now isn't for such considerations. now is for the knife slipping into his. now is the time to smile at eunbyeol and mutter, "thank you," as the flies swarm and swarm and swarm. he takes a moment to admire its shape, its weight, the press of its adornments on the skin of his palm. "it's beautiful," he assures, praises, "will you carve me something with it once we're done?" it is a nonsensical request, one spoken from his lips like a line from a story that wasn't his.
graves twists the blade in his grip, bends to the pumpkin that kept buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. one third of the way in, a small black cloud releases from the inside. he does not flinch but it is a near thing, skin roiling with the disgust that comes with so many little bugs beating against it.
and then the pumpkin cracks open the rest of the way. and out comes raw chicken innards. fresh and pink and oozing like they'd just been cut from the fowl they were a part of. the creeping crowd behind him gasps and he stares and stares and stares. turns grim eyes to eunbyeol. "we should get the rest of the townsfolk back. away from..." he stares once more. "this."
what a terrible omen.
somewhere above their heads a crow caws a warning song.
board prompt: an ordinary pumpkin sitting on the steps of the sheriff's office was found swarming with flies. upon cutting it open, raw chicken innards spilled from the inside.
it was the buzzing that caught his ear and eye that autumn morning. muffled even as a swarm brewed in the near distance. sol graves hadn't meant to wander so close to the sheriff's office that fateful morning, head caught in sun-clouds and star-clouds after a long night's work. but there he was, a statue in the path before a most strange sight.
with hands that ached from labors both mercantile and familial, he brushed a few curious flies to the side as they drew close. and then he followed their trail. to find trash or a rotted thing or whatever it was that commanded their compound gaze. only, the only thing of note were the pristine pumpkins sitting on the steps. unbroken, unmarred, unremarkable past their familiar and healthy sheen.
when he tried to pick one up to check underneath the buzzing grew, attracting the eyes of authority and community alike. "can i cut this open?" he asked the sheriff when the man poked out his head. upon gaining affirmation, sol graves turned to the sparse crowd.
"does anyone have a knife i could borrow?"
he could turn back to the tavern, do his instinctual dissection there, but it was far and the questions were so *close* to being answered.
where did the flies come from? and why were they swarming here? among them.
hour: 0:05.
her gaze settled on graves' face. "where should we start ?"
@eudoravel
hour: 0:02
the echo of her confidence stands brighter than the shake of her fingers, its phantom lingering on his skin. chasing away the cold. the damp. that fill their lungs now. as eudora looks up graves looks down to stare at the dirt and broken shards on the ground. "watch your step," he whispers even as he guides her from mundane danger. and then his gaze rises and they pause. tunnels before them. a sickly green above them and somewhere the distance —
hour: 0:03
sol graves frowns slightly, and pulls the map from his pocket, stares at the familiar scrawl. looks once more.
"there's an incongruity."
on the paper there are three tunnels with the leftmost marked as traveled. only, now an extra tunnel to the left rests in their periphery and one to the right leading down. instinct whispers to avoid that one for as long as they can.
hour: 0:05
"let's try the middle." he decides, dark eyes studying her face. "we'll have to find our way back here anyway and haeil said the officer wasn't very far in when they looked." a body could wait. yang misol could not.
hour: 0:10
the cracked tile path curves into another left (circles, they had to be going in circles now) and before graves can give voice to his certainty something crashes off in the distance followed by an ominous creak, like a too-large house settling its bones. only, the room they stand in is wide, growing violet and red oyster mushrooms in a far corner with spidery cracks and gashes but sturdy looking. solid enough to hold the weight of the tree that seems to be leaning against one of the windows.
another creak. far closer.
something in his stomach sinks and like in the foyer sol graves looks down.
around his feet: a web.
he pushes eudora forward on instinct — "floor," the only word he can get out — following steps behind and in seconds the place they once tread gives way and opens up a three-person-sized hole.
hour: 0:15
"do you want to keep going left or try going down?"
she does not know just yet where she is going, for how long she would follow graves, only that the urge to move felt like something that was hers to understand. like the water, and the eerie, and God, large and night-lit.
@vel-jane
she turns, sun-bright and creature-eyed against the lullaby of the sea. just as fathomless too, as he tries to divine meaning in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the flick of her fingertips. she seems to listen, sharp in focus and blank in understanding.
if he reads her right.
perhaps he'll never know.
and when she turns away there are no hearts broken or frustrations mounting. strangely, unexpectedly, there is a moment of relief. with no weight of expectation, he too looks at the crystalline blue of the ocean; feels that familiar fear. finds his home amongst the shells and sand. lets a weary body rest. too tired for the rabbit-beat of anxiety.
and then she rises and his mindless meditation snaps off of fate's golden shear.
he does not try for words just yet, rising and brushing the sand from his clothes; placing the shoes and socks on his feet once more. at that small distance his head tilts and he regards miss jane doe. the silence stretches a moment. two. and then he steps to her side.
"shall we?"
and then they move. over the sand and through the trees, to the town of velgrove they go. stopping here. ("do you recognize this one? i think they call it a morel.") stopping there. ("jane, look at that cloud. doesn't it remind you of a cat?") until the road leads them to a fork. he picks right instead of left.
"this way are the farms. i do wonder if you'll like any of the livestock sumyeong has."
( and he forgets about the eerie in the fields they pass by. just for a moment. )
to the flower fields and vegetable patches and rows of grain they travel until they reach the farmstead. the farmhouse. he calls a 'hello' to anyone home. prolonged silence gives him the answer. so he turns to the girl-woman beside him. "are you hungry? thirsty?" his hands find a glass and fill it with water, ice clinking against the sides as he holds it out in offering.
his eyes began to water. tears he would try to mask in the presence of others now flooded towards the ducts of his eyes– spilling over to roll down his cheeks. his eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed as he pulled them up into a bitter smile. "that's the thing." he wagged his finger, "my sister is missing, and yet, it feels like i'm missing half of the story that he may already know."
the hand dropped to his hip, nostrils flared in frustration as hansol let out a very stressed exhale. "i'm sorry." he averted his eyes to the plush grass beneath them, "it's so infuriating. my mom is gone. misol is gone.....none of this is your problem, but i appreciate you for being here.
a groan arose from his throat as he tried to quickly wipe the tears from his face. "none of this is going to help find misol." hansol sniffled, "i'm not even sure if we'll be able to find her."
the tears snake shards of glass through his ribcage, night-cold fingers rising to brush them from hansol's face. a missing story was something he understood. far too well. like the grave he was meant to be laying in, he remains quiet and still for the length of time it takes for painful truths to find clean air.
"don't apologize," sol graves starts. firm. "you're my friend," it feels inadequate on his tongue, missing the depth the twins occupied in the caverns of his soul. words always seemed to. "and your problems are to be shared, not buried where they'll fester. misol is important. you are important." there were no promises he could make about a woman he barely remembered, who had been lost before he'd returned but — "we will find her." the steel of his unshakable belief sharpens his tone, the glint in his eyes. "no matter what, we will."
his hand rose to find its favored place on the people he cared for: cupping the back of hansol's neck, cradling the back of his skull. "it is okay to stumble on your path. you have support." it is okay to crumble. "we'll talk to sumyeong, too. whatever you need." somewhere in the distance a night crow caws.
mental: what is something that your muse thinks about a lot? or what is something that your muse avoids thinking of?
it creeps through the cracks of every house he stands in; like worms, like ants, like sand. shrinking to fit any available space it can just for a chance to whisper little truths in his ears. truths he has tossed into time's cage for it to gnaw on.
what if you're not kim sol? or sol graves?
unimaginable, unthinkable: an untruth.
it danced like sugar plum fairies across the backs of his eyelids in the dark of the night. teasing. tantalizing. a little devil on his shoulder the first time he put a cigarette between his lips and lit, the first time he drank vodka without wincing, the first time he stared at the moon.
what if you're not you?
but i am, he'd replied.
who else could i be if i'm not him?
and he'd stared in mirrors, in his reflection in glass windows and doors. in the water that had scorned him.
part i.
event thread replied to: i
thread replied to: i
part ii.
modern day: what would your muse be like if they existed in modern day?
a sol graves in the modern day is almost unimaginable. he seems like such a creature of the older times that imagining him with a smartphone in hand is almost completely alien. in front of a modern computer??? watching tv???? even moreso.
with that said, however, i can see a path for him. he's much more of a smoker in modern day (absolutely hilarious given how much we know about lung cancer now, but also very indicative of his increased stress levels) and either owns a café bookstore hybrid or tends bar at night. he'd be tattooed (sleeves on both arms and entire back covered) and still missing parts of his memory — i imagine it was a car accident in a foreign city, displacing him when he finally woke up and didn't remember anything; that is, if this world was absent the supernatural.
he'd still be the type to walk old ladies across the road or carry his neighbor's groceries. still the ever-reliable man he is in velgrove's time. however, he feels a lot more lonely in modern day. one of those figures in the background who sits on park benches to look at the sky, who moves in silence and disappears in the crowd (even with his impressive height). the ties that bind him to security and community feel flimsy in this kind of space and i think he suffers for it in a deep and sad kind of way. the people he helps are likely never to be seen again once they move on their way and as much as that's good for them, i think he grows tired after awhile.
outside of the potential-sad realm, if graves was a beastie in modern day he'd be like one of those scary pictures of eyes shining like lights in the dark. all scary until he steps into the light. maybe something along the tune of appalachian mountain ancient horror devouring a lost man's bones, growing legs, and wandering from its home.
pivotal point: what would your muse be like if they didn't experience one of the most impactful moments in their life?
i think about this often. what if sol kim stayed sol kim and never became graves? and thus, this obituary-adjacent thing of who he was came out. so, enjoy.
kim sol was a good man. he cared for everyone, always remembered your birthday and your kids birthdays and your pets birthdays; always came around with a gift in hand and a promise to see you again next year. he always had a kind word for every soul he'd ever met. anyone in need could count on him for an outstretched hand and a determination to get them back on their feet. that is, as long as they didn't mind a surprise or two along the way. you all know how much he liked pulling those harmless pranks.
he loved traveling almost as much as he loved being home and if you couldn't find him on the road you'd best believe he was on his best friend's farmland. he once said that the only time he felt most at awe was when he went so far north the sky was filled with a dancing light. if he'd had a choice, he probably would have gone there again just to stare at those lights until the sun bothered to rise.
when i think of him, i like to imagine him laughing with his head tipped back and telling stories to everyone who bothered to listen. or buried in all those books he liked reading until he couldn't keep his eyes open one second more.
there is a notebook half-way filled and left wide open on a blank page resting on the table a few meters away from front entrance of the lumber shop. haeil has numerous unoccupied surfaces where he could pull a stool up and work comfortably on the calculations, but he favored the table, this time, because there was no chair with an agreeable enough height that would permit him to take on a proper sitting posture, so he has to work there standing. it’s a specious argument. haeil is so tense that he springs right back up onto his feet almost in the moment that attempts to sit down.
it takes him about five hours on the fourth day to finally write down the numbers. it takes him an additional four hour to collect all the wood, bring the boards inside and incline them against the shelves. at some point before midnight, he tacked on a note on the board just outside of his shop, then sidled back inside and works on the rest.
the job doesn’t quite end there, does it? there’s the raft to build afterwards; buoyancy to test; an exact weight to be uncovered by way of a few well-aimed questions at the coroner after the body is emptied of all the gunk it produces on its last exhale. a mutilated corpse already ensnared deeply into rigor mortis weighs more than what anyone can ever imagine. it is like the cells themselves, in their attempt to cling onto the life they’ve been born in, take the radical decision to turn into thousands of little stones. but cells need to stay warm to work properly. for that, there needs to be movement. and for that, life becomes an indisputable coefficient.
what else can haeil say about that? even the blood hadn’t been warm when he had accidentally smeared his hands with it. the blankets haeil had swathed around himself when the night encroached had done very little to help with that either, as he took his rather circuitous route to the details.
jacket over the empty face, blood on his hands, on his knees, when haeil had turned an ear and found no breath. speaking to someone he wouldn’t remember thereafter, still filthy and floating, how to transfer double their weight onto a tarp for ease of transportation. make sure to cover him completely.
a warmth prickles and establishes a weight in haeil’s eyes. he is sitting behind the counter, staring listlessly at the grooves of the top, when there’s a knock that disturbs the weary peace; and the door parts ways with the side of the frame and inside slips in a figure and its shadows, a damp and dreary silence following along with them across the floorboard.
haeil spares the person a sparse glance, lasting a second—ah, graves, it’s graves— and that’s enough time to be offered the greeting. he wishes he could look away, and haeil is opening his mouth to ask him what brought him there, until the query has the chance to cut right through the memory. the note.
haeil wishes he wasn’t so inclined for silence. his jaw snaps shut as he lets it settle between them, having an enormity of difficulties parsing a coherent answer. haeil is certain that he’d rather to talk about absence. the prickling turns too insistent to ignore.
“would you be so kind as to carry the planks outside, right over there?” haeil swings his sight back towards the window to his left, where the workshop is, reprieve in the blatant hiding. “we’ll start with making the shape of the box. i’ll bring out the tools.” he refuses to set his eyes on graves as he takes to standing.
it’s embarrassing. tears are very warm when they’re fresh, even if it’s just a meager, lonesome drop.
there is a disturbance. in the air. on his tongue. a tremor. felt not on the ground, not in the hands, not on the skin. but in the soul. the bones. it solidifies in the halting way haeil blinks at him, dark lashes staining his skin and accentuating the haunting something living underneath. it lives in the confusion, too. there one moment to hang between them before resolving.
in the face of this, whatever it may be, the bowed arches of his shoulders straighten as his spine adds another rod of steel to its core. sol graves would never falter when someone needed strength. to be any less than dependable was unthinkable. "of course," he answers; taking comfort in even the mere thought of purposeful movement.
his feet, however, stay rooted in place. waiting. some deep-set instinct warning as haeil looks away from him. always looking away from him to hide whatever's locked inside of his unmoving mouth. two steps as he closes the distance between himself, haeil, and the wood. and then he sees it. the glistening line on one cheek when the light hits it just so. the heart beating inside his chests twists. ah.
like a magnet to its pair, sol graves detours to where myung haeil stands. his palm makes first contact, a light brush from latimus dorsi to spine and then up until his fingers tangle gently in the hair at the base of the other man's skull. instinct would have graves draw him close, so there is a moment of choice: step away? lean into the hug? whichever decision is made, graves lets the whisper fill the silence surrounding them. "it was scary, wasn't it?" there is kindness intended in his tone, understanding, a hint of horror because — we both had to carry this man's body out. a slow exhale. "why don't we talk about it after." a considering hum. "or during." a quirk of his lips. "or drink about it once we're done."
