ORIGIN - hold on, hold on, hold on to the old days

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This thread is set at least a few days after will you be coming home? and the trampled garden.

Content Warning
This post contains potentially sensitive material:

disordered eating

anxiety

(light) dissociative episode

Orthoclase-Alpha'd wondered if it could disappear into the river; where it widened to dip below the visible earth, where it meandered far below the ground. Where the current spun wildly, but always, always, wanderedaway. It could just walk for the however long that was demanded of it. There would be little that it could follow it—just one of his, no longer considered its own spawn—and bring it back from the brink.

It'd wondered, and then it'd stopped wondering.

Instead, the monstrous hybrid did what it did best when faced with that awful, awful thing living in its chest: it let itself wane and drift until it came to in the seclusion of an abandoned den that was far too small for it, mouth tasting like ash and surrounded by a laughably small collection of half-eaten rabbits.

Putrescent eyes squinted upward, pupils unfocusing in the light beaming in from the doorway; the doorway whose door was in two pieces and ripped off of whatever hinge it'd been on, cast to the soft grasses outside. It stared at the cobbled wall, snuffled at the reed-thatch roof just a foot above it with a bland sort of interest. Dared to look back outside, at the claw marks along the doorframe where something had to tear apart wood and mortar to get through.

It shifted its weight, and the house groaned in response. In turn, it stilled abruptly, sharply; if it'd had ears, they would have arched straight forward, shooting to full attention first and then swiveling around and around. Orthoclase-Alpha waited for a silhouette to swallow what little light was afforded to this den, for this unconscious grab for shelter, for survival to be little but folly.

Something was inevitable with this failure of it. An end of life as it knew it, perhaps; the last chance's being spent on such a simple, neglected task.

It could ponder walking into the ocean and disappearing beneath the breakers, tempt fate by entertaining thoughts of outright desertion. But, it'd seen what lay on the other side of the fence, the so-called greener pastures. It'd seen it all, and it'd seen itself... and fear is one of the most powerful motivators, for better or for worse.

Orthoclase-Alpha did not like what it was when it was alone, hiding away from the world: a shaking, frail thing. Weak enough to be cowed by the light filtering between leaves to dapple a forest floor. So caught in the self-fulfilling prophecy that it could not look further than inevitable failure. Each and every task a Sisyphean one—

The sleeping sort of sickness was creeping in again already, and it felt little but hatred coil through its faltering veins and guts. Its allure pulled on it more and more with every full-body convulsion, shiver, shift like it could ever hope to be comfortable in this carefully constructed box of safety. Limbs adjusted beneath it, one arm splaying out where the light could dare to touch and warm the chitin there, and its head fell with a soft clunk! of plate-on-plate.

A rattling sigh escaped it.

Its entire body shook.

What could it do?

@Vargas

sort of god-emoting locating someone but with permission

- THE LEVIATHAN -

And here came Vargas, to make everything (accidentally) so much worse.

The Orthoclase hadn't come back, for a few days and--given what Zoisite had told him of their meeting--he felt it prudent to at least check up on it. He didn't find it in Draco, nor in the tunnel, but only a few steps into Pegasus he felt its stone.

The benefits of Master powers, he supposed.

He shifted trajectory, angling through the trees, squinting when he saw the distant structures. He wasn't familiar with these, and he studied them from a distance and wondered whose they were.

Wondered who had made them, and why Orthoclase-Alpha seemed to be inside one.

For once, Vargas had the sense not to charge right up, but to stop a little distance away. He wasn't all that concerned, all told; the Orthoclase had made decent headway, it seemed, and he was only here to ensure it wasn't doing something remarkably silly, like collapsing back into a paralyzed existince. hiding inside a den without eating.

The Leviathan paused, tilting back, lifting one massive hind leg to scratch behind his own ocular horn in a strangely dog-like gesture. Then he settled it down again, eyed the buildings (and was that a broken door..?), and took a breath.

"Orthoclase-Alpha?" he called, giving them a good few yards' distance.

Let us see how it is doing, he thought.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

"Orthoclase-Alpha?" came as a figurative knock on the door, jarring it back to a startling reality named Consequences.

Its knuckles rapped against the wall as it startled. Goosebumps crawled up and down its nape; and with every inch of skin that squirmed and writhed beneath the surface came another rattle of rising, rising quills. An agitated spray haloed its neck, unable to be smoothed even as it shifted around in its confinements. Putrescent eyes stared out from the shadowy gloom of the door, catching sight of its Master some yards off.

Perhaps to its own surprise, it was denial that came first to mind. He doesn't know about it. Its failure. But, would the Zoisite leap to confession at the first opportunity? Tattle on what they'd called mo— it winced, guts and head swimming. They may have reached the end of their capacity for tolerance, may have given up on that feeble concept of love and sincere vulnerability (and not the sort that was born from wounds scraped raw by being dragged across asphalt and diamond-cut concrete circle tracks over and over and over, lap after lap—). They may have, and they may have snapped at the lifeline that it clung so desperately to.

The orthoclase twisted, hauling itself out from its odd choice of shelter with grasping claws and creaking eaves. Joists shuddered in its wake, but it at least managed to extract itself with some shred of dignity. That is, if one could consider its emergent state of disarray anything like dignified: mud clung to its forearms still, worn off only on its feet; quills sat in light disorder; putrescent eyes—despite their searching searching searching of all that Vargas was, head twitching perceptibly—were glassy, puffy with exhaustion.

The fluttering apologies escaped it before it could think to lock its jaws and throw away the key: "I'm sorry, I couldn't—" SHUT IT. Teeth click!ed together, and it dared to avert its gaze. Weight shifted to either foot, it caught sight of the mangled remains of a rabbit in the shadowed room now behind it. (Why did it leave what little safety it had? Desperate wreck.) You can't be that, Orthoclase-Alpha tried to remind itself.

Dead, not a scared, shivering beast making presumptions in its prey instinct-driven panic.

It swallowed, choking down what frenzied stream of consciousness was clawing its way out of the sinking ship called its brain; swallowed, cleared its throat, and (perhaps foolishly) acted like it'd not said anything yet. Just dipped its head and kept it there. "... Master Vargas, sir."

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas watched it haul itself out--and that was something. Watched it manage a few words, which was good. But it was doing that... thing again, where it half broke and bit its own sentences into pieces, and the swelling around its eyes was clear.

He almost laughed "you look like shit" but, again, that seemed the sort of thing that might just mortify it beyond repair.

Vargas had tried everything he could think of, with Alpha. Tried studious lessons, quiet reflection, jarring it out of itself with spars. Now, he simply fell back on the casual; and anyway, he was no longer so desperate to try and fix it. He'd sort of given up on it, really, and it was a hobby now of sorts. Alpha was something he gave thought to, pitied at times (he admitted it), but mostly had sidelined in his mind as "probably useless" and--really--he didn't particularly mind. He didn't desperately need the Orthoclase. Any fixing he'd been trying to do was for its sake, not his and not the Forge.

So now he rocked back on his haunches, scratching himself again like a dog. "Well, feel free to finish that thought," he answered, amiably. "I just wanted to see how you were doing." And, before he could help himself, humor bubbled up in him. Old memories of tea parties flickered through his mind, of jokes tossed back and forth across a china table, and he eyed Alpha with amusement. "Why was Vakornol's beautician arrested after a manicure?" he asked.

Then leaned in, just a little closer, and whispered: "This is a joke."

Then waited, expectantly, as if Alpha would know enough about beauticians, manicures, or jokes--or feel anything past its own trauma--to even know how to respond.

@Orthoclase-Alpha

It froze—not because of its eternal paranoia and constant onset of panic, but...

"What?" puffed past its teeth and wide eyes.

Rigid brows furrowed as best they could.

What???

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas suppressed laughter, eyeing Orthoclase-Alpha intently (but sidelong) as he delivered the punchline:

"Because she broke the claw."

And then-... waited.

Expectantly.

Grinning. (As best the Leviathan could.)

going for the record now of "shortest vargas post"

@Orthoclase-Alpha

"Because she broke the claw."

... huh?

In a precious instant, all panic and worry absolved itself. Vargas had effectively thrown a harmless puzzle into its lap, and surprisingly it didn't want to lash out at it and scream in self-defense. The confusion was more than evident in the sag of quills, the slight downward tilt of its head, eyes squinting and narrowing into glimmering slits of ???.

If Nemean were here, she'd have pasted question marks all over in the air and played a long-winded thinking track straight out of Jeopardy.

"... what?" it mouthed again.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Well, it was difficult to tell what the Orthoclase was thinking, but it hadn't run away or attacked, at least.

Vargas dropped heavily to his haunches, still cheerful, to explain.

"Ahh! I forget you may not know some of these words," he began, his voice sounding nothing but content. "A beautician is tasked with making others look more beautiful. Very important to the likes of Nemean," he added, with quiet amusement. (Even now, it wouldn't do to be overheard.) "A manicure is a... well, they paint your nails, or claws. And trim them! They used," he went on, in yet another confession-sort-of-tone, "to do mine in pink." And he lifted up his talons, dwelling for a beat on ancient, hot-pink memories.

Then, he put his foot back down again. "A law is a rule! One might be arrested for breaking it and therefore... I put the joke to you again: Why was Vakornol's beautician arrested after a manicure? -She broke the claw.-"

He paused, then coughed lightly. "...A joke loses some of its humor when you have to explain it."

@Orthoclase-Alpha

In came the explanation for the so-called "joke". Definitions, word-by-word deconstruction, a little bit of an anecdote...

"A joke loses some of its humor when you have to explain it."

"I see," it said, not really seeing at all.

@Vargas

- THE LEVIATHAN -

Vargas stared.

No it doesn't.

Take two.

He thought, for a moment, and tried again.

"What do you call a towering, magic stone dedicated to spies and scouts?" he asked, and then--in case there was any doubt--"-This is to be another joke."

@Orthoclase-Alpha

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