Re: Bitter Spirits (1b/x)
anonymous
March 2 2012, 05:00:29 UTC
In a dimmer, more shadowed liquor store he rolls over, just enough to grab the edge of a barrel and haul himself up with several inky black tentacles that slide out of the space above him, and once he is more or less upright, tumble down to the floor to surround him. He congratulates himself on the victory of getting up by having one grab a handy bottle of sake and downing several gulps.
"Was that about his marriage even true?" The butterfly has disappeared, and now there is a tall, well dressed man in a mask. He regards the young man with the same expression he always has...whatever that is.
The young man shrugs. "If it was or wasn't, would you even know? It's none of your concern." He returns to trying to work out how to get into the great barrels of sake that stand temptingly before him.
"I have as much right to him as you do." The young man doesn't seem to notice the masked man's words, preferring to knock on the barrel hopefully. The masked man watches him for a moment, until sheer brute strength wins out and a hole is made. He sighs. "Why are you even keeping that form? It's been a decade, Nyarlathotep. A decade."
"Form?" Nyarlathotep looks at his human body as if seeing it for the first time. "It is out of date now, I suppose. He's older now, and the fun one went off to starve in a dead world." He laughs and nearly loses his tenuous balance gripping the barrel. "He's dead now, isn't he? I'm sad I missed it. Did you miss it, Philemon? Or did you come to try and comfort him in his dying moments, lost and bereft of everything, everything in the whole wide world?" Nyarlathotep attempts a mocking spin, forgetting the barrel was keeping him upright. He gets halfway through it before stumbling into Philemon and sending them both tumbling to the floor. Nyarlathotep humphs bitterly and takes another swig from the bottle he has somehow managed to not spill. "It's all like that in the end. Everything."
Re: Bitter Spirits (2/x)
anonymous
March 29 2012, 04:07:56 UTC
Turns out maintaining that weird style I went for is really super hard. My apologies for the delay. ...also, 'Nyarlathotep' is a stupid long and annoying name to type.
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"Do you want to sober up now, or shall I leave you be?" Philemon did not really expect the former option to happen. A god must to choose to be drunk. Nyarlathotep had been choosing that path for almost ten years now. It was not new behavour.
"Neither." Nyarlathotep taps the open bottle against the mask. "Drink up and be sure to feel it. Let us toast the fate of humans and the sundering of mankind. There's no more connection in this urbanized world. Ha, even this town feels it." The bottle sways dangerously. Philemon grasps it and sits up a little. He might as well. Ten years is short with the proper perspective, but it is still lonely to be without your other half. Nyarlathotep murmurs something that may be approval or may be more cynicism before getting up and doing his best to get to the fridge lying temptingly before him.
He makes it, because it's only a few feet. He even gets it open. And if a few bottles fall, they at least bounce off the tentacles before hitting the floor and so do not break. Nyarlathotep falls back against Philemon richer by two bottles of vodka and some beer.
Philemon carefully sips at his bottle as tentacles curl around his waist and support his back. It's rather comfortable, really. He asks the obvious. "Are you forgetting about the barrel?" and Nyarlathotep shrugs against his chest.
"They don't have any glasses." He does not offer any more information, and it's unusual behavior for him. Not the refusal to explain anything, that is completely normal, but to even have the hint of...kindness is not the word, though perhaps consideration is, that is not normal at all. It is something to be wary of.
"I was not aware that this town denied their kindness and hospitality so."
"You're surprised? The smaller the town, the more openly bitter and resentful. They hate the city for coming to their town, for stealing their children, and for leaving them all alone to die on the rocks of-"
"Yes yes, I know." The question has been answered, and anything further is just variations on a dance that has been going since humans banded together into the first towns. So, he's lonely too. Interesting. Philemon takes another sip, carefully because even if Japan still drinks heavily, temperance has spread far enough to make him notice the burn. He wonders if his partner has noticed it as well, but he'd never admit it if he did.
A tentacle wraps around Philemon's bottle and jerks it upward, from a position of slight sipping to...well, how Nyarlathotep drinks. Philemon manages to get down a few gulps, but soon has to sputter and pull away. The sake pours out over his neck and suit before the bottle uprights enough to save the last few drops.
"I told you to drink up, didn't I? And now you're just wasting good liquor." Nyarlathotep makes a good attempt at leaning into Philemon's face, slightly spoiled by how his head and gaze wander, sometimes in opposite directions. Eventually he drops a bit and starts licking at the edge of the mask, at Philemon's neck, at the collar of his white suit. It tickles, a bit, and it's really not doing much good because most of the liquor has already soaked into his clothes, but Philemon holds still anyway simply because Nyarlathotep's hands are gripping his arms so tightly and his tentacles are wrapped comfortably around his legs and his tongue is light on his jaw under the mask.
Re: Bitter Spirits (3/x)
anonymous
April 29 2012, 00:07:45 UTC
Philemon scratches at one of the tentacles encircling his legs, like scratching a cat. A cat with no fur and a curiously plastic skin, but Nyarlathotep purrs against him anyway. He scratches higher, shifting from smooth quasi-flesh to cotton over a simulacrum of human flesh that twitches under his hand. It's quiet, slow and comfortable, and Philemon is surprised Nyarlathotep has not exploded into fury at the idea of quiet comfort. He brushes up along the god's back, then around again in circles and Nyarlathotep has finished licking up all the alcohol but somehow has not moved on to biting. Instead he murmurs soft words, barely at the edge of hearing, half in Philemon's ear and half to himself. "And they lie to themselves about it, leaving behind all they have known even as they complain about the change...they want it, really, they want the glamour and alienation and lies for themselves. Because no humans can really stand each other. Sooner or later, they all fall apart. Not that you ever notice."
"It's not my domain." Philemon agrees, continuing to pet at Nyarlathotep's back. The tentacles against his back tease at his hair and brush at his neck where their master isn't purring. They're pleasantly cool against the warmth of the liquor he's letting settle into him. The edges of the room blur as the sharp corners and shadows fade into each other, even as the town's personality clarifies itself for him. A hold out of a time that the world has passed by, but not by choice and change is coming here...Nyarlathotep's right, in his half-view of the world. But there's kindness here, and real connection, and a strength of bonds difficult to find in the city. Bonds like this. He lets the tentacles in back support him and reaches his other hand to pick at the tie around Nyarlathotep's neck. It's tricky. Mostly he just manages to ruffle at the uniform's collar and rub gently but emphatically at where a human would have a pulse.
Finally, that gets through the haze of alcohol Nyarlathotep has been walking in for at least ten years now. He pushes himself upright and eventually meets the black eyes of Philemon's mask with his own glassgold ones and perhaps Philemon was wrong and he hasn't noticed yet. Philemon shifts from petting to trying to keep the other upright, and at least succeeds in keeping him off the floor. It's enough for Nyarlathotep to speak. "Really? From you?"
It takes a moment for Philemon to figure out what he's even talking about, it's a bit a break from complaining about how terrible humanity is. It's another to wonder about the subdued response. Is he really that drunk? Today is full of interesting things. Philemon reaches up and brushes some hair behind Nyarlathotep's ear. It's softer than it looks. The boy's was never this messy, was it? It's an odd effect. Oh, Nyarlathotep is still staring in his general direction, waiting for an answer. He's finding it harder to think clearly around the heavy warm feeling in his head and limbs. And that's the answer, of course, or at least a part of it. The other is... "Are you surprised? There isn't much else to do in a small town."
"And small towns deny that part of themselves viciously. That is not your domain."
"Then show me what this town denies so. Show me, and we shall see who is stronger here." It's a challenge, because he is magnanimous in victory and if he didn't offer one nothing would happen. He tangles his fingers in Nyarlathotep's hair, but does nothing more. Nyarlathotep watches him, as if trying to figure out what game he's playing now. It is the nature of the complex to assume everything is complicated. But eventually the love of challenge and domination, no matter whose, wins out.
"Was that about his marriage even true?" The butterfly has disappeared, and now there is a tall, well dressed man in a mask. He regards the young man with the same expression he always has...whatever that is.
The young man shrugs. "If it was or wasn't, would you even know? It's none of your concern." He returns to trying to work out how to get into the great barrels of sake that stand temptingly before him.
"I have as much right to him as you do." The young man doesn't seem to notice the masked man's words, preferring to knock on the barrel hopefully. The masked man watches him for a moment, until sheer brute strength wins out and a hole is made. He sighs. "Why are you even keeping that form? It's been a decade, Nyarlathotep. A decade."
"Form?" Nyarlathotep looks at his human body as if seeing it for the first time. "It is out of date now, I suppose. He's older now, and the fun one went off to starve in a dead world." He laughs and nearly loses his tenuous balance gripping the barrel. "He's dead now, isn't he? I'm sad I missed it. Did you miss it, Philemon? Or did you come to try and comfort him in his dying moments, lost and bereft of everything, everything in the whole wide world?" Nyarlathotep attempts a mocking spin, forgetting the barrel was keeping him upright. He gets halfway through it before stumbling into Philemon and sending them both tumbling to the floor. Nyarlathotep humphs bitterly and takes another swig from the bottle he has somehow managed to not spill. "It's all like that in the end. Everything."
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"Do you want to sober up now, or shall I leave you be?" Philemon did not really expect the former option to happen. A god must to choose to be drunk. Nyarlathotep had been choosing that path for almost ten years now. It was not new behavour.
"Neither." Nyarlathotep taps the open bottle against the mask. "Drink up and be sure to feel it. Let us toast the fate of humans and the sundering of mankind. There's no more connection in this urbanized world. Ha, even this town feels it." The bottle sways dangerously. Philemon grasps it and sits up a little. He might as well. Ten years is short with the proper perspective, but it is still lonely to be without your other half. Nyarlathotep murmurs something that may be approval or may be more cynicism before getting up and doing his best to get to the fridge lying temptingly before him.
He makes it, because it's only a few feet. He even gets it open. And if a few bottles fall, they at least bounce off the tentacles before hitting the floor and so do not break. Nyarlathotep falls back against Philemon richer by two bottles of vodka and some beer.
Philemon carefully sips at his bottle as tentacles curl around his waist and support his back. It's rather comfortable, really. He asks the obvious. "Are you forgetting about the barrel?" and Nyarlathotep shrugs against his chest.
"They don't have any glasses." He does not offer any more information, and it's unusual behavior for him. Not the refusal to explain anything, that is completely normal, but to even have the hint of...kindness is not the word, though perhaps consideration is, that is not normal at all. It is something to be wary of.
"I was not aware that this town denied their kindness and hospitality so."
"You're surprised? The smaller the town, the more openly bitter and resentful. They hate the city for coming to their town, for stealing their children, and for leaving them all alone to die on the rocks of-"
"Yes yes, I know." The question has been answered, and anything further is just variations on a dance that has been going since humans banded together into the first towns. So, he's lonely too. Interesting. Philemon takes another sip, carefully because even if Japan still drinks heavily, temperance has spread far enough to make him notice the burn. He wonders if his partner has noticed it as well, but he'd never admit it if he did.
A tentacle wraps around Philemon's bottle and jerks it upward, from a position of slight sipping to...well, how Nyarlathotep drinks. Philemon manages to get down a few gulps, but soon has to sputter and pull away. The sake pours out over his neck and suit before the bottle uprights enough to save the last few drops.
"I told you to drink up, didn't I? And now you're just wasting good liquor." Nyarlathotep makes a good attempt at leaning into Philemon's face, slightly spoiled by how his head and gaze wander, sometimes in opposite directions. Eventually he drops a bit and starts licking at the edge of the mask, at Philemon's neck, at the collar of his white suit. It tickles, a bit, and it's really not doing much good because most of the liquor has already soaked into his clothes, but Philemon holds still anyway simply because Nyarlathotep's hands are gripping his arms so tightly and his tentacles are wrapped comfortably around his legs and his tongue is light on his jaw under the mask.
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"It's not my domain." Philemon agrees, continuing to pet at Nyarlathotep's back. The tentacles against his back tease at his hair and brush at his neck where their master isn't purring. They're pleasantly cool against the warmth of the liquor he's letting settle into him. The edges of the room blur as the sharp corners and shadows fade into each other, even as the town's personality clarifies itself for him. A hold out of a time that the world has passed by, but not by choice and change is coming here...Nyarlathotep's right, in his half-view of the world. But there's kindness here, and real connection, and a strength of bonds difficult to find in the city. Bonds like this. He lets the tentacles in back support him and reaches his other hand to pick at the tie around Nyarlathotep's neck. It's tricky. Mostly he just manages to ruffle at the uniform's collar and rub gently but emphatically at where a human would have a pulse.
Finally, that gets through the haze of alcohol Nyarlathotep has been walking in for at least ten years now. He pushes himself upright and eventually meets the black eyes of Philemon's mask with his own glassgold ones and perhaps Philemon was wrong and he hasn't noticed yet. Philemon shifts from petting to trying to keep the other upright, and at least succeeds in keeping him off the floor. It's enough for Nyarlathotep to speak. "Really? From you?"
It takes a moment for Philemon to figure out what he's even talking about, it's a bit a break from complaining about how terrible humanity is. It's another to wonder about the subdued response. Is he really that drunk? Today is full of interesting things. Philemon reaches up and brushes some hair behind Nyarlathotep's ear. It's softer than it looks. The boy's was never this messy, was it? It's an odd effect. Oh, Nyarlathotep is still staring in his general direction, waiting for an answer. He's finding it harder to think clearly around the heavy warm feeling in his head and limbs. And that's the answer, of course, or at least a part of it. The other is... "Are you surprised? There isn't much else to do in a small town."
"And small towns deny that part of themselves viciously. That is not your domain."
"Then show me what this town denies so. Show me, and we shall see who is stronger here." It's a challenge, because he is magnanimous in victory and if he didn't offer one nothing would happen. He tangles his fingers in Nyarlathotep's hair, but does nothing more. Nyarlathotep watches him, as if trying to figure out what game he's playing now. It is the nature of the complex to assume everything is complicated. But eventually the love of challenge and domination, no matter whose, wins out.
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