psl;

[pridecroweth]

jamjar au;


monster attacks, low resources, no revival mechanics ingame but no power nerfing either.


weapons are available but hard to find. monsters are 'corrupted' but their bites don't transfer it. they are however v slow to heal.


set in a super fancy old museum with active historical displays. however, there's been lots of damage to the building/displays, few are 100 percent intact. the pcs have set up in the basement where the valuable archives were kept bc there's an actual vault.


power has been jury-rigged by pcs (idk, maybe tony stark is wandering around). water and food need to be scavenged for and rationed. maybe 30-40 pcs at present?

sam checks in with them regularly but has a 'hide-out' that's actually an old security/control room that overlooks one of the larger display rooms.

Comments

[hallowing]

[ He takes a long drag off the cigarette, holding it out for the guy to take or decline as he prefers. A slow exhale becomes a smoke ring, just because he can. ]

I became a slave.

[ He says that dismissively. Like a footnote. Just one quiet little underpinning in a long, long life. It's not quite the truth. It's also not quite a lie. But it's sanitized in a way that's meant to evoke a less specific sort of pity. Slaves still have some amount of free will, at the end of the day — even if it's spent surviving. ]

Didn't stick.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ It happens, Carver doesn't say. Which is true but not especially useful. This man already knows. Carver knows liars. Was trained to suss them out, by trickery or force. Whatever God decided. He doesn't think this man's lying right now.

Funny, that.

Carver just watches him for a moment. He takes a shaky breath, then exhales. And he takes the cigarette, sitting up just long enough to take a drag. It burns down into his lungs.

It's something to focus on, at least.

He passes it back. ]

I think I've lost my mind, [ he explains, almost conversationally. Lost, past-tense, it's already happened. ]

[hallowing]

Easy thing to lose.

[ It's said with a measure of agreeability. Hasn't he been crazy, too? ]

The good news is, if you're lucid enough to recognize that, you can probably do something about it.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver shrugs at that. Easy to lose, the other man says, like this is a regular conversation. Maybe it is.

It's easy to die, too. Life's not all that precious now, if it ever was. ]

Hasn't been going well, [ he points out softly. He's not so far gone he's lost that. ]

[hallowing]

Dude, you're living in a fucking flop house with a gun filling all your social needs. Of course it hasn't been going well. Dumbass.

[ 'I've tried nothing and I'm all out of ideas!' energy over here. ]

Newsflash, asshole, humans benefit from having a tribe. And I know you're gonna go all puppydog eyes on me and boohoo about how everyone in your little coterie of weirdos is dead or at least not here, or whatever other sob story that's got your dick in a vice. Don't get me wrong, that sucks. But you aren't doing yourself any favours, either.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Sam tried to bring him back, didn’t he? That didn’t go so well. It couldn’t have, Carver tells himself. This is how the world turns. He’s tired of fighting other people on the truth. ]

Why’re you out here?

[hallowing]

Believe it or not, looking for a Starbucks.

[ Hard to tell if he means that seriously or not. There's a twitch of his fingers where he's holding the cigarette and then: ]

I can teleport, so, you know. Distance ain't no thing if I ain't got that swing.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ More noise. Whether it’s true or not seems beside the point. Maybe it’s true from some angles, or all, or none. The possibilities blur.

Carver rests his head on his knees. He wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to say to that. ]

Why’re you still hanging around, then?

[hallowing]

Eh.

[ He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, fingers hinging on the trap muscle as he stretches a bit. ]

If you live a dozen millennia, you'll hang around places just for the hell of it, too.

[fortitudosalutis]

I don’t want to live that long.

[ He can already picture it stretching out empty before him. An unbroken, brutal landscape.

Carver closes his eyes. He’s so goddamn tired. ]

But I think I’m dead anyway, [ he adds conversationally. ] What’s your name?

[hallowing]

Brother, that's the sanest thing you've said so far. Trust me when I say, immortality ain't a cakewalk.

[ It Sucks, Actually. ]

You can call me Cy.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ That'd fit, wouldn't it? Having to see it all stretch out like that. Endless time. Nothing but repetition.

He shifts a little. Digging his nails into his knee. ]

I'm Carver.

[ He doesn't quite know what to do here. Everything still feels a little distant from him. Unmoored. ]

[hallowing]

What, you do pumpkins pro bono?

[ Ha, ha, get it? ]

I don't do that last name hoo-ah shit. You got a first name floating around in there or am I just gonna religiously call you 'Bob' until the heat death of the universe?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver cracks an eye, watching Cy. It could be short for something. Could be an outright lie. Does it matter, either way? ]

Nobody uses it anymore.

[ Not even inside his own head. ]

[hallowing]

Well, slap my ass and call me Odysseus.

[ 'Nobody'. Maybe you had to be there. ]

I'll tell you my original name if you tell me your first.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver lifts an eyebrow. Later, he'll think it's funny that this was the thing that pushed through the fog, even if only for a moment. ]

Okay, Nobody. It was Brandon.

[hallowing]

What's with the past tense here, you giant theatrical baby? Unless you've filed your government paperwork like a good boy, pretty sure it's still Brandon, Brandon.

[ Okay but actually he's delighted that the dude caught his reference, because Cy is in fact a giant fucking nerd. ]

Mine was Auhle. And before you ask — yes I did indeed do my paperwork. Turns out paper isn't designed to last ten thousand years.

[fortitudosalutis]

Auhle, [ Carver repeats, trying out the shape of it. Wondering if it still fits this man, who introduced himself as Cy. And who's read Homer, apparently.

He rests his head on his knees. He wonders if he should grab his gun back. Cy or Auhle took the clip and that's just fucking gone, but Carver has others. He always has backups. ]

It mean something?

[hallowing]

No clue.

[ The only reason he remembers it at all is because KV wouldn't let him forget. The name was used to mock and deride a weak man. He feels no especial attachment to it now, beyond knowing that he doesn't especially like hearing it. ]

Dead culture, dead language, and a long time ago. If I had to guess, it probably fit the shape of who I was as a human, and a farmer. It doesn't really suit me now.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ How can you not know what your own name means? Or maybe that's the wrong question, Carver realizes. Maybe it's not a matter of knowing so much as forgetting. Too many years. Too much road.

He closes his eyes again. Digs his nails hard into his knee. He keeps going until it aches. ]

What shape are you now?

[ He wonders that about himself. What he becomes in the absence of all the others. ]

[hallowing]

Depends who you ask.

[ He's had more names across more worlds than he's lived years, and that's saying something. ]

What do you think I am?

[fortitudosalutis]

Don't know.

[ Carver breathes out slow. He sits with the heaviness he feels. That sick sort of exhaustion. He wants to die, maybe, if he hasn't already. Or maybe feel something different. Anything. The gloves blunt whatever damage he might've done to himself with his nails and he can't afford to fuck up his knee. It's pointless to get caught on that idea among all the others. And yet. ]

Nobody, I guess.

[hallowing]

[ It gets a laugh, genuine and warm — but it's startled out of him the way birds startle at a shot. ]

Huh. Well — that's as good an explanation as any.

[ The cigarette is burnt to the filter. He pinches the cherry with his fingers, unconcerned about any cosmetic damage from the brief contact. ]

Just for that, I'll tell you if you really want to know.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver watches Cy, or Nobody, or a brand new ghost. He watches a handsome stranger put out a cigarette between his fingers like it's nothing at all. If it hurts, there's no sign. He wonders if that's nice. ]

Tell me.

[hallowing]

[ He lets himself be watched, uncaring about the scrutiny, and then: ]

Do you know, [ he begins, conversant. Genial. ] That there have been sixteen thousand, eleven hundred and nineteen named deities on Earth that have, throughout history, been thought to govern war?

[ Many are gone, lost to time or the very thing he speaks of now. Dead languages, dead cultures, as he said. Humans have really only been recording information for a few thousand years. Less than half his life. ]

Not just war, necessarily. Lots of gods pull double duty. Indra is a bunch of other shit, too — sky, lightning, storms, a bunch of different affiliations with water, and war. Athena is, you know, tactics and all that jazz, and Ares is kind of the bravery, bloodlust and berserker side of it. Kastetanach was conflict, which included martial conflict, but then other things like childbirth or illness. Sauvi was warfare, night, the moon. Etc, etc.

[ Parlour tricks are always a good way to make a point. He knows the gun Carver's holding down to its atoms — weapons that have been blooded always call to him in some way, so it's easier here than it would otherwise be to call it to hand. It vanishes from his grip and reappears in Cy's, and he turns it over in his hands. ]

She likes you. You treat her well. She'll do her best not to jam or rust for you.