Sumeragi Subaru. Subaru is fine here. [ No preamble — he's not one to be overly formal about it. ] And I know. I'm used to magic over weaponry — that's all.
[ A slight upward shifting of his energy. ]
If you have reservations, I can have it delivered to you instead. If not, you can choose the meeting place.
[ Magic over weaponry. Interest spikes through the connection, but she doesn't press yet, primarily because the offer that follows pulls a laugh from her. ]
I was just messing with you, Subaru. I'm not worried you've got nefarious intentions. [ Drama spills out from those last two words, drawn out and playful. ] Anyway, how close are you to Central Park?
[ His energy is fairly unwavering, though he almost huffs something that reads a little like amusement. ]
I don't, for the record. But I recognize I have no way of proving that to you. [ So it goes. ] That's not far from me. I can be there within the hour, if you'd like.
Cool. Meet me at the 86th Street entrance. I'd give you a description of myself, but I'll be hard to miss in a city this empty.
[ True to her word, Sharon is perched on a bench just outside the street entrance, one foot tucked beneath her and her attention buried in a book. A mostly empty tote bag slumps at her side. Every so often, she glances up, eyes sweeping the area, searching for movement, before she pulls herself back into the pages.
At the first clear sign of someone approaching, she snaps the book closed, slips it into her tote, and rises to her feet. A small, easy wave follows, friendly and unguarded. ]
[ And true to his, Subaru is punctual enough in this rotted landscape and its broken, unpredictable terrain. He does have a bit of help that regard: on the outskirts of the entrance, papery bird wings flutter in constellate patterns, their quiet song demarcating safe passages through the city's rupturing.
On approach, he notes the book that goes slipping into her bag and then nods in greeting. He doesn't return the smile, too serious for his own good, but he is otherwise soft-spoken and polite. ]
That's right. Thanks for meeting with me. I meant to ask after you sooner, but we're always sent into dreaming at inopportune times.
[ No smile in return, and hers falters, though she keeps up a friendly, if slightly awkward, demeanor. ]
Thanks for offering to return the knife. [ She counters gratitude with gratitude. ] If it helps at all... uh, that style of dream only happens once every couple of months. At least, so far. —and it always seems to follow the Blood Moon.
[ As she talks, she slips her hand into the pocket of her winter coat and pulls out a carefully folded karambit, its handle a muted off-white, extending it toward Subaru. ] It might need sharpening, but it's taken down a lot of Hosts in the short time I've had it.
[ Interest glinting, Subaru accepts the replacement gingerly, weighing it in a pale hand before slipping it into his coat pocket. He then reaches for his opposite one. ]
Does it? I didn't know there was an observable pattern. I arrived with... the second wave. So this is only the second time, for me.
[ With that, he pulls her original karambit from his pocket. It's folded and wrapped in paper strewn in inky markings, sealed with twine and a dotting of red wax. When it exchanges hands, there's an intent to it — it doesn't hum, not physically, but it feels bright and silvered by something equally sharp and clean as the blade itself. ]
Hosts leave behind a considerable residue. There's a purification spell on the blade, but it'll break when it touches blood again.
[ Though morose, his heart seems to be in the right place. ]
If you like how it feels with it, I can always replace it for you.
Can't really call it a pattern yet, but it's the third one for me. [ She refuses to fully latch onto the idea until at least one more Blood Moon and dream have come and gone. Until then, all she can do is pay attention. But so far...
Sharon straightens a little as he offers her the paper-wrapped blade. She turns it over in her hands, studying the markings with quiet interest. Something is different. Even without seeing the metal, she can feel it—as though he has cleaned it on a level she could never reach with soap and water alone.
Host residue? The only residue she knows Hosts leave behind is that thick, black blood—foul in the mouth, impossible to fully scrub from her clothes. Her brow furrows as she lifts her gaze back to his. ] Are you a witch or something? [ The word feels like a curse on her lips—even to this day. ] What does a purification spell do?
[ More than that: how has he learned to use his Vessel powers in such a way? Curiosity burns hot in her. ]
[ It's now that the questions leveled at him makes a faint smile tick at the corners of his mouth — almost apologetic. Sometimes in the thick of it, he forgets he's not employed here. That he's not just solving another haunting, another murder, penning another ghost story to memory with the language of his magic. And with the sharpness of the word witch on her tongue, he guesses that she may not be generalizing. ]
I'd have to know what a witch does to answer that. But the simplest answer is: no, I'm not.
[ His gaze flicks aside, then back to her face; he gestures to the bench. ]
Would you like to sit back down? While I explain the spell.
[ Sharon sinks back into her seat, blue eyes locked on him with quiet curiosity, the wrapped knife still held in both hands like it's something precious. He's not a witch, he says, but he doesn't even know what witches do—what they're capable of. ]
Witches cast spells. [ She says plainly before she gives him the floor to explain. ]
[ That gets a soft whuff of a breath to tumble out of him, the ghost of a laugh, were he ever so inclined. He usually isn't, but some instances catch him in the half light of a personality much softer than what he's used to offering. ]
Depending on who you ask, you might get a hundred different opinions on what a witch does. Some practice parlour tricks, some make medicine, others eat children...
[ No slouch on the folklore, he takes the seat next to her. ]
[ Oh. He knows what a witch does—or what people think they do. The truth is so far removed from the stories and superstitions. At least, it is where she's from.
Onmyoudo, he says. Her brow furrows as she mouths the word, testing it silently, turning it over in her mind while she searches for something familiar to latch onto. ] I think I've heard it before, somewhere, but I have no idea what it is. [ She's seen enough movies to be certain it's come up in one of them at some point. ]
Obviously, you still practice it here—even if it's taken on a different shape now. [ She lifts the wrapped blade in a small, illustrative gesture, a quiet see? It's clear that whatever magic Sleep has granted him, it's something adjacent to what he once knew. Like her own—recognizable in spirit, even if it's become an entirely different beast. ]
[ On hearing a tangential familiarity with it, his flooded half-moon gaze studies her for a moment, then the knife she lifts in example. ]
It's esoteric, even by my time's standards. [ It's occult. ] In essence, it's a magic of translation.
[ And there are so few among the young and the living who wield it with the obstinance he does. Lifting his hand, his palm settles into a loosely-cupped shape between them, held aloft for Sharon to see. His fingertips run black and inky; beneath his skin, that same hue shifts in constellate patterns, words not yet written or spoken into being. ]
Onmyoudo translates the stars, time, the seasons, the elements, the soul... into language. Language can then be used to manipulate those same energies to cast magic. It can be written, or spoken. This magic here, [ bestowed by their host. ] isn't so different for me.
[ Magic of translation. Stars, seasons, soul. That's the witchiest shit she's ever heard—and given the accusations thrown her way, that's saying something. Her gaze drifts to his fingertips, tracking the crawl of ink-black along their slender lines.
She has to consciously tear her eyes away from the graceful curve of his hand, lifting her blue gaze to meet his. ]
Sounds like witchcraft to me. [ She says lightly, the words tipping toward a tease. ] So what does the spell you put on this do?
If that's how it translates to you, can I really argue?
[ Returning his hands to his lap, he cups them, fingers clasping loosely. They lose some of their inkier coloring the less he focuses on the flow of magic. ]
That spell acts as a repellant for the energy surrounding Hosts and their blood. To "purify" is just another way of saying to "remove" an influence, so it's nothing too cryptic. It'll stay sharper longer and be slower to get dirty. [ His thumbs tap over one another, soft. ] You've gotten a lot of use out of this blade.
[ His smile eases the tension in his face, ages him backward in some small, noticeable way. Sharon doesn't need to be psychic to see that he's lived a tough life, likely shaped in part by whatever he was capable of back home. Magic, no matter the shape it takes, always seems to leave its weight on the people who wield it.
Hers was a curse. Was his the same?
Subaru says it removes an influence—in this case, the Hosts, and Sleep's. Sharon carefully unwraps the karambit and flicks it open with practiced ease. The blade is as clean as it feels, though she knows that will only last so long as the Hosts are at rest. ]
Someone once told me that... maybe the way to weaken her, to weaken Sleep, is to cut every string tied to every person who's fallen under her influence. Succumbed. [ She looks back at him, thoughtful. ] I'm willing to do whatever it takes to hit back. I don't know if it does anything more than get my anger out, but... [ A pause. ] It makes me feel like I'm doing something.
[ So the knife will see plenty of use, right up until it's torn from her hand or she goes down to whatever nightmare bullshit they're destined to face. That's all she can do. ]
[ They're words that dig deep. His silence is an amiable one, as understanding as it is complicit in its burdens. Subaru's entire life was meant to embody balance, a light to temper shadow, the sun feeding the moon, a door to heaven rooted in the earth. All it'd taken is one instance of inaction to destroy it. He'd really made a mess of everything by the end, by the time he'd awoken in the wave of her influence, choking down saltwater and faith.
Subaru observes the nimbleness of her fingers, the incandescence of the karambit in her grasp. ]
Doing something, even in anger, is better than the comfort of doing nothing.
[ He would know; he gathers she knows well, too. ]
It might be that I'm relying on it too much. [ He admits to her after a moment. Opening his palms, it's then that the source of the birdsong and fluttering in the nearby trees comes swooping in as sparrows conjured from that same ink and paper, returning to him as their caster. ] If it's true that this magic is hers.
[ ...better than the comfort of doing nothing. Something in those words sparks a brief flare of rage—the unconscious wrinkle of her nose, the fresh tension lining her jaw—but it passes just as quickly. She is the product of people who chose inaction, and she will never, ever be that kind of person.
People rarely learn that lesson without being forced to live it.
The thought flickers and vanishes, like the anger itself, her attention shifting as easily as the wind when birdsong and the soft rush of wings return to him. Creatures made of ink—made from him, by him. Not like her illusions, too beautiful to be like anything she can create.
She watches him with a quiet, almost mournful focus before speaking. ] I think it's true, and I think we're all becoming dependent on something she could tear away from us at any moment. The tethers. These powers. The Murmur. We're messing with things we don't really understand, leaning on them without thinking about why we have them. [ She's not exempt from that reality. She's begun to rely on them. ] Sleep told me she put a piece of herself inside us, and I think we need to find a way to rip it out.
[ Even if it means losing these powers. Even if it means cutting the tethers she's formed. ]
[ Her anger sparkles across his awareness, heated glimmers of honesty. He commits the flux of each to memory before it disappears. ]
She's skilled in seduction. [ Gently, the pads of his thumbs draw down the birds' wings and in a flutter, they unfurl into strips of paper marked with similar runes, enchantments quieting. ] Because what is seduction at its most austere if not an appeal to the simplest desire — survival.
[ In this world, they've needed every resource to combat the ambient threat, both of which she created. Power, connection, understanding. Magic opposite monsters, tethers to succumbence, sundowning. And the Murmur, interwoven. It would seem antithetical, but... there is something innately human about understanding through becoming. The danger lies in how well they maintain their sense of selves throughout. ]
The longer you allow something to dwell in your heart, the harder it becomes to rip it out.
[ Paper and ink, just like the paper that had once been wrapped so carefully around her karambit. It's a quiet display of power, and somewhere within her, curiosity stirs. Sharon can't help but wonder what else he's capable of, what other magic lives in those fingertips of his. No one's abilities here have ever been a replica of another's.
When he speaks, her frown deepens. Sleep and seduction have no business sharing a sentence, but Subaru isn't wrong. That's the worst part of it. He's right in the same way she believes she's right. ]
Yeah, well, it's not like we have a choice. Unless you know something I don't? [ She shoots him a glance, sharp, searching, a thin thread of hope flickering there despite herself. ]
[ Without thinking twice, he offers the once-feathered talismans to her. There may be more hope in those than the answer he has to give. He marks it with a shake of his head, knowing likewise written into every feature. It's bad news to bear, but nothing he figures she hadn't already picked up on. ]
[ The apology earns a soft, sympathetic snort as she reaches for the talismans, taking them with obvious care. The papers rest gently between her fingers, her gaze fixed on them as if they might shift or breathe. ]
If you ever crack it, let me know. [ She knows he won't. Maybe it isn't something meant to be solved at all. ] Sleep isn't the only monster I'm dealing with. [ Her heart is a nest of thorns, some withered, some dead, others still sharp and living, all twisted together. Hatred has made a mess of her. ]
[ Though they don't refashion themselves into the more substantial shapes they held before, the ink does move across the inscriptions. Soft, peripheral. Lifelike — as if it could be rewritten into anything. Whatever hatred lives in her isn't enough to decay the marks. ]
It's always easier, [ he admits, self-awareness burgeoning floral at all his corners. ] to deal with someone else's monster.
[ His hands clasp in his lap, empty but fashioned by a smoker's posture. ]
That's because it's not a monster anymore. [ She mumbles, lips thinning as she fights off a frown. Other people's monsters are always easier to face. Smaller. Less suffocating. A beast made of bones, its flesh and fur stitched together from someone else's pain instead of their own. Just bones, far easier to defeat without its casing.
His offer pulls a soft, bewildered laugh from her. ] You don't even know me. [ Glancing his way. ] I'm just the girl who stabbed your... whatever he is to you. [ It's kind, painfully so, and that only makes it feel misplaced, like something meant for someone better than her. ]
[ To divine the parts is his fare — he doesn't look much daunted by the prospect. Nor does he look overly surprised to hear that it was a stabbing that took place, despite his whatever's attempt to obfuscate the reality of it without outright lying to him.
Putting that annoying ass man who's always making things sound how they aren't aside for a moment... ]
You'd be right, in most cases. I practice onmyoudo, but my job is closer to that of an exorcist or a medium. Oftentimes, it's the monster who I meet first. Only after that can I know the person beneath.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Sumeragi Subaru. Subaru is fine here. [ No preamble — he's not one to be overly formal about it. ] And I know. I'm used to magic over weaponry — that's all.
[ A slight upward shifting of his energy. ]
If you have reservations, I can have it delivered to you instead. If not, you can choose the meeting place.
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I was just messing with you, Subaru. I'm not worried you've got nefarious intentions. [ Drama spills out from those last two words, drawn out and playful. ] Anyway, how close are you to Central Park?
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I don't, for the record. But I recognize I have no way of proving that to you. [ So it goes. ] That's not far from me. I can be there within the hour, if you'd like.
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[ True to her word, Sharon is perched on a bench just outside the street entrance, one foot tucked beneath her and her attention buried in a book. A mostly empty tote bag slumps at her side. Every so often, she glances up, eyes sweeping the area, searching for movement, before she pulls herself back into the pages.
At the first clear sign of someone approaching, she snaps the book closed, slips it into her tote, and rises to her feet. A small, easy wave follows, friendly and unguarded. ]
Subaru, yeah?
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On approach, he notes the book that goes slipping into her bag and then nods in greeting. He doesn't return the smile, too serious for his own good, but he is otherwise soft-spoken and polite. ]
That's right. Thanks for meeting with me. I meant to ask after you sooner, but we're always sent into dreaming at inopportune times.
[ Thanks, Sleep. ]
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Thanks for offering to return the knife. [ She counters gratitude with gratitude. ] If it helps at all... uh, that style of dream only happens once every couple of months. At least, so far. —and it always seems to follow the Blood Moon.
[ As she talks, she slips her hand into the pocket of her winter coat and pulls out a carefully folded karambit, its handle a muted off-white, extending it toward Subaru. ] It might need sharpening, but it's taken down a lot of Hosts in the short time I've had it.
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Does it? I didn't know there was an observable pattern. I arrived with... the second wave. So this is only the second time, for me.
[ With that, he pulls her original karambit from his pocket. It's folded and wrapped in paper strewn in inky markings, sealed with twine and a dotting of red wax. When it exchanges hands, there's an intent to it — it doesn't hum, not physically, but it feels bright and silvered by something equally sharp and clean as the blade itself. ]
Hosts leave behind a considerable residue. There's a purification spell on the blade, but it'll break when it touches blood again.
[ Though morose, his heart seems to be in the right place. ]
If you like how it feels with it, I can always replace it for you.
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Sharon straightens a little as he offers her the paper-wrapped blade. She turns it over in her hands, studying the markings with quiet interest. Something is different. Even without seeing the metal, she can feel it—as though he has cleaned it on a level she could never reach with soap and water alone.
Host residue? The only residue she knows Hosts leave behind is that thick, black blood—foul in the mouth, impossible to fully scrub from her clothes. Her brow furrows as she lifts her gaze back to his. ] Are you a witch or something? [ The word feels like a curse on her lips—even to this day. ] What does a purification spell do?
[ More than that: how has he learned to use his Vessel powers in such a way? Curiosity burns hot in her. ]
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I'd have to know what a witch does to answer that. But the simplest answer is: no, I'm not.
[ His gaze flicks aside, then back to her face; he gestures to the bench. ]
Would you like to sit back down? While I explain the spell.
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Witches cast spells. [ She says plainly before she gives him the floor to explain. ]
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Depending on who you ask, you might get a hundred different opinions on what a witch does. Some practice parlour tricks, some make medicine, others eat children...
[ No slouch on the folklore, he takes the seat next to her. ]
I practice onmyoudo. Or... I did, before here.
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Onmyoudo, he says. Her brow furrows as she mouths the word, testing it silently, turning it over in her mind while she searches for something familiar to latch onto. ] I think I've heard it before, somewhere, but I have no idea what it is. [ She's seen enough movies to be certain it's come up in one of them at some point. ]
Obviously, you still practice it here—even if it's taken on a different shape now. [ She lifts the wrapped blade in a small, illustrative gesture, a quiet see? It's clear that whatever magic Sleep has granted him, it's something adjacent to what he once knew. Like her own—recognizable in spirit, even if it's become an entirely different beast. ]
no subject
It's esoteric, even by my time's standards. [ It's occult. ] In essence, it's a magic of translation.
[ And there are so few among the young and the living who wield it with the obstinance he does. Lifting his hand, his palm settles into a loosely-cupped shape between them, held aloft for Sharon to see. His fingertips run black and inky; beneath his skin, that same hue shifts in constellate patterns, words not yet written or spoken into being. ]
Onmyoudo translates the stars, time, the seasons, the elements, the soul... into language. Language can then be used to manipulate those same energies to cast magic. It can be written, or spoken. This magic here, [ bestowed by their host. ] isn't so different for me.
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She has to consciously tear her eyes away from the graceful curve of his hand, lifting her blue gaze to meet his. ]
Sounds like witchcraft to me. [ She says lightly, the words tipping toward a tease. ] So what does the spell you put on this do?
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If that's how it translates to you, can I really argue?
[ Returning his hands to his lap, he cups them, fingers clasping loosely. They lose some of their inkier coloring the less he focuses on the flow of magic. ]
That spell acts as a repellant for the energy surrounding Hosts and their blood. To "purify" is just another way of saying to "remove" an influence, so it's nothing too cryptic. It'll stay sharper longer and be slower to get dirty. [ His thumbs tap over one another, soft. ] You've gotten a lot of use out of this blade.
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Hers was a curse. Was his the same?
Subaru says it removes an influence—in this case, the Hosts, and Sleep's. Sharon carefully unwraps the karambit and flicks it open with practiced ease. The blade is as clean as it feels, though she knows that will only last so long as the Hosts are at rest. ]
Someone once told me that... maybe the way to weaken her, to weaken Sleep, is to cut every string tied to every person who's fallen under her influence. Succumbed. [ She looks back at him, thoughtful. ] I'm willing to do whatever it takes to hit back. I don't know if it does anything more than get my anger out, but... [ A pause. ] It makes me feel like I'm doing something.
[ So the knife will see plenty of use, right up until it's torn from her hand or she goes down to whatever nightmare bullshit they're destined to face. That's all she can do. ]
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Subaru observes the nimbleness of her fingers, the incandescence of the karambit in her grasp. ]
Doing something, even in anger, is better than the comfort of doing nothing.
[ He would know; he gathers she knows well, too. ]
It might be that I'm relying on it too much. [ He admits to her after a moment. Opening his palms, it's then that the source of the birdsong and fluttering in the nearby trees comes swooping in as sparrows conjured from that same ink and paper, returning to him as their caster. ] If it's true that this magic is hers.
What do you think of that?
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People rarely learn that lesson without being forced to live it.
The thought flickers and vanishes, like the anger itself, her attention shifting as easily as the wind when birdsong and the soft rush of wings return to him. Creatures made of ink—made from him, by him. Not like her illusions, too beautiful to be like anything she can create.
She watches him with a quiet, almost mournful focus before speaking. ] I think it's true, and I think we're all becoming dependent on something she could tear away from us at any moment. The tethers. These powers. The Murmur. We're messing with things we don't really understand, leaning on them without thinking about why we have them. [ She's not exempt from that reality. She's begun to rely on them. ] Sleep told me she put a piece of herself inside us, and I think we need to find a way to rip it out.
[ Even if it means losing these powers. Even if it means cutting the tethers she's formed. ]
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She's skilled in seduction. [ Gently, the pads of his thumbs draw down the birds' wings and in a flutter, they unfurl into strips of paper marked with similar runes, enchantments quieting. ] Because what is seduction at its most austere if not an appeal to the simplest desire — survival.
[ In this world, they've needed every resource to combat the ambient threat, both of which she created. Power, connection, understanding. Magic opposite monsters, tethers to succumbence, sundowning. And the Murmur, interwoven. It would seem antithetical, but... there is something innately human about understanding through becoming. The danger lies in how well they maintain their sense of selves throughout. ]
The longer you allow something to dwell in your heart, the harder it becomes to rip it out.
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When he speaks, her frown deepens. Sleep and seduction have no business sharing a sentence, but Subaru isn't wrong. That's the worst part of it. He's right in the same way she believes she's right. ]
Yeah, well, it's not like we have a choice. Unless you know something I don't? [ She shoots him a glance, sharp, searching, a thin thread of hope flickering there despite herself. ]
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I never did manage to master that one. I'm sorry.
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If you ever crack it, let me know. [ She knows he won't. Maybe it isn't something meant to be solved at all. ] Sleep isn't the only monster I'm dealing with. [ Her heart is a nest of thorns, some withered, some dead, others still sharp and living, all twisted together. Hatred has made a mess of her. ]
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It's always easier, [ he admits, self-awareness burgeoning floral at all his corners. ] to deal with someone else's monster.
[ His hands clasp in his lap, empty but fashioned by a smoker's posture. ]
If my power can do anything for you, just ask.
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His offer pulls a soft, bewildered laugh from her. ] You don't even know me. [ Glancing his way. ] I'm just the girl who stabbed your... whatever he is to you. [ It's kind, painfully so, and that only makes it feel misplaced, like something meant for someone better than her. ]
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Putting that annoying ass man who's always making things sound how they aren't aside for a moment... ]
You'd be right, in most cases. I practice onmyoudo, but my job is closer to that of an exorcist or a medium. Oftentimes, it's the monster who I meet first. Only after that can I know the person beneath.
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this feels like a good wrap point!