Nicholas D. Wolfwood (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notabluesbro) wrote2010-11-11 01:22 am
notabluesbro) wrote2010-11-11 01:22 am
8th Confession [Voice/Action]
[Morning ritual: sit up groggily, smoke a cigarette, kick stupid cat back out of bed after the umpteenth time. Fortunately, he'd managed to not want to pop Vash's head off his shoulders today, so he takes this as a good sign. And after he manages to regain his thoughts and get some breakfast in him, he cracks open his journal to see what's what.]
[[Filtered from Legato//100% Unhackable by Namisee Vash he said he was working on it |D ]]
So there's a shitload of new people... Hard to think I've been here this long, but you veterans probably snicker at a few measly months, right? [The sound of smoke leaving him, and it's obvious now he's been at the same usual bad habit.] Good to see these new guys got to miss the crappier part of this place, at least.
[And a charmingly added:]
It's not so bad when you get used to it, promise.
[Wolfwood really didn't find too much eventful this fine morning—it was a little chilly out, so he coiled himself in a black scarf, but... it was strangely relaxed today. It's something he feels ill-prepared for, even. Along his route of wandering, the preacher-man happened into the item shop on an interesting day; he'd spent so much time referring to the dangers of his world, he didn't consider that the neutral or even... nice things would snake their way into Luceti.
As such, he found a small weathered chest the that he could carry under one arm—a familiar one.
He drags it out, sits on a bench, and inspects it... and the first thing he happens across is a picture. He's not sure whether to burn it or laugh, so he just looks at it for a moment, noting the withered edges and shitty weathering. What a blast from the past. Like looking into the face of time.
He can be found here by whoever wants to be a creeper, or on his way back home with his cross on one shoulder and this small chest on the other. Clearly, he works out. But alas! Something slips out of the back of the chest without him noticing and floats quietly down to the ground.]
[[Filtered from Legato//100% Unhackable by Nami
So there's a shitload of new people... Hard to think I've been here this long, but you veterans probably snicker at a few measly months, right? [The sound of smoke leaving him, and it's obvious now he's been at the same usual bad habit.] Good to see these new guys got to miss the crappier part of this place, at least.
[And a charmingly added:]
It's not so bad when you get used to it, promise.
[Wolfwood really didn't find too much eventful this fine morning—it was a little chilly out, so he coiled himself in a black scarf, but... it was strangely relaxed today. It's something he feels ill-prepared for, even. Along his route of wandering, the preacher-man happened into the item shop on an interesting day; he'd spent so much time referring to the dangers of his world, he didn't consider that the neutral or even... nice things would snake their way into Luceti.
As such, he found a small weathered chest the that he could carry under one arm—a familiar one.
He drags it out, sits on a bench, and inspects it... and the first thing he happens across is a picture. He's not sure whether to burn it or laugh, so he just looks at it for a moment, noting the withered edges and shitty weathering. What a blast from the past. Like looking into the face of time.
He can be found here by whoever wants to be a creeper, or on his way back home with his cross on one shoulder and this small chest on the other. Clearly, he works out. But alas! Something slips out of the back of the chest without him noticing and floats quietly down to the ground.]
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[He digs around in his pocket, and holds up one semi-bent cigarette.]
Normal cigarettes? Well, they've got crap in them the human body shouldn't really be taking in.
[a thoughtful pause]
The hell are yours even made of?
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-- a little bit of mushi.
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...I was smoking mushi?
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But still.
[He smirks.]
Your world sounds like a hell of a place, mushi master.
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Objects show up here, too-- seems like anything I've handled has the potential to end up here. [grump. B|]
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Let me guess—some of the objects you find have something to do with your usual job and are generally unfavorable to have around the public?
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I found an inkstone here once, that almost caused a group of children to freeze to death, in my world.
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Eeeeh? How can stone make people freeze?
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It had formed a sort of black stone, that a woman carved into an inkstone-- and a friend of mine bought [slight irritation here] because he heard it might have a mushi inside.
Some kids got into his storeroom, and tried to use it like a normal inkstone. That woke it up.
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There's at least one thing the desert gets a checkmark for—no icy mushi trying to freeze me to death. How the hell do you even fix something like that?
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Well, I'd never heard of anyone inhaling them before-- but the one person who wasn't effected seemed to be the woman who made the stone.
She lived traveling at high altitudes-- as it turned out, it was the air pressure that drew the Kumohami from her body. It worked with the children, too.
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Are a lot of mushi dangerous to hang around, or are there jut the occasional rebellious kind that like to mess with the people around 'em?
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But -- well, you could think of it like any other creature. Among plants, there will be many poisonous, and just as many harmless. Among mammals there are those we eat or have taught to work for us, and those that would just as soon eat us. Mushi are no different. They've evolved to play whatever roles are most productive to their species; sometimes making direct use of man, sometimes aiding, sometimes antagonistic, or sometimes harming them only incidentally.
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[Of course, he's interested in anything foreign, and the idea of having to deal with these creatures? He can't help but wonder:]
Ever have any close calls with 'em?
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[Said lightly, a little prod to see how your point of view works. It's a nice way to learn more about a person, Wolfwood's come to find out—bring up fate and a man's bitterness, strengths, fears, anything, emerges. Short answers, long answers, humored ones: they're all a step.]
Or maybe you'd prefer to call it the natural flow of time meeting places and people? Coincidences falling in line to form a timeline?
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Maybe all of the above. [and you'll find, Wolfwood, that that simple open-ended acceptance is what defines him more than anything]
...but your world sounds more dangerous that mine.
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[A friendly little 'humph', before he blinks at that last line.
...Gunsmoke. Well, the name tends to say it all.]
It's not exactly Eden, no. Beyond the lack of plants and water, there's a lack of pretty much everything but bullets. It's been that way since before I can remember, and then some.
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