#✧ *( ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇsᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ / IC. )⁞◟

[godsoft]

@sterrenlied liked for a starter.

It’s breathtaking here, at Savior’s Respite; the place is teeming with questions, and that’s how Demyan likes his attractions. Once alive, once human, he might’ve asked a million questions about the place with a sort of wonder near-unmatched.

There’s a man in the distance, near the cliff, barefoot and looking like he’s at peace --- or maybe thoughtful. Demyan can’t tell enough with the fog in his head and how life now seems so strange to him.

Still.

He draws closer to this person.

“You ... look like a regular.”

He wasn’t banking on that pause in his words, but there it is. He looks to the side for a moment. It’s a statement that needs to be followed up by something --- anything --- so he continues.

“I hope I’m not bugging you.”

More word spewing. Lovely.

[godsoft]

@unulales liked for a starter.

Now that he’s among life again, maybe he can make attempts at seeming alive himself. Or so Demyan thinks --- he’s been going back and forth on this one. He’s not like them, not like any of them. Never will be.

It’s been a weird couple of days.

Deep in thought, he’s got one hand busied with the twirling of that damned wooden knife; it’s only been good for busying his need to keep moving.

He stops in his tracks, however, seeing there’s someone under a streetlight, nearly horrifying in her stillness. Statuesque. He draws closer, notably slower now than with his quick stride just moments earlier.

Lord.

He doesn’t wave a hand in her face or anything like that, but instead cocks his head to the side. Keeps his distance.

“Nothing on TV, huh?”

[godsoft]

Demyan’s countenance bears the feeling of someone newly freed from some sort manner of fetters; he’s posted up outside of a bar in Archimedes, head swimming, cigarette burning between his lips. Despite the relaxed and content air about him, he’s bleeding out of his nose and doesn’t seem to notice. Is it the booze, the head rush from not having nicotine in a while, is it something else?

He looks to the person next to him, a new arrival, offering a smoke from his pack.

“Want one?”

[godsoft]

@underteika

There’s no rhyme or reason to why Demyan will start his bleeding, his injuries. He’s thankful at least a little, however, that at least in this new place, he’s able to heal it up without going off the rails.

Part of him misses that, though. Being able to let loose and wreck some settlers or whatever whims his King sent him to chase.

Now he keeps his mind in the present, the now --- a real struggle for Demyan --- by keeping the injuries alive. He’s slumped down against the side of a building, broken legs stretched out, blood leaking out of his mouth.

Some days, here, it’s hard to pin down what he misses most. One moment it’ll be humanity, the smile and laughter of his friends.

The next it’ll be craving all their deaths.

He wipes at the blood with the back of his hand and allows himself to sit there, shaking and hurting.

Someone tries to get his attention, then. Concern. It pulls at him, but he stuffs that pull down.

“What was that?” he mumbles, coughing, “I’m fine.”

[godsoft]

😴

send me 😴 to see how your muse appears in my muse’s GOOD DREAMS

The sky is starless, stark grey with nearly cartoonish clouds white against that slate backdrop. The moon is merely a ring in the sky, like an eclipse, and it seems to drip from where it hangs there.

All in all, it’s an unsettling sight.

But for Demyan, it’s home. 

Siebren seems a little uneasy, under a sky with no stars.

Under that sky, Demyan feels his extra arms, once clawed and dripping ichor, drip and flow off of him like the moon does.

He looks up towards it, and finds himself filled with saudade for a starry sky with galaxies and promise of the unknown all about them. That used to be home. Sadness mingles in with the saudade.

“I miss the stars. Don’t you?”

“I’ve never been out there like you have.” Demyan whispers back. 

One of them twinkles back into the sky, slight and faint. He smiles, and Siebren turns his gaze to that star. Promise.

“You don’t need to have been among them to miss them.” he says quietly, and so the galaxies flood back in where the saudade fades back out …

[godsoft]

@ashes-of-omelas

It’s not supposed to be like this; the healing factor seems so far out of reach now that he really needs it. It’s like his consciousness can’t reach that part of him, and what good does it even do when he’s so prone to this Godforsaken illlness? 

His hand comes weakly against the door, far too weak to really be heard by his roommates --- if they’re even home. 

He drinks in deep breaths as well as he can, and he slumps against the door even further. How pathetic.

Allowing himself to slide down with his back against the building, he wishes he had the foresight or the sense of self-preservation enough to wear a coat ...

[godsoft]

@telefrag

Sometimes the pain makes him feel delirious.

Sometimes he can laugh it off.

It happens to be a case of the former, today, as he huddles into himself on a curb. There’s a wide gash on his stomach, and his button-up is undone, blood freely flowing down his abdomen.

No one stops to help or check in on him; he breathes ragged, and maybe it’s because he’s so huddled up that he seems as though he’s asleep or doesn’t want to be touched ...

The fact that he’s being overlooked hurts more than the cut.

[godsoft]

❝ can i get you anything? would you like some water? whiskey to dull the pain? ❞

“Whiskey.”

He’s all bloodied up out of the nose, head tilted back yet again. He looks tired, and his grin is wry.

“Maybe a tissue.”

The blood dams up slowly as his eyes slip shut. The only good thing the city has done for him so far is giving him back his healing abilities — without all the Ink. Something to clean up all the blood down his face and neck and chest might be nice, though.

[godsoft]

❝ if you'd like to hold on to something to make you feel less scared… ❞

“You think I’m scared? Do I look the part?”

That’d be a time. He counts himself as fearless — except for maybe one thing. Which he may or may not have been dwelling on, lost in the thought, not really paying attention to his surroundings …

[godsoft]

❝ of course i signed my name! i’m an artist. how else are people gonna know who did this? ❞

He bends at the waist, looking at the burner on the brick wall rather intently. Better than anything he could have done; he’s not artistically inclined, rather having an ear for music with the hands to match.

Never had the patience to draw.

“Do you do this a lot?” his tone sounds unfriendly, which is unintentional; it’s just how he sounds, usually, even when he’s trying to seem as though other people don’t utterly exhaust him.

[godsoft]

❝ i’ve been on at least twelve flights in my life. i’m pretty much an expert. ❞

“… Have you been on a train, though?”

“I remember those being nice.”

His voice is low, quiet, perhaps betraying the reverie he was stuck in. It seems as though he’s able to recall more of his time as a human or a being of good more readily now. Here, at least. 

Back home, when the world was dark, there was nothing else but thinking of his need to free himself. To free his friends.

[godsoft]

“Can’t get up into much trouble like I want if all I can do is bleed and heal up in minutes.”

[godsoft]

tag dump because i want fancy tags tooooo. also i’m gonna start using small text, hi

[godsoft]

@personnetransitoire liked for a starter

Demyan has seen some shit back home, but this place is a lot more colorful. Lively. Back home, the life around him was tethered down by Ink, eternal agony wracking their bodies or putting them to sleep. The world was dark, and empty, and so, so cold.

Someone whizzes by overhead --- no one can really fly where he’s from. How interesting.

“Yo, teach me how to do that!” he blurts out, hoping for some secret that’ll unlock a means of power --- a means to protect himself.

[godsoft]

@sleazoids

He’s there, shining and terrible all in the way he carries himself. No longer does he have the arms, the eyes, the Ink. Hell, all they bothered to give him here was a wooden knife. Twirling that absentmindedly in his hands, Demyan wills the thoughts of home right back out. What’s the use in ruminating? That’s what Stolas tells him.

--- But who’s going to kill them now?

Out.

--- What if someone else gets to them first ... ?

No. Out.

--- Sumi or Scrape, can’t trust them, wouldn’t put it past--

OUT.

Demyan spikes the knife down at the ground out of frustration; it thunks there, and he picks it up after a moment despite the uselessness of the item. He breathes in, city air curling in coolly around an empty canyon.

Its upon reaching his door that he notices his immediate neighbor letting himself out of the condo. The silver of his hair, the gold of his eyes, all warm and strong --- not at all like the gold of his own, which mimic that of a counterfeit coin.

It’s Namir.

Blood and ink slip out of his mouth, and he’s already wondering how he should go about this. He’s played the scenarios out a million times in his mind, giddy on it. But here ... so unexpected. He shouldn’t recognize Demyan; maybe he’ll make it horrifying instead of quick.

He coughs wetly, taking a staggering step towards Namir.

“Hey --- hey y-you, can you help me?”

[godsoft]

@midvalley-the-hornfreak

If there’s a cure for this wanderlust, then Demyan hasn’t found it. He spends more time outside than he does inside, in search of something he has no name for. Purpose, people? A fight, a cure? Who knows.

He has one hand cupped around the end of a cigarette somewhere in Archimedes, thinking that if someone were to come by it’d be nice. At what feels like an hour way too early, he doesn’t think its likely.

Someone approaches, and Demyan takes a step back.

“Yeah?”