#✲ ic

[weepingclergy]

[ Cue the Music-ish ] [ Garden ]

The coins on his belt jingle softly as he assumes his first position, arms held at chest level, elbows curved just so.

"Just like old times, eh, Brady?"

Laslow doesn't look away from the violin held in his friend's hands. There's courage to be found in the instrument; if he only focuses on that, he won't imagine that the silhouettes in the windows are staring right at them, or that the squirrel darting from bush to bush is actually someone hiding behind the plants.

But he hasn't danced to a violin in years, let alone Brady's superb playing. He cannot pass up a chance like this.

"On the count of three! A-one, a-two, a-three..."

playing a big gig is something to be proud of, but even prestigious events get stuffy after a while. actually, it's pretty easy for it to get stuffy at things like this, huh?

so when inigo invites brady out to the garden for a refresher and a catch-up on lost time, it takes him a shockingly short time to agree. playing is nicer when it's for his friends alone, but brady wouldn't admit something that selfish out loud.

" yeah, " brady grunts in agreement with inigo's playful question. " just like old times. " he really is grateful for the opportunity, scowl-y as his face is; there were few even among his circle that truly knew how to appreciate the music brady could play. some laugh, others regard it with normality, and a few are vocally supportive... but inigo makes something happen. he builds on what brady creates.

he doesn't say it, but brady likes that the most.

as inigo commences his count, brady readies his violin. bow to string, eyes sharp, fingers primed to dance along the neck. the count ends and brady begins, playing a familiar tune that only the two of them know.

it's only appropriate, after all.

[ainalystipoika]

[ hiccups ] do you see that bear over there? if you wrestle it and win, i'll take three shots. OF VODKA. if you lose, you drink. then, i'll have a go at it and --- i don't know where i'm going with this.

     Timo looks over toward the fat lump of an animal, minding its business and scratching at a tree. Perfect. Alright Dmitriy, you asshole. Thus goes his internal monologue.

     “Oh, is that the challenge? Three shots of vodka? Haista vittu, pussy. I’ll show you.” Making a show of cracking his knuckles, Timo wiggles his fingers and, with a flourish, snatches the half-empty bottle from Dima, draining another portion of it in a few heavy swallows before handing it back to the other. Of course he would do so! It’s liquid courage, and to tackle a bear sober is suicide, even if it’s well-practiced. But he has a point to prove, so he spreads his feet shoulder-width in a stance and ventures over to the unsuspecting animal.

     Unsuspecting that is, until it spots Timo with his shoulders brought back and posture assured, obvious and looking for a challenge. It sniffs the air, scratches the bark once more, before scooting backward on its wide fuzzy ass and grumbling, only a slight roar, in warning. It fazes the Finn not, having faced down enemies more mechanical and much louder before, so before his liquid courage can dissipate, he releases his own roar, a battle cry to rival that of a mama bear’s, and rushes the final couple meters to tackle the animal around its wide midsection, both arms grappling its center-weight and taking hold of his own wrists to counterbalance. Teeth grit, Timo grunts, planting his feet flat, as solid as tree roots, and swivels on his heels, attempting to dislodge the bear from its position at the very least. It’s wrestling, is it not? he figures, so judo, grappling, all these sorts of martial arts--well, it might as well be the same. 

     Primal instincts take over; a piece of Timo’s molar splinters with the strength of his grinding jaw. The bear claws at his back, slashing through the fabric of his jacket and shirt, nicking his back in a few wonderfully straight lines to match several bouts of scar tissue, before he shoves forward, pushing a hacking growl from the bear’s diaphragm. As the bear inhales, Timo spares his dominant arm to swing upward, hooking behind the neck, the balls and toes of his feet swivelling to propel him up and over the beast until he straddles it, taking hold of his own wrists once more in a rear choke. The bear groans, shaking its head against the flex of Timo’s arms, well-practiced and holding from many a decade of the strange wilderness that his country prides itself on; so he grips his wrist and elbow tighter against the force, tensing as the bear rolls and bashes against a couple trees, attempting to shake the human off to no avail. Timo squints, closes his eyes, grits his teeth; opens them, and grins as wide and sharp as a bear himself when the animal resorts to snorting and shaking its wild, loose skin, trudging around and moping while Timo breathes from his gut, heavy and triumphant, riding the bear like a prized steed, his teeth flashing among the evergreen backdrop:

“You owe me three shots of vodka you son of a whore!”

[weepingclergy]

brady's only just arrived to the monastery and he's suddenly found himself a gig at the giant ball. talk about life springing shit on you, eh?

though he can't help feeling a little prideful. like, hey, show up outta nowhere and in a few days the monastery will ask you to rip a chord for a bunch of randos! clearly his violin skills are just so good that his vibes are immaculate for that kinda thing.

his ma always taught him the importance of dressing nice for shows, and she can bet her biscuits brady's never forgotten the lessons. though it's nothing quite so special as some of the other schmoes prancing into the hall, brady's got on a little ditty from home.

hopefully nobody accosts him while he's playing a set. he's just a little guy, okay?! okay?!?

DECORATION LIST

white feather: black feather: string of pearls: small bell: teardrop crystal:

-> brady has a small bell!

[weepingclergy]

Frowning, Laslow watches two faculty members rush out of the lounge, casting furtive glances over their shoulders as the door swings shut behind them. Did someone find butter scorpions? Nasty looking little guys but fairly easy to dispose of.

Good thing ol' Laslow the Invincible is here! Wrenching the door open, he bursts inside. "Watch out, foul beasts! You shall not terrorize--huh?"

There's no tell-tale skittering or flashes of curved tails. Just an incredibly familiar slouched figure in a corner of the room. Despite the years between their last meeting, his friends are unforgettable--he'd recognize them blind.

"Brady!?" Laslow exclaims, all his earlier bluster now faded. A piece of him relaxes, seeing yet another of their little band in this new world. "Decided to follow us on this next adventure, eh? We're in desperate need of a good priest."

Lips bloom into a smile even as an unexpected wave of tears prick at his eyes. All that petty squabbling when they were younger seems so foolish, now. "Heh, I'm truly glad to see you again, Mr. Popular."

brady's just about calmed down when owain pulls him into a room for the aforementioned "words not for unworthy ears." whatever the hell that means. he still has a runny nose and his eyes still pinken from weepiness, but he's able to finish a sentence without absolutely pissing himself tearful. that's a start!

as he pulls out his hanky to dab at his cheeks, someone opens the DAMN door with enough force that brady tips over and falls on his face (despite there being no contact). fucker, who is that?! oh, he'll knock the stuffing out of whoever this turkey is! then owain will call out a really long attack name or something before chaining with his sword l---

" brady?! "

third time his name's been said without needing to introduce himself, and the voice that speaks it is instantly recognizable. brady peels himself off of the floor, wondering if it's real or just the near-concussion speaking.

" what th'... " rising to his feet brady turns, but the sight almost makes him fall back down.

" i... igh.... INHIGHOOOOOHOOHOOOOOOOHOOUHRHHGHUUHHUUHHHHHUUU!!!!!!!! " brady begins sobbing all over again, this time even uglier than before. all this time without seeing his friends, coming with the thought in mind that they wouldn't even be here---it's all upturned in an instant! there's no chance he can keep these feelings back even if he'd tried! " firz't izz owaib, ad-- ad dow izz you, ahh, whadda hell, i dib't d-dow you knuggleheads would be here! WAHHHHHHHAHAHAHHHUUUUUUUU!!!!!!! "

he attempts to wipe his eyes, but all that does is create more free tear real estate. even through all the tears, however, brady's got a response in mind for the friend that dares bring up those wacky arguments from years past---he smiles in probably the scariest, snarliest, snottiest way a man can.

" y... ya made a big mistage, surbrisin' be lige dat... now all the ladies're godda go wild ober my sensitibe ass! "

[weepingclergy]

wonders never cease! another familiar face — another reminder that one's past is but a relentless shadow.

time trickles on as it always does, warping the mind, rendering it susceptible to the realms of dreams; where reality and illusion intertwine. over the years, owain's clung to memories, steadfast in his refusal to relinquish them. day after day, night after night, he'd whisper old names to himself, etching their visages in his mind's eye lest they faded into obscurity. one of them being —

"brady?"

indeed, unmistakably so! that towering, stooped figure; the indelible scowl, the scar...oh, that very cool-looking scar...

"BRADY!!" his voice thunders across the hall. "we meet again, old friend!" owain strides forward, his grin wide and true as he claps the other's back in greeting. "HA! look at you! at long last, brady of the moistened eyes has seized the courage to embark upon his own grandiose odyssey!" no judgment lingers in his words, only approbation. owain's hand snakes up to his face, poised before his burgeoning grin. "know this! fate commends thy valiant endeavors." he turns now, beckoning the other to follow. "come. i fear we have much to discuss...in the sacred confines of privacy, lest unworthy ears intrude."

brady, hands in his pockets, observes the people that flit about the monastery halls. ever since henry let slip that there was a chance his buddies were here, he's stationed himself in a common area to hopefully catch a glimpse of one of them.

...well. that's what he'd intended to do.

the issue is that a new teacher that looks like he'll start wailing on the first punk-ass dastard he sees means a slew of weirded out students, staff, and the faces they make at him. brady watches as groups of kids whisper amongst themselves, staring at him all the while. he watches as teachers either swerve to avoid him or look at him like they would a troublesome youngster. they don't even try to hide it!

brady tries to ignore this for as long as he can, but he's a sensitive guy inside. his ears turn pink, his slouch deepens, and his pouty lip wibbles ever so slightly. damn it! he's only been here for a little while; why the hell're these donks so mean to him?! gods, if only one of his friends were here---

" BRADY!! "

what? who? huh? that thunderclap voice, that strike of blonde hair! the way he strides through a crowd, totally not caring that everyone is staring at him! it has to be. it can only be---!

"o-- u-- bw-- BWUHWAINNNNNNNNNGGFBBBGFBUUGHHH!!!!!" brady yowls, tears suddenly flooding his vision before he even registers owain's friendly touch. "ibffghh!! ghhuehgh!!! bugahhahghh!!!!!" ah, praise be to whatever gods are watching him! one of his pals! here! in the flesh! ain't nothing peachier!!

he tries to regain composure, but that doesn't really work. "i'mbfg, i'm, muh eyes're nod moist, owain, shuddup," he defends with moist-ass eyes. "tha'z the first thig ye say t'me? my wet eyes?! i'll kill you! i'll-- i'll--- BUOOHHHAAHHHHUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!" scarred face hides with futility in his hands as he feels owain start to pull him aside somewhere.

"you lug! i missed you, dammit!" sniffling, he shuffles along to wherever it is owain is going. "tch. callin' me moist... nng... shuddup. idiot."

[weepingclergy]

NOW MAKE LIKE MY PANTS AND SPLIT!

about / interview / stats / thread tracker

✲ "yo mama?" what ABOUT my mama? ✲ voted most likely to cry self to death in priest school ✲ violin beastmoder ✲ YOU WANT A PIECE OF HIM? well come back tomorrow he's all sold out sorry :(

basic info under the cut!

brady comes from the timeline that all of the playable child units come from (grima & the ruined future). however, he has seen the events that occur in the future past dlc and is aware of the alternate timeline.

brady's father is currently undetermined and his hair color matches his mother's. this is subject to change as appropriate when a maribelle is present.

i see brady as someone who struggles with masculinity due to his hair-trigger crying fits, hobbies, and unathleticism. this may become present in threads; he'll work through it as time goes on/people show him different ways of life.

this guy is a chronic cusser. just know that if he starts slinging f-bombs everywhere, it's just because that's how he talks. unless you hit him over the head with a mallet. then it's because of that.

[weepingclergy]

"OH! Wait a second, kiddo... I know you??" The question mark was poignant, and ever the tell-tale sign that the spiders in his head were working over time. His face, his prominent pout, his Grima-forsaken ironic slouch. (Maribelle was the last person in the world to have a bad posture, so Henry had always found it HILARIOUS.) "I do! Yeah! It's..." He snapped his fingers twice, like striking a match. "Brady! Or do you go by some other name now?" Cynthia hadn't given him a rundown about Maribelle's kid at all, so for all he knew, Brady went by Brandon Salamander or something now, right?

"Man oh man— glad you're not dead in the water, nya ha ha! Didn't know I'd end up bumping into a whole lot of you kids here, but I guess flocks of a feather end up together, ahaha~" He tilted his entire body to one side, trying to peek for the kid's signature instrument of choice. Then the other, just for funsies. Did he still play? Was it just Henry, or was this kid even older now??

"You still play, don'tcha? The crows and flowers always liked when you did."

finally his sickness subsides and brady can drag his arse out of the infirmary tent. it's embarrassing enough that he had to forego the traditional interview because of his weak stomach, but he totally ralphed at least 4 times on the way from the interview hall to the medtent. he wants to whack his skull against a wall. if ANYONE calls him 'barfy' or something similar, he's going to beat the shit out of them.

as he swaggers from one place to the next, flashing sneers wherever he walks, brady keeps eyes out for any suspicious figures. however, he's so caught up in his search that when someone addresses him from behind, he almost throws up again from surprise.

" AHH! WHAT T-- " cough. slouch. leer. " oh. it's you. yeah, it's me. an' i didn't change my name none, either---the hell gave you that idea?"

henry always was a bit of a nutcase in brady's eyes. never not talking death or crows or murder or what have you; risen were scary, but the way this guy pulled them apart like string cheese was scarier. oh, gods, the imagery's making him feel sick again. he shakes his head and tries to keep his stink eye strong.

though, something that white-haired melvin says alerts him. " you kids? " he grunts, turning his head lightly to the side. " wait, you mean i ain't the only one of us here? where're the others? you know somethin' i don't, grampa? "

he tries to get close, maybe intimidate some info out of henry, but his next question pops brady's bravado like a tent in a windstorm. he sags, flicks his eyes to the side bashfully. he didn't think the guy would be genuine like that.

" 'course i still play. why the hell wouldn't i? my violin case s' still on the boat. "

[ainalystipoika]

@danmarks-styrke​ replied to your post “the doctors say i have a severe concussion, but i fine feel.”

[OFFENDED GASP] I don't mumble or sound funny! You and your Finno-Ugric language sounds funny!!

     It’s Finnish, Tanska. Finsk, if you will! If you want to go for the whole branch, go tease Hungary. And coming from me, who’s had to deal with Swedish for long enough... Danish is definitely the funnier of the two. Potato-tongue. Berwald and Norja can back me up.

[ainalystipoika]

This morning I had a whole seat on the bus to myself for two stops. It was lovely! Then some students stepped on in a group and I wound up having to share. Totally ruined my day. Probably unrelated, has anyone ever tried mixing coffee and vodka before? I'm tempted to see what happens.

[ainalystipoika]

the doctors say i have a severe concussion, but i fine feel.

psych sentence starters

I don't think it's a concussion that's making you sound goofy, that's just how you Danes talk. You sound less mumbly today, in fact!

[ainalystipoika]

😶 [Is he sleepy? Or is Timo's presence just so calming that, like a skittish kitten just flopping over, Peter feels safe enough to show quiet affection?]

touch-starved meme

accepting!

As reliable as a ticking clock, Timo could always be found in the kitchen brewing up a fresh pot of coffee in the evening after dinner, so much so that it often replaced dessert instead. Cookies and cheese weren't exactly the best when it came to warming one up in the chill of the oncoming night.

He had just managed to scrounge up the sugar pot from the back of the cabinet when he felt a warm weight along his side, hair tickling his neck and shoulder where the collar of his sweater drooped too wide with too many washes and hangs on the clothesline. A broad smile graced his face when he was greeted by Peter's relaxed expression, and he lifted a hand to ruffle the boy's hair with soft, paternal affection.

"Do you take coffee after dinner, Pekka? Or just sleepy? If you're falling asleep like this then you should go to bed. You'll wind up walking into the doorframe." Sparing his hand away from Peter to unhook two mugs from their hooks and filling them with coffee, Timo returned his hand back to the crown of the boy's head and nudged one cup toward him. "This should help you freshen up a bit, if you want."

[ainalystipoika]

continued from here with @falletornasbjork

***

Being around the Swede for centuries had given Timo a pretty good read on the other. When he was happy, the tightness in the corners of his mouth and eyes loosened. When he was focused, he tended to squint as if he wasn't behind the thick lenses of his glasses. And when he was stressed, well--

Berwald sighed. A lot. And Berwald sighing ought to equal a heavy bout of complaining from anyone else more verbose.

Having stopped by for the weekend to drop by some extra food and visit some shops, Timo had just finished reorganizing the fridge space and filled the space in the hallway by humming an old folk song under his breath, at least until he heard the full-bodied sigh coming from the Swede and the long painful creak of a chair crying out from under his exhausted form. Peeking into the office, he frowned deep enough to wrinkle his nose and paused in his humming to take stock of the situation. It'd been a while since he'd done something like this, not since they'd cohabitated way back when, but he did know, presumably, that Berwald liked a nice surprise.

Sock feet muffled by the simple runner underneath, Timo crept up behind the Berwald and, not wanting to scare the poor man to death, set his palms alight on the breadth of those wide shoulders, shaking out the spasming trigger fingers on his right hand and set to work digging into the tension of his trapezius.

"So tense!" Timo chirped as the Swede loosened and slumped forward in his seat, all the while relaxing into the well-practiced helping hands. "I'd expect this tension on a Monday, but not a Friday. It's a good thing I came over so you won't have to sweat over dinner."

Nothing felt better to Timo than being able to lend a helping hand or two, but Berwald's sweet, low words as he turned to face the smaller man came pretty damn close. Pleased and a bit flustered when he found his nose smushed against Berwald's collarbone as he held him, Timo lifted one palm to lie flat on Berwald's sternum, the solid bones of his ribcage, while the other found its home on the wide splay of his scapula, squeezing the bulk of still tense muscle there.

"Oh Berwald, höppönassu, mulla on ikävä sua. You know if you feel this lonely or tired you can always call me, right? It's no trouble at all for me, and even though there's no war or running from place to place anymore, I do worry about you. More than you think, probably!" Timo winced once as he dug a couple fingers into a particularly tight spot on Berwald's shoulder. "Like splitting a rune stone..."

[ainalystipoika]

Do you ever miss being married? After all that married talk.

I don't think I can explain it as clean-cut as that... I can't get married like humans do, so it's a more political thing for me, not a planned, extravagant event.

But I do miss the companionship that came with it, and it wasn't like I was treated too terribly during that time. Compared to most, I had quite the walk in the park! And I really enjoyed taking care of the house for myself and someone else. Sometimes I get caught up thinking about that kind of thing. Maybe it's viewing things through nostalgia-tinted glasses. Maybe it's me being swept up in all the talk... Hmm... kuka tietää...

[ainalystipoika]

Aw... did I miss all the marriage commotion yesterday? Some of you seemed so saddened by it.

...Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing to be married, though! For-real-married, with matching rings and a little ceremony with a massive open bar? I've always envied people a bit, being able to do something fun like that... I can dream.

[ainalystipoika]

🍻“ what have you done that people would judge you most for doing ?

Oh, this is great. A better question: what hasn't Timo done that others would judge him for? Mid-pour, gesturing for Saima to pass their drink to him for a refill, a mischevious smirk worked its way across his face.

"This one always gets people," he stated plainly, swiveling the cap back onto the bottle with a two-finger flourish. "Tree bark. I eat tree bark sometimes."

"Not for the bark itself!" He laughed pre-emptively before any sputtering comments could be made. "Up north, reeeally far north, you can't really grow a lot of crops, so I was taught how to make bread out of tree bark. It's surprisingly tasty! Especially when you have no potatoes." Here he pantomimed shaking out a sheet of something and hanging it out to dry as one would do laundry, or scraped off tree bark. "It's not very good for you, but sometimes one must make do! Oh, I almost forgot about terva, too. It's tar, and it's a miracle cure. I can attest... somewhat." Timo gestured with his shot glass, swirling the clear liquid around, grinning all the while. "And it gives so many things a great flavor! Remind me when we're done to pick us up a thing of terva leijona. If you don't like the tar taste of it, then it at least makes a great souvenir to take back!"

[ainalystipoika]

🍻 what do you really think of life?

Leave it to the Russians to ask such a loaded question mid-drinking session. Timo's eyebrows shot upward, then sharply downward in a full-face frown, draining his glass before setting it back down on the table between them, tracing the rim with one finger. The vodka burned his throat a little. "What a question, Dmitriy! I hope you aren't expecting a terribly upbeat or downtrodden answer one way or another." He coughed once to clear his throat, then propped up his chin in his free hand, humming in thought.

"I think... I like being alive. Really!" Timo laughed, waving off any possible rebuttal to that. "It's shit a lot of the times. And I don't really think there are a lot of good things that come with being alive either. I mean, I've been shot several times and I even almost lost an eye. But isn't that just it? That I get to experience all of that? And then I come to appreciate the nice things that come along with it too. Like my friends and family, and my dog, and when I cook something delicious. Or when I visit my house up north and it's quiet so I don't have to deal with so much bullshit. And of course, if I weren't alive, I wouldn't be able to experience having a good, stiff drink." Here he shook his glass for emphasis, ice cubes rattling at the bottom. "So that's what I think about life. It's all good, even when it's shit. Now pass me the bottle so I can top myself off."