† RYSLIG- IC INBOX †

[goodolfashionedvillain]

 

 

 

 

INBOX text | audio | action & overflow

 

 

 

 

code by transilience

Comments

Backdated to a few days after changes started, let's sayyy 3/8

[charmpagne]

Hello Vicious. It's Sparkling.

Are you busy?

[Sparkling, who Vicious hasn't spoken with since he found him broken and bloody in the break room. Tonight would be Sparkling's first shift back after the changes began, but right now it's still early morning. Their next shift wouldn't be for some hours yet.]

pre Nov 4

[humblecowboy]

[It's not that Spike is upset they're not in Felfri anymore. It really isn't. It's not even the part where he's a monster again— Spike's gotten over that and he knows viscerally that beinga nymph is nowhere near as bad as returning to being a shade.

What has Spike grouching and groaning around the apartment again?]

Shit. Shit!

They all taste like fucking— shit!

[It may just be the pack of cigarettes that Spike has just beaned out the window at light speed.]

Nattensfest

[recuttal]

[Wrapped in a light green cloth, the present contains an obnoxiously bright blue and yellow floral-patterned Hawaiian shirt, to match the one he gave to Spike.

There's also a smaller box, and it contains a reasonably nice metal pocket watch, probably bought from the Night Market. Good for telling time when you're intangible and don't have wrists, though Hinata didn't really account for the potential lack of pockets.]

February 14th... And 14th.. and 14th--

[humblecowboy]

[THE START OF THE LOOP; LOOP ONE]

[This was a stupid idea.

If there is only one thing Spike is certain of in this moment, it's that he is a fucking idiot. Perhaps the biggest fucking idiot there is.

Most people would have taken a lot more time to practice with their strange new powers before going into attempting something like this. They would have done more than just gently encouraged things that were already growing, would have put some attempts into trying to understand what they're doing— perhaps even would have asked other nymphs for help.

But Spike is not most people, and right now, he is regretting being a person at all.

As with most of the problems he deals with alone, Spike is completely silent about this particular fuckup.

He is seated on the couch now, watching the golden sunset drift in through the open window— no, not open. It's not open on purpose, anyway. A shard of broken glass falls to the floor, jiggled free from the mostly-bare windowframe by the movement of a flowering branch in the breeze.

A whole ass tree of a bush has grown, its roots a tangled mess on the apartment floor, out the window, in pursuit of the sun. Its pale branches peek into the evening air, fluttering with thick green leaves and beautiful blossoms in a white-fuschia ombre.

Lovely as they are, they are not what was intended, nor are they growing as intended, nor are they growing where intended.

Spike's own ass is planted (ha) dead center in the middle of the couch. An herbal cigarette burns off in his hand, which is too preoccupied with rubbing his temples to bring the cigarette to his mouth.

He lets out a heavy sigh. He is going to have to figure out how to fix this.

But Vicious hasn't returned home yet, and maybe won't at all. Maybe instead of dealing with this, Spike can just... rot on the couch.

And that's what he chooses to do, finally drawing a drag from that cigarette.

This can be a fuckup to deal with in the morning.]

Event - Action - February Time Loop- cw: gore, burning, claustrophobia, eventual groundhog murder

[dermondversteckt]

[Whatever dream Vicious had been having, wrapped around the smaller body of the wicked little Goblin he had spent the night with, it is suddenly...interrupted.

Fire roars through the trees, melting reddened snow from gore-spattered earth. Wine grapes hang nonsensically from burning trellises. They bleed. It smells of apricots. Your stomach churns.

There is a burning in the skin of your chest. You want to rip the flesh out. You can't. Your hands are too caked with flesh and blood to find purchase. Your mouth feels unlike your own. You choke and spit out a tooth. Another has grown in, long and wicked. Your neck throbs. You can taste dozens of people on your tongue.

A building stands before you. It's half burned away. You don't know what it is, a shack, crooked and wooden and old. You can't get near it. It burns too brightly.

A young man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flames. He wears robes, and the ends of his long dark hair are burning. You can't make out his face, but it is full of sadness.

He points at you.

"Suntem amândoi naibii.

We are both damned."

You know the voice, but you don't. It rings painfully in your ears, like the feedback on a speaker. The sun starts to rise, and you want desperately to see it. You can hear a child screaming.

The earth reaches up and swallows you whole before you glimpse the light, enclosing you, crushing you before you can even cry out.

When Vicious wakes, he will find...he is still in bed with Kronid. He is curled up tightly against him, still naked, small body and wings trembling. His hands are crossed over his chest, over his scar, claws digging in.

He...chokes out a single, barely-stifled sob.]

Action - February Time Loop, a few loops in - cws: burning, gore, blood, religious trauma, etcetcetc

[dermondversteckt]

[Whatever dream Vicious had been having, wrapped around the smaller body of the wicked little Goblin he had spent the night with (again, again, again), it is yet again...interrupted.

Fire roars through the trees, melting reddened snow from gore-spattered earth. Wine grapes hang nonsensically from burning trellises. They bleed. It smells of apricots. Your stomach churns. He's dead. The vineyard will die too.

There is a burning in the skin of your chest. You want to rip the flesh out. You can't. Your hands are too caked with flesh and blood to find purchase. Your mouth feels unlike your own. You choke and spit out a tooth. Another has grown in, long and wicked. Your neck throbs. You can taste dozens of people on your tongue. You knew them. You can taste the tears running down your cheeks, too, where they burn at your lips. You look at your hands. Shreds of lamb's wool and tattered flesh on glassy black claws.

A building stands before you. It's half burned away. You don't know what it is, a shack, crooked and wooden and old and rotting and fading and sticking barb-like in your mind's eye. You can't get near it. It burns too brightly. The cross scorched into your chest sings with agony.

But...wait. Is it yours? Your chest, your burn, your cross to bear? You know whose it is, don't you? You know that already.

A young man stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the flames. He wears robes, and the ends of his long dark hair are burning. You can't make out his face, but it is full of sadness. He looks exhausted. The fire around him seems to bend around him, moving with him, breathing with him.

He points at you, drawing himself up to speak...but then he stops. He lowers his hand a little. It shakes.]

...You... Mă puteți auzi?

Vicious.

Can you hear me?

[Your identity reasserts itself. It isn't your pain, after all.]

Post-Network Convo

[crazyequalsgenius]

[immediately after he sends his last message, Jim writes out his letter, then leaves, putting on a cap and sunglasses. he takes a walk around the block, stopping at the pizza parlor for a slice - trying the human sausage topping out of curiosity (not bad, he thinks, and decides to add peppers and onions next time). He goes down to the rec room and fiddles around on its piano for half an hour, long enough for someone to feasibly take a cab, bus, or the subway to the 38-8, or even a modest walk by foot.

Then he walks back up toward Vicious' floor, taking his shoes off at the landing halfway between the fifth and sixth floors. He adjusts his gait to be heavier, shorter, and slips the letter beneath the door. Then he leaves down the steps, the same way he had come, and ducks under the shelter of the stairwell to put his shoes back on. Conveniently, he has an excuse to be on the fifth floor, and knocks on Dee's door, knowing full well she's at Paddy's]

Dee? H'lo, Ms. Reynolds? ... You t' home? I wanted to go over some ideas about Act Two ...

[it's just that scrawny little actor human. no one big enough to have made those footsteps, if Vicious cares to check. with a sigh of frustration, he heads back up to his own room. and waits. his handwriting is erratic, artistic, but legible...]


Vicious,
What a good surprise to make your acquaintance on the network today! I believe we are going to, professionally, be a very smart match for one another. My business is still in its infancy, but depending upon how this first request is handled, you could do quite well.

Please go to Paddy's Bar this evening at 9 PM and keep your eyes on a Mr. Arvid Forsberg. He wears a brown leather vest and orders pale ale with a wedge of lemon, and tends to meet with a small group of morally questionable men. I wish to know what they are planning, and then I want you to tail the weakest of the lot when they are through. Observe him. His mannerisms, his habits, if he has family, how he dresses. Every single detail is important.

Forsberg himself is inconsequential. His criminal network is far less so. From them I intend to build a profile of the sort of criminal aptitude I will be contending with. I will pay you fifty solars an hour for this service. Enclosed is the first hour's pay for any expenses you may incur in the doing of the job. When you have finished, please send a detailed report to box 221 of the Bavan Post Office, and your payment will be left secured beneath the lid of the piano in the apartments' recreation room.

Happy haunting,
S. Moran

P.S: Destroy this thoroughly when you've finished reading it. I should think I don't have to explain.

<PasUnGadjo> Dated Tuesday, September 19th, 8:17 AM, AU

[inseine]

Who nabbed you? I want their name, breed, and last known location. Answer when you wake.