lifeaftr | Ruins Mingle Log!

Entry tags:

Ruins Mingle Log!

Who: Newt Geiszler

ohnehalfte and EVERYONE
What: So a bunch of people headed up towards the ruins, so they've got to all run into each other and start to congregate, right???
When: Evening of the mingle log and onwardish.
Where: The Ruins
Warnings: Um...same as the mingle log?

The beach curves up a gentle slope until it meets forest, some manner of building visible through the trees. Further exploration of this area will reveal a dilapidated building of sorts; the architecture is indiscernible to even the most skilled eye. Despite looking as if it has seen better days, there are areas that offer some form of shelter...and who knows what else. Just because it appears uninhabited doesn’t mean you won’t wind up pleasantly, or unpleasantly, surprised.

[ooc: Hey y'all! I thought this might be a good place to start getting larger groups of characters together to do some exploring, settling down, banding together and figuring out rations, etc. Feel free to throw up any threads of your own for specific things like exploration groups, a gathering in the entrance hall, whatever strikes your fancy or that you think your character would organize. Have a party!

Edit: Additionally, there is now an OOC Post for those that want to handwave their character signing up for ruin exploration]

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[It appears that there were a number of children on this island. Whether or not that should be a worry was something the Batter would leave to another to think of. He didn't do well with children despite being created by one and that was not likely to change any time soon.

Still, this one is interesting. Not so much what they are placing in their backpack - for creating fires, he assumes - but their movements with the stick. Were they planning on using it as a weapon in the future? It wasn't the most practical thing he could think of.

Unless this was just something the child was doing just because they could.

Either way the Batter approaches Frisk. He's pretty easy to spot, given the whole 'black and white only' appearance he has going on, but strangely enough the man makes little noise when he walks.]

What are you doing?

[There's...very little emotion in his voice as well.]

[They drop the stick.]

[More like they throw the stick, back down into the bed of dry ferns they'd pulled it from, and their hand flies to their hip; a pink glow sputters and spits over the chest of their sweater before breaking apart like a whirl of steam. It's not quite panic that sits in their eyes, but a hard line of something.]

[Determination, or resignation.]

[When their eyes don't register something immediately flying towards them, some of the tension leaves their body. Their hand drops, and they straighten a little from their half-bent position. If this were the castle, they might have felt embarrassed at that response still ingrained into their muscles. As it is, they tilt their head curiously, if a bit cautiously -- but not with an unfriendly gaze.]

Collecting sticks.

[A hand moving to whatever may be concealed, a hand tightening around the handle of a baseball bat. It seems that the both of them have nearly the same reaction to the prospect of combat, although it's neither determination or resignation reflected on the older man's face.

There's nothing.

A small burst of pink light appears over the child's chest and the Batter steps back in preparation of the possibility that whatever is coming had range. But then it soon sputters into smoke and vanishes completely. The Batter doesn't relax however and tips his own head to the side to eye them up and down.

There's a strange thing about his eyes. From the angle Frisk has if they expect to see his eyes they will, bright red and underlined with eyeblack. If not they simply...won't.]

What was that?

[A reasonable question, if it was supposed to sound like one.]

[Nothing in his face at all, except a glint of red that reminds them of themself. Not exactly the best thing, but they don't hold it against him. They'd rather see nothing in his face than Determination.]

[Heh... they bet Sans would get a kick out of reading his expression.]

[They stare at him, neither tensed nor relaxed, still halfway into their mobile stance without any of the tension coiled in their muscles. Their eyes flick away from him, only for a moment -- searching for their Partner. Unwilling to spend too much time making that obvious.]

[In the end, they decide again that the truth is the only option they're cut out for.]

It happens when I'm about to FIGHT. But I don't want to. So I put it away.

[Forced it away, more like; the reaction of baring their soul is perhaps the most ingrained one they've got.]

[A reaction to the possibility of battle - of a FIGHT. An odd word to put a leaning on but there were many different people here, and sometimes strange helped. And it wasn't like the Batter wasn't the same way either.

So it is a practical, if curious response. What exactly would have happened if the child had proceeded to fight him? Something to note for later.]

Okay. You were playing with that stick.

[Like a weapon. They must have a better one if it was quickly discarded, but that had been what drew the Batter's attention in the first place.]

[Playing.]

[Right.]

[Frisk nods. They sense the de-escalation, and this strange -- man? -- sends something familiar crawling under their collar that tells them that the less they provoke him, the better. They're fine with that. If there's one thing they know about themself, it's that they have always been good at nothing.]

A game.

[They stoop to pick up the stick again, as if making a cursory attempt at it, but they don't start swinging it around again. It hangs limp at their side, like a nuisance.]

[A game. They are a child so it makes sense. Children like games or so he understands. And they would need something to do when not collecting items to ensure their survival.

Well whatever. As long as they stay out of the Batter's way during battle, it was fine.]

Who are you?

[It seems that every single being here had their own unique name so it was worth learning them.]

[They stare at him, their mouth pressing thin. They've learned over time that names are dangerous. A stranger that seems to drip danger from the reddish blur of his eyes? ... they would have told him anyway, if they hadn't already figured out their half-lie with their Partner hours ago.]

[But they have, so that's that.]

[They stand a little straighter, and the stick levels more parallel to the ground as it's clenched.]

Kittu.

[kih-too, like an onomatopoeia of a tiny, humorous sneeze.]

Who are you?

Kittu.

[The Batter repeats it, not because he doesn't believe it's their name but because it is a little strange...or at least it is from his prospective. But strange works and by this point he has heard from a few people his own name was also strange.

Not that it matters. It was just a way to address someone without having to go "Hey you."]

I am the Batter.

[It's up to "Kittu" to decide if it's his name or not. It may sound like a title but the way he says it suggests otherwise. Then again, the Batter talks like pretty much all emotion has been scrubbed out of his voice, so who knows?]

[He echoes the name back to them, and it sounds strange and foreign, but not incorrect. That's a good sign for them. It might mean they're getting better at lying, or more used to it -- lying has never been shameful to them quite so much as something they simply had no natural talent for.]

[They know better than anyone that practice and repetition makes perfect.]

[When he offers his own name, it's more of a title, and Frisk's eyes track to his namesake. They see no mystery to solve in it -- he says he's the Batter, and he most definitely looks the part. Maybe if they were wrapped in less caution, the impression that they're looking at someone who's built from some of the similar, sharper angles that they'd like to phase out of themself... they'd be delighted at his eccentric appearance.]

[As it is, they're not exactly relaxed. But they're beginning to sense that the more danger they try to detect, the more dangerous they're likely to seem in turn. So they make an observation, and they let some of their soft amusement color it, because maybe they are a little bit interested.]

That's a weird name.

[A man who introduces himself as "The Batter" while dressed in a baseball uniform and carrying a bat. It certainly lines itself up nicely for the joke, doesn't it? Too bad that the person in question has no sense of humor.

Frisk's not the first person to make that observation after all. The only difference was that, on this island, the people addressed him rather then the Puppeteer.

If they're still even watching, that is.]

It is the name assigned to me.

[A...foretelling of future events.]

[...]

[They don't say it, for fear it would give them away; or start their conversation down a different avenue they aren't ready for. It's registering with them, now. They don't think they've ever seen LOVE before, except in the mirror, except reflected in the brighter, clearer reds of their Partner's eyes. Everyone has it, they're sure. Some more than others, like a sickness that grows over your emotions in columns of steel and ice.]

[It makes a person cold.]

[But they have no basis for comparison, and no way to read the stiff numbers that churn with a person's sins -- maybe the Batter is just a cold person. That's not nice of them to think. Just because the way he speaks reminds Frisk a bit of themself in their second timeline?]

[It's not nice of them, but it makes them unafraid. They decide to say it, after all.]

Does it make your life hell?

["Does it make your life hell?"

A curious question, stated rather bluntly. Although the Batter prefers it that way. The amount of people who simply got to the point in his world were very slim.

But it's a question he has to think about and for the first time during this conversation, the Batter's answer isn't immediate. His expression doesn't change as he continues to stare at the child, eyes visible or not. That is still up to Frisk to decide.

His life was hard but not hell. A simple moment in time before the Batter returned to his father's cradle and put them all to sleep. The switch is now on off. Nothing more than an eraser wiping the chalkboard clean. Inevitable. That alone is what "The Batter" was: an inevitability. All things come to an end and this time, it was by his own hands. So sleep. Stay in your coma.

(Or in the end, asking such a question is like handing a wind-up toy its own spring and expecting it to know what to do)]

No.

[Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Angel.]

[No.]

[That's the exact answer they would give, if asked that question in return.]

[Almost.]

[The Batter continues to stare at them, and they stare at him, rusted eyes holding a gaze of blood-bright red and greasy eye-black. They still don't know enough about him to make a judgment -- though judging isn't really their schtick. Kids like them are too young to decide what's right and wrong. It's all decided for them; because maybe adults can work their LOVE better, who knows? It's better for nice, quiet children to stay indoors; playing with sticks, practicing their alphabets.]

[A. B.]

[See -- now.]

[Now, they're getting a good idea of the kind of person they're talking to.]

Good. I don't want to ever FIGHT you.

[Once upon a time, a man met a child.

But it's a little different this time. A toy soldier did not meet its creator, but flesh and blood met flesh and blood. And a refusal to fight did not mean an inability. Battles chosen now and then, by a word or by action. It was not the way of the coward but of someone who knows where the wind is blowing.

An end to the story before it's begun. It's better like that.]

Then don't get in my way.

[It's very simple. Because Frisk knows what it means to get in the way of puppets, things assigned names and souls that run cold, don't they? It's us.

It's always us.]

[For a while, Frisk says nothing. At first they think that perhaps there's nothing to say -- that silence can be their acceptance, their acknowledgement of the terms. All the doubts they'd slathered in platitudes about being ill-suited to judging others... well, it's getting harder to hold up, when the man before them utters that.]

[*In my way.]

[What do you want from them, when he's using their script?]

[After several heartbeats pass, Frisk decides that it does warrant a response -- in the way Monster Kid hadn't been allowed before Frisk's knife leaped to cut them down. They set their jaw and look up, look hard, let some of the familiar tone seep into their vocal chords and freeze them into red, burning ice.]

OK.

[They see no need to return the threat in so many words.]

[Not so long as he sees them as Kittu.]

[Their words ring red, a color that the Batter is intimately familiar with. Red eyes, blood and a room. It all bleeds together after a long time of seeing it. Feeling it.
Tasting it.
But that all depends on Frisk to see, like usual. He's as human as they come otherwise.

By now there is little point in describing the Batter's expression. He just takes in the child's words - word, really - and weights them as easily as they come. It's not the first time he's been threatened after all. Just not with color that reminds the purifier of a number of things.]

Okay.

[A simple parroting of their own words - for the first time, from his point of view - before the Batter turns to walk away, even if Frisk has more to say.

He does not say good-bye for many reasons and he won't start now.]

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Ruins Mingle Log!

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