Ruins Mingle Log!

[ohnehalfte]

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]

Comments

[unpurify]

[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.]

[souldeterminant]

[...]


[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?

[unpurify]

["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.]

[souldeterminant]

[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.

[unpurify]

[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.]

[souldeterminant]

[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.]

[unpurify]

[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.]