lifeaftr | What did the windmill say about renewable energy? [closed]

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What did the windmill say about renewable energy? [closed]

Who: Newt and the Drifter
What: Exploring E2 because someone needs to keep Newt out of trouble and apparently that person is the Drifter
When: September 12th
Where: Nuidan, E2
Warnings: Probably swearing

On the general whole, Newt really wasn't one for your standard "physical labor" kind of tasks. He got bored easily, and the whole idea of repetitious work without much mental problem solving was enough to make him want to bang his head into a wall for several hours. Investigating the biosphere of a small island that can somehow sustain multiple seasons at once, however? A much more interesting prospect.

Armed with the backpack he was given, the weird stone around his neck, his flashlight, and not much else other than his clothes, Newt just...picked a direction and set off. Turns out that direction had been a fortuitous choice. The weather is balmy and mild, and trudging through and around fields shows evidence of past civilization. Newt's paused a couple times to check the soil and study several of the plants, making mental notes about what he's found so far. The most useful is amounting to barley and wheat, both of which are good food sources for someone to do something with. Not him, obviously. Unless maybe--well, he might brew some beer, if he could find some hops. But at the moment, it's only a passing fancy as he trudges through one of the fields towards something else that, quite frankly, was rather hard to miss.

The windmill, a deep weathered maroon, stands out amongst the fields of crops and roving domesticated-ish (????) animals. So, naturally, that was the direction Newt'd headed. He wobbles a bit as he climbs over what's left of a fence to reach it, pausing in front of it to tilt his head back and take a look.

It's....not a great condition. Possibly reparable though? The whole thing creeks in the wind, and Newt tilts his head back down to eye that door, before starting to move to open it and go inside. Maybe there's something useful?]

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He doesn't recognize them. And his face is...different. Admittedly, they cannot track the faces of most sorts of people that they have since learned are quantifiable as humans, but absent, now, are the scars that so marred his features. Absent, too, is some part of his demeanor. Some part that the Drifter cannot personally quantify.

But he is still Newt.

They wander behind him, a few paces, keeping careful watch. The creak of the mill, however, is nigh impossible to miss.

They blink, their sprite flicking up a line of text.

does it work

The past week or so has been, well...weird. Not that being transplanted in the middle of the apocalypse onto some weird island ruled by a god is anything near normal, but, well...Newt's been trying to adjust. Trying being the key word.

Also the whole...people knowing him thing. The Drifter wasn't the first to have recognized him--er, well, "him," and it's still weirding Newt out. Fortunately there's been enough so far to distract himself with that he hasn't had time to ponder the twist in his gut at the lack of knowledge of people who somehow seem to know him. Sort of. They sort of know him. But he doesn't know them and it just makes the whole situation extra weird and Newt's super not here for it honestly. The whole dimensional travel is bad enough without all this extra strangeness rearing its head.

Speaking of distractions, though: this windmill. Newt startles, jumping a bit when a line of text blinks out from the Drifter's sprite, and Newt stares at it for half a moment. He's really not used to this whole thing yet at all, as much as he prides himself on being adaptable, usually (Hermann might scoff, but that's for another time.)

"Uh--" He glances back towards the door. "One way to find out, right?" Newt laughs a bit, uncomfortably. Awkwardly. And then moves to open the door and step inside.

This part of him, at least, has not changed. His desire and proclivity to simply advance and try things on the premise that if they work, he will be the one to make them work. Admittedly, a windmill is considerably less dangerous than, say, a pterax or its egg. But one can never be too careful, in the Drifter's mind. Their hand falls against the handle of their blade, though they do not light it up in defense just yet.

Any number of creatures could have taken up residence inside. These rainy hills might not be pleasant for animals to stay out in the middle of, and despite the ragged look to the mill, inside must be relatively dry in places.

may be inhabited

Newt frowns a bit at that, eyes flicking down to where the Drifter's hand rests on his sword.

"Shit, you think so?" He glances towards the door again. "Wait....like someone lives here?" That frown deepens as he turns his head to look at them again. "It'd be a pretty shitty place to live, wouldn't it?"

animals
scavengers
shelter from rain

Not civilization, they don't think; they would expect that this would have been mentioned by either god, if it were the case, though gods have left out vital information before. The Drifter's trust of gods generally extends deeper than that. If gods do not mention something, they had their reasons for it.

They expect, in any case.

"Oooooh."

...okay so maybe Newt didn't think of that. He probably should've. But, eh, details????

His eyes flick over to the Drifter again, and down to their sword.

"You, uh....you wanna go first?"

The Drifter, fortunately, is not the sort of person to be concerned about showcases of bravery or the lack thereof. It is reasonable to allow them to go first; they are armed, skilled in combat, and well-versed in the art of simply entering the scene and dispatching whatever foes they find.

And so they do not protest. They let their blade spring to life in glow of cyan and move for the door. A few cautious shakes of its frame swings it open. The interior is dusty and smells faintly of grit and grain and mold, but otherwise seems quite empty.

They raise their blade, illuminating the abandoned mill very slightly with the cerulean light cast by their hard light blade, before they make their judgment call, and turn back to Newt.

empty

Newt can't help but peek around the corner of the door as the Drifter goes inside. He was never very good at curbing his curiosity. Not just about the mill, but--

"...okay, dude, I gotta ask. How does your sword work? Because that's super lightsaber and cool." He'll move inside the mill, though, looking around. He wrinkles his nose at the smell that greets them.

"Shit. This place must've been abandoned for a while, what with the way it smells."

It sounds...very much like something else he might have said upon meeting them. They can no longer recall if it was those exact words, but the similarity is too close to be ignored. The Drifter blinks once, but to allow nostalgia to affect them with its bleed and bias would be an oversight, and so they simply answer promptly.

hard light

They glance out across the mill's interior.

still works?

"Dude, that is so trope-y, but I love it." Newt can't help but grin, widely, at that, most of his attention still on that sword. "Any chance you'd let me take a look at it sometime?"

....so much so that it takes him a moment to parse what the Drifter is talking about. He blinks at them for a moment in confusion, before he realizes exactly what they're talking about. "....oh! Uh...." Newt turns to observe the interior. "One way to find out, I guess?" He shrugs. "We gotta check it out. I mean it'll need some serious repair, but if the stones are still there, then yeah probably?"

They have no idea what tropey means, but he says that he loves it, so presumably it is a good thing. The Drifter glances down at the blade as it fitzes off, the scarlet handle smooth and familiar in their hand.

if you do not break it, they decide at last. It would not do to waste their stories requesting another.

familiar with mill?

"I wouldn't break it!" Not intentionally, anyway, but details. But right, time to focus on the mill.

"Eh, more in theory than in practice. Don't have much need to mill wheat while trying to stop the apocalypse, y'know what I'm saying?" Newt moves closer to the grinding stone, stepping up onto the side to inspect it. "I mean, you'd have to try hard to fuck up a milling stone, but the rest of this?" He tilts his head back to observe the interior. "It's gonna need some serious work.

The Drifter would presume as much, given the decrepit states of things. One god does not maintain an entire island very well on their own, it would seem, an the mill is no exception. Their eyes, black as beetleshells, rove calmly around the interior.

no apocalypse here

Newt glances over as that reply appears, and he laughs, lightly. "Nah, dude, doesn't seem like it. Though it does beg the question..." He trails off a bit as he goes around the outside of the milling stone. "Who built this, then? It's doesn't look old enough to have been build that long ago. I mean it needs some repair, but it couldn't have been neglected that long if it's still standing. "

god
gods

That's their best guess, but the Drifter also has a tendency to assume that most canines they encounter are gods, simply because about three fourths of them, thus far, have been. So their reasoning can be...flawed, in some respects.

Edited (most canines are dogs???? rly zero oh realy) 2018-10-24 22:20 (UTC)

"Built by Gods. Okay." He scowls a bit, glaring at a particular worn-away beam. "You'd think the Gods would be a lot better at upkeep. Because this place needs some serious TLC. And I don't mean the band."

Newt snickers to himself, like he's told some very funny joke. "Anyway--do we know anyone who's a carpenter? Because I could maybe plot on how to fix this place in theory but I haven't done a hell of a lot of it myself."

The joke goes right over the Drifter's head. They blink at him impassively, and don't comment on it, as is their wont.

maybe
share with others who might

Doubling back and reporting to people who might be able to help, to them, seems like a relatively straightforward option. The Drifter does not have much experience in fixing things. Mostly they just cut things apart.

"Okay, yeah, we can definitely let people know about this place. Maybe someone's an architect or something."

Even as he's saying this, though, he's moving further into the windmill, looking for the stairs. "Buuuuut we should definitely get a full survey of this thing, first."

ok

What does a full survey entail. They don't know! They have no idea! They're going to do it anyway, obviously, because that seems like a fully rational thing to do.

how

"By checking it out, of course!" Newt grins at them, widely, before glancing back towards the space head of them, spotting--"Aha! Let's start there." Yep he sure is going straight towards those stairs, what a great idea.

The Drifter is the exact wrong person to look for to see if this is a good idea or not. They blink, and then...well, this seems fine to them? They follow.

test ground before stepping, is their only advice, really, but who knows if Newt's going to turn around to see it?

Unfortunately, he super is not. The stairs creek ominously as he puts his weight on them, but he's moving forward anyway. Newt's hand presses against the wall, as if for balance, though it's not particularly in great condition either. Not that it's stopping him.

The wood in the stairs bends a bit under his weight, and Newt blinks, glancing down at it. "...huh. This wood isn't, like, great, actually."

He pauses to glance back at them. "You should probably--" ....lol except the words die in his throat as he realizes what they've already said. "....oh. Uh. Yeah. Totally. I'll be super careful," he says. Whether the Drifter believes him on that or not is, well...up to them, but he is, at least, going a little slower as he ascends the stairs, testing each step a little bit before putting his full weight on it.

Most times, they can communicate quite naturally without any barriers between their lack of vocalization and whatever time must be taken to read their words. That which they would anticipate coming between them - illiteracy, perhaps - is not the primary issue here.

A lack of impulse control is.

The Drifter adjusts their cowl with a faint tug, two fingers tucked behind the fabric.

cannot carry you if you are injured

They are not sturdy enough to manage a thing like that.

It is definitely, definitely Newt's completely lack of impulse control that's causing the issue here. Newt glances over his shoulder to see if they're following, and blinks at the text.

"Oh! Uh...yeah, no problem, dude, don't worry about it? I mean, like, I know you're taller than me but you're also a stringbean so I can handle whatever happens." Clearly thinking that will assuage whatever worries the Drifter might have, he moves to keep ascending.

The physique is not the issue so much as it is the severe hemoptysis and debilitating terminal illness, but calling attention to it seems too obvious. They are, fortunately, light on their feet - and after a moment, reach out to tap on Newt's shoulder.

can go first
if necessary

Unfortunately, their illness is something he's not quite aware of yet. So instead he glances over his shoulder as they tap, before considering what they've said.

"I mean...if you wanna, dude." He grins, then, almost cocky. "I can probably carry you, anyway!"

Their eyes narrow very slightly.

do not

It's possible that the joking demeanor has gone completely over their head. Equally possible, however, is the simple fact that they prefer not to be touched, carried, or otherwise physically handled at all, if they can help it.

This does not necessarily happen, of course, but it is their preference.

Newt can't help but blink at that again, frowning now, a bit startled. "Uh....okay?" He arches an eyebrow. "So what if you get hurt, huh?"

will get up again

They always do, after all. You get killed, walk it off. That's just something they've learned to do, courtesy of the gods that rouse them from even death itself.

That....really doesn't make his frown go away. At all. If anything, it just makes it a little more severe. "I mean, okay, dude, but what if you can't? Like, I dunno, you break your leg or something?"

will get up
again

The application of can't does not apply, in their mind. A broken leg is the sort of injury they have not sustained very often, largely because whatever force of that magnitude capable of breaking their leg would have been more likely to kill them instead.

And death is not an obstacle. It never is.

"What, you're just going to walk on a broken leg?" It's a squawk, almost, and Newt's eyes are going wide behind his glasses. "Are you nuts?!"

yes

To the...broken leg thing. In regards to their mental state -

no
i am a drifter

Newt's face is some sort of combination between horror, fascination and outrage. "Dude, you can't just walk on a broken leg! That just makes it worse!" He does frown, however, at the bottom text. "What--does being a drifter mean that you walk on broken legs all the time? Or what? Because that is some serious grounds for being nuts, just saying."

do not stop
do not slow down
not for injury
not for death

It's hard to say if that's a quality that all drifters possess, or just this one. Though it is, for what it is worth, very likely a mixture of the two.

Newt stares.

"Hey, dude, don't, uh....take this the wrong way, but...what the fuck?" He spreads his arms wide, looking both flabbergasted and significantly Concerned. "Most people should probably stop and rest if they get injured! I mean, I know some people are tougher than others, yadda yadda, but that's no reason to put more stress on your body and acerbate the healing process."

dying anyway

It's offhand, inasmuch as a text-based means of communication can be. The Drifter huffs slightly behind their cowl and starts moving to advance. Too much discussion without physical progress is not conducive to how they would prefer to operate.

"....wait, what?" He watches them move past--before starting to scramble up the stairs after them. "Wait, hold on, what does that mean?! I-I mean, everyone's dying all the time, sure, if you wanna look at in a fatalistic way, but--"

sick
no cure

They rearrange the mantle swathed around the lower half of their face. Everyone is dying. Some are already dead. Some have been living with the poison in their veins for so very long that there is no longer any escaping it.

That...is definitely enough to stop Newt in his tracks, and he stands there, on the stair, just...looking at the Drifter's back. ".....oh." He manages that, after a moment, at least.

"Uh...That, um...shit? That, uh....that sucks, dude."

Great, Newt, super eloquent and a good response, A+++++++

They pause, only for a moment. They're certain they've heard that particular phrase before, though they cannot place where. Perhaps it has become so ubiquitous that they no longer can say.

The bottom line is that it does not matter if it sucks or does not; it simply is.

does not matter
can be a resource

Thus, they can be...a shield, in a sense. They can take whatever risks might result in death.

They are already dead.

"Wh--wait, how does that not matter?!" With that exclamation, Newt is jolting back into action, quickly climbing up the stairs to catch up with them. "I'd say it definitely matters!"

cannot change it
does not matter

If they could assign a tone to hovering text, the one they might pair that little declaration with would be: dismissive. Perhaps in a way that suggests it should be obvious. If they are already dead, there is not very well much that can be done about it, is there?

"Hold on, how do you know you can't change it?" There's a challenge in Newt's tone, because if there's one thing he's terrible at, it's simply accepting just about anything. "Aren't we somewhere with lots of different people from lots of different worlds? Have you asked any of them?"

cannot change
that i am dead

That much, they know. They have been revived, resuscitated, roused from every death imaginable - crushing, burning, falling, impaling, stomped to jelly. Every time, the jackal was there to pick them up off the ground and set them, once more, upon their proper path.

She did not, that final time.

Perhaps that was why they could know their journey was over.

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What did the windmill say about renewable energy? [closed]

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