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 Posted: Fri Oct 05, 2012 11:00 pm
Plague Doctor Meeting
Why?
A meeting summoned by desperation.
Whom?
Lettie and Dorian Arelgren (pistolsys)
-&-
The Plague Doctor
Where?
A cliffside near The Annex.
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Posted: Fri Oct 05, 2012 11:28 pm
(( ...directly continued from The Fall to Rise. ))
The sounds of both the Arelgren Grimm and the Arelgren Plague echo throughout the Annex's forest. Whatever patience that the Arelgren heir had within him is now as meager as it is ineffective. Dorian continues to deny Lettie's cries for liberation, and he clutches her tighter, for she's all that he has left. His eyes are as wild as hers, and as she continues to scream "YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN'T BE CROSS", he only proves her point by acting malignantly far outside his character. He doesn't understand what his father could possibly have said to inspire his Plague to fancy suicide, and while Lettie claims that it is a calling of her biology, he can't see it as anything else other than insanity. Recently, everyone he loved was either falling to the reaper's scythe or leaving his side. Granted, he's not sure if Ainsley's death is true, but he witnessed his father's, and he himself was the hand that killed Engelde and the latter's company. He convinces himself that Lettie must be mad, mad with grief or whatever else women went mad with whenever tragedy strikes.
Ultimately, he convinces himself that he cannot, for the life of either of them, let go. He knows that if he releases her, she'd hurl herself off the cliff because she is Lettie, and Lettie had always been a stubborn and willful creature. He doesn't intend to take risks, and tries to speak logically to her.
He can only hope that his words will be convincing and coherent.
"Think this through, Lettie," Dorian pleads, his voice as shaky as his breath. His force tightens into a vicegrip, and Lettie fights to breathe. "If you throw yourself off a cliff, you will die. Lettie you will die."
"I--am! And I--I can't be sure if I'd die--!!" she bursts, and squeaks an additional but necessary, "'M not a h-human--and--and! And you're hurting me!"
And Dorian releases her, bewildered at the extensive amount of force he'd just projected upon his Plague. It all feels irrational and sudden to him, which is exactly the situation's nature. He stands up, brushes the snow off his coat and gloves, and apologetically clears his throat. Lettie starts to cry, and Dorian's mind repeats the same words over and over again in his head:, "Shitshitshitshitshit". But the words alone are not enough to fill the awkward chasm that manifests itself between the cultist and his companion. Whatever Lettie is experiencing must have been extremely uncomfortable, and the worst aspect about her pain is that it is impossible for him to share it. He could not know how she felt at this moment, and it becomes immediately clear to him that she cannot explain her condition to him in a manner in which he can relate to.
She is a Plague, and he is her Grimm. They are not only emotionally different, but also biologically so.
Lettie, being the empathetic Locos that she is, understands her bond with her Grimm better than anyone, and feels horrible that he physically cannot understand her internal turmoil. Dorian's pained look only makes her own suffering worse, and she feels as if all the air that are passing through her pores are liquifying into scalding and burning torrents of hot cocoa.
Unlike her past self-conflicts, this one in particular is not an emotional but a physical one.
And this one in particular is one that she cannot even begin to understand.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Sat Oct 06, 2012 8:21 pm
Out of nowhere came a voice:
"No. Let her try."
It was quiet interruption, but it loomed. A man with a tall shadow stood an uncomfortably close distance from Dorian Arelgren, human, his pointed beak pointing as a finger would towards Lettie. His draping cloak of black and wind fluttered behind him, revealing a gangly figure with limbs strangely long. The only thing that seemed vaguely human about him were those spindly digits of his, gripped tightly against his robe to fend off the cold.
"Let her try," he said once more, pursuant, leaning closer to Dorian. His voice was of regular conversing volume, it felt, yet the words stuck close to Dorian's ear as if it were an echo at the other side of Shyregoed.
Yet, despite the ephemeral way in which he spoke, the man was lacking. He was suffering in a way any human without magic could: he could feel chills rattle down his spine and the falling snow collect underneath his ratty boots. When he edged closer to Dorian, it was apparent that the thin layers of his clothes were soaked with both hot sweat and cold frost and that, in the thin air of the Annex's cliffs, he was heaving for air, his mask precipitating and fogging up the surrounding air.
"Mr. Arelgren, let her try," said a man, meek, shaking with cold, staring at the Plague with a frozen beaked mask.
"I've come all this way to see her try."
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Posted: Sat Oct 06, 2012 9:07 pm
"No. Let her try," comes an enigmatic voice, and Dorian, startled, immediately turns and whips out his mother's dagger. He shakes it before the stranger, and almost cries out in alarm until Lettie's touch stops him. She's scrutinizing him too, though her features, unlike her Grimm's, does not exhibit fear but exhibits worry. Something about the stranger feels familiar, but something else about him feels almost frail. The Arelgren scion's eyes widen when he recognizes the stranger's costume. The figure reminds him of the nightmaric being that he dreamed up a year ago during the Panymian famine. It's wearing the same black cloak and had gangly limbs protruding from its body. There's something vaguely human about it, but Dorian can't be sure.
When the figure speaks again, Dorian slowly advances backwards, dagger still pointed, but lowers it at Lettie's signal. The stranger's voice sounds timid almost, and the hot cocoa plague can see that it's trembling behind its beaked mask. She takes a few steps closer to it while dragging snow along with her feet, and Dorian politely moves aside so that his plague is in its direct line of vision. He doesn't like what the stranger is enforcing, but Lettie's pain isn't anything that he could relate to, and at least, the masked man, perhaps, had a better idea.
"Let her try," it meekly says, voice unsteady, "I've come all this way to see her try."
Both Arelgrens are silent for a moment, each digesting the entirety of the stranger's dialogue. The latter's sudden appearance still causes the Arelgren to feel a torrent of uneasiness followed by paranoia; he immediately thinks of questions, but speed, again, fails him in summoning them.
"Who are you--" Dorian almost inquired, but is beaten to the question by his Servos plague. Lettie is quicker, and Lettie is desperate.
"Wh-Who are you?" the hot cocoa plague hesitantly asks while clutching her chest, "My name is Lettie. A-are you hurting, too?"
She suspects that it is the case, for the stranger doesn't seem to be at his physical best. His tremors and posture resemble her own. Yet, he looks too big to be a Plague, but there's something about him that doesn't feel entirely human, either. Her Grimm, however, is preoccupied with other anxieties, but he masks this behind a sturdy glare.
Just what did the stranger mean by coming "all this way"? And why is it that he's encouraging Lettie to throw her life away, literally? None of it agrees with the Grimm, and all of it only causes him to become more irascible, so he does his best no keep from speaking.
Dorian, unsettled, stares hard at the stranger, his guard as firm as his Grimmhood. He'd already lost both his father and Ainsley, and Lettie would not be a name to add to the tragic collection.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Nov 13, 2012 12:18 am
The figure nearly leapt from where he was at the sight of the dagger. He was easily riled at the sight of that glimmering silver, but he whimpered in panick as soon as Lettie calmed the aggravated blonde down.
He clutched at his robe, his beaked mask still as he studied Dorian Arelgren. The Doctor was aware of his status, but nothing more-- he smelled of cultist and acted like most, secretively fearful and reeking of ambiguity. The air about him did not calm the Doctor any, however, and he forced himself to look away and back towards Lettie.
The tiny little Servos against the snow. She was fascinating. He dragged his hands against the snow and crawled ever so closer to her, tentatively glancing up at Dorian to see if he was safe. As he did, though, the robes around him choked his neck and blew rebelliously against the wind.
There the Servos and the Doctor stood, encased in black. Her aura was enveloping, and he could only track her from that overwhelming, sweet warmth--
Though it was quickly dimming.
Dorian still proved a threat, but the Doctor's strange fear of him quickly dissipated given the Servos at hand.
"Wh-Who are you?"
The warm Plague's name was Lettie. The Doctor was unaware of this much, but by now, names had become such frivolities.
"My name is Lettie. A-are you hurting, too?"
He did not move.
"I am a doctor of little importance," he choked, drily, "I do not ail, little one. Do not worry for me-- I merely serve as a vassal for all Plagues.
"I am here because you are hurt, little Servos," he heaved, as speaking became steadily more taxing, "But I cannot lift the levy in your heart without sacrifice."
He offered both of his hands to her, bony arms extended to reveal pale skin protruding past his sleeves.
"Do you understand yourself? Me? Do what in your mind you feel is right, little Servos. You are no human. You must try."
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Posted: Tue Nov 13, 2012 12:25 am
A plume of hot smoke overwhelmed the inside of Lettie's opalescent skin. The feeling was whirling and dizzying, and spilled out into the open as glowing tufts of glowing fume, which were concentrated around her cheeks.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Tue Nov 13, 2012 6:24 am
The Grimm wanted to throw himself between his Plague and the ominous Doctor, but as if he, too, was magicked by the winter--could not move. He couldn't decide if his Plague was burning or freezing, but whatever it was that was happening to her cast wonder upon the both of them. Dorian sputtered another belated "wh--", and his body stiffened from the sudden winter freeze. He felt as if his blood flow was in resonance with time; both had stopped, and Lettie was the only animated being in the feverish snow. He wanted to reach out to her, to play his role as her Guardian, and most importantly--to keep her from doing the most foolish and most incredulous thing that she had ever wanted to achieve.
She was running now--running away from the robed doctor and away from her Grimm. Flecks of winter white clung to her body as she dashed, covering more and more of her form until she resembled a frost maiden, sparkling with winter snow and smoking with cocoa delight. It was as if she was set under a spell, but Lettie knew that it couldn't be so, for spells were exterior effects and what she was feeling now was completely from the interior. It was something she'd always had inside of her and it was definitely something that was "supposed" to wake.
She ran faster and faster, and the wind and snow around her seemed to wake with her, brewing with frigid excitement. The newborn windstorm and hailstorm were her guardians, and they gently pushed her towards where she knew she was to be. She could see nothing but white and the cliff's edge, and she, at this moment, could think of nothing but healing.
The villagers, the Obscuvians, Nancy, Marian, Ainsley Redwynne, Hopkin Finch---
The Hot Cocoa girl put her hands over her heart, and the icy winds calmed. She exhaled, and looked down.
White was all that proceeded the cliff's edge, and Dorian's voice was someplace far away.
Lettie clutched her fiery cheeks, a more than familiar gesture, and inhaled deeply. A leap of faith is all she took, and a leap of faith was all she needed.
Frost continued to cover her at an increasing rate as she descended, but her skin burned beneath her icy covering.
Her last memory was how surprisingly painful the glowing fume around her cheeks was, and how lovely she smelled.
Her silver-bell laughs disappeared with the rest of her, and up above, Dorian's muffled sobs retreated with the rest of him.
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Posted: Mon Dec 17, 2012 12:41 am
The sight was splendid, but not glorious.
Lettie's body unfolded away from her core as a spindle of ribbons, hard to see against the harsh specks of snow wiping against the two unwitting figures above her. The Doctor arched his neck for a better view of the descent, at first dead silent, until he clutched the snow below him and resonated with mirth, a glowing chuckle, before rising to his feet like a man sprung once more to life.
"What a wonderful girl," he says, sounding sick yet, but not with the same wretched tone from moments before. He walked as he did previously, a lanky man lurking through the Shyregoedian blaze, completely silent.
"It will be a long descent without my aid," the masked man stared at the blond, "To your Plague. Unless, of course. You trust me."
The furl of ribbons trailing down below had gathered like a messy pile of flume, glowing white trailing away like smoke, until a gentle girl lay in the snow, as if asleep.
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knife effect Vice Captain
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Posted: Mon Dec 17, 2012 5:52 pm
Dorian Arelgren sat alone again. Lettie’s plight was the root of all deliriousness; it was too sudden, and it was ultimately unexpected. She didn’t tell him that she was hurting before. She didn’t think it was important, and he wondered if the strife he caused her reinforced her silence. He didn’t want it to be, but he didn’t have the right to make any claims. He’d only just reunited with her, and it wasn’t fair for her to be snatched away by the winter. Seconds ago, he would have remained angry at the Doctor, or whatever the specter called himself, but he could only hate himself now, much to Ainsley’s would-be chagrin. The emotional bond that he and Lettie shared should have enabled her to keep no secrets from him, but it became increasingly clear to him the more he thought about it that she most likely didn’t think that her unease was anything of that sort. It was a biological factor, and neither he nor his Plague knew much about plagueology to decipher the problem nor the cause of it. He cursed himself for not being more thorough with Engelde’s field guide, and felt his throat run dry when the image of Lettie’s descent passed by his mind. What did she see while she traveled with the Finches? He recalled her mentioning such terrors to his mother and father, but Lettie had been especially careful in her diction. She was neither explicit nor morbid, but something about her expression then aroused his suspicions, but it was too late to ponder about such things.
Lettie had fallen to someplace where he could not reach her, and she did so on her own accord. Perhaps it was a type of freedom for her, and he couldn’t blame her for choosing freedom over a life with him.
Dorian drew his blade.
His father’s sword glistened with purpose, and he sheathed it again, grimacing. What good was a weapon that had nothing to protect? He was not a knight errant, and Ainsley had made that increasingly clear. Dorian Arelgren is a guardian, but there’s nothing left for him to guard, and he knows that Lettie wouldn’t have wanted his protection were she still to be here. Their entire relationship was based on a shared independency. Dorian had his own agenda, and Lettie had hers. He never asked her about what she wanted upon her return from the Finch journey. She’d been smiles and nods, though it was true that something about her demeanor had changed. Still, he couldn’t ask her. He didn’t get the opportunity to. He couldn’t consult his father on the latter’s opinion on what Lettie’s aspirations would be. Lucien Arelgren was dead, and Agatha Arelgren preferred invisibility. Dorian Arelgren didn’t prefer either of these things, so Dorian Arelgren chose the path that he’d begun.
Cowardice. Solidarity. Lovelessness.
He began trembling like a shaken child, and felt reduced. The Arelgren scion began to sob; he hadn’t done so in months, hadn’t felt the emotional necessity. He wondered if it was all inhibited, if he’d always wanted to surrender, but didn’t want to look pathetic in the eyes of Ainsley or any other Panymese. He couldn’t even confirm whether Ainsley herself was still alive. He watched his own father’s passage into corpsehood. Carnage and death, he’d embraced it all, and Lettie watched like subtle rook. Ironically, Lettie was anything but subtle. Even when she was absent, she always held a presence in his moral decisions, and he used her for dogmatic reference.
He buried his face into his hands and refused to look up. Dorian Arelgren decided that he’d die here, in the few seconds that remained after Lettie's plight. As melodramatic as Arelgrens go, Dorian knew that he was only playing his part in the natural order, and that he wasn’t doing anything different. He didn’t make any promises to anyone; he'd confronted the regrets of his family's legacy. It wasn’t as if he promised his father that he would become a great Obscuvian, nor did he promise Ainsley anything bordering marriage. He didn’t have the courage to do either, because he wasn’t sure if he had the gumption to attempt them. Lettie was usually the mediator of his decisions, and without her--he....he wasn’t sure if his aspirations were just, or foolish for the matter. The absence of Lucien Arelgren only made the atmosphere more frigid. He never imagined that he'd miss his father twice. Among many things, he also missed Lettie, literally and figuratively.
Lettie's fall didn't end with the sound of the breaking of bone; her fall was silent. It was the sound of a dead conscience--and while the Doctor described whatever had taken place below him as a new beginning, Dorian's ears translated the sound as a dirge. Dorian, at first, did not hear the Doctor's voice, and when he did, made a slight half-turn, his blood running cold with dread.
"What a wonderful girl," says the Doctor with an arched form.
Snow gathered on Dorian's lashes, and while he would have blinked them away, Lettie's consciousness ranked higher in importance. Instead, he nodded gravely towards the Doctor's direction, and approached the latter with slow, heavy steps, his own breath frozen in his throat. He, too, peered over at what the Doctor observed, and his eyes widened at the maiden of snow, winter, and cacao.
It was Lettie, but it wasn't Lettie. Instead of discovering the small, minute form of an Excito, Dorian knew what his eyes beheld--but his mind told him that it could not be. Engelde's field guide had been a luminary tutor on Plagueology, and it didn't take Dorian long to register the form below him as a female Anhelo. The snow covered much of her body, but certain, hallmark features identified the maid as Lettie Arelgren. Her garb was similar to her Excito form's, but her physiognomy resembled a lovely young maid's with caramel hair and snow-white skin that Dorian knew to be soft. Ribbons, Lettie had always loved ribbons, embellished her costume; they emerged like velvet serpents amidst clumps of snow.
When he could bear it no longer, the Arelgren heir tore his jade-green eyes from the Anhelo below.
"She's...." Dorian breathed, his fingernails digging into his palm. His voice faltered for a moment. It loses its momentum. At a loss for words, he waited instead for the black figure to fill the silence.
"It will be a long descent without my aid," the masked man stared at the blond scion, "To your Plague. Unless, of course. You trust me."
Dorian's answer came swiftly, and he clenched and unclenched his fists.
"I do. I require it. How can I not?" he softly said, voice cracking.
Below, Lettie waited to wake.
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Posted: Tue Jan 01, 2013 2:35 pm
Without another word, the Doctor extended his arm to the noble, bony back bent forward like an old crone's. Once the agreement was made, the two scattered with the wind as Lettie had, every fiber of their skin ripped by magic until they, at last, met with the newborn Locos, so still was she
The black-robed man knelt in front of Lettie and pressed a gloved hand to her pale neck.
"Ah," he whispered, "A Locos. Enchanting..."
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