middaeg | [OTA] November Catch-All

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[OTA] November Catch-All

Who: Red Wine & YOU
When: Through November
Where: All around Aefenglom
What: Quests, being around, and the full moon
Warnings: None yet

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a. [quest] 'many man's trash'

[Having no tie at all to the traditions of this place, he has no interest in persuading the people who would prefer to hang on to their possessions that they should really think about other options. What he will do, however, is roll up his sleeves in the poorer districts of the city and assist in the organisation and clean-up of the upper class junk that has been dumped there.]

A peculiar tradition. [He hums to himself, sighing as he passes over a slightly dented but no less ornate brass lamp, or a silk cushion with a single stain on one side over to one of the other volunteers (or perhaps to an eager local who has their eye on a new piece of furniture). Red Wine can move heavier items with ease even before any monster-driven transformation begins to take place, and occasionally pauses to delight watching youths by lifting an entire chest of drawers without struggling.]

One might think they'd have a designated place for this, rather than using the streets of the poor.

[The not-so-subtle derision in his tone speaks volumes of just what he thinks of that attitude. He may be used to a higher quality of life, himself, but that does not come at the expense of those beneath him.]

b. [quest] 'out of the city'

[Patrolling, watching for danger with a sword in his hand is Red Wine in his element. Whether with a partner or without one, he keeps his palm resting against the pommel of his rapier and keeps his eyes scanning the horizon. It's a good distraction from the way his skin has been becoming steadily more ashen over the course of the month, and from the way the natural red colour of his irises is now more like freshly spilled blood than his namesake.]

See that? [He says - and whether you've been patrolling with him or happen to be passing in the same direction, he gestures with one white-gloved hand towards a movement in the distance that almost blends in with the land around it.] What do you think?

[It could be nothing. It could be something innocent. It could, however, be something to fight... and he's itching for something to fight right now. Something that isn't Steak. Something he can actually do some real damage to.]

c. the full moon (first shift)

[In the week and a half leading up to the full moon, Red Wine has been more than a little tetchy. It hasn't taken any particularly outstanding level of intelligence to work out exactly what he's going to be - not when the blood cravings, always a whisper in the background, began an occasional internal banshee scream that can occasionally knock him entirely out of whatever he's doing at the time - but he hasn't breathed a word of it. He hasn't said a thing, and only waited.

No doubt the worst thing he could have done, in hindsight.

Prior to the day itself, particularly in the few days before, his temperament shifts from being casually dry to outright waspish at best. Any small children who have been wary of him before now are unfortunately given a reason to be and he even manages to get into a fight with a group of three sailors at the docks, taking all of them down into the muddy path outside their chosen public house. Anyone who has even had a single conversation with him would know this is far from his usual behaviour, but are they going to step in to try and calm him down?

During the full moon, the sound of breaking glass precedes an entire chair falling into the street and breaking into several pieces on the ground below. Most of the night is spent sitting up on the roof, where the ashen-coloured skin and the sharp hunger in his eyes mark him out for what he is far more than his natural features ever did. Having spent most of his existence resisting similar urges, he manages not to go roaming about the city looking for people to bite... but there's no small level of horror in how much he wants to.

Anyone checking in on him the morning after, should they wish to, will find him somewhat unwilling to open the door. It would only be his nature that would keep him from ignoring them entirely (unless it's Steak, who can go to hell).]

d. wildcard

[Wildcard! Find him anywhere in the city where you might want to run into him. He's not quite to the point of hiding away just yet.]

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[ Steak's first transformation leaves him aching deep in his bones, a pain he's fully unfamiliar with (Food Souls, after all, don't really grow, let alone grow full new limbs). He remains by the riverbank until the well after sun rises, muscles searing and mind throbbing, throat raw from a night's pained, furious roaring.

Noises nothing like his own voice, a body more that of a Fallen Angel than a Food Soul, a prospect which leaves a horrified chill deep in his gut.

He's never considered this transformation, not for himself. It's the kind of ridiculous thing Red Wine concerns himself with instead of dealing with the present and real. But here it is, leaving his body (and clothes, and belts) in tatters, the few tentacles which forced their way out of his side swaying happily in the shallows of the river. He grimaces as his hand brushes over one, wet and slick and revolting, all too much like too many opponents he's faced back on Tierra, and slowly drags himself out of the water.

... Right. The pants situation. That. That is a thing. The cold air brushes against wet skin — and, he notices, with the detached curiosity of someone in shock, the patches of shimmering, iridescent skin have expanded further across his legs — and he shudders, picking each tentacle up and trying to wrap it around his waist.

How do these things work. It takes more than a bit of effort for him to figure out how to properly wrap and knot the four tentacles into something like a pair of shorts, feeling thoroughly ridiculous as he gingerly squats down and picks up his swords before heading back to his house.

That seems like the safest option at the minute, or at least, it does until he finds the door solidly locked.

So, Steak, being Steak, does the most obvious thing: starts hammering on the door. ]

Red Wine! I know you're in there!

[The moment the pounding on the door starts up, Red Wine feels every part of his being cringe into the centre of itself. His back pressed into a corner of the room he pushes his hand roughly into his hair and grips it tightly, as if the pinpricks of pain from the tension on his scalp might aid him somehow in ignoring the noise that's being made.

It doesn't help.

Still, it's at least a minute before he growls in the back of his throat and gets up, striding to the door to yank it open. Behind him, the room look as if a localised tornado has gone through it and one of the windows is broken, but there's no glass on the floor.

Red Wine's eyes have taken on a peculiarly bright colour, like fresh-spilled blood against snow, and his skin holds a faintly blue-grey hue that it didn't before.]

What the fuck do you--?! [And his words stumble over one another, locking up in the back of his throat and blocking each other in. He looks Steak up and down, from the now all too unfamiliar shape of his horns to the--

His attention lingers on the new appendages around his hips for several noticeable seconds.

Red Wine swallows uneasily.]

--... want.

[ Trousers, quite clearly. But any snarking dies on his tongue at the sight of Red Wine. His transformations are more subtle than Steak's own, but when you've known a man as long as Steak has known Red Wine, how could he miss the ashy tinge of already pale skin, or the unusual brightness of red eyes?

You, too, huh... Steak thinks, catching his tongue between his teeth and running a hand into his hair automatically. ]

Let me in.

[ From there, Red Wine can fuck off wherever he wants. Steak just wants a pair of trousers. ]

... Right.

[And he steps back without any further argument. It doesn't really count as a win or loss for either of them, he'd say, given the circumstances.

The brightness of the sun outside makes him wince and he shuts the door quickly once Steak passes through it, pressing his back against it once it's closed. What he's been through over the course of the night is, apparently, nothing at all to the story that his fellow Soul might tell.]

I... hmn. [What do you say to this? He clears his throat and moves away from the door.] ... Where were you all night?

[ Steak's attempts to make a beeline for his room and find a pair of trousers which will at least suffice until he can... deal with these new appendages, are scuppered by Red Wine's words, by the flare of irritation that the question raises.

A flare which isn't like the usual annoyance Red Wine causes, something darker and harder, sharp and sudden. ]

Outside. [ His hand tightens around the handle of his bedroom door, shoving it open and letting it slam shut.

Clothes first. Then he can deal with everything else. ]

[It feels something like being punched in the chest.

He and Steak argue constantly, it's true, but what they do on a day to day basis is barely more than bickering compared to what it could be. Compared to that sharp, hard tone in Steak's voice as he crosses the room and slams the door behind him.

Red Wine feels the anger rise up in the back of his throat, tasting like hot copper, but it falls back just as quickly and he pushes both hands tiredly into his hair before retrieving a ribbon from his pocket and carefully tying it back. He tries to process what he just saw. Just what is this place turning Steak into?

His own fate, at least, is already clear to him.

Rather than banging on the door, demanding an answer, he sets a chair upright and sinks down onto it to wait.]

[ The door swings shut but Steak gets no relief from the privacy, his breath comes no easier at being in this strange room he's claimed as his own. It's just another reminder of how far they are from anything normal. He avoids the mirror as he roots around in a drawer for underwear, grimaces once more as he unfurls the tentacles — which twitch and wriggle in response to his movements, a dull ache against his hipbones as they drape down against his legs. ]

Ugh!

[ Pulling his clothes on is easy enough, the challenge begins when the waistband meets his hips, trousers sitting uncomfortably low to avoid the base of these abominations.

... This will have to do, he supposes, eyes going back to his swords, the irritation in his gut boiling to a restlessness, a need to do something. To not simply sit around in this place and wallow in what he's becoming.

The same routine as every other time: find something to do, move on. ]

Are you coming?

[ It's the only thing he says as he comes out of the room, red eyes coming to rest on Red Wine, a sword propped too low on his hip to be entirely comfortable, a tentacle obscuring the hilt. ]

What?

[Somehow, it's worse to see him just standing there like that. Like... something that a Food Soul should never be, for all the variety that can be found in their forms. He looks up, and he looks tired, not having slept at all the night before.

There's a flicker of familiar annoyance as he realises what Steak is suggesting.]

No, I'm not coming. [And he presses his face into his hands briefly, wisps of hair coming free from the untidy ponytail it's pulled back into.]

The sun's started hurting my eyes.

[ Anything familiar is a relief right now — fighting monsters, Red Wine's irritation — anything which isn't a reminder of the way his horns curve, or the new weight of these tentacles, Red Wine's pallor...

All of it. It was easy enough to ignore the patches of hide across his shoulders with daily life, with fighting the monsters outside the wall or taking care of the various missions. Those were no different from what they did on Tierra, and he could cover the changes with his clothes.

But now those changes hang heavy at his side, can be felt in the way his horns stretch too high, no longer curled comfortably against his skull. They come in Red Wine's sun sensitivity, in the thought of not being out there with the one person who has — for better or worse — near always been at his side during a fight. ]

... This is ridiculous. [ He looks like a bad science experiment and Red Wine is turning into everything the idiots back on Tierra said he was. Restlessness scrapes at his bones, vibrates under his skin, and Steak's hands curl into fists, flexing back and forth in a bid to lock down this growing anger. This anger which lingers more venomously than it should, curling through him like thick black smoke, rather than his usual clean burning flame. ]

[It's different here. There's an instant, bone-deep hopelessness in knowing that he can't fight this, that there isn't anything he can do to divert his thoughts, to avoid the inevitability of what the magic in this place will eventually drive him to.

What it almost already has driven him to.

'This is ridiculous', Steak says, and Red Wine can't help the quiet scoff that escapes him. Ridiculous is a word for it, yes. Not an accurate word, but... a word. A word for the way he can feel bloodlust itching under every inch of his skin, more powerful than it's ever been before. But... he can resist this. He's used to this. He's been fighting this nearly every day for as long as he can remember.

And the one person he should be able to talk about it to is the one who has always told him to stop being 'ridiculous'.]

I'm sorry. [He mutters, getting out of the chair and moving to pass the other Soul.] I'll have someone in to repair the window. I can't-- I can't do this now, Steak.

[ He blinks, and it's only then that Steak even properly registers the mess Red Wine left in his wake, only then that he registers anything in this house as more than an obstacle in his bid to get trousers.

For him, it was anything within reach of the riverbank, for Red Wine it was their home. The destruction of these spaces nothing more than a distraction, an attempt to pull them away from what was happening. ]

Is there any alcohol left?

[ His fingers twitch as Red Wine walks past, grabbing his wrist in a brief, light grasp, a far cry from any touch they'd normally share. An invitation for him to stop, rather than the usual demand. ]

[A broken window, a missing chair, one curtain ripped off the rings holding it to the rail, a table smashed into three pieces... It isn't like Red Wine to display his distress like that. Acts of physical aggression outside battle are normally reserved for Steak alone, for their daily bickering and fights, and not taken out on furniture.

What surprises him most isn't that Steak doesn't start an argument, or that he attempts to keep him from leaving, but rather the gentleness with which he conducts himself in those few moments. He pauses mid-step, comes to a halt, lifts his head to look Steak in the eyes.]

... Yes, there's some left.

[The contact against his wrist tingles up his arm, his body already subconsciously anticipating a fight.]

In the kitchen.

[ It's a far cry from anything either of them would do, but then, these changes are a far cry from anything they should be enduring.

So.

Drinks. He can't face this sober, not today. ]

Join me.

[ And he thinks he might not be alone in that. ]

[A sigh.]

... Fine.

[If he's going to get drunk he might as well do it with someone whose company he can actually stand while he's drunk. He shoos Steak towards a seat and goes to the kitchen to grab two glasses and a mostly full bottle of tequila.

No wine left, but he doesn't think he cares right now.]

Where were you. [He asks again as he sits down and hands a glass over.] Here, hold the glass out.

[ Tequila isn't Steak's favourite either, but it'll get them plenty drunk and that seems like the best option when they're both turning into monsters. ]

I woke up at the river. [ He doesn't even snipe at being told what to do, holding the glass out obediently, posture unusually stiff thanks to the addition of several limbs he doesn't know how to deal with. ]

Oh.

[He pours more tequila into Steak's glass than he would normally deem acceptable, but this is not a usual situation. His own glass is topped off to a similar amount and he sinks back into the chair he'd been occupying earlier, staring glassily at the opposite wall for several long moments.]

... Are you going to tell me I'm being ridiculous?

[Sip. He grimaces slightly at the taste.]

[ Far, far from usual. Steak certainly isn't going to complain about more alcohol given the situation. Who knows how much booze this abomination of a form he's now sporting requires? ]

... Tch. [ Bringing that up, are you? ] This city is ridiculous. [ As though to illustrate his point, he gestures at the new growths around his waist, hideously impractical and entirely impossible to forget.

What reason does he have for looking like some discount Uke Mochi? What was the reason for massacring his beautiful horns so?! ]

You can't just dismiss this as you've spent the last two centuries dismissing my concerns.

[The words are spat out, but there's no real fire to them. He's never felt so helpless against himself, never been able to turn around to Steak and tell him without a doubt that no, his fears are not at all unfounded, that this is what he is now and he is far too likely to cause harm if unchecked.

And causing harm to innocents is such anathema to any Food Soul that it makes him cringe just to think of it.]

... This is only the beginning. I don't know what to expect next.

[ Even Steak doesn't have it in himself to begin an argument for once, taking a long drink of his tequila, letting the burn warm him from the inside, letting it provide a temporary distraction from the weight around his waist and the ghost of sensation where his horns should be. ]

What happened?

[ Tierran myth at least refers to what Red Wine appears to be becoming (of course it would be that, what else would it be), maybe they can work something out from their world's reports and stories. ]

[What happened?

Red Wine swallows a mouthful of tequila and winces at the taste as it goes down. It's revolting, but he doesn't care. He sinks down into the chair and looks away from his companion, feeling a tightness in the back of his throat.]

... I don't want to talk about it.

[Not now, and... not with Steak.]

It's enough that it happened, and it's going to keep happening.

Fine.

[ He tries not to sound petulant that Red Wine won't talk about it, when they could have looked into some perfectly practical ways of dealing with it.

But instead they'll have to deal with tequila. And not even tequila Steak would rate as "pretty good" among all the alcohol he's tried in his long existence. And so, for the space of the rest of his drink — and the pouring of another —, he's silent, running a hand through his hair as he leans back into his chair and finds himself promptly reminded of his new limbs. ]

... The hell am I supposed to be?!

[ The frustrated question rises up out of his throat before he has a chance to stop it, a combination of fingers hitting his newly re-aligned horns and the tentacles preventing him from properly lounging, a harsh growl asked more to the ceiling than to Red Wine. ]

[He would challenge Steak to find any practical reason of dealing with turning into your worst nightmare. Red Wine is more than satisfied with dealing with it using awful-tasting alcohol, but after a few mouthfuls of it have gone over his tongue he can barely taste it well enough to be offended.

The question draws a look, a weary glance up and down the other Soul's altered form, (an internal shudder at what it reminds him of) and a tired shrug.]

Chimera. [He ventures, then sighs and pushes himself up to his feet to retrieve one of the softer cushions from the couch, tossing it in Steak's direction.]

Put that behind you. It'll help.

... Thanks.

[ Look, he'll take it right now, along with the pleasant buzz drinking brings. Not enough to distract him from his own changes, not yet, but enough to take the edge off last night's events. ]

I look ridiculous.

[ And, yes, too much like a certain Fallen Angel for his comfort. ]

You do.

[But it doesn't come out like a barb. Red Wine tips his head back against the chair and closes his eyes for a few moments.

Gods, he's so tired, and knowing how it can be now hasn't made the anxieties that have been keeping him from sleeping any easier to settle down.]

Does it hurt?

Not any more.

[ Which, of course, implies that it did hurt before. But what else could be expected from suddenly sprouting new limbs and having your horns realign themselves?

He's never had to so much as grow an inch since he came into existence, and now... now he finds himself sprouting limbs in tearing agony as the full moon rises.

How fun.

He takes another drink, a long one, and immediately refills and drinks that next glass. He needs to be more drunk than he is to properly voice the thing that's unsettling him. ]

Ah.

[He expects that it hurt before. He takes that information in, absorbs it, and decides that he doesn't like it.

He doesn't like it at all.

The tequila is barely hitting the sides and Red Wine can't taste it after the first few mouthfuls. It does nothing to numb the peculiar ache in his gut, but it works well enough to quiet the rest of him.]

I'm going to need your help, I expect.

[ He prefers the nights where they end up in a stupor because they did a job well done and are celebrating, but this is what they've been given.

Two curses of different types. ]

Tch, you know you always have it.

[ It's... unusually sensitive a response, for Steak.

Perhaps the tequila is affecting him more than he thought. ]

[It's unusual enough to give Red Wine pause, even through the haze of drink quickly descending through how swiftly he's been working his way through his drinks.

He could say something bitter, or scathing, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks down at his glass and mutters two words.]

Thank you.

[ There's a cough, a soft clearing of Steak's throat. Something they've both known so well, that's remained unspoken because that's how they've always operated best. Fighting, fighting, and coming to the same conclusion because they work best together.

It's strange to have to say it.

He huffs into his drink, making the liquid slosh against the sides of his drink, and laughs in a way that doesn't quite reach his eyes. ]

Don't get so sentimental on me, old man.

Tch. Disrespectful brat.

[It took swallowing a large amount of pride to express the need for help so openly, but there were few people he would admit the need to other than Steak and none of them are here.

He tops off his glass again, but eyes the offensive liquid instead of drinking it immediately.]

Don't expect I'll be leaving you to deal with things alone, either.

[ And, being Steak, no matter how much he may enjoy laughing at his friends, he wouldn't let anyone know this happened.

He knocks back the last of his drink and falls silent for a moment. Can he even ask Red Wine to take care of him when Red Wine is dealing with the horrors of his worst nightmare? ]

What are you going to do? You can't beat me in our normal fights. [ Yes, he's deflecting. But truly... how much more powerful is this form going to make him? ]

In your dreams, I can't beat you.

[It's something to rile him up, he knows, but he's had enough to drink that it doesn't prickle the way it usually would. Drinking so much tequila so quickly hits him in a way that the more refined drinks he usually chooses does not.

Steak may not ask, but that doesn't matter.]

We can test our new limits another time.

[ With them, that's all but guaranteed, Steak knows. It's just the way they operate, much to the chagrin of any nearby buildings. ]

Heh. I'll hold you to that.

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[OTA] November Catch-All

c; morning after. ( a shock, i know )

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