victory_road | Open and Closed prompts

Entry tags:

Open and Closed prompts

Who: Hythlodaeus and YOU
When: July, on a Wednesday
Where: Around Goldenrod
Summary: Hythlodaeus is making friends and learning sign language :)
Rating: Mature. I don't trust Hythlodaeus' friends.

Painting Portraits

[His dear friend and house mate has tried to impart the value of a dollar on Hythlodaeus, and that they need way more of them. To his credit, he is trying now. Armed with several sheets of nice paper and a set of water colors, he's seated on the ground with a little sign advertising that he will paint a portrait of you and your pokemon.]

[There is no price listed, and while he's not painting a portrait, he will be doing little paintings of muscular, anthropomorphic horse men. They are very, very good]

Menacing the Radio Tower

[After his little lunch date, Hythlodaeus finds himself a little bit at a loss. He still has his art supplies, and he's still mad... So maybe he just needs to work off a little energy. If you're coming or going from the Radio tower, he will affix you with an intense stare for several seconds before looking down at his paper and drawing... a terrifyingly photo realistic portrait of you.]

Steven

[On the very worst Wednesday after a particularly terrible weekend, Hythlodaeus is at the right place at the right time, though not quite looking like himself. He seems to have left his mask and robe at home, instead wearing a simple short sleeve button down and a pair of khaki chinos.]

[He still stands out, a lot, since he's still eight feet tall with long white hair, but hey! At least everyone doesn't think he's a ghost now. He's just a werid guy standing there with a couple of cutieflies buzzing around him. He seems to be spacing the fuck out, staring at some far off point as he stands and waits.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[As Steven goes on, Emet-Selch watches him, his expression going from that taunting expression to something of realization. Amused, realization, but as Steven continues, Emet walks over to Hythlodaeus, taking the pipe from him to take his own hit. His arm crossing his middle as he holds the pipe up with his other hand, the crossed arm's hand tucked under that elbow.

He exhales the smoke to the side, slow and steady, before giving Steven an amused and curious look.]

Is that what you believe?

[There's an eerie calmness to his tone as he asks, to his entire...everything. That's certainly not the weed at work.]

You labored under the misapprehension that I was purposefully terrorizing you and Tyler? That I, somehow, derived such primitive enjoyment from it? Oh, my dear boy, how mistaken you are.

[He pauses to take another hit, blows out the smoke, and hands it back to Hythlodaeus.]

First I will address the dream nonsense—if one were to pick at a wound, thus causing it to hemorrhage, should the blame fall to the victim for having a wound in the first place, or should it fall to the person who, of their own volition, chose to pick at what they shouldn't?

Your confirmation bias is not evidence of your contorted reality—after all, a taunt is a taunt. I knew there was something the matter, but what I had no idea of. Couldn't, not with how you shut me completely out even as I attempted to have a civil conversation with you. As for Tyler, I merely admire his strength, I do not relish in his fear of me. In fact, he and I are on civil terms even now, because unlike you, he was willing to understand me—and I, him.

[He shrugs, waving with that free hand a little limply.]

For all I knew, you merely suffered from a fragile ego, and that was that. I have seen far pettier things mortals have killed one another over, so who was I to assume this was any different? But you...you had all but decided what I was, what my intentions were, while knowing naught at all about me.

But I must admit, you being mortal has much to do with your shortsightedness, yes. That, and the value you put upon mortal flesh, that your fear would rule you so absolutely. I am a being not trapped by such ephemeral things—ordinarily—so such things like that assault was naught more than annoyance for one such as I. A minor inconvenience, for this body is not mine, but another's. I have not a physical form to call my own, have not for eons.

[He cocks his head to the side as he watches Steven, raising his eyebrows curiously.]

Though, I find it passing strange that you would care more about damage done to your body, than the desecration of a memory so sacred. One of lost loved ones, of a lost home, of a lost world. Physical wounds heal fairly easily, should they not be overly severe. Yet emotional wounds, you should know, do not heal quite so.

[He takes the pipe back, glances at it, and figures he's high enough if he still wants to try to follow Emet-Selch's train of thought.]

I cannot help but take issue with but one thing. I worry about your separation of body and self. The two cannot intrinsically be fully separated. Even if you take one up and cast one off with relative ease... I would never accuse you of some manner of laziness, but this is one area that I may have a more complete understanding.

...And before you fuss, I'll show you.

[He stands, bracing his hands on his knees to get up from that partial squat on the too-small chair. He ambles to the hall and comes back wheeling something large...]

[It is a blackboard. Hythlodaeus flips it to the emptier side.]

Don't call me boy, cabron, [Steven says in an altogether dangerous tone while Hythlodaeus is getting the blackboard--though of course, the man himself would still be able to hear him, the walls in this place being so thin.]

And what else was I supposed to think when you kept prodding at us, acting like you thought our discomfort was funny? A reasonable person would have picked up on those signals and left us the fuck alone, not taken all those opportunities to force us into interacting with you. I wanted to think you were just an asshole and a troll, but you cut off all my exits and taunted me like you knew how terrified I was when the only reason I can be around you even now and not feel trapped is because I'm high as balls.

And what the hell do you mean the body's not your own, are you stealing bodies or someth--

[Oh. Hythlodaeus is back. Right. Steven's just going to go face the blackboard, because teacher's getting ready to talk.]

[Unfortunately, Emet-Selch just looks amused at Steven's distaste at being called boy. He has not idea what cabron means, and really he doesn't care. He's probably been called worse. Hell, he's been shot dead by his own grandson and got called a fiend by him, not much compares to that.

He's about to retort, but Hythlodaeus—Emet had completely ignored his claim to a more complete understanding of the argument of body and self—returns and he sees the chalkboard. His eyebrows raise and he blinks a couple times in bafflement.

Ah, yes. The debate chalkboard. The chalkboard specifically for debates. That one.]

Oh for the love of... Hythlodaeus, really.

[Are they going to be doing this right here, right now? At least he turns to Steven for a moment.]

Clearly we cannot continue our conversation at the moment, but to give you some context for the debate that Hythlodaeus seems keen on having with me: yes. In order for me to interact with the material world, I must needs possess mortal bodies. Thus, I have not my own.

Which is a simplistic understanding!

[He picks up the chalk and begins drawing a series of diagrams. One is of a human-shaped figure, the next some diagram relating to connection of physical and aetherial, and then the equations and mathematical signs that make up the aetherial. He writes in some absolutely foreign language with absurd precision.

He turns back to looks between Steven and Emet-Selch with a broad grin.]

So when the aspects are in balance with a degree of shift within fifteen percent, the physical aether is able to house the aether that comprises memories. Yet like an apple is the skin, the flesh, and the seeds and no one part is more essentially the apple than the other... If one decides to pour one's aether into a container made of like materials, there is evidence of bonding. Just as nerves send signals to the body, aether likewise courses through us.

[He turns back around to begin writing more diagrams.]

Even accounting for your loss of shadow, the flesh is more like a paper bag than it is a drinking glass.

Edited 2020-07-16 03:24 (UTC)

[Under normal circumstances, Steven would be into this lecture, but right now he's busy staring at Emet-Selch like he's got another head.]

Okay, but seriously, are you animating recently vacated dead bodies or did you just-- I don't know, annihilate their souls like a goddamn common Mournelithe Falconsbane?

[Steven. No. They're not going to get your extremely dated Mercedes Lackey references, but thanks for demonstrating to everyone exactly how much you were a queer teen nerd growing up in the 90s.

Also, slipping into Spanish insults is a sort of tell with him. Of the kind that indicates that you're on thin fucking ice.]

Edited 2020-07-16 03:37 (UTC)

[Okay, there is too much going on right now, and maybe Emet's starting to feel those puffs. Not horribly, but his ability to focus is getting a little fuzzy. He's about to approach Hythlodaeus, grab the eraser and just...erase all that garbage he's written and drawn to make a point—but then Steven has to ask his question and he stops.

Giving him a sidelong glance and quirked eyebrow, he answers wryly:]

Nay, I only take living hosts.

[And now he turns back to Hythlodaeus, picking up the eraser that lays on the tray, and doing exactly what he had planned to: erasing all that nonsense with dramatic sweeps of his arm.]

What you say could be construed as fact, however, you seem to be forgetting something intrinsic to the whole process.

[Once he's successfully erased it all, and elbowed Hythlodaeus out of the way, he holds his hand out for the chalk after placing the eraser back down.]

If you'd please.

[Hythlodaeus, his situation is unique and happened after your demise, you clearly are lacking data that only he has!]

You could have erased the other side, I'm going to have to redraw that diagram for my rebuttal. [He chuckles as he drops the chalk into his hand, taking a seat next to Steven. He doesn't seem to be bothered to elbowed or bullied.]

But please, do show me the folly of my logic.

[He doesn't comment on the living host part. He knows Steven will, enough, for the both of them.]

I can't fucking believe it, [Steven grumbles.] You're a serial fucking body-thief and you dare act like you've got the moral high ground here?

Steven.

[He pauses right before he brings the chalk to the board, glancing back over at him.]

Yes, I take the bodies of mortals, as is what I must do, but it is not as if I do so arbitrarily. I do much more with their life than they ever could hope to achieve, if aught at all, my selecting them is an honor. Besides, there's a little thing called moral relativism, perhaps you should look it up.

[Then he goes back to the board. Drawing a similar, but slightly different diagram than what Hythlodaeus did. Sure, it's got two circles that are slightly overlapping that represent the living world and the underworld, but then he goes on to quickly draw three man-shaped silhouettes. One is labeled "Mortal", the next is "Immortal", and the last is "Ascian".

Then, he goes to show the visible differences. The mortal is very lightly shaded in, while the immortal is far more darkly done, but what remains the same between the mortal and immortal is the shading goes all the way to the line. Where as for the Ascian, when he shades it in as darkly as the immortal, the shading does not touch the line of the figure. Leaving an obvious gap.]

Now then, as we can see I have illustrated here the overlap of the material world and what most mortals of our world now refers to as the lifestream. Which, Hythlodaeus had indeed drawn, but I was not keen on using his.

[petty]

These worlds indeed overlap, but there is something you did not account for, Hythlodaeus. [As to demonstrate such, he adds in a portion that's between the two planes:] The aetherial rift. This plane serves as an in between realm, one that an Ascian like myself has access to, while mortals slip right past it as their departed souls make for the lifestream. This is intrinsic to the point I am about to make, so pay close attention.

[Moving along, he taps above the lightly shaded mortal.]

Mortals are weak of body and soul, as such theirs are fragile and sickly in hue, their aether has laughable resilience at all, but they indeed are the primary inhabitants of the material plane.

[Then he taps the immortal.]

On the other side are immortals—these consist of dragons, fae, and other suchlike beings. But, originally our people were all whom belonged to such a category. With our adamant souls and bodies, we could live indefinitely, our bodies are not wont to break down, to wilt away due to such fragility or being incomplete.

[Then he taps the Ascian.]

However, the type of immortal I am belongs in a different category. One that does not follow the laws of reality as you know them, Hythlodaeus. For we Ascians exist outside the material realm and the lifestream. We exist within the aetherial rift, sheltered by Lord Zodiark's darkness, so that we might find succor when appropriate.

Now, as you can see I have illustrated this one differently, because in most instances you are correct: mind, body, and soul are one. However, to become an Ascian, one must relinquish themselves of their mortal—or in my case immortal—flesh. Such was not required ere the Sundering, but now decidedly is. As such, even as we pour our souls into these fragile mortal bodies, we never quite fully merge with our hosts. We cannot, we are incompatible.

Yes, we can shape their form to however we wish them to look, we can feel the pain, the pleasure, all that mortals can whilst we inhabit their form—but they are not our bodies. Merely vessels. If the soul should not be snuffed out during the process, then the original owner is free to resume control of their body—though their forms do indeed suffer for it. But would you still claim that such a body is not theirs, but rather the Ascian's?

[Emet turns sharply and stares at Hythlodaeus with a scowl.]

Nay, you would not. We are interlopers in a world that is rightfully ours, but we cannot exist without the stifling bodies of mortals. Thus these bodies are not and cannot be ours, and we will not resume as beings of flesh ere our grand scheme has been complete. To suggest otherwise is absurdity.

I have sired children as Solus zos Galvus, but little are such offspring mine, but rather those of the body—a garlean father and mother bore garlean children into the world. We Ascians cannot breed, for we lack true bodies to do so. The world has changed since your demise, Hythlodaeus, I suggest you learn to accept that.

I know what Moral Relativism is, asshole, but here's a fun fact: we poor, stupid mortals genuinely consider it to be a bad thing.

[He crosses his arms in front of himself.]

As far as I see it, you have no business ever claiming the moral high ground over any of us again--even me. At least I'm honest about not being a good person.

That is a very concerning bit of information that you have chosen to share just now, and let me show you why.

[He stands, plucking the chalk from Emet-Selch's fingers as he begins to scrawl his notes.]

Lahabrea is a fastidious man, but much of the rewritten the laws of nature are plagarisms. As they should be, lest our home be entirely foreign to us. Even if you pass through the rift, it seems more like a particle state than in intrinsic quality.

Yet once again, the soul, the will, and the whim of Creation do imbue that which you touch with your own aether... Just the same, if you intended to reproduce, it is not impossible for your soul to thus influence your body in ways that would have been impossible otherwise.

...I would have liked to examine these children of yours. Did you notice any peculiarities about them?

[He can't help himself but frown. It is definitely concerning information. He turns to Steven, finally.]

Now, now. The shifting sands of debate do exclude attempting to claim victories over debates yet unmade. Both of you.

Edited 2020-07-16 05:17 (UTC)

[At Steven's comment, he allows it to slide off his back. Mainly because he doesn't expect a mortal to understand how morality is far more complex than merely the actions done. The intent has far more to do with it, and the end result. He might kill millions of mortals, steal their bodies as his own instrument to carry out such plans, but ultimately this will save far more than it will kill.

It will allow life to flourish as it should, instead of dwindling into oblivion as it currently is doing.]

Yes, Steven. You cannot claim a victory when you have barely made a proper argument. If you wish to debate morals with me, I should gladly contend with you, but seeing as it is nary the topic...

[He looks back to Hythlodaeus with his own frown.]

Indeed, they had their peculiarities, and while I had mistook such as the senseless wishful thinking you are now imploring, it did not hold up to the proof.

[Solemnly, he looks to the scribbling on the board, but he does not take the chalk. Instead, he takes the eraser, but he stays his hand at the moment.]

One succumbed to an absurd illness—a true child of mine would never die to aught so...feeble.

[His voice betrays him, he thinks he's hiding the hurt behind it, but he's fucking high and he has no filter over his tone at the moment.]

The laws of reality were changed since the Sundering, and while there is some that remain true, there are others we Ascians had to puzzle out. Naught you would be familiar with. Naught your foolish and optimistic beliefs would make true.

You know what? Given that you're the person inhabiting the body that made them, [Steven says, stubbornly, after thinking about it a little] then I fucking well think they are your offspring, Emet. I mean, who else would they belong to? The real Solus? You killed him and stole his body, remember?

That he would succumb is terribly strange, indeed...

[He slips the chalk from his hand as he writes some wild equations.]

I grow suspicious when you accuse me of optimism. You are the one with high affect, the one with unfettered hopes and dreams, prone to these feelings in the first place.

You won't want to hear this, but I think it is easier to pretend that you never had a child than to accept that your child passed away. And it is like Steven says, you chased that man's soul from his flesh long, long ago. Perhaps your inhabited body did not pass on more familiar genetics, but to make this purely about seed is too simple. A father is more than that, I would think, though I know you view the mortals as lesser... Even a newborn? Was he disowned so soon?

You are a clever man, but you are one man, not a team of researchers. I cannot hold your understanding as perfect truth. We both know that experiments and research lacking peer review and rigor can amount to a distressingly low percentage of real data. I doubt not that you toiled to understand the new bounds of the universe, but I'm concerned that your understanding is incomplete, and your unwillingness to examine flaws to be disheartening.

[...Before he hits him with a genuinely pretty sad look.]

[Emet's silent for a long moment, mulling over both what Steven said and Hythlodaeus. And after a moment, he puts the eraser down, wordlessly he walks over to the cabinet, and opens it—pulling out a bottle of liquor. Uncapping it, he takes a long drink of it. When done, he lets that arm hang a little loosely as he holds the bottle just as loosely in his hand.

He does not look at either of them.]

...Natural law does not apply to me—those children were not mine. Yes, I released Solus' soul when I possessed his body, but this changes nothing.

[Finally, he turns to stare at Steven.]

Do not call me Emet. Either you call me Solus, or you call me Emet-Selch. I will not suffer such casualness. I allow Dirk to refer to me as such, for it is his moniker for me due to compromise, but seeing as we are not bedfellows, you do not hold any such right to address me so.

[Yep, he might be trying to back away from the other topic now.]

Well, obviously you weren't much of a father, if this is how you talk about them, but I don't see the real Solus taking his body back for the space of time it took to fuck their mother.

[Guess who's blithely ignoring your chastisement? Being too high to be terrified is truly a wonderful state.]

[... oh this is bad. Hythlodaeus’ only head start is that his stride is so long. He stands between them, facing Emet-Selch. He’s too high for this. He places a hand on Emet’s bottle chuckin’ hand to still it. Just in case. ]

Yet, you bore this horrible burden without those that could understand you. How can anyone process such a thing without his friends? It is unspeakably sad. I don’t blame you for running from it.

[ He glances over his shoulder at Steven. ] Fatherhood seems to be a matter of personal strife for you. How long do your parents involve themselves in your upbringing here?

[It's a good thing too! Because Emet was about half a second from chucking the bottle at Steven's head, but that hand stills him. Hythlodaeus' presence—well, it doesn't calm him, but it stops him from reacting how he might otherwise.

His jaw is clenched tightly, and there's fury and grief behind those golden eyes. Hythlodaeus' words certainly makes his heart hurt, but no more than the thought of losing his son does. He says nothing, not trusting himself to speak at the moment.]

[Steven snorts.]

I just think he's doing a disservice to his kid by denying them. It's obviously not making him feel any better about it, so why does he keep doing it? Pride? His disgust for us poor mortals?

That was your kid, 'Emet-Selch' [he does the little air quotes], and trying to pretend they're someone else's isn't going to make you feel any goddamn better. And it makes you sound like you don't even care.

Edited 2020-07-16 08:05 (UTC)

Emet-Selch has had a difficult lot in life with a lonely, crushing burden. None of us has acted without selfishness nor been fully honest with our emotions. I think we each owe ourselves time and space for just that. You have called yourself a bad man, but I really must ask you to show mercy and stay your words, Steven.

It is our responsibility to live amicably even with those we cannot see eye to eye. Allow me to speak with him about this another time. I’ve learned a rather lot of new information after all.

[ He gently wrests the bottle from his grasp, settling it down before turning around fully to face Steven.]

Steven, your persona meshes poorly with who you are while uninhibited. Your mask is ill-fitting, surely you have noticed.

[Again Emet-Selch stays quiet, letting Hythlodaeus take that bottle from him. His gaze drifts from the two, fixing on nothing in particular as he seems lost in thought. Maybe it was a mistake to indulge in their folly, to entertain such topics as if he didn't know how tender of a topic it is for him. He thought himself over such an aching loss.

Clearly he isn't.]

Leave him be, Hythlodaeus. He needs not be burdened by my travails.

[He says in a low and distant timbre, an undercurrent of a quiver to his voice. Something uncharacteristically fragile—for anyone not familiar with him.]

Perhaps I shall leave the two of you to your frivolity. I have certainly overstayed my welcome.

[He realizes how silly that sounds when it's his own home, but after all, this was Hythlodaeus' company...and he's hardly in any state to entertain.]

I know, Hythlo, [he says, and there's a weariness to him too, now.] But it's what I've got and I'm stuck with it now.

[He takes a deep breath and lets it out.]

Just-- if I were lucky enough to have a kid of my own-- or a stepdaughter who didn't hate me-- I wouldn't deny them for the world.

[His eyes flick momentarily to Solus, then back to Hythlodaeus.]

Anyway. This is your house. If anyone should be kicked out of it for the sake of peace, it should be me.

[That gives him pause, and for a moment, it almost seems like he's just going to head out without a word. But instead, he looks to Steven with conflicted emotion behind his eyes. His own words are ringing in his hazy mind—between the Pokéweed, the emotions, and the booze he chugged, he's really feeling the effects of it all—and perhaps he cannot help but feel guilty over it. He told Steven that it was the duty of the survivors to remember the lost, so that they would never truly be lost.

And...he's never forgotten his son. Never does a day go by that he does not think back on that time, both with nostalgia and remorse. But he can't allow himself to get too caught up in it, it's too painful. Even now, after years since his untimely demise—dead at barely past twenty summers—the pain is too great. It's easier to face it with anger, than the true sorrow he feels.]

Nay. The two of you have work to do, and I could use some fresh air.

[He starts towards the door, but then pauses again. Glancing only slightly past his shoulder at Steven.]

...Should you ever sire a child—appreciate every moment. Even the difficult ones. Mayhap even especially.

[And then he's off down the hall back to his room. Where he's going to get at least halfway presentable so that he might go and clear his head...maybe he shouldn't go out drunk and high, but honestly he needs to be alone for a while.]

Edited 2020-07-16 09:47 (UTC)

[Steven watches him leave, quietly. When he turns back to Hythlodaeus, he looks no less tired than before Solus made his exit.]

I wouldn't be able to, [he says quietly.] I... well, I can't perform with women that way. I tried when I was younger.

For a very brief time, when I was young and in love, or so I thought, I fantasized a little about adopting... but I don't think I can do that now... you have to understand, I love Jack, but there's a reason he and his daughter are estranged and why she hates me for being loyal to him. I don't think I could completely trust him with co-parenting, even though I wish I could.

[He sighs.]

Anyway. Yeah. I'm not naturally nice, as you can see, but. At the same time, the whole Nice Steven mask still is more or less second nature these days. Just because I've been doing it for something close to thirty years by now, in one form or another.

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okay this is where the spanish insults happen

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