[Blanket warnings for alien/nonhuman nonsense and a penchant for swearing/oaths.]
i. Arrival [ The simple act of waking leaves him unsteady and unfocused, hazy. Enough so it takes him a moment to hear the monotonous dripping. Open wounds are nothing new, and the fact he doesn't feel the injury much the same. Usually it's...
Guilt twists him inside, makes his everything crawl uncomfortably under the wet and sticking fabric, like it wants to shrink away, but—
Realization hits like a blow. He woke up. John jolts, yellow robes flaring out around him, gathering, reaching, seeking purchase on anything they can grasp like some kind of twisted-wrong creature from deep in the abyss.
Maybe it's fitting, then, that he finds himself soaked, those same robes clinging to his shoulders. The thunder rattles him again, senses one by one returning in something resembling clarity but it stands in stark relief to expectation. If he isn't... then he shouldn't have all of these senses. He shouldn't—none of this is right, none of this makes sense. He can't sleep, he doesn't have a body. He should be...! ]
Arthur? [ There's an edge to his voice, sharp and jagged. An angry, confused panic. ] Arthur!
[ He tears forward in an awkward rush of fabric and limbs, shoulder meeting the door, body coiling and curling and scrabbling to get the damn thing open, and he tumbles out of it into a disoriented pile. A desperate bark is lost in the roar of thunder, and John freezes in the wake of a sudden chill. He is terror, he is horror—or he was, was part of that wretched, unknowable, Unspeakable monstrosity. But he's little more than a rain-wet thing that's almost forgotten how to move under his own power. And it is dark here; among the many human fears he's discovered in the past few months since being released from that damned book, he's found the dark to be... ]
Fucking focus. There are more important things.
[ The foundations seem unsteady, though it's easy enough to balance (sort of) once he remembers how. Helps that he can use the walls as easily as the floor. But he should probably attempt moving like something passably human just in case, right? So you might find him bracing against the wall, swearing under his breath. He might just be trying to get his legs under him (does he even have any? hard to tell with the robes) or trying to get his head on straight. There is something about looking at him too long that feels wrong, though, to anyone who might run into him. Something other. It's an unsettling indeterminateness at first that quiets to an itch after a moment. ] ii. Seeing is believing [ He's chasing ghosts. Chasing lights. Chasing voices calling for aid, and like hell is he abandoning anyone. Not after everything they've b—he's... been through. He still can't find Arthur, but that's... He'll find him.
Everything is a dead end.
John, bracing himself against the wall with one wrapped hand, growls—and startles himself out of it. The feeling of it, the physical sensations are still bizarre. He'd forgotten what it feels like. His throat hurts from shouting; the knife of his hand hurts from the number of times he's struck the wall. He's tired. In any other circumstances, he'd be... elated? But right now, he's just uncomfortable and, put mildly, angry. Cranky less-than-normal-levels-of-eldritch baby. ]
If this is Kayne's fault...
[ It sure fucking feels like it could be. Or some other god's, if not his. He'd know if it was Hastur though, wouldn't he? So not him, no matter how much this feels like something he'd have done once. Pushing off, John turns, stopping at the sound of something that rings clearly through the rain and thunder. A voice. A distinct voice. He's too worked up to think past recognition, but does that mean...? ]
Hey!
[ Maybe this won't be a dead end, if he can just find the source...! He'll fucking take it, if so. Apologies for the strange too-tall man scrambling in your direction. His hood's a little skewed, and a featureless, ceramic-looking mask is the only thing visible beneath it, but something about the narrow slits where eyes would be seems entirely too intense. ] iii. To run its course [cw: mentions of body horror] [ A distorted, roaring howl—a sound no throat, human or beast, could hope to make—is all he can manage. That and the collapse of so many layers of yellow-gold fabric, gathering the corpse under the shield of his own body as the tattered edges curl in tightly. But he can't bring himself to touch the body, his hands held tightly to his chest, maintaining just a fraction of space. Touching him would make it real. Had he failed? Is that why he's here? The last time they'd been torn apart, Hastur had called him and he'd surrendered, only for Arthur to—
Did it... happen again? No. No, he doesn't think it did, there was nothing to fight that would have needed it. And something about this feels wrong. Hadn't he just been..? No, maybe not. He has no memory of how long he'd been part of Hastur again, why would he think he'd remember how long it'd been since he'd last been echoing in Arthur's mind? Does it fucking matter? He'd been calling for Arthur since he woke up here and he's... found him. The forest of the Dreamlands has clearly gotten to work, sprouting from their—Arthur's left pinky and making use of the rest of the empty flesh. He barely registers the other plant-life.
Footsteps make him freeze just before he reaches with one unsteady hand for the man—his partner, his friend's face. For all he'd barked Arthur down from his furies, rage-induced violence and righteousness and vengeance and murderous intent, John isn't feeling so composed about his own. Maybe fortunate, then, that he's still trying to remember how to move in a body like this. Fanning out as he whips around, a creature flaring out in threat and warning, a growl builds in his chest and culminates in a single word. ]
You. iv. Contents worming [ John... hates the dark. For a number of reasons, but most importantly is how blind he feels. He can't tell where he's going, can't tell what's waiting in that dark. This place may not be the Dreamlands or the Dark World, but it's... wrong.
It becomes both wrong and gross when the first worm ends up trying to make its way up the ends the tendril-like tatters of his robes. It... Part of his brain shifts into gear for guidance, but Arthur isn't here for him to describe the cause of that sensation to. The yellow, wrong-shadowed tendril curls, coils, and attempts to fling the worm off of it. He doesn't know what it is, only that he doesn't like the way it feels.
He's not worried (yet) about what it actually is, though.
He is unhappy that he's starting to find them more and more.
He fastens himself to the wall awkwardly, a few tendrils accompanied by thick shadows acting as supports to keep him there. Screw trying to pass as anything other than what he is: the situation demands otherwise. ]
What the... fuck is this?
[ He rolls forward, robes more like the tentacles of an octopus as he moves, and slowly picks up speed—not that it really seems to help! There's more on the walls, and John complains in grunts and myriad other noises as he tries to get away from the worms. Cat got on the double-sided tape, much? He twists around a few times, just generally doing his best to evade when he doesn't... really... know how he can.
"John Doe" | Malevolent
i. Arrival
[ The simple act of waking leaves him unsteady and unfocused, hazy. Enough so it takes him a moment to hear the monotonous dripping. Open wounds are nothing new, and the fact he doesn't feel the injury much the same. Usually it's...
Guilt twists him inside, makes his everything crawl uncomfortably under the wet and sticking fabric, like it wants to shrink away, but—
Realization hits like a blow. He woke up. John jolts, yellow robes flaring out around him, gathering, reaching, seeking purchase on anything they can grasp like some kind of twisted-wrong creature from deep in the abyss.
Maybe it's fitting, then, that he finds himself soaked, those same robes clinging to his shoulders. The thunder rattles him again, senses one by one returning in something resembling clarity but it stands in stark relief to expectation. If he isn't... then he shouldn't have all of these senses. He shouldn't—none of this is right, none of this makes sense. He can't sleep, he doesn't have a body. He should be...! ]
Arthur? [ There's an edge to his voice, sharp and jagged. An angry, confused panic. ] Arthur!
[ He tears forward in an awkward rush of fabric and limbs, shoulder meeting the door, body coiling and curling and scrabbling to get the damn thing open, and he tumbles out of it into a disoriented pile. A desperate bark is lost in the roar of thunder, and John freezes in the wake of a sudden chill. He is terror, he is horror—or he was, was part of that wretched, unknowable, Unspeakable monstrosity. But he's little more than a rain-wet thing that's almost forgotten how to move under his own power. And it is dark here; among the many human fears he's discovered in the past few months since being released from that damned book, he's found the dark to be... ]
Fucking focus. There are more important things.
[ The foundations seem unsteady, though it's easy enough to balance (sort of) once he remembers how. Helps that he can use the walls as easily as the floor. But he should probably attempt moving like something passably human just in case, right? So you might find him bracing against the wall, swearing under his breath. He might just be trying to get his legs under him (does he even have any? hard to tell with the robes) or trying to get his head on straight. There is something about looking at him too long that feels wrong, though, to anyone who might run into him. Something other. It's an unsettling indeterminateness at first that quiets to an itch after a moment. ]
ii. Seeing is believing
[ He's chasing ghosts. Chasing lights. Chasing voices calling for aid, and like hell is he abandoning anyone. Not after everything they've b—he's... been through. He still can't find Arthur, but that's... He'll find him.
Everything is a dead end.
John, bracing himself against the wall with one wrapped hand, growls—and startles himself out of it. The feeling of it, the physical sensations are still bizarre. He'd forgotten what it feels like. His throat hurts from shouting; the knife of his hand hurts from the number of times he's struck the wall. He's tired. In any other circumstances, he'd be... elated? But right now, he's just uncomfortable and, put mildly, angry.
Cranky less-than-normal-levels-of-eldritch baby.]If this is Kayne's fault...
[ It sure fucking feels like it could be. Or some other god's, if not his. He'd know if it was Hastur though, wouldn't he? So not him, no matter how much this feels like something he'd have done once. Pushing off, John turns, stopping at the sound of something that rings clearly through the rain and thunder. A voice. A distinct voice. He's too worked up to think past recognition, but does that mean...? ]
Hey!
[ Maybe this won't be a dead end, if he can just find the source...! He'll fucking take it, if so. Apologies for the strange too-tall man scrambling in your direction. His hood's a little skewed, and a featureless, ceramic-looking mask is the only thing visible beneath it, but something about the narrow slits where eyes would be seems entirely too intense. ]
iii. To run its course [cw: mentions of body horror]
[ A distorted, roaring howl—a sound no throat, human or beast, could hope to make—is all he can manage. That and the collapse of so many layers of yellow-gold fabric, gathering the corpse under the shield of his own body as the tattered edges curl in tightly. But he can't bring himself to touch the body, his hands held tightly to his chest, maintaining just a fraction of space. Touching him would make it real. Had he failed? Is that why he's here? The last time they'd been torn apart, Hastur had called him and he'd surrendered, only for Arthur to—
Did it... happen again? No. No, he doesn't think it did, there was nothing to fight that would have needed it. And something about this feels wrong. Hadn't he just been..? No, maybe not. He has no memory of how long he'd been part of Hastur again, why would he think he'd remember how long it'd been since he'd last been echoing in Arthur's mind? Does it fucking matter? He'd been calling for Arthur since he woke up here and he's... found him. The forest of the Dreamlands has clearly gotten to work, sprouting from their—Arthur's left pinky and making use of the rest of the empty flesh. He barely registers the other plant-life.
Footsteps make him freeze just before he reaches with one unsteady hand for the man—his partner, his friend's face. For all he'd barked Arthur down from his furies, rage-induced violence and righteousness and vengeance and murderous intent, John isn't feeling so composed about his own. Maybe fortunate, then, that he's still trying to remember how to move in a body like this. Fanning out as he whips around, a creature flaring out in threat and warning, a growl builds in his chest and culminates in a single word. ]
You.
iv. Contents worming
[ John... hates the dark. For a number of reasons, but most importantly is how blind he feels. He can't tell where he's going, can't tell what's waiting in that dark. This place may not be the Dreamlands or the Dark World, but it's... wrong.
It becomes both wrong and gross when the first worm ends up trying to make its way up the ends the tendril-like tatters of his robes. It... Part of his brain shifts into gear for guidance, but Arthur isn't here for him to describe the cause of that sensation to. The yellow, wrong-shadowed tendril curls, coils, and attempts to fling the worm off of it. He doesn't know what it is, only that he doesn't like the way it feels.
He's not worried (yet) about what it actually is, though.
He is unhappy that he's starting to find them more and more.
He fastens himself to the wall awkwardly, a few tendrils accompanied by thick shadows acting as supports to keep him there. Screw trying to pass as anything other than what he is: the situation demands otherwise. ]
What the... fuck is this?
[ He rolls forward, robes more like the tentacles of an octopus as he moves, and slowly picks up speed—not that it really seems to help! There's more on the walls, and John complains in grunts and myriad other noises as he tries to get away from the worms.
Cat got on the double-sided tape, much?He twists around a few times, just generally doing his best to evade when he doesn't... really... know how he can.Help. ]