[OTA] After nine days I let the horse run free, 'cause the desert had turned to sea

[midnightroads]

Who: Bash St. Expedit
When: October 9th on
Where: Aboard the Serena Eterna
Summary: Bash in a panic about some kind of horse?
Warnings: Discussion of possession, loss of bodliy autonomy, demons, ghosts, spirits, gods


1. And a perfect disguise above [Spirit Halloween]
After the incident in the buffet, Bash sent one text, and then moved toward the Promenade, trying to a.) get away from the buffet and b.) try to find something, anything, to help with what's going on. And like, no, he's not going to find some houngan or a mambo or a bokor to do the work for him, he's going to have to figure himself out. With no tools.

...right. He does have very limited tools; he's got his veve, his tarot cards, easy access to tobacco and rum if he needs them. That's not nothing for the rituals of his pantheon. But more is more, and as he passes the Spirit Halloween, he gets the idea to go in and look for appropriate attire and any other tools on hand. Would a black rubber chicken be an appropriate sacrifice? He...might end up finding out.

"Fucking ride my boy, see if I don't cast you back all the way to Guinee..."


2. Under the cities lies a heart made of ground [Library]
Yes, the only kinds of books in the library are fiction.

Yes, Bash is extremely dyslexic.

But times of desperation call for acts of frustration fortitude, and even if he doesn't get anywhere gleaning for morsels of truth amidst the fiction, smart people hang out in libraries. Look, if you walk into the room and look like you have even ten IQ points on the pitiful bastard, he's going to immediately look up with puppy dog eyes.

"Uh, do you...know anything about, um. Shit that rides folks?"


3. But the humans will give no love [Wildcard]
darkersolstice or darkersolstice#9463 to plot

Comments

[Closed to Cassandra: 'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain]

[midnightroads]

It's quite a sight, really. Bash, hair mussed, disheveled, shirt torn from the tussle. Over his right shoulder, a body, limp and bloody like a sack of murdered potatoes. The body's clothes are singed, and the smell of burnt flesh and leather lingers in the air, mingling with Bash's own divine aura of fresh coffee and tobacco. In his left hand, a scythe that he's leaning into a little as he walks.

He twisted his ankle on the way down, didn't notice until he had to stand again.

He was running on adrenaline during the fight, not his usual state, and now he feels heavy and tired, a pit in his stomach. He won. He's certain he can win again. But it doesn't get him closer to the real fight for Jeff's body. Does it?

[not_the_last]

The smells of blood and burnt flesh are entirely too familiar to her, and the first thing she notices as she rounds the bend of the stairwell. It makes her freeze, even before she looks up.

She recognizes the face; the name takes another moment to come to her. Recognition of the fact that he's carrying a body -- a corpse? -- comes much faster.

"... Bash?"

(Recognition of the body's identity will take longer still, as she can't see its face.)

[midnightroads]

He turns to look at her, not startling, not trying to hide the body. Not that he could, but he's acting like there's absolutely nothing wrong about what he's doing. And maybe there isn't.

"Cassandra. Hi."

Yeup, just a normal conversation in a hall. With a corpse and a scythe. It's been one of those days. He's been through it, Cass.

[not_the_last]

He doesn't smile, seeing her. It may be all that keeps her from dropping into utter panic, that he doesn't smile.

"Hi." She doesn't mean it to come out as a whisper, and manages to push a little more volume into what she says next: "Is that ... him? Your, your friend?"

[midnightroads]

"No. It's someone the ghost possessing Jeff killed, using his powers. And then he used the blood to...basically, summon me, to gloat. I knew it was him 'calling' me, so I came armed. It was a bit of a thing and now I'm taking this guy to the morgue, because I can't take his soul to the underworld and do my job."

He sounds like he's working very hard to keep from either screaming or crying or maybe both. Like one more thing going wrong will be the straw that breaks his back.

[not_the_last]

That tone of voice is one Cassandra knows really, really well.

"Oh," she says, very quietly, keeping her face as still as possible.

And then: "I'll get the door for you."

[midnightroads]

"Thanks. I appreciate that." He nods at her and tries to make his face make the shape of a smile and...kinda just fails.

"I swear, I don't do pissed off, but this scrap makes me wish I did."

[not_the_last]

She has to swallow at the shape his mouth makes when it fails to smile, and turns away to move down the stairs ahead of him.

"It's on the lowest deck, yes? That's just one further down."

[midnightroads]

"Yeah. Um, you don't need to follow me down if you don't want to. Though the company would be nice."

Morgues are spooky places, after all. Full of corpses.

[not_the_last]

"I don't mind."

And she isn't so much following as going ahead, opening the door at the bottom of the stairwell and holding it for him.

[midnightroads]

He limps his way through the door, heading toward the morgue.

"I don't know how his people do funerals, or if that'd be a weird thing to do at all. A lot of the rites I know don't make sense with here. No silver to pay the ferryman, he's soul's going nowhere, right? But trying to say something makes sense."

[not_the_last]

Cassandra continues alongside him, ready to step ahead and hold the door to the morgue as well. "Do you -- know him?"

(She found herself wanting to correct that to did you midsentence, and corrected back. The dead don't stay dead here.)

[midnightroads]

"Yeah. His name's Crichton, and he offered to help me look for Jeff." Which means Bash is feeling guilty about everything, but like. He's not dealing with his emotions yet.

[not_the_last]

"Crichton?" She stops at the door but doesn't reach for it, as her head whips around to stare at the corpse. Under the blood and char, it's the right size, the right hair color --

"I," numbly, "I didn't recognize him."

[midnightroads]

"Doesn't surprise me. The guy's animated, when he's alive. The body's one thing, but how he moves and talks, it's another. Don't feel bad for not recognizing him--this ain't him at all. This is just...meat."

Does that sound cold? He tries not to let it sound cold. But it's a hard sort of truth to sit with.

[not_the_last]

Cassandra nods. Draws a deep breath, sets her mouth firmly, and reaches to open the door to the morgue.

At least he isn't walking, she thinks.

[midnightroads]

"Sorry. That probably sounded a little callous. My work's concerned primarily with souls, not bodies."

He finds an open drawer to slide the body into. "The bodies are often gone entirely before I do my work. I usually don't have to see them at all."

[not_the_last]

"No, you're quite right. I've ... dealt with bodies before."

Her hands are cold; one of them is clenching, more tightly than she realizes, around the memory of the hilt of a rapier.

"Do you ... you said you might want to say some words over him? I don't know what would be appropriate."

[midnightroads]

"I don't know what religion he followed, if any. But I can try to say something."

He moves to stand by the drawer, taking a deep breath. "Brother, you tried to take on evil, tried to face it yourself, and that was bold, and brave, and kind of you. I'm sorry it ended up like this. When your soul reunites with your body, I'll thank you again, for everything. And apologize too. But for now, take your rest that you've earned, and let your soul be renewed."

[not_the_last]

"Be it so," she whispers, a phrase out of her childhood.

She wants to ask for reassurance that he'll come back; she can feel the plea at the bottom of her throat like a sob trying to come out, and hates it.

[midnightroads]

He gently lifts an arm, to offer physical comfort if she's interested in accepting it.

"You, uh, want me to walk you back to your cabin or nothing?"

[not_the_last]

Oh, there are all kinds of reasons she might accept or reject physical comfort -- from a man, from a stranger, from anyone at all -- but she's too weary suddenly to think of any of them and instead just leans into the offered arm.

"That would be very kind of you," she says, in a tone that's a cracking glaze of courtesy over an urge to weep.

[midnightroads]

Bash keeps the lightest hold on her shoulder as he guides her out of the morgue. And to be honest, having someone to lean on a little with that ankle that's starting to swell isn't a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

"It's my honor."

[not_the_last]

She hasn't noticed the ankle, doesn't until they're making their way up the steps again; she'll let him lean on her shoulder all he needs to. (She's short enough to make that easy.)

"Are you ... doing all right?" she asks, about halfway up.

[midnightroads]

"Fucking peachy. What, how do you expect me to be doing right now?" It's sharper than he meant to sound, and immediately he looks contrite.

"Sorry. I mean, uh. I'll be fine. Really. I'm always fine, eventually. Sorry."