(open) strength be granted

[decrypter]

who: Helena Adams and open!
what: November catch all log. Prompts in comments below.
when: 11/2022
where: Across the ship.
notes: Will match format.

Comments

library - 🌓

[decrypter]

[books are a siren call to her, something that makes sense even as her world is changed, turned upside down and around, and so the library holds her in arms that she doesn't wish to let go of. she's a common enough sight there, despite being new, and her stack of to-read remains present. still, sometimes she strains for something higher, or trails her hands along the shelves in search of the right embossing, or reshelves one where the pages are a mystery. evidently, this isn't the paradise it could be, where every book opened to her touch, but the ones that do...

fiction they might be, but an honest and soothing happiness descends, and Helena is all too glad to pursue it, never losing her vigilance should someone come near, but not startling like some creature. rather, it's a moment of stillness before returning to her book, having heard and judged the one there, and then moving on.

alternately, she's writing in her journal, an all engrossing activity - she writes swiftly, the stylus practically gliding across the paper, chronicling things as steadily as she has done for so long and adding her own thoughts and observations. though she's liable to be doing this quite late, in this task, should the rare soul come across her, she does start some, and hastily turn to something else. almost guilty to be caught, but unwilling to give it up.]

[neverleave]

[Natsuno is usually out and about late at night, due both to a vampire's natural inclination as a desire to be alone, especially after all that happened in October. He may seek his friends' company like a shadow, but when he needs to get food or a distraction, he'd rather do it when most others are asleep.

Perhaps Helena can hear him rifle through shelves, or hears the faint music off his ear buds - after weeks of being Nothing, he needs comforting stimuli in his ears. Natsuno gives her a cursory look, the way he notes all newcomers, but would be perfectly content to leave her be if she hadn't startled.]

...don't worry. [His voice is flat and calm, clearly a teenager's.] I'm not trying to read what you write.

[decrypter]

Sorry... [her chuckle is more born from nervousness than anything else.] I got so involved that I forgot other people are apt to be coming around.

[which is true - though the contents of her journal are private, and also something she doesn't want leaked, being off guard is the bigger sin in her eyes. being too comfortable leads to disaster. but now that she listens, it's all well and good. they have the peace of being alone for the time being.]

I'd say that you're up late, but so am I.

[neverleave]

...Mm. I like it better at night, when it's quiet.

[He doesn't need sleep and only takes the occasional nap, usually in his cabin when his roommate is present. Jade knows all about his nature by now, but Natsuno still needs to remind him that daywalking vampire or not, he still has dibs on the bed.]

[littlefairytale]

[ When Ruby finally feels like she's tethered back to reality again, it's inevitable that she ends up in the library. She always seems to drift back here after something horrible has happened, finding safety in the stacks and the fairy tale book from home that she always pulls out when she wants something familiar.

Not all fairy tales have happy endings, but there's comfort in the ones that do.

She's just pulled out that very book from its usual spot when she catches Helena approaching out of the corner of her eye, feeling the spines, and quickly steps back, ] Oh, sorry, let me just— get out of your way.

[decrypter]

No, no, I'm fine with waiting, if you're looking for something in particular.

[she draws back herself - her tone is warm, the smile on her face polite. it's a voice that Ruby may have heard in the ghost of passing, in someone who only ducked into that cabin for clothes and a shower, though she checked with Erin to make sure it was all right to do so.]

I'm in no rush, miss.

photos at sea - 🌕

[decrypter]

[the place smells odd, and sets her on edge slightly - you don't face down a peculiar man with a penchant for photographs without burning the scent of those chemicals into your mind, and even if it's not as strong as it would be, even the traces have her alert. but there is no sign of him, his footsteps are not here, and his wretched breathing cannot be heard either. so it seems that it is merely...a photo shop, and to that, Helena can only be curious.

there is nothing to purchase. there is nothing to gain from the smooth paper, the lingering scents of the printer. but this is a place surrounded by small windows into what was before, by all accounts, and so her plan is more tactical than longing. information can be sought in particular ways.

Helena waits for someone to come in, hears them walking around, and only after a pair of moments will she speak up.]

Which one is your favorite?

[the window can be cracked. people like to talk about themselves, and fortunately, she loves to listen.]

[businessorlibation]

[The man who's here smells like cologne and cigarillo smoke and hair pomade, and he's not particularly tall, but he walks with a certain urgency. Dress shoes, from the sound of his steps.]

None of them.

[Johnny's here to actually collect certain photos from the Halloween party for destruction, before images can be burnt into people's minds. Moments like him murdering a possessed Dr. John Watson, or stabbing Honoria Crabb or Cesar desperate at the barrier. So if his voice sounds a little tense, short, as he tears several photos down from the wall, perhaps it's understandable.]

You shouldn't be looking at these, either.

[decrypter]

I'm not.

[she says it easily, a frank admission, turning her head towards the stranger as is polite - what she means is all too obvious with how deliberate it has to be, the cane at her side, and the utter lack of recognition to any displayed image.

perhaps she's simply far too used to the group she knew before, all of their little quirks and footfalls, for how she briefly tries, fails, and discards the idea of making connections between them. no. everyone is new, distinct, and this gentleman must be viewed that way.]

But I have heard that photographs are a way to save something in time. Something you treasure enough to keep even though the moment itself is intangible. So I thought that there might be at least one worth preserving.

[konpeito_aji]

[One day Nobunaga will learn how to tell when someone is blind. Today is not that day.]

[He points to the one of himself being stabbed in the neck by his partner by his own sword still on his hip now.] I would keep it for myself, but Klaus would hate it. He looks so strong and powerful there though. [Nobunaga is nothing if not mental. He's of course, oblivious that this is not very useful to someone who can't see it.]

How about you?

[There's a clink of metal from someone done up in full platemail, as over the top as it is, a knight from here, but no muffled speech because he's not wearing a helmet. There's a constant smell of gunpowder and soap, because the shampoos and modern soaps are a luxury he can't get enough of, and his gait is far from stealthy. Not only because of the full plate mail, but being as he's used to owning "the world," it's a habit he is a long way from breaking.]

[decrypter]

I wouldn't know.

[she sounds cheery enough, but she turns her head towards the strange man to speak - that's only polite, after all. short as she is, she's probably turned it more towards his middle than anything else, but the attempt is there, such as it is.]

But each of these pictures has a story behind it, don't they? Something that someone wanted to preserve before it faded away, and with how many there are...that adds up to a lot of stories to hear.

[mikraitios]

( Castor isn't much for conversation; when he steps inside, he has intentions of finding something specific, and his footsteps echo with purpose through the attraction. If he notices the human standing not ten feet away, he doesn't give any indication of it until she speaks up. There's a short pause before the footsteps make their way closer, and the voice that follows after he's come to a more conversational distance is particularly deep. )

Why?

( Castor isn't dense—he knows what that cane she holds means. What use does she have for photos? )

[decrypter]

Because every photograph has something behind it, or so I've been told. It's a record of a moment that someone wished not to fade - a point in time of a story. If it's your favorite, that story must be dear to you.

[she sounds calm, patient, and when she deliberately turns her head to talk, her expression reflects that. certainly, people would be confused to be suddenly asked about it, but it feels like the most natural thing in the world for her.]

[argonautai]

Eh—?

[ and here is jason, taken by surprise at the voice of someone he didn't even register that was here. truthfully, he was just perusing the photos himself to see what ended up being recorded by the annoying...ghost camera men. he's never seen anyone around with a camera before, so he can only assume this is more work from witchcraft and apparitions.

it makes him sort of jump when the soft voice inquires while he's leaning in to view a particularly embarrassing photo of himself, and he immediately ends up yanking it off the wall and shoving it into his pants pocket. ]

This one! This one right here, for certain...!

[ jason points at a random photo nearby, which just so happens to be the disocuri lighting hiyori afire. he doesn't even know what's going on there, honestly. ]

[decrypter]

Which one? What is it of?

[the question is honest, but prying - she really doesn't know, and she turns in his direction. not too close, but her hands are empty of any particular photo. it's the stories she's more curious about, not the paper, so whatever answer is satisfactory.]

various - 🌗

[decrypter]

[it's a minor peculiarity and easily overlooked in the wake of such a tragedy. certainly, no one could begrudge anyone for sleeping in areas that are not the cabin - even at night, when everyone is supposed to be abed and resting for the next day. but it keeps happening, that new as she is, she finds her rest in places other than the cabins. call her stubborn, but unwilling to impose on anyone, and understanding the current...situation, Helena makes do with what she can. it helps that when she wakes, she's not cold, that she can take the blanket that appeared with her. but it certainly looks like she's steadfastly avoiding the actual rooms, beyond changing and staying clean.

people have their own habits, it's fine. but what isn't a habit is what happens in the night from time to time - the fitful tossing and turning, the sweating, the small sounds of distress. nightmares, and ones that have her in their throes on a regular basis. sometimes she bolts up, breathing hard, snapped back to her reality and having to manage it. other times it simply has to fade out, leaving her in a tangle when she awakes and an increasingly sore back. it's noticeable, but who doesn't have nightmares, after all they've been through?

it's fine. she's dealt with worse, been in less safe situations. it just...can't be forever. it can't be. it won't be. this Helena tells herself.]

[nyktifanis]

( who knew that someone being blind would be an advantage at this time? that means she can avoid worrying her when they swear, the bandages on her hips concealing the true damage done to her body when flesh and skin was torn away from destructive hands. it's what she expected from doing battle with a god, but at least that's behind her now.

in hand is a small trinket, hidden from view, along with a bag that has a mixture of both candy and cookies made. it's her final batch that she never got the chance to hand out, but she believes that helena may enjoy them personally— cookies shaped like turtles with almonds or peanuts for eyes, the white chocolate macadamia, and then what may be a cosmic brownie with m&m flakes drizzled on top. i prommy it tastes better than a cosmic brownie!

her knuckles rap against the door of helena's room, then she takes a step back waiting to see if she'll respond. there's a possibility she's not here, but...

it's after a few minutes that there's no response, which tells her helena isn't here. it's pretty late, and she was hoping she wouldn't have to migrate so far, but she turns away from the door to look up and down the hall. if she checks somewhere else, like the library, maybe she'll be there? that's where she starts to head to next. )

[decrypter]

[she is in the library, curled up in a chair, blanket over her, but she's not peacefully asleep. something furrows her brow, looks like pain, and her breathing is rapid. in her dreams, she's running, running - but there is no way out, there are no keys. there is just dying, slow and agonizing, and picking oneself back up, and dying.

a soft sound, a mumbled word.]

Don't...

[in her dreams, it is screamed. in her dreams, there is weeping. it comes back again and again.]

wildcard - 🌑

[decrypter]

[have an idea of your own? want me to write you something custom? let's go for it! you can hit me up on the game discord, via PM, or at moonjelly. the sky's the limit for me!]

SING US A SONG YOURE THE PIANO MAN,

[ossie_oswald]

It's some point late in the night. Most everywhere on the ship is deserted, aside from the few odd stragglers seeking respite from insomnia. John's, the bar with the piano, isn't. Inside there's someone singing something soft and sad. The sound of it echoes out of the bar, though it doesn't sound like the singer is necessarily performing for anyone.

[decrypter]

The music drifts to her, beckoning on its path, and Helena follows it instead of losing more time to wandering and wondering. Desertion doesn't bother her, because the silence is not absolute - it lets other, subtler things ring out in the absence of a bustle. But the piano is steady, and the voice becomes discernible as she gets closer. Step by step, the tap of her cane going in time with her feet, until she gets to the bar and comes in.

She doesn't want to interrupt, or startle. So she finds a place to stand and wait, letting the musician go on as he would, drinking it in - it's lovely, if sorrowful, and it clears her mind. When it's over, the spell lifts enough to allow her to softly clap, and show her appreciation.

post game show.

[decrypter]

[Erin's messages are concerning, and it leaves her with one lead alone - to find the individuals mentioned, before the information she's uncertain of finds another way to her ears. it feels like ill timing, but she also wonders if Erin might want her to know, when Helena was so ready to let it pass. one doesn't hand someone a map and then not expect them to follow it.

so it is that she goes in search of the familiar name, the familiar voice. the piano bar will be her first stop, listening to see if she can hear him in there, and if not, she'll extend the search. the ship is only so large, after all. if she hears Ossie, she'll make herself known - if not, then it's onwards.]

[ossie_oswald]

[ A familiar voice, echoing out from John's. Ossie's at the piano again, singing something
soft and sweet as he plays. There's a tone more affectionate than sad in his voice this time, fingers alighting on the keys. ]

castor.

[decrypter]

[it looks like an ordinary book, leather bound, but without a title on the front or spine. it looks perfectly unassuming. it's been left on the deck, resting on a table, and from all looks, it is alone. not a library book, because it would have returned itself - no, this one is different, and this one belongs to someone.

opening it, there are no printed words, but pages and pages of close written braille. strange at first glance, but to someone gifted with divine understanding, the words start to reveal themselves. a journal, observations and turns of phrase, musing on creation and those there. and a wonder, that it has been so long since the writer's last death, and wondering when the next will fall, given what has been said about this place. ordinary life mixes with memories.

and the writer herself is running up to the deck at present. she knows it's here, it has to be, but where? going back to where she was sitting, there's nothing - she's almost frantic with it, and Helena knows she needs to collect herself, but she's dropped to her knees, feeling under the chair. where, where. she never leaves it behind.]

hi :)

[mikraitios]

( It's perfectly unassuming, but perhaps that's why it stands out. Castor isn't one to visit the library, really—has little and less interest in the records of humans. If a book is left out, however, doesn't that mean that it was interesting enough to warrant someone's interest? At least, that's the thought process that leads him to pick it up from where it rests on the table, leaning back against it so that he can browse the pages, skimming the text absently as he reads through it. He may have no personal interest, but he wonders—is this the kind of thing Pollux would like? Hm...

Some human may come running to the deck rather frantically while he does this, but that's none of his business.

He turns a page, the paper offering a gentle fwip sound as he does so. )