theweakhavepurpose | Hadriel Inbox

[The corner of Carlisle's mouth curls tighter in a reassuring smile.]

'Weird' isn't bad. It's fairly average, actually. And you aren't wobbling like you might pass out, so I'd say better than average.

[He remembers that first time he realized he had the potential for magic -- it's a rush that he wishes everyone could experience, the immediate notion that there might be more to oneself than they ever possibly imagined. It gave him some sense of purpose, like he deserved to bear the name of Longinmouth.]

The initial activation should be the worst one. Just touch the contact point again every few days or so to make sure the energy doesn't fully dissipate, and the barrier should hold, protecting your plants and anything else encapsulated within it from the more extreme elements.

I'm used to being exhausted. Maybe it helped?

[Jacob made him strong and now it's paying off by letting him do cool magic things. This is fantastic.]

This is amazing. Thank you.

[He sets it down on the edge of his porch, adjusting it so it looks nice. He won't ever have anything as great to offer to Carlisle in return. But he'll dwell on that later.]

How did you learn to make these?

[As Pratt sets the stone on the porch, Carlisle looks behind them to see just how far it reaches. Not too shabby, if he does say so himself.]

I am, unfortunately, a self-taught glyphcrafter overall. My uncle, Benistad, taught me the very basics long ago, but as the easiest form of magic to learn, I likely could have taught myself that, as well, given enough time and the proper books. I will admit that I have had students in this place that surpassed my own glyphs so readily that I felt inadequate by comparison, but I have managed to find ways to serve my needs through the craft, particularly in schools of magic I cannot access on my own.

[He rubs at his neck, his shade deepening.]

I am... quite proud of these, if I am honest. I have to enlist some help in carving the glyphs into the rocks, so I cannot make many of them, you see. But with those I can, I hope I- that I can bring about something good in this world, even if only for a few individuals.

Giving back to the community.

[ He understands completely. If he could do something to help everyone here he would, even if it was something small. All he had to offer was his stockpile of soup and what he'd made out of the range.]

If it makes you feel any better I thought I was a good shot and then Nathan fucking destroyed me at the range.

Doesn't mean you're bad at it, just means other people are good at it too.

[ Though he knows that's hard to come to terms with. He may not be much of a cocky showoff anymore, but he still has a strain of that in him, and it stings to be shown up. ]

You should be proud of them, they're awesome.

[It is hard to come to terms with, especially when one has lived a life riddled with failures both genuine and perceived. He's failed to live up to the name he was, at one time, so proud to bear, and it has embittered him toward his lineage in a way he doesn't like to admit; he feels inadequate every time he thinks of those tall paintings in the Longinmouth estate, depictions of the family's finest moments, and knows he will never have one of his own.

If nothing else, at least he has these rocks, and some fine students. People who care for him in ways he never thought possible back in Bear Den, where his reputation and affliction alienated him. Homesick as he may be, things are... better here.]

I am. Proud of them- my students, I mean. And these rocks. And my garden. Gardens, now, I suppose. Heh.

[He smiles sheepishly. Good on you Pratt, making him thinking positively.]

[Pratt has pretty much never been a positive influence on anyone so this is new territory for them both.]

A man of many gardens. You're making this world a better place. One rock at a time.

But seriously, this is ... really thoughtful. Thank you.

[He doesn't know how to actually convey how pleased he is with words. Everything he thinks up sounds sappy and stupid, so he hopes that Carlisle just knows somehow.]

Are you training people to do magic?

[As pleased as he was about what good he's doing for a change, Carlisle can't help the pause that question gives him.]

I- ah. No, not currently. My— [He rubs at the knot in his neck, his smile fading.] My latest student vanished only recently. I... haven't the heart yet to seek out another.

[And given how badly he took Atem's disappearance, he's not sure he will be putting out feelers for more.]

Oh.

That's.. that's too bad.

[he hasn't had the experience of anyone disappearing yet. At least not anyone he was close to.]

I guess it's good that they got to go home. But disappointing to everyone left behind.

[There's no real winners of the people who aren't getting to go home. Assuming they want to anyway.]

Perhaps. I know not the circumstances of the world he left behind. Perhaps he was dead there, and this was his second chance.

[Carlisle: ever the optimist, most fun guy at parties.]

At least, while he was here, he was able to help me with some of my inscription work. There is not much else I can do but keep his contribution within my memory, and allow him to live on through it.

Edited 2019-02-15 03:49 (UTC)

People have said that before, that this place is a second chance for those who are dead. And even I thought that maybe that's what it was, but the more I think about it it doesn't seem like much of one. All the things people want to live for: family, friends, places, honor, pride; all that stuff - it's not here. It's back where they came from.

There's nothing to prove here. And even if we become wonderful people here, no one back home would know. So what does it even matter?

[Well he knows why it matters. It matters to himself. But it's bittersweet. If he can right some of the wrongs, atone for some of his poor decisions, he might personally feel a little better about himself but it won't actually make it better.]

That's a good plan, he's still with you then. In a way.

[Whatever momentary encouragement Carlisle receives from Pratt's approval of his plan is outweighed by his initial argument. None of the things he listed are back where he came from: not family, not friends, arguably not even honor or pride. Save for his goddess, nearly everything he has that he cherishes is here.

He cannot consider such a foul place home, he reminds himself. However, he has long faced the fact that he is utterly terrified of being sent back to Bear Den, back to an empty estate and a world that despises him as much as he despises himself. He twists his fingers.]

I suppose it only truly matters to the one person we must face each and every day: ourselves. Some people have only that, and no one else -- neither here, nor there.

[Spoken like a man who has no one waiting for him back home.]

[Oh. Pratt casts his eyes downward. He didn't have anyone waiting for him back home either, everyone thought he was dead or hoped he was, and he was eager to get back and give them what they wanted. Hours away from death it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter, and death would be a reprieve from his existence.

But .. not everyone thinks as twisted as he does. He's aware enough to know that some of the things that cross his mind aren't normal. Not only things that were planted there by Jacob, but even everyday thoughts had been twisted until he didn't recognize them. It's fitting, he barely recognizes himself anymore.]

You're right.

Just.. making the best of it? I guess that's what people are doing, even those who like it here. They're ... adapting. Surviving.

[He can't do that though. He refuses to think of this place as home. To accept this new normal.]

[Carlisle nods numbly.]

I suppose.

[He's silent another moment, his nails finding their way to that bandage on his arm and picking at it as he caters to his nerves. He finds his voice, and it's far quieter than it had been.]

It's... funny, really. Back home, in Bear Den, is where I would have something to prove to others. I have a lineage I cannot possibly uphold. A bloodline that dies with me, and a demise that, thanks to this place, I have been able to measure how awful it will be for those who remain. But it is here that I have found a way to stave off my affliction, and a reason to even do so. And I have asked myself time and time again: where is it I should be? Is it worse to be here, fed upon by false gods but truly living, or back home, where I am damned in both life and death?

[Oof. That's a good question.]

This may be living, but is it a life?

[Is it? He honestly doesn't know.]

I'll admit that some of the things here have been.. nice. People are more understanding. Or tolerant I suppose. But people arrive and leave with no purpose - it's in a constant state of flux. Chaos.

There's no real longevity here. Sure there's people who've been here for years, but would you really want to be here forever? Constantly in turmoil, unable to die because Hope will bring you back, watching people come and go.

[Pratt is right, in a way. People are always in and out of the city, and there's no knowing if one day, he will wake up to find Glacius simply gone, having vanished in the night. It's happened with acquaintances, with his students -- with friends he had truly come to cherish. They arrive and leave with no purpose, but that is the very nature of life itself. He could drop dead tomorrow for no good reason whether in Hadriel or not.

Death for Carlisle, however, is not the end, and he's painfully aware his situation isn't normal. For many, Hadriel is a prison, the lives of its captives forfeit to the hungry gods. For him, he is only alive because he is here. Were he back in Bear Den, he'd likely be dead by now -- and undead, as well.]

I cannot die regardless, Deputy. Or cannot allow myself to. What remains of someone with my affliction is far worse, an abomination that would set itself upon my home were I not here.

Oh.

[Well then. That sounds deeply personal and he doesn't exactly want to pry. But ...]

That bad is it? You can't.. there's not...

[He wants to ask if there's anything that can be done, but he realizes that's stupid. As if Carlisle, with his analytical and literal way of thinking hasn't already considered every possibly option and outcome.]

I'm sorry. That's a terrible position you're in.

It is. Was. [His brows knit together.] Still am, ultimately. This fix I have found, while only made possible by my being here and the people I have met in this place, is only prolonging the inevitable.

[As Pratt surmised, it is deeply personal, but with how Carlisle speaks about it, it's something he's lived with for a while now, and had to come to terms with. He's still working on dealing with the worst part of it all, the horrible revelation given to him relatively recently: that death isn't any kind of release for him.]

Are you familiar with the undead? Do they exist in your world?

Edited 2019-02-22 07:39 (UTC)

Like zombies? I know what they are but no, they don't exist in my world. When you're dead - you're dead.

[He's seen some freaky supernatural stuff, but none of it involved bringing the dead back to life.]

As is the case where I come from -- or it should be. My hometown has been plagued by necrotic energies for some time, foul practitioners of dark magic imbuing the very land with their perversion. There are times where the dead do not remain dead, when these abhorrent characters raise them once more.

[He pauses there, disgust riling his nerves. He has found commiseration with Pratt to be a comfort before; he understands guilt and regret, Carlisle reminds himself inwardly.]

Most undeads -- they cannot cast, you see. They have no aural energy, and therefore no access to magic, save for in extraordinary cases. This is the case with Revenants, who are somehow able to access the abilities of their former selves, cursing those around them. We- we always thought they were raised as well, undead creatures somehow able to match their masters in terms of how much of a blight they could be.

[Another pause, his nausea growing.]

A seer I met here -- she had dominion over souls, and she revealed to me their terrible origins. They are not raised, but rise themselves, born from people with the very same affliction as I. Remnants of their energy -- their souls -- becomes trapped in their physical bodies, separated from the rest, never to be whole again. There is no rest in death for us, and no rest for those around us as long as we exist.

[He's trying to understand, but he's not sure he's following. Carlisle's world is just so different from his that he's not sure he'll ever be able to fully comprehend it. ]

And there's no way to .. put the pieces back together?

[He assumes not. If it was so simple then Carlisle wouldn't look like he's about to be sick right in front of him.]

So you're saying that when you die, you'll come back to life only it won't really be you?

Jesus, that's fucking horrible.

[He nods numbly.]

Horrible indeed. [Fucking horrible, even.] A Revenant born from someone without magic might not be a concern, but- but someone with my abilities—

[He swallows, his mouth feeling dry.] It's- it's more than just glyphcrafting and gardening and healing. It would be a creature with my crafts, but none of the moral quandaries to restrain it -- a being so fueled by only the bitter dredges of the aura it once held, desperately causing harm to those around it so its own suffering feels pale in comparison. And then it will writhe in the guilt of what it has done, only to start the cycle anew. I—

[He manages to reel in his rambling, knowing he sounds delusional. His voice softens with fear.] I am better for now, but I have been so... close to the end that I know what it feels like. I know exactly -- intimately -- what will become of all that is left of me.

And there's nothing to be done about it?

[He doesn't entirely understand, but maybe there's a way to kill him twice or make it so he comes back a ... happy Revenant? Who wants to use it's bitter spite to make the most glorious garden the world has ever seen.

But he knows that's unlikely. Some things are inevitable, and Pratt isn't a hopeful person, not anymore.]

You're stuck in a terrible position, home is awful and here is fake. That's... I'm sorry.

[He really is, and now he feels bad about the whole: everything here is awful and people who want to stay are dumbasses - thing. Because that's a pretty damn legitimate reason to not want to go home.]

[Carlisle sighs.] There is nothing to be sorry about, but I appreciate your empathy all the same. I have spent my life in the service of my goddess, hoping that I may make amends for my very existence in her eyes before I am to pass. I have reconciled within my heart how it, ultimately, will do me no good. Not the kind of good that would spare me this fate, at least.

[But that's not the only reason for his faith, and so, he continues to serve. If nothing else, it makes him more comfortable with himself.]

And while here may be fake, there is... hope to be found here, found within the people trapped in this place. I would have been loath to admit it a month, even a year ago, but it is there, in the connections I have made that I could not have back home. Even now, there is comfort in the commiseration one finds with a friend, even if their bonds were born of tragedy, of a similar suffering or guilt... or of gardening and enchanted rocks.

Yeah the people are what make this place not as terrible as it could be. It's been ...

[He trails off as his mind actually catches up with what Carlisle just said. There's a moment of pure, unadulterated terror and his eyes go wide. No one should be friends with him. Ever. His friends all met horrible fates and he was to blame in a lot of cases. He's bad luck, worse decisions, and a terrible friend all rolled into one.

But.

That was back home. And this is here. Like Carlisle said this place is far different than their homeworlds, and the connections they make are what makes it real. Or real enough anyway.

He looks away, composing himself, and trying to think up a suitable response that doesn't sound sappy or trite. ]

It's true. If we let it, this place can be something worthwhile. The people I mean. Learning from each other, learning about ourselves.

You're right.

Maybe it isn't as bad as I've been thinking.

[It's all right, Pratt. Carlisle's entire family met with misfortune because he lived when he should have died. The twice-cursed are a blight upon all they meet, bad luck and unavoidable troubles personified. He is the last of his bloodline, the failure damned to be the end of it, and in a desperate attempt to save more from suffering the tragedy that follows him, he sequestered himself away in his estate for years, limiting his contact with people to only the occasional sighting at his church. He gets it.

And yet, despite everything, even he could not help but make a few friends here, people who cajoled him out of his shell of melancholic solitude. He would never say this place with its false deities is an ideal world, but there is good that came with the bad, and more often than not, he finds what he has gained here to be substantial enough that he'd consider it an improvement over his old life. This place is not Bear Den -- when he arrived, people did not know of his name, his failure. He was able to figure out who he is apart from the Longinmouth legacy and his condition, and it has been... enlightening. Freeing. He's discovered talents he never knew he had, strengths he had never allowed himself to explore in his world for fear of what might happen if he strayed too far from home. He has learned to cope with his fears rather than run from them.

Well... sometimes. He still runs more often than not, and there are days where hiding in his closet is still preferable to facing the world, but he's a far cry from the man who was taken from Bear Den so long ago, a man who marched inexorably toward death's door with no true purpose in life, save for his servitude.

He has more now, and with his demise further from his mind thanks to Glacius' energies, he is eager to keep what he has. The friends he's made aren't his because of his name, or his father, or his uncles. They're his, and that means more to him than he can express.

Carlisle gives Pratt a genuine smile at his agreement.]

It is not all good, obviously, but there is much here to be cherished for as long as we have it, and much to be found about ourselves that we may not have found back home. I- I never realized I'd ever be any good at glyphcrafting, and had I not had a reason to work on it, perhaps I never would have been. And look now.

[He gestures to the magic rock.]

It's... something that's mine. Something I can claim I had a hand in. Were I to die tomorrow, I would be able to say I made an impression in some way in this existence -- a positive one, at that -- and that is... encouraging in a way I once believe impossible.

Edited 2019-02-27 06:09 (UTC)

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