kore_logs | [open] apples and quinces, lemons and oranges

Entry tags:

[open] apples and quinces, lemons and oranges

Who: Ned, open to all
What: Here be species-swap logs involving Ned the unlikely fertility god.
Where: Anywhere (preferably outdoors).
When: Duration of the event (58 - 61); put date in header, please.
Warnings: Blood, kidnapping, creepiness and general Ned-terrorizing? [will add more as necessary]

Ned wanders the town barefoot, leaving a path of fruit and flowers and vegetation behind him. There are daffodils and bluebells, hyacinths and crocuses, irises of all colors, primroses and poppies and periwinkle in profusion. When he stops to sit quietly under a tree, by the edge of the woods, the vines spread out from his body like paint creeping through water. They slowly wind their way up the trees, or else sprawl across the ground, swelling with strawberries and blackberries, grapes and kiwis, passionfuit and cherries.

He doesn't understand why it is happening, but from the sound of the messages over the communicator, everyone has been going through some strange changes. As far as Ned's concerned, being some kind of plant conjurer is better than some options.

Since he can't think of much else to do with his time, Ned lounges in the dappled shade and makes bouquets. All he needs to do is rake his hands through the soil and a few minutes later, up come the snapdragons, up come the cala lilies. He finds that, if he focuses on a particular kind of flower as he does it, sometimes it is mixed amongst the others. As he sits the hydrangeas are bubbling up around him, shielding him from view.

Ned isn't worried about resting in the woods, despite all the dire warnings he's heard in his short time here. He is at the very edge, just in the shade of the first few trees; the lions and tigers and bears can't possibly have any objections. So he lounges in his cozy bower, hazy, half-awake (he hadn't exactly slept well, the previous night), weaving crowns of camellias and garlands of gladiolus.

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The scent of blood suddenly fills his nose, completely obliterating everything else. He ceases to feel the man beneath him, ceases to hear his voice or see the way the plants around them change. The universe, Tony’s very existence, has narrowed down to the smell wafting up from the tear in the guy’s lip. It’s too much. Too overpowering. He can’t fight it, and every warning and protest offered up by the part of his mind that remembers what it’s like to be human goes quiet as the predator takes over.

Tony doesn’t heart the lumbering footsteps of the strange creature approaching. He doesn’t smell it or notice the way the air flow has been displaced by its arrival. He’s too far gone, too close to finally sinking his fangs into flesh and blood. Mouth opening wider, he leans in for the kill—

—and then it’s gone.

It takes him a second to register that he’s been yanked away from the man’s body. It takes another to recognize that the rush of wind and the weightlessness is himself flying through the air. Like a splash of cold water to the face, it snaps him out of the frenzied bloodlust enough to figure out that he’s just been pulled away from—from – name, he has a name, what’s his name? - Ned. Ned. Agent Jay. The guy who plays the resurrection game with a touch.

The information returns with the onset of sanity, and while he’s been mentally absent from the situation, his body has taken over, twisting in the air and landing on his feet like a cat. It’s just as well. If he’d tried to do it, it’s likely that he wouldn’t have been able to.

He looks from the giant… statue thing - what the hell is that? - to Ned behind it. The hunger’s still there. The scent of blood’s still in the air. It would be so easy to slip back into it and attack again. Part of him wants to, urges him to dart around the big thing and rip Ned’s throat out. The rest of him, appalled, refuses.

“You okay?” He doesn’t come any closer, forces himself to take a step backward away from him. “I didn’t bite you, did I? The blood—” Focus, Stark. “—it’s not from me?”

Ned is all for getting rescued at the last second - it's certainly preferable to not being rescued at all - but it is hell with his nerves. Tony is so close that even in the dim light, Ned can see the humanity go out of his eyes, see him turn feral and amoral with hunger. In that split second, he knows Tony isn't going to just take a little: he's going to bleed him dry. Only then does Ned realize how much Tony has been fighting it, struggling not to hurt him up until now, when the fight is over and he's lost.

But then there is that strange crashing, those heavy footfalls ever-louder, coming closer. Ned can't see what it is, doesn't have room for any more dread in him, when suddenly the weight on Tony is gone. Ned sees him flying through the air and the enormous clay man who threw him interposing himself between Ned and Tony. He doesn't stop to wonder what kind of creature it is that has saved him, or why. He draws in a long, shuddering breath of relief, scrambles to his feet, getting ready to run if he has to, if the clay man tells him to.

Ned doesn't know how he knows, but he knows that admittedly frightening creature it is here to protect him. Maybe it's something about the way it holds itself, something about the way it is watching Tony, something vaguely familiar about it that he can't yet place. This isn't one predator fighting off another for a chance at its prey. It's easier for him to answer Tony, with that other body planted between them as a shield.

"You didn't bite me," he confirms, breathlessly. Perhaps later, when things have settled down, Ned will have time to feel bad for Tony, for the distress in his voice as he asks how much damage he's done. For now, though, he's still a danger, and Ned wants him far, far away.

Erik observes Tony with obvious wariness; it's a strange feeling, a wide stony calm where the adrenaline of a potential altercation should be. He's not sure he could feel that if he tried, and not sure if that's frustrating or restful, having spent so long in nearly constant tension. "You should go," he says, gravelly and like speech takes effort, which...it does, although that may not be the strangest aspect of hearing it. Someone who specialized in the construction of words might work out there's something under his tongue, but in the moment that's not of much relevance to anyone but Erik.

His mouth does--something, mostly of its own accord, corners pulling. It's not a lip-skinning predator's grimace, but it's not something he thinks his features were meant to do much of anyway. Like speech. "Could throw you again. If that helps."

It is not easy to affect mock-solicitation with this face, by the way, but Erik makes a pretty good job of it anyway, turning his head on massive shoulders to look around at all the trees. If he could helpfully diagram a pinball in a machine for Tony, he would attempt to do this!

He, of course, has absolutely no knowledge of the correct films and can't imagine Tony zigzagging from trunk to trunk on creepily nimble feet, but as viewers we ought to enjoy the imagery anyway.

Over the years, countless movies have tried to tell him that vampires are sexy and that people enjoy being bitten by them. And Tony appreciates a good bite now and again, he can’t deny it. But he’s never believed that being bitten by something that intends to drink blood is a good thing. No one likes mosquitoes. No one likes ticks or leeches. No one actually wants to meet a zombie, though everyone seems to enjoy movies and video games that let the gun-inept shoot them. No one likes going to the doctor and having blood drawn. So why anyone would enjoy a vampire bite is beyond him.

He may be hungry. He may be starving in a way he never has before and his veins may feel thick and scratchy and too tight in his body. But he doesn’t want to drink Ned’s blood. He doesn’t want to drink anyone’s blood. Humans don’t drink blood, and he’s been a human too long to easily succumb to this.

The garden gnome’s right. He should go. Just like he should not have to drink blood to sate the hunger. But he can’t go. The smell of Ned’s blood holds him rooted to the spot and all of the demands that his muscles obey him go unanswered. It leaves him with the most idiotic of undignified suggestions. Unfortunately for his dignity, it’s the only one they have.

“Do it.” It’s strong, whatever it is. Even if it had used its full strength on him, it’s still strong enough to get him a little further away, and a little further might be all he needs to get himself back under control again. “Hard as you can. Do it.”

That affirmation is enough to actually raise Erik's eyebrows, or the rough semblance he has of them, anyway. There is a strange cracking sensation, a sense of something dry breaking open, imperceptibly small flakes of clay breaking off and dissipating. He has the strange space to wonder (time seems dilated like this, everything slowed down to syrup) if he could move his face enough to crack along the seams, if he'd be flesh underneath or just more earth.

Then he has to actually deal with the fact that Tony isn't departing under his own power, or can't; perhaps under the circumstances he ought to feel more charitable, considering what he knows of the absolute erosion of any human dignity. Then again, that's never been a virtue he's ascribed to anyway. It's such an inelegant solution, brute force, but that's this body, that's what it does. He's just traded one weapon for another.

The broad plane of his shoulders creaks as he turns a glance over at Ned, still clearly positioned uncertainly somewhere between flight and--well, between flight and flight, actually; he wouldn't have much idea how to convey reassurance if he wanted to, so the fact that he's present will have to serve. They've had this conversation, and Erik only ever says what he means. He's putting more distance between the two of them, which makes him a less direct shield, but as the drag of one foot in front of the other takes him toward Tony, he's also advancing on the prominent threat.

Already crushed flowers smear further along the ground under the soles of his feet; an iris here, a patch of daisies there. The environment Ned has created, festooned with trees as it is, would be something on any other day he'd appreciate aesthetically. Now all of his focus is occupied by Tony.

The stance he takes up in the aim of .......throwing him is not the same as the hold he used to lift him away from Ned: that was more or less a discus throw. This has more in common with a hard shove, a straight shot that when Erik pushes, drawing back back impossibly long arms so that the blocks he has for shoulderblades touch, should send Tony flying backwards on what amounts to a linear plane.

Thus at least avoiding the pinball aspect of the trees around them. One hopes.

Edited 2013-04-13 19:13 (UTC)

Ned watches and waits in tense silence as Tony is thrown a second time - at his request - goes flying in the direction of the woods. He doesn't move, doesn't speak until he sees Tony going from there, leaving him alone - leaving the both of them alone. Once he sees that it's just the two of them, and no further violence is imminent, he hurries over to the clay man.

Yet again, he finds himself in the position of stuttering fervent thank you's to someone who has saved him from a messy, horrific death.

"Thank you," he says, even as he's walking over, wiping the blood from his bottom lip with the back of his hand, "thank you, thank you so much. How did you know-" then he breaks off. Ned gets his first proper look at the man's face and it is familiar. After a second or two, the resemblance clicks into place. "Erik? It's you, isn't it?" Yes, he recognizes the eyes, the set of his jaw, though it's blockier and stonier, now.

"In a manner of speaking."

Once again, the irony of the phrase is not lost on him even if his features don't reflect it much. Ned may observe it's the first real sentence Erik has managed since his heavy footfalls fractured that potential feeding frenzy, but because some things will never change, he's as dry as ever even through the gaps between words.

Like this it's easy to be impassive, in fact the real effort comes from trying to be anything else. He inspects Ned's general sense of being and finds that aside from the blood he's wiping away there appear to be no other injuries - not that he'd know what the hell to do if there were, it's not as if he can even call the person he'd reach out to for assistance - and relaxes minutely, as much as his bearing is capable of that. "All right now?"

There is the sense that if this is the case Erik will just move on to the next instance he can fix just by standing in its way, but--even though he doesn't sleep like this, he's still tired, and it's beautiful here in a way he'd wish he could feel, if wishing were something golems did.

"I'll be fine." It is Ned's stock response, rolling off his tongue without prior thought. He doesn't want to worry Erik, to seem weak.

Because now that Tony has gone the shame starts to creep up on Ned, slowly and steadily. This is the second time Erik has seen him completely helpless. What must he think of Ned? Battered and terrorized by everything bigger and stronger than he is in this place? The fear is receding, but it leaves Ned shaking like a leaf in its wake. He crosses his arms tightly, fingers digging into his arms, willing his body to stop.

There's something fascinating about Erik, in his current state. Something solemn and still that Ned doesn't understand. He does his best not to stare. "I really can't thank you enough," he says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, "I owe you. Again." Ned doesn't know why he feels the need to justify himself to Erik in particular. He has an innate desire not to let him down, not to seem beneath his notice. Like there's much chance of that, now. "He just came out of nowhere."

Erik's eyes - the only really human feature in his face - turn piercing at the response that Ned will be fine, but he doesn't press. The singular difference between that and the answer he would have given himself is that he'd claim (and believe) to already be fine. "Not himself," he assesses of dearly departed Tony, more of that Saharan wit in evidence. At least Ned can count that as normal, for the handful of times he's spoken to Erik.

The rest of Ned's gratitude he doesn't shrug off, exactly, it just seems to soak into that dry clay and vanish under the skin. There's something--he can't pin it down and it's too frustrating to try, but something about Ned as he is now sets prickles at the back of his own neck, makes everything sharper, and in a time where he feels as dull as dust, that's hugely compelling. "Why should you thank me?"

A beat where he seems almost to blink, and then cracks - in a very little sense - a smile. "Money where the mouth is. What's the expression."

That takes it out of him for a second, shoulders visibly squaring. "You're American, you'd know."

He is ...referring to his straightforwardness in regards to being exactly the tank that he currently is when it comes to Ned, but if it takes a minute for him to suss that out Erik won't hold it against anyone except his own stratospheric standards for himself.

"Put your money where your mouth is?" Ned guesses. It's curious to him, the difficulty that Erik seems to be having in speaking. He never struck Ned as the chattiest guy (though he had had a few glimpses of that glacial wit of his), but there seems to be a genuine struggle, now. Probably a consequence of being turned into a clay, giant version of himself. A little side-effect, like Ned's trances. "It means following through. Not just saying you're gonna do something but actually doing it."

It clicks for Ned, then, that Erik is referring to his earlier offer of protection. He feels his face flush with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment that he had cause to back up that offer so soon. What Erik doesn't know (or at least, Ned hopes he doesn't know) is that not so long ago, River was making good on her promise to keep him safe. He's somehow, in this time and this place, become a burden to those around him.

He doesn't want to think about this anymore, doesn't want to dwell on his own uselessness. If he does, he's worried that all the leftover adrenaline and intensity from his encounter with Tony will make him weepy and fragile, and that's the absolute last thing he wants right now.

So with a force of will he focuses his attention outwards, on Erik, on his rather fascinating new shape. "Do you mind if I...?" Ned, rendered strangely tactile by his own transformation, reaches out towards Erik with one hand. He watches the other man, gives him every opportunity to move away or shake his head if he wants, before resting a hand on his forearm. Ned starts the first time he does it. He hadn't expected him to be so warm. But then, getting past the shock, he repeats the motion. It's not a trick of the light - he really does feel like clay, rather than flesh.

"Do you know what you are?" Ned asks, simply. After all, he doesn't have a name for what he's been turned into, so Erik might not, either.

The overwhelming flash of memory Erik experiences at the phrase Ned uses, the way he approaches that simple curiosity has almost nothing to do with the man himself--suddenly it's as warm around him as if the sun has come out or he's in the presence of a thousand candles; he can feel an autumn wind at his back and the burn of overuse in whatever muscle memory governs his mutation, even if it's--

It's like having it back, just for a second, and it's like feeling that light-accented voice in his head where it belongs, like--it's just like being warm, on the inside as well as the outside that Ned can feel himself. That memory that Charles had coaxed out of a place he hadn't even realized he'd forgotten stays with him; it's paralyzing in its loss at the same time it loosens everything, makes his limbs almost like they should be again, and there's an instant where he doesn't know what to do with himself at all.

Ned's question lets him recenter himself; if his voice catches it was already doing that anyway. "A golem," he returns, just as simply. He knows his folklore, but it's too difficult to explain, so he summarizes as best he can: "A protector. A monster. Brought to life by faith."

Since they seem to be having a conversation now, even if Erik has moved his arm out of Ned's reach, letting them hang at his sides not loose, but ready, it seems like in polite company they ought to sit down. But he hasn't, really, since the change; his new height is strange, but not horrifying. "Some irony, I don't have any. What are you? Besides edible."

....sorry, Ned. Erik is, uh, still the same jerk in many respects.

When he touches Erik, the other man gets a look in his eyes that Ned wouldn't possibly know how to describe. It's odd that, despite how inexpressive the rest of his face has become, there can be so much in his eyes. He doesn't look frightened, or upset, but he moves away nonetheless, and Ned lets him. He feels ashamed of himself for being so rude, wonders if he ought to apologize, but then Erik is answering his questions. Erik's lack of faith is another small similarity between the two of them: one that does not escape Ned's notice.

A golem. Of course - he should have realized. Ned is familiar with the concept from various science fiction incarnations, though the precise details escape him. It seems fitting in some way: the two times he's interacted with Erik, he has been protecting people or else offering future protection in the future. This is just an extension of one aspect of himself, in the same way that Ned's power is an extension of a certain aspect of himself, too.

The remark about being edible stings, but Ned knows he deserves it. He answers sarcasm with more sarcasm, "Very edible." After all, what hasn't tired to eat him, these last few days?

"I don't know what I am. Again," Erik will perhaps be able to see the bitter humor in that. Just as Ned, who'd spent most of his life looking for a name for what he is, had found one, he'd been turned into something different. "But all this-" he gestures all around them - to the rows of fruit trees, to the blanket of bluebells and buttercups and a hundred other kinds of flowers, "is me. I make things grow, and heal things."

In demonstration he bends down, straightens out some of the mashed and snapped patches of flowers where Erik's feet had been. The stems knit together again under his touch, the petals straightening and becoming whole, the leaves that were torn regrowing from the stem.

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[open] apples and quinces, lemons and oranges

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