deathsdoctor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deathsdoctor) wrote2010-11-08 12:18 am
deathsdoctor) wrote2010-11-08 12:18 am
001
[It is cold. It is so freaking damn cold out up this mountain, even by the standards of a North Blue native…]
[To backtrack a little, sometime between last night and the early morn, some vague ill defined time when the journals were quiet and most were asleep, Trafalgar Law awoke. In a copse of trees, at the bottom of a gorge surrounded by towering cliffs of rock, and completely naked except for a ridiculously thin pair of white cotton pants.
And wings. Small but sleek raven black wings ending with yellow tips. That twitched painfully with every inhalation and exhalation of salt free air.
He can feel them. It’s wrong, on so many levels. He’s been kidnapped, this is obvious (the how escapes him for now, the near impossibility of this act staggering), he’s probably been drugged (no matter how he tries, he can’t clear the fog obscuring his senses), but the mutilation…
Revenge? No. Not a job like this. This is surgery beyond the skill of any he knows are practicing on the Line. He doubts even Vegapunk can knit flesh and bone, nerve and muscle fibre quite like this, and the rumours of what he can do are...
Enough.
Law extends the wings slowly, testing, ignoring the flames flaring. Flex, flare – such fine muscle control, so quickly, so naturally, should be impossible as well. It takes the brain years to refine coordination like this. He delicately prods the base of the wings. There aren’t even scars.
Who did this?
No matter. Not now. The payment for these services rendered would be the same.
Blood.
Head spinning, senses muffled, back a mass of seething fire, Law finds the curious book first. Then his boots and socks next, and only those. Gee, thanks bastards. You mean for him to walk, but where? His frown only grows more pronounced as he finds the pages of the book blank. And wouldn’t you know, he hits upon that rare moment of utter silence. The book is just that, an empty book. He closes it before there is a chance for anyone to make a noise or appear on its pages.
He discovers the rocks after that. They look like flint and they brightly spark when he strikes them. Excellent. The temperature is dropping as the night wears on and he has to do something fast before anything more severe than mild hypothermia sets in. Now there is a solution.
And faced with the choice of losing a still potentially valuable source of answers and getting through the night alive, and without facing the additional ironic joy of losing limbs through frostbite, when he had gained extra already…
… paper makes excellent kindling.]
[Daylight finds Law making his way through the mountains, bookless, armed with a torch (for warmth now – the best he can do) and the rocks tucked securely in his pockets. It’s still cold, but with light the temperature has risen to a point where it’s just irritable and painful in turns to someone of the shounen persuasion.
He’s so grateful for the boots now.
The pirate knows now he’s been drugged. Not because the fog’s still there, because it is. But because he has a guide. If voices in your head constitute a guide.
It doesn’t really talk. Not through words. More like impressions – like the feel of the wind in the sails on a warm summery day – that make their point clear anyway. But it’s chatty and friendly and somehow steering him around the greatest of dangers in these difficult mountain heights. And for a voice in his head, it’s not half bad. It’s certainly helpful.
It – or he – the voice insists on being called he – his name is Kipinn. Law thinks anyway. He chatters back. It’s all he can do besides keep moving and hope to find civilization. And wonder what has happened to his crew, if this is what happened to him.
The day’s so breezy. He waves his hand like Kipinn suggests (suggests, not demands, they had established that early on) and the breeze feels slightly stronger.
These are insane drugs.]
[Nightfall, and the threat of anything more than mild hypothermia returns. He’s almost made it out of the mountains – he can see trees in the darkening gloom and lights pooling beyond that but he won’t go any further tonight. Law knows that the hypothermia promotes poor decision making. And the dark hides dangers better faced in the light.
He’s already bearing the marks of his trip through the mountains, you see.
Time brings him to a cave. It looks to have belonged to a bear. It might still belong to a bear. It certainly will be interesting to find out either way. It’s a cozy thing, for a cave, and one crackling fire makes it even cosier.
And then…
And then he sees it.
That book. In perfectly pristine condition. Lying upon a stone shelf like someone had followed Law in and placed it there. It’s exactly the same book he burned to stave off the cold.
Maybe it’s not drugs. But it’s definitely someone fucking with him. He grabs the book without a second thought and NOW he hears the voices as it falls open.]
[Which brings us back to this: It is cold. It is so freaking damn cold out up on this here mountain, even by the standards of a North Blue native, even with a fire, and the window displaying the feed from the journal occasionally seems to be shivering. There is light flickering in the background, visible as the journal’s pages are flipped, but a face doesn’t come into view, just yet. Whoever’s on the other end is trying to make sense of all this, and right now ‘sense’ means sitting down and listening to you talk on this crazy den den book. Finally though, he’s had enough…]
[VOICE:]
Luceti? …is that what this place is called? But where exactly is it? I’ve never heard of any place like this before.
[It’s mildly said, but… answers. He wants answers. You can hear it vibrating in the inflection of his tone.
Can you really blame him?]
((OOC: Putting this up tonight. Will answer tags tomorrow evening after work.))
[To backtrack a little, sometime between last night and the early morn, some vague ill defined time when the journals were quiet and most were asleep, Trafalgar Law awoke. In a copse of trees, at the bottom of a gorge surrounded by towering cliffs of rock, and completely naked except for a ridiculously thin pair of white cotton pants.
And wings. Small but sleek raven black wings ending with yellow tips. That twitched painfully with every inhalation and exhalation of salt free air.
He can feel them. It’s wrong, on so many levels. He’s been kidnapped, this is obvious (the how escapes him for now, the near impossibility of this act staggering), he’s probably been drugged (no matter how he tries, he can’t clear the fog obscuring his senses), but the mutilation…
Revenge? No. Not a job like this. This is surgery beyond the skill of any he knows are practicing on the Line. He doubts even Vegapunk can knit flesh and bone, nerve and muscle fibre quite like this, and the rumours of what he can do are...
Enough.
Law extends the wings slowly, testing, ignoring the flames flaring. Flex, flare – such fine muscle control, so quickly, so naturally, should be impossible as well. It takes the brain years to refine coordination like this. He delicately prods the base of the wings. There aren’t even scars.
Who did this?
No matter. Not now. The payment for these services rendered would be the same.
Blood.
Head spinning, senses muffled, back a mass of seething fire, Law finds the curious book first. Then his boots and socks next, and only those. Gee, thanks bastards. You mean for him to walk, but where? His frown only grows more pronounced as he finds the pages of the book blank. And wouldn’t you know, he hits upon that rare moment of utter silence. The book is just that, an empty book. He closes it before there is a chance for anyone to make a noise or appear on its pages.
He discovers the rocks after that. They look like flint and they brightly spark when he strikes them. Excellent. The temperature is dropping as the night wears on and he has to do something fast before anything more severe than mild hypothermia sets in. Now there is a solution.
And faced with the choice of losing a still potentially valuable source of answers and getting through the night alive, and without facing the additional ironic joy of losing limbs through frostbite, when he had gained extra already…
… paper makes excellent kindling.]
[Daylight finds Law making his way through the mountains, bookless, armed with a torch (for warmth now – the best he can do) and the rocks tucked securely in his pockets. It’s still cold, but with light the temperature has risen to a point where it’s just irritable and painful in turns to someone of the shounen persuasion.
He’s so grateful for the boots now.
The pirate knows now he’s been drugged. Not because the fog’s still there, because it is. But because he has a guide. If voices in your head constitute a guide.
It doesn’t really talk. Not through words. More like impressions – like the feel of the wind in the sails on a warm summery day – that make their point clear anyway. But it’s chatty and friendly and somehow steering him around the greatest of dangers in these difficult mountain heights. And for a voice in his head, it’s not half bad. It’s certainly helpful.
It – or he – the voice insists on being called he – his name is Kipinn. Law thinks anyway. He chatters back. It’s all he can do besides keep moving and hope to find civilization. And wonder what has happened to his crew, if this is what happened to him.
The day’s so breezy. He waves his hand like Kipinn suggests (suggests, not demands, they had established that early on) and the breeze feels slightly stronger.
These are insane drugs.]
[Nightfall, and the threat of anything more than mild hypothermia returns. He’s almost made it out of the mountains – he can see trees in the darkening gloom and lights pooling beyond that but he won’t go any further tonight. Law knows that the hypothermia promotes poor decision making. And the dark hides dangers better faced in the light.
He’s already bearing the marks of his trip through the mountains, you see.
Time brings him to a cave. It looks to have belonged to a bear. It might still belong to a bear. It certainly will be interesting to find out either way. It’s a cozy thing, for a cave, and one crackling fire makes it even cosier.
And then…
And then he sees it.
That book. In perfectly pristine condition. Lying upon a stone shelf like someone had followed Law in and placed it there. It’s exactly the same book he burned to stave off the cold.
Maybe it’s not drugs. But it’s definitely someone fucking with him. He grabs the book without a second thought and NOW he hears the voices as it falls open.]
[Which brings us back to this: It is cold. It is so freaking damn cold out up on this here mountain, even by the standards of a North Blue native, even with a fire, and the window displaying the feed from the journal occasionally seems to be shivering. There is light flickering in the background, visible as the journal’s pages are flipped, but a face doesn’t come into view, just yet. Whoever’s on the other end is trying to make sense of all this, and right now ‘sense’ means sitting down and listening to you talk on this crazy den den book. Finally though, he’s had enough…]
[VOICE:]
Luceti? …is that what this place is called? But where exactly is it? I’ve never heard of any place like this before.
[It’s mildly said, but… answers. He wants answers. You can hear it vibrating in the inflection of his tone.
Can you really blame him?]
((OOC: Putting this up tonight. Will answer tags tomorrow evening after work.))
Re: [Voice]
... and... it's the truth. Rivals.]
[He's going to be slow in replying. He's thinking.]
Mn. No. It benefits no one, except them. The Malnosso can do without that extra entertainment.
[Voice]
And they get their entertainment in spades here. You just missed the last show.
Re: [Voice]
Sounds like quite the spectacle. Should I ask what they decided to produce?
[Voice]
[Because nothing says trauma like dancing]
Re: [Voice] 1/3
...that's quite the opportunity there. Did they take advantage of it?
Re: [Voice] 2/3
Re: [Voice] 3/3
[Voice]
And it's holiday from some other world. [Ah yes, he was forgetting something]
One of the pastimes is dressing up in ridiculous costumes... that the Malnosso made a requirement for us.
Re: [Voice]
[eyebrow raise] Strange holiday. Did anyone say what the point was for doing that?
[Voice]
Nowadays it's just an excuse to have fun and hand out candy to kids, but back some time, they said spirits would walk the living world. People wore the costumes to fool the spirits and help urge them back to the afterlife.
Or some shit like that.
Re: [Voice]
... this is...]
[There's another thoughtful pause as he listens and gauges the tension in the air. It's not all Sanji's. There's something giving him pause.]
Oh. It's a ghost festival, then. Well, that makes sense. [Really. It does. Offerings for the ghosts and trickery for safety. He's seen a few that are similar]
[Voice]
[He utters the location with ease, not at all concerned that it completely gives away who he is. He expects Law to know by now, anyway. A quick look through the journal could tell him that much.
But he's reassured, at least, that Law is not interested in anything besides information]
Re: [Voice]
[Voice]
Darker, huh? I take it they didn't hand out candy.
Re: [Voice]
[Making self comfortable here]
No. No candy, although apples were a part of the festivities. On this lovely little Autumn Island, the natives were rather superstitious. Not only were they interested in appeasing any hungry ghosts that may be lingering, but they were also interested in currying the gods favour for a bountiful harvest and protection from blight in the year to come. And the best way to ensure that was with sacrifices that the gods would find pleasing.
[Rubbing chin in thought] Little trinkets and coin mostly. And a person to bring them to the gods themselves.
[Voice]
A beautiful maiden? [Because it is always a figure of innocence and visible beauty who gets picked for this shit]
Re: [Voice] 1/2
Re: [Voice]
[You get the picture]
Are you by chance familar with the concept of a wicker man?
[Voice]
though his mun sure recognizes it.]No, this would be a first. [Keep talking; you have his attention]
Re: [Voice]
And then they'd burn them to the ground.
[Folding his hands, placid.]
Afterwards, they would cast the ashes to the winds and seas in hopes that they would reach heaven and herald in a better year.
[Voice]
Pretty creative, I'll give them that.
[He mulls over it before speaking again]
And what happened if they brought in another shitty year? More sacrifices?
Re: [Voice]
[Thinking about this]
It never came up in much detail. The island had had excellent harvests for the last few years.
[Filtered]
But his personal grievances aside... damn, how long has it been since he's heard of another island on the Grand Line, he wonders? One that he hasn't seen?
... And more importantly, where did Law come upon this island? Before the events of Marineford? After? How much does he know? Sanji's taken care to look over the pirate's conversation with Luffy, and isn't sure he buys that convenient subject change.
That's not counting he might know Coby, too.
Shitty complications.
He says nothing else, but Law might notice Sanji's doing something to his journal. Tightening the security, if you will.]
Re: [Filtered]
[He sees it and notes it. This must be the filtering the guide mentioned. It shouldn't take long to learn how to protect his own entries and how to break into others. It's a skill that might become vital very soon. Depending how things go from here - Law wasn't lying about bearing any ill will, but he also wasn't lying to Lazlo that things would get awkward quickly.
He's seen enough uneasy truces crumble between rival crews to know that when there's a actual threat, a looming one, or a percieved one - that the knives come out and blood is pooling on the deck not long after. He doesn't know Sanji that well... only impressions (and this conversation, where both of them are on guard, does not entirely lend well to honest assessment) so whether he's a rational thinker or a emotional whiplash king at the end of the day is... up in the air.
There are some things that are clear. He's been listening (as suspected), and he's either from some point after Mister Strawhat or knows things about that time. He wouldn't need privacy for threats; people would expect them, especially after Law himself had hinted that they would likely come. No, this is a conversation where he doesn't want prying ears to hear. Damage control. And what else could it be?
The interesting thing will be what he knows in the end. Or thinks he does.
The other thing that is clear is he's been here a long while, if the quiet bitterness is any indication. He'll hold tight to what few things he has left. He'll hold hard. By whatever means.
Men do that in situations like this. Law knows.
So. It comes to it.
Let the real conversation begin.]
[Filtered]
He'll start this party off]
Care to share the last thing you remember, Law?
[So long as this pirate captain understands where the conversation is headed, the question will seem an obvious one. If not... well then, this could be short.
But Sanji plans to keep it going for as long as is necessary. If that means sharing information, so be it. Asking such a question where the answers could be numerous - a lie, the truth, hedging, silence, a question in turn... It's not a position the chef wants to find himself in, especially as he still has to slowly feel his way for where this Law guy stands in the Luceti equation.
He's given no indication that Sanji should view him as a real threat.
But.
He's still a pirate. And being one himself, Sanji's got his reasons to trust them even less. He wouldn't bother, either, if not for the stakes at hand. (Luffy...)]
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