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.))
no subject
[He's meeting her eyes and not looking at her translucent body. It's curious and horrifying in the same breath,and horror is winning out the more he thinks. What is happening to her is the result of no drugs or any other treatment he knows, save the ingestion of a Devil Fruit. A Devil Fruit whose powers include phasing through solid matter.
Are the wings surgery after all? Somehow he doesn't think so anymore.]
How long is a while?
no subject
But then the phasing stops and Katara solidifies - and as soon as she just she lets out a quick breath and picks up the book again.]
It's different things with different people... for me, they were experimenting with their Shift technology. They turned a friend of mine into a girl - that was Shifting too. And Sigmund... I'm not sure what they did to him. He can't remember nouns anymore.
[So, see? It's not usually harmful. Just embarrassing. Usually.]
no subject
Some of you folks listening in on this would probably agree.]
no subject
no subject
no subject
...she has not been sleeping very well, lately. She's not really looking forward to trying again. But he needs his rest to make it into town. She can look elsewhere for distractions if she needs them; him getting the rest he needs is more important.]
No, it can't. It was nice talking with you, Trafalgar. You get some rest too, all right?
no subject
Ah, ah, ah. Careful. Be careful of what they say. People lie, and they twist words, and they claim or assign credit not due. A reputation is a perilous thing taken alone - and there has, just perhaps, been more honesty here than anyone suspects.
Besides, tell us, what has he supposedly done
canonically? Innocent before proven guilty, you know.]I will. Good night, Katara.
[ ... so all you listening in, what's your take?]