logsinthenight | Don't Fuck with the Forest Spirits || OTA

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Don't Fuck with the Forest Spirits || OTA

characters: Vanitas (

evulsed) + OTA
location: mostly The Church, the Invincible + the Boathouse
date/time: July 19 and the days following
content: just waking-up-after-being-dismembered things
warnings: violence

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They let me out for a haunt now and again.

⟪ To speak in jest has never been among her otherwise extensive skillset, though it doesn't seem to deter her from the occasional attempt. She sets the tray down on whatever flat surface he seems most likely to be eating at, not at all bothered by red eyes following her every movement. ⟫

I'll keep you company while you eat.

⟪ Alright, so perhaps her purpose is less to annoy him and more to make sure he eats at all. Whatever he has gone through, it must have been an ordeal, to reduce the arrogant youth she had met briefly once before into a screaming mess. ⟫

[ It's so radially beyond Vanitas' realm of understanding of things that for a moment, he looks almost hunted, suspicion making his eyes narrow. Still, his gaze flicks to the steaming plate and whatever is on it.

Ever since speaking with the doctor, chiefly he only eats crackers; but whatever that is is making him salivate, which only furthers his discomfort. His fingers pull into loose fists at his sides. ]

Why?

⟪ Frankly, Melisandre's approach to offering people food is a little haphazard, since she has to rely on recommendations from others to begin with –– her world was neither rich in selection, nor did it feature a good deal of common food items others speak so highly of here.

It is food found commonly in bars and utterly strange to her: a good helping of some root vegetable sliced and fried in salt and such, a serving, arranged into a bowl, of chicken pieces, not much less fried. Chicken she knows, but the availability and quantity disturbs her. Some odd, small bowls for sauces to dip the whole deal in. A small bowl of some vegetable soup, apparently to make up for all the fried things. A carafe of water with a slice or two of lemon in it, and a bottle of a foreign material (apparently, it is meant to be called 'plastic') containing some sweet, fizzy drink. Comfort food, she'd been assured. ⟫

It is nicer to eat with company, or so I have found. ⟪ Well, perhaps it's better to be honest now: ⟫ When I was alive ⟪ oh, we're making distinctions here that go back to even before she died ⟫ I would often find myself forgoing the comforts of food after I had faced hardships. There are not many of us, here, and you and yours ⟪ a flicker of her red eyes to the creatures lurking in the shadows ⟫ strike closest to my home.

[ Vanitas isn't sure he agrees with that sentiment. Eating is strange enough, without having others around to witness Vanitas' particular struggle with the concept. After his first interaction with it, and how quickly it had all come back up, the truth of the matter is that he's much too nervous to experiment with it.

That doesn't stop the smell from luring him in. Vanitas drifts closer, his gaze cutting between the plate and Melisandre as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. When he's close enough to touch the meal and still nothing happens, he squares his shoulders, as if his hesitancy had never happened to begin with. ]

I didn't have to eat before I came here.

[ He glances over the collection, and reaches for one of the wedges. It looks the most familiar, and by that, most like the crackers. ]

⟪ In some manner, she is strongly reminded of those who came new to the Temples. Of herself, too, she'd had her first day at one point, but it's the seeing she recalls most. Witnessing children, much younger than him, fighting hunger and fear at once, waiting which one would win out in the end.

She makes a point of not staring. A.. .conscious effort, at least. ⟫

It has been more than two centuries since I had to eat to live.

⟪ Her voice is light, conversational. ⟫ It is bizarre trying to make a habit of it now, isn't it? When I was alive, I had to feign interest in food –– it wasn't a great strength of mine.

[ She might not be staring, but Vanitas doesn't return the courtesy. In the places of two hundred years, where the witch learned how to navigate— however rockily— situations such as this, Vanitas doesn't know anything. Living all but alone in the desert, cast out only to find his other half, and then tucked away into the darkness of another person's heart— being around the people of this town consistently, for weeks, is more human interaction than he's ever had in his life. ]

Why did you pretend?

[ He hasn't bitten into the potato yet, evidently interested enough by what Melisandre is telling him to be distracted from the whole point of her arrival. ]

⟪ In her way, she recalls her first months in Westeros, when after the emptiness and silence of Asshai, she was thrust into a world of people –– but then, she never got to be close to any of them, because it was not her place, because if the King is not a social man, then neither is she. ⟫

Most creatures, but mankind most of all, prefers to kill that which they do not understand.

⟪ She steps over to the window, to see if she can catch a glimpse of the bonfire from here. ⟫

Or banish it, at best.

You could've just killed them first.

[ It's the simplest, most straightforward solution. If they were a threat to her, then why not get rid of them beforehand? Then again, he doesn't know her whole story, and Vanitas himself could understand sparing a life if it was for his own gain. He hadn't killed Aqua at first for that reason. It was only once she'd outlived her use that he'd changed his mind.

With her back to him he bites down on the potato wedge, and the burst of grease and salt startle him enough to be momentarily distracted— enough to really take a good look at what's on the platter and on offer. It stirs his hunger to the point he can't ignore it anymore, and Vanitas sits down on the edge of his bed to dig in. ]

Haven't we all fantasised of that?

⦑ Perhaps most people haven't, but Melisandre certainly has, and at length. Reduce all those to ash who oppose her, so the path is clear and the only enemy which remains is the Great Other and his army of wights, no petty lords.

Of course, that is not the point of saving a world. ⦒

Unfortunately, all the murder would only have more people coming after me. It'll be a cycle I am bound to lose a few rounds in, no?

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