logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: january 20-29.
content: the lanterns begin to malfunction.
warnings: body horror and psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

you'll become one

January 20th arrives the same as all the days before it. There's no great pulse of warning that throbs through the air, no ominous wind that causes the bonfire to shudder. The spirits are neither agitated nor do they hide. You could almost miss the change, if the lanterns weren't always by your side. There's no explanation that comes with the way that it's changed, but it's impossible not to worry when it's happened so suddenly.

Maybe it takes a few days, or maybe it only takes a few hours, but suddenly it isn't just the lanterns that have changed. You, yourself, have become somehow different. It's possible that you won't even have the right state of mind to wonder how long it will last. At the very least, it appears you aren't alone. All across Beacon, lanterns are changing, and changing the people with them.

Out in the distance, the lighthouse's beam has turned green.

QUICKNAV
comms	\|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	\|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

My body fell apart, yes. But it was more complicated than that.

[ Because how did he really die? Were either of them a true death? And which one brought him here? Vanitas' memory has holes in it, regardless; of the time before he was with Ventus, great blank patches. Is it any wonder he can't remember which was the real one?

But— he finally lets go of Quentin's hand, raising his own to look at his palm. It doesn't feel quite right. Before, it was like he was bleeding out. This just feels like a static, constant stream of hurt. ]

I was destroyed by my Lighter half.

I don't even know what that is.

[Quentin wipes his hand on his pants, even if there's nothing there, the lingering sensation of Vanitas slip-sliding over his skin is still there and Quentin's smile grows wider.]

Because darkness is killed by light? Sure, why not. I've heard of stupider things happening. One time, my girlfriend had to drink god jizz, just to get enough power to kill someone. That was weird.

[He chuckles, and sticks both hands in to his pockets. It hadn't been that easy, or that painless and Alice had ended up using too much power anyway and she died. Quentin laughs.]

Can I help you?

[ His eyes flick up to Quentin's face without raising his chin. He's not so ignorant as not to know what Quentin's talking about, or how crass it is, but the information is irrelevant to him in this moment. ]

No. Darkness isn't killed by Light. The closer you get to one, the stronger the other becomes.

[ He flexes his hand, spreading his fingers. Darkness spills from between them, like black water. ]

I lost because I was outnumbered.

[ Vanitas flexes his hand and drops it to his side. ]

You couldn't help me. Your heart isn't strong enough. And anyway, I would never want to join with someone as weak as you.

I didn't think you could be outnumbered.

[Quentin grins, cocking his head at Vanitas and he shrugs. Because Vanitas isn't wrong. Quentin is weak in most ways, too easily led by his emotions and making too rash decisions because of it. He wears his heart on his sleeve and most of the time, everything he feels is right there. Plain as day, written all over his face.

But today, the thought just makes more giggles bubble out of him and he can't help laugh out loud, reaching out to trace a finger through the darkness spilling from Vanitas' hand.]

That tracks. I wouldn't want to join me either. Does it hurt?

[ It doesn't matter what Quentin thinks about his untimely demise. Being outnumbered, it wasn't just about the physical amount. The Unversed were part of him, and if enough Light was in the room, it could tip the balance. This place has been different; it's like the Realm of Darkness, but not quite right. Maybe that's part of the reason why Vanitas keeps feeling so invincible, only to be reminded that it isn't so simple.

The Darkness doesn't cut when Quentin reaches into it. It folds around his hand, clinging to him and creeping up his arm, like it has a mind of it's own. ]

I always hurt. [ Matter of fact.

He looks away from Quentin, down at his own lantern, gleaming red— then at Quentin's, gleaming blue. ]

Edited 2020-02-04 03:22 (UTC)

[He watches the creeping darkness slip up his arm, covering his whole hand in a matter of seconds and it's-- not a nice feeling. It's nothing like sticking your hand in to warm water, even if the flow of it mimics it.

Oh well.]

You don't have to.

[Quentin smiles, all warmth and giggles, and the darkness slips up his arm.]

Mine did that. Turned red. It's still broken but at least it's funny now. Everything is. You are.

You don't know anything about me.

[ But he's distracted now, by the fact their lanterns are different. Vanitas frowns, raising both hands this time and flexing him. Maybe... he isn't dying. But then again, maybe it's just a slow death. Maybe Quentin was spared, because his lantern turned blue, making him giddy like this.

Vanitas raises his head to watch him. ]

I don't know if this makes you more or less annoying.

No?

[There's the edge of doubt underneath the smile and the giggles and Quentin cocks his head to the side, watching Vanitas. For once not shying away from eye contact or the way Vanitas watches him back.]

Didn't you say we were kind of the same? I think that means I know you. At least a little.

[And there had been that whole thing in the church, with Vanitas sitting on his stomach (heavy, heavier than he looked standing there with darkness seeping out of him) and the way Quentin's feelings had slipped away, like they had been sucked right out of the metaphorical wound in his heart.

The tears on Vanitas' face by the end. The blank, black mask first.

Quentin laughs, hand following Vanitas' when he pulls it back towards himself. Just to see, to keep his hand under the flow of darkness.]

More. This makes me a lot more annoying.

We share the Darkness, but nobody is like me.

[ Made of Darkness, not just a part of it. Nobody else was pulled out of another person's heart and suffered for it. Quentin comes closer, following the black dripping off him. Vanitas cocks his head, watching him. ]

I can't use mine like you do.

[Quentin switches hands, letting the darkness flow over the other one and he tries to cup it to catch some of the darkness in the palm of his hand.]

I have something. So you don't have to hurt anymore.

[Helpful, always. But maybe not in the right way, and offering drugs to melting people probably isn't the best way to go about things. But, hey. Why the hell now?

He's feeling too floaty, giggling softly to himself as the darkness flows from Vanitas and in to Quentin's hand.]

[ Vanitas thinks Quentin has no idea what he's doing, or how this looks. The way he puts his hands through the Darkness is like he's playing in water, and Vanitas only knows what that might look like through a fractured lens of a far off memory. It's queer enough that it keeps him rooted in the spot, a twisted expression on his face, something dubious.

Like this, Quentin is so vulnerable. It would take barely anything at all for Vanitas to swallow him whole, sink his hands right into his heart and flood it with Darkness. Instead, it just keeps melting off his body and pouring over his hands. ]

I don't believe you.

Why? I've never lied to you.

[And with one more laugh, Quentin lets the Darkness go and pulls both hands back. He roots through his pocket until he finds a joint, placing it between his lips and with a twist of his fingers, he conjures a pale, colorless flame. It sits just above the skin on his finger and he uses it to light the joint on fire.

He inhales deeply.]

Here.

[One more thing Eliot left behind and like everything else, it's Quentin's now. He holds it out to Vanitas.]

Because something like that doesn't exist.

[ Vanitas counters, clocking his head and sending darkness spilling from his hair in a little wave, surging up and over his shoulder.

He isn't expecting what Quentin does next, and his eyes narrow as he tries to make sense of what he's doing. It looks like a tiny cigar, but it doesn't smell like tobacco. He rears back a little, perplexed, when its offered to him. The smoke curls up between them, pale compared to all the black falling off Vanitas. ]

What is this?

[ Not knowing doesn't seem to stop him though. He takes the joint before Quentin can change his mind and take it back. For a second, it disappears under the rush of black coming off his hands. ]

[Quentin just smiles, languid and loose and once his hand is free, he puts both of them in to his pocket.

Really, it's that or try to catch the darkness running off of Vanitas in them, and somehow, it seems better to not try to get at it while Vanitas has the joint in his hand.]

You need to suck on it.

[Helpful.]

Get the smoke in to your lungs.

[He takes a deep breath to illustrate, holding it for a few seconds before he exhales slowly and arches an eyebrow with a giggle.]

It helps. Maybe. If it doesn't--

[Quentin shrugs, watching the darkness pour off Vanitas like ink dissolving in water.]

[ Vanitas stares at him evenly as he explains, a note of clear disbelief in his expression. Quentin doesn't look any different than he did before, but if it's anything like alcohol... and Bruce had been right about that.

He glances down at the roll of paper, considering, then raises it to his lips to mirror what Quentin had done. When he inhales, he can feel the smoke rush into him, parch his throat and fill up his lungs and make them feel tight.

A pause, and then he cocks up an eyebrow. He doesn't feel an effect immediately so he jumps to the immediate conclusion: ]

I don't feel anything.

Give it a minute.

[Who knows if it's even going to work on someone like Vanitas. Someone from another world, but Quentin can feel it tingling along his arms and settling in like a buzz under his skin.

The way his mind detaches a little.

He's still smiling.]

If you don't want it, just give it back. Maybe if I some enough of that, something will happen.

[ Vanitas reels his arm back a little, casting melting shadows all over, as if Quentin had reached for the cigarette instead of just made a comment about retrieving it.

He waits, but Vanitas is impatient if he doesn't have a good reason to wait. This doesn't seem like one to him — so he follows instruction and takes another drag on the joint.

This time, he coughs when his throatsinged, when the smoke seems to curl in his lungs. He pulls an expression of distaste and holds the rolled paper back out at Quentin like the object is offensive. ]

[Quentin takes it, stealing a chance to run his fingers through the liquid darkness oozing off of Vanitas again on the way.

It's a little like watching a lave-lamp, only. Black. And attached to Vanitas, and painful. Quentin giggles, and takes another drag of the joint.]

I'm sorry it didn't work.

I told you it wouldn't.

[ He answers sourly, his voice rough with the chafing of smoke that's singed it all the way down to his lungs. Vanitas doesn't think he feels anything, but he's far from immune to the drug— just like he was far from immune to alcohol.

In about thirty minutes, he'll be sitting in front of the bonfire staring intently into the flames, blissfully just outside the stinging of Darkness peeling off of him in waves.

For now he waves his hand at Quentin in a flush of shadow as he turns away. ]

Go bother someone else.

But I want to--

[The dismissal is clear, even through the fog of weed and whatever it is that's making everything so fucking hilarious.

Laughing happily, Quentin just keeps smoking and looking at Vanitas. For long, long minutes, he does nothing else. He just stands there, head tilted and mouth twisted in to a too-huge smile, occasionally taking a drag from the joint.

When, for no reason at all, he reaches out and runs his hands through the darkness again. Quentin reaches out and lets the darkness billowing away from Vanitas' hair run over his free hand, even if it means leaning in close to do it.

It really is the weirdest feeling.

Watching the darkness flow over his own hand.]

Sure. I hope you don't die?

[As Quentin walks away, leaving just the sound of giggles and the acrid smell of smoke behind.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject