tushanshu_logs | i'll say it to be proud

Entry tags:

i'll say it to be proud

Characters: Solomon Wreath and OPEN
Date: Anywhere between 6 May to 14 May.
Location: Various locations around the city. Specifically, places where people have died--anyone from PCs to kedan. The only place I know specifically will be the fountain where Bakura was killed, but if anyone has other specific areas in mind, you may assume Sol has been there.
Situation: Solomon needs to practice his control of his magic, since his control item was broken before he entered the game. This means using hotspots where people died to help him out. People are welcome to interrupt him at any stage of his practice, though his manifesting the echoes of people who died is only something that will happen later in the week.
Warnings/Rating: Death and after-death. Skulduggery's thread contains graphic details of a death (specifically, drowning).

After his semi-healing, Solomon's first priority had been, overwhelmingly, to regain control of his magic. His conversation with Skulduggery had left him a few steps beyond unsettled, and even now he wasn't sure what to think. Added to their differing timelines was Pleasant's uncharacteristic certainty that the armour was related to Vile, and on top of that was the fact that he knew the Temple's most closely guarded secret.

In the end Solomon had been forced to come to a simple solution: regardless of Skulduggery's current beliefs and knowledge; regardless of the current situation on the turtle; there was one thing Solomon needed, and that was use of his magic. Focussing on that, with luck, would allow his subconscious thoughts to ponder the other issues.

Necromancers didn't strictly need control items to use their magic, but it was usually how they were first introduced to it and it had been quite a while since Solomon had bothered to use magic without his. It was something like using a muscle he hadn't for longer than was wise, so to give him an edge he sought out places in the city where death had occurred, or were close by similar locations. Fountains. Street-corners. Parks. Frankly, it wasn't all that difficult.

His exercises were a simple routine. He would sit, meditate upon the deathly energy in a place, and then gather the shadows to him. They'd cluster on the walls or ground or features around him; at first two-dimensional, and then three, wrapping around his wrists and shoulders, curling around his body like a flock of affectionate birds.

Once he could hold them to him for as long as he needed without losing control, he moved on to spreading them around him as he needed and wanted, and in various shapes. If there was music nearby, he would make the shadows dance to it, filling the air with twisting shapes and cloaks, fading in and out from nothing. Once upon a time he had used to do this purely out of boredom. There was something beautiful about it. Something mesmerising. Something calming, and comforting, to watch the shadows sing and know he was the one performing, manipulating the shadows deftly like puppeteer. He hadn't done it in such a long time and it took more effort than it had with his cane, but now, it was soothing.

Eventually he was even able to summon the shadows of those who'd died where he sat. They weren't ghosts, of course; they couldn't speak or even interact. Necromancers couldn't communicate with the dead unless it involved the deceased's physical body. They were just shadows, cast black like graphic puppets, defined enough to tell details of their features. He could have traced the manner of their last moments, if he wished, but for now, he was content to assure himself he could fight without his cane if he needed.

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The hospital was slowly becoming a dead end with regards to inquiries about the black armour. Some had seen it, but had no idea who was inside, and couldn't tell Skulduggery anything he didn't already know. At a loss for anything else to do, particularly with the consoles as compromised as they were, Skulduggery had decided to start back at the beginning - the scene of the crime.

The fountain where the boy was killed was in the Water Sector. Skulduggery hadn't had a chance to examine much in the immediate aftermath of the explosions, and now that city life had gotten relatively back to normal, there was every chance he'd discover something new. The trick would be doing it without alerting any of Malicant's loyalists or cultists.

That would be easier said than done. Skulduggery wasn't exactly a wallflower, even when he wanted to be.

The good news was, he did discover something new before he'd even stepped into the fountain square. The bad news was, it was a person. A person who required interrogation. The last person in either dimension Skulduggery felt like interrogating, much less giving the time of day to.

He walked up without stopping, scattering the shadows that had been drifting in his way, and came to a stop in front of Wreath. "Raine was a miracle worker, I see."

Most of the locations Solomon had used so far consisted of streets and alleys and doorsteps. The fountain was something of a welcome change. He was getting damp, sitting on the edge as he was, but he wore his thick coat and the dampness didn't seep through to his shirt. Pleasant, really.

A moment later he felt the corona of Skulduggery's presence and sighed. He should have known better than to invoke chance.

The shadows drew away from the skeleton and then settled, drifting aimlessly around the ground and the fountain, and curling around Skulduggery's ankles like black seaweed. Solomon opened his eyes and gazed back at the skeleton, his face blank. "So she is."

His thigh was still wounded, and he still needed a bandage and a cane to get around without doing further damage, but it wasn't life-threatening and he knew enough first-aid to take care of it in the meantime. If it became a problem, he could always return to the hospital and see if they could spare some more healing for him.

What he wanted to know, right now, was why Skulduggery Pleasant had approached him of his own volition for the second time in less than two weeks. At least this time he wasn't throwing a punch.

The shadows curling at his feet were theoretically intangible, but Skulduggery could feel them. They drifted just on the edge of consciousness, stubbornly trying to fade from his awareness, and failing. The sensation started to make his head hurt, and so Skulduggery lifted slightly into the air to hover at a point a few centimetres off the ground, where the tips of his feet just barely cleared the shadows. For a few moments, he was content to let an awkward silence fill the space between himself and Wreath.

"What can you feel?" he asked suddenly. "Or are you practicing to become an Elemental? I have a few pointers, if that's the case. For one thing, water shouldn't be black."

A centuries-old hope flickered, as was its way, before dying. It was much more likely that Wreath could feel the death which had happened next to the fountain less than a month earlier. That gave Skulduggery a potential new lead, albeit one he wouldn't have asked for and didn't particularly want.

"Really? I can think of several rivers over the centuries which would disagree with you." The response was very nearly absent, because Solomon was regarding the inches of space between Skulduggery's shoes and the ground. That was a trick he'd never seen before. As far as he was aware, no Elemental had learned to actively fly.

Of course, given where Skulduggery had been, that wasn't terribly surprising. The intense desire to escape could create some unique talents.

"That's something you learned with the Faceless Ones, I suppose," he observed a little sourly. "I didn't realise your grudge against Necromancy had extended quite so far as refusing to touch shadows. Rather impractical, isn't it?"

He blatantly ignored the first question. If Skulduggery was asking about this particular fountain, then he was asking for the death that had occurred here. Solomon hadn't tried to sense it too deeply, yet, except that it had been violent and very, very recent. If Pleasant wanted Solomon to help investigate his little project, he'd have to offer a little more than a punch to the jaw.

"Very likely," Skulduggery agreed. "I've taken to only walking in blinding sunlight. Even then, there's one persistent shadow I'm never able to escape from."

It was very dry humour, delivered in an equally dry manner. But as far as Skulduggery was concerned, Wreath hadn't earned much more than that. The one selfless thing Wreath had gone out of his way to accomplish was suggesting the way in which Skulduggery ultimately managed to come back - and even then, the suggestion had won him the chance to train Valkyrie. A chance which, if Skulduggery were a more vindictive man, he might have pointed out led to all the trouble with the Passage and the Death Bringer in the first place.

But this wasn't the time for personal grievances.

"What can you feel?" he asked again, indicating the fountain. "This was where the armour murdered a child. If there's anything you sense that could help me find either one of them, I'd appreciate you telling me."

"How unfortunate for you," Solomon said sardonically. "And I'm sure you would appreciate information. I, however, did not appreciate being punched while in the possession of a broken leg. What's in it for me?"

Even as he spoke, he was extending his senses. If this was where the armour committed its crime, he'd have already felt any Necromancy involved in the death. There hadn't been, so the victim was killed without Necromancy.

Solomon's first sense had been of forced drowning, and he'd assumed it had happened in the fountain itself. To his surprise, the core of the death happened a significant distance from the fountain, which meant it had required magic. Water-based magic. The sensation was enveloping more than suffocating, so the victim had been surrounded by water rather than simply having it forced down his throat. That was interesting. It indicated a degree of control over water that Solomon rarely saw; it was easier to drown a person in a water-source already present, rather than create one in midair, without boundaries.

How very curious. He kept all this from his expression, of course, and simply waited for Skulduggery's response.

Skulduggery shrugged. "Money, if that takes your fancy." It wasn't as if he needed any of his own. Money had never particularly interested Wreath, but there were occasional necessities even an eccentric necromancer would have to think about. "A favour, otherwise, or information." He inclined his head. "I'm sorry about what happened last week. I wasn't myself."

The apology was genuine, and Skulduggery even meant it. He didn't like Wreath, but he liked to think he was objective about that dislike. This version of Wreath hadn't done anything to warrant a violent welcome - he had, in fact, been helping save the world just minutes before his arrival. It was what happened afterward Skulduggery wanted to punch him for, and for Wreath, none of it had happened. It was, Skulduggery admitted, a tad unfair to expect the man to know the future.

"The kedan appear to be more than hospitable enough to negate the need for money." And given that he wasn't sure, yet, whether he would return home with any possessions gathered here on the turtle, there was no point in asking for euros. He also wasn't in a position where he was willing to reduce himself to asking Pleasant of all people for information, but a favour ... perhaps.

The apology actually sounded sincere. Solomon regarded the skeleton for another few moments, very nearly surprised. A sincere apology from Skulduggery Pleasant was an occasion to remember.

"There was no Necromancy involved," he said at last. "The victim was killed by drowning. Magical, apparently, since it happened about six feet in the air ten feet away from the fountain. Unless you're going to claim that Vile is in actuality an ambidextrous sorcerer, I don't think he's responsible."

He said it dryly, though he wasn't going to deny it was a relief to know Vile most likely wasn't on the turtle. That still didn't explain Pleasant's strange fixation on the idea. "Whyever did you assume Vile was responsible in the first place?"

Drowning? Skulduggery considered that, eyeless gaze once again on the fountain. He hadn't examined the body closely enough to determine if drowning was the cause of death. The fountain was far too shallow, and he'd discovered the body floating face-up besides. The apparent cause of death had been more than enough for him to know that it was murder.

That no necromancy had been involved, however, was something of a relief.

Skulduggery consciously ignored the irony in Wreath's final statement, and focussed instead on the question he'd asked. "I discovered the body during the explosions. I didn't have the time for a thorough examination." Skulduggery sighed, and let the air carry him a little closer to the fountain - though still outside of the shadows' reach. "I didn't think he'd been drowned. He had bloody furrows across his chest, and a witness nearby said she saw a suit of black armour committing the murder."

At the time, Skulduggery had assumed the wounds on the boy's chest were caused by sharpened shadows. But if necromancy hadn't been involved, then... well, it stood to reason another Foreigner was the murderer. But who? Who on earth owned a set of black armour that could both manipulate water and slash someone to death? Who would commit such a brutal murder of one boy, then immediately go on to help rescue others and save lives?

"Skulduggery Pleasant, neglecting to appropriately examine a crime-scene? Dear me." Solomon lifted an eyebrow and raised a hand to summon shadows a few feet from Skulduggery. They morphed and shifted and gathered into a silhouette, hanging in the air as though supported by a force Solomon wasn't able to cast shadows upon.

The silhouette's features settled into an androgynous teen with long spiky hair, slumped in the moment of death with that particular expression of those with something worse than a lack of air in their lungs. The detail in the shadows was enough for Solomon to see the tear in the teen's clothes and the raking furrows--though these, of course, weren't bloodied.

"He was in pain when he died, so he was injured," Solomon noted. His heart beat slow in his chest, but his skin tingled. Reaching this deeply for the details of a death, without the benefit of an item, had that effect. An intoxicating one, if he gave it any leave at all. He didn't. "He was also startled, and fought back. Magic, I'd presume, though what sort I can't tell."

Solomon regarded the silhouette. Hayley had said that there was no resurrection involved in returning to life--only clones. Yet even still, he had been able to sense the death in her soul. He wondered whether he could track a death from its location to the place where its soul now resided. Possibly. It might also take more control than he currently possessed.

Skulduggery watched the shadow-puppet in the air without comment, trying not to think about how eerily life-like it looked. He knew the technique Wreath was using, although it wasn't often he saw it from the outside. It was a bit like looking into a crystal ball, and seeing images in the dark fog within. The difference here was that Wreath needed a sort of focus Skulduggery didn't think was possible without either intense concentration or a channeling object, neither of which Wreath had.

He wouldn't comment on it now, but Skulduggery did make a mental note to keep an eye on this alarming new tendency. At best, the journey here strengthened Wreath's power to unhealthy levels. At worst, Wreath could lose himself.

"A magical white-haired boy," Skulduggery summed up, nodding. "That would be helpful if the network was still an option. As it's not, I need more than a basic description to track him down. An address would be nice. If the armour wasn't Vile - " and Skulduggery was willing enough by now to believe that - "then whoever owns it could be extremely useful to the war effort. Telegraphing its existence to he-who-must-not-be-named would be silly, to say the least."

'If' the armour wasn't Vile. Skulduggery had been very certain it was, and for very little reason. If he'd been that worried, why hadn't he stopped to examine the body properly? True, there were priorities in war, but Solomon would have thought Vile on top of Malicant was a definite priority above nearly anything else. Curiouser and curiouser.

Solomon hummed absently, still focussed on the silhouette. The main reason for summoning shades such as this when he could sense the death without it was to focus the magic. Sometimes seeing the body physically helped with perspective. In this case ... in this case, perhaps it would help him find the boy.

"That depends upon how much control they have over it," he said. Some within the Temple had suspected that Vile's armour hadn't been properly forged. That fact would have contributed to his insanity. Solomon closed his hand, bringing all his shadows into the silhouette and intensifying the magic until it was a solid, shaped mass of darkness in the courtyard. No shadows were left within ten feet around it; not theirs, not the fountain's, nothing. His skin tingled wildly.

There was a sensation, almost a tug. The silhouette revolved slowly, and stopped facing a particular direction it hadn't before. Solomon smiled. "If I could find this boy for you, what would that be worth?"

Skulduggery looked at the dark silhouette floating in the air above them, then over at its puppeteer. Wreath still seemed cogent enough, so once again, Skulduggery didn't comment. Just another thing to keep an eye on. Wreath wasn't quite self-serving enough to sacrifice his own sanity for power, but that was very rarely a conscious choice.

There were times, of course, when risks needed to be taken, and this sounded like one of them. Skulduggery tilted his head in response, keeping the anticipation well out of his voice. "That would depend on what you asked for. Not money, I understand, but then what? Both my soul and eternal torment have already been spoken for."

"Equal shares in the investigation, perhaps. I'll think it over." Solomon reached for his cane and stepped off the edge of the fountain, but carefully. His leg had stiffened up, and he leaned heavily on the cane as he moved away from the center of the courtyard.

He exhaled slowly, inhaled after. He'd never held a silhouette like this before, for this length of time or to this intensity. If he lost control, they'd have to come back to the fountain and start all over again, and he didn't particularly want to do that. Not given how badly his skin was tingling. Like a drug, a high, waiting just in the wings. Within control, still, but tantalising enough that Solomon had no desire to try again so soon.

Another step and the silhouette shifted, taking a step of its own down the street. Solomon followed at a limping pace, his hand upraised and concentration almost wholly on the silhouette drifting before him.

[To here.]

Edited 2014-07-11 07:19 (UTC)

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i'll say it to be proud

Location: The fountain where Bakura was killed!

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cw: details of death (drowning)

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cw: details of death (drowning)

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