Rhys (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sleight_of_fate) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
snowblindrpg2017-11-13 03:16 pm
sleight_of_fate) wrote in snowblindrpg2017-11-13 03:16 pm
[network] @hexappeal; let me enlighten you [open/video] [cw:blood]
Characters: Jared Rhys, Beckett, chaos, Enoch
Location: Building 326- the high school
Date: Day 298, afternoon
Summary: Rhys pisses off some ghosts
Warnings: cw: blood, cursing, rituals
[On camera, Rhys looks a bit shaken and pale, but his jaw is set and his blue eyes are hard and determined. He's got a blanket wrapped around him, and he holds the tablet awkwardly to talk, doing his best to present a calm, professional face.
Hey, is not the first time he's been assaulted by a ghost and he doubts it will be the last.]
So I think we learned a lesson, though I don't know how useful it is. That lesson being, don't do magic in the high school because it will fucking shank you.
[He opens the blanket to reveal a patched wound on his heavily tattooed chest.]
We do have video, though. I performed a tribute ritual combined with a provocation, which is basically going in and deliberately pissing off spirits. "My god is better than your god", basically. We did a pretty good job, apparently.
I've got a few thoughts about a plan B and what else might get results here, but since I'm not quite up for getting myself possessed, I think I'm gonna take a break and come back to it. But if anyone catches something we missed? Have at it.
[The footage, taken from several feet away and clearly from another person, shows the hallways in the high school under unsteady light, mostly weak daylight with the occasional flicker of the overhead flourescents. Rhys is stripped to his heavily tattooed skin except for his jeans and boots, shaved head bare and his sash-wrapped tail out and lashing restlessly as he works. Beckett is with him, on quiet standby as Rhys sets up the ritual with a brief explanation of the plan. He moves swiftly and surely as he sets up a small fire, lays out an X-Acto knife, and puts out a can of cranberry juice and some chalk and charcoal. There's dark winged figures already scribbled over some of the eyes on the walls, and it's clear that this isn't going to be a peaceful ritual like the one Rhys performed in the house before. Even Rhys himself looks different, particularly with all his ink showing: Dark, primal, a little bit crazed.
The camera follows the prayers to the Queen of Crows and Winter, the clouds of dark, noxious smoke that billow up from the handful of wood and insulation that Rhys lights, the ritual sharing and pouring of the "wine" and the quick, practiced bloodletting that Rhys performs on both himself and Beckett with the proper offering of prayer in two different languages.
It's a prayer and offering for battle: against the interloper and the whore, if anyone listens closely enough. Or happens to follow Celtic Gaelic reasonably well. Someone well-versed in mythology might also put together that Rhys's patron might be the Morrigan, goddess of war, death, magic and fate...though asking him about it later probably will get a lot of evasions and not a lot of answers.
It's when Rhys is getting up to close the ritual that he suddenly curses, stumbles, and falls against the wall, one hand pressed to his chest. Red leaks through his fingers as he goes pale and wobbles in shock, and the taping is interrupted in favor of quick treatment of what proves to be a single but profusely bleeding stab wound high on the witch's chest. Then the video ends.]
Location: Building 326- the high school
Date: Day 298, afternoon
Summary: Rhys pisses off some ghosts
Warnings: cw: blood, cursing, rituals
[On camera, Rhys looks a bit shaken and pale, but his jaw is set and his blue eyes are hard and determined. He's got a blanket wrapped around him, and he holds the tablet awkwardly to talk, doing his best to present a calm, professional face.
Hey, is not the first time he's been assaulted by a ghost and he doubts it will be the last.]
So I think we learned a lesson, though I don't know how useful it is. That lesson being, don't do magic in the high school because it will fucking shank you.
[He opens the blanket to reveal a patched wound on his heavily tattooed chest.]
We do have video, though. I performed a tribute ritual combined with a provocation, which is basically going in and deliberately pissing off spirits. "My god is better than your god", basically. We did a pretty good job, apparently.
I've got a few thoughts about a plan B and what else might get results here, but since I'm not quite up for getting myself possessed, I think I'm gonna take a break and come back to it. But if anyone catches something we missed? Have at it.
[The footage, taken from several feet away and clearly from another person, shows the hallways in the high school under unsteady light, mostly weak daylight with the occasional flicker of the overhead flourescents. Rhys is stripped to his heavily tattooed skin except for his jeans and boots, shaved head bare and his sash-wrapped tail out and lashing restlessly as he works. Beckett is with him, on quiet standby as Rhys sets up the ritual with a brief explanation of the plan. He moves swiftly and surely as he sets up a small fire, lays out an X-Acto knife, and puts out a can of cranberry juice and some chalk and charcoal. There's dark winged figures already scribbled over some of the eyes on the walls, and it's clear that this isn't going to be a peaceful ritual like the one Rhys performed in the house before. Even Rhys himself looks different, particularly with all his ink showing: Dark, primal, a little bit crazed.
The camera follows the prayers to the Queen of Crows and Winter, the clouds of dark, noxious smoke that billow up from the handful of wood and insulation that Rhys lights, the ritual sharing and pouring of the "wine" and the quick, practiced bloodletting that Rhys performs on both himself and Beckett with the proper offering of prayer in two different languages.
It's a prayer and offering for battle: against the interloper and the whore, if anyone listens closely enough. Or happens to follow Celtic Gaelic reasonably well. Someone well-versed in mythology might also put together that Rhys's patron might be the Morrigan, goddess of war, death, magic and fate...though asking him about it later probably will get a lot of evasions and not a lot of answers.
It's when Rhys is getting up to close the ritual that he suddenly curses, stumbles, and falls against the wall, one hand pressed to his chest. Red leaks through his fingers as he goes pale and wobbles in shock, and the taping is interrupted in favor of quick treatment of what proves to be a single but profusely bleeding stab wound high on the witch's chest. Then the video ends.]
no subject
[Rhys knows his powers are gone. It's something that he's known since he got here, with the silence in his head where another sense should be.
But the moment Angel leans against him still feels like some kind of magic, like a switch has been flipped. The tension goes out of him, and even though he's still miserable and in pain, a sense of deep relief washes over him.
He is so tired.]
Mm. Definitely better. Should get my sleeping bag, just don't wanna get blood on it.
[Spend enough time with Rhys and it becomes clear that he's half cat. So tidy.]
no subject
[ Not that she minds the possibility of getting blood on her coat. Stains add character. Plus, she's helping! Which is just about her favourite thing to be doing. Good times. ]
Just be ready to feign death if you hear Dumpy - the little robot - coming this way. Okay?
no subject
[He grins a little.]
Don't usually get asked to be more dramatic. I thought Dumpy was the beloved child?
no subject
[ She doesn't stop smiling, but it does get a little strained. Telling people about this stuff is never fun. ]
Which kinda ties in to the thing with Dumpy, because. I mean. Yes, he's a precious lovable baby, but he's also kind of got an extra AI installed on there separately to his own.
And that AI is kinda a copy of my dad.
Aaaaannnnd my dad was a genocidal asshole alongside the whole really tough on swears thing.
no subject
That gives him a twinge in the chest that has nothing to do with his wound, and he leans a little closer on her. He's not quite sure if he can put an arm around her without pulling on things that would rather not be pulled on, so he settles for that.
He suddenly feels like he should do more.]
Okay. I'll try not to be too much of a bad influence, then.
[He should do so much more than that. She deserves more.]
Y'should get my coat. It's bigger. Pull it over my head if murderdad comes. Presto, dead witch.
no subject
[ She's beaming properly again, now. Even though she's only half-joking about the concussion thing. ]
Really, don't worry about it. I just don't want you to be blindsided if he misinterprets things and throws a tantrum, is all. And don't fret about being a bad influence, either! I'm capable of swearing when the situation calls for it.
Or when I feel like it.
Fuck.
[ G A S P ]
no subject
[He's still trying to be a gentleman. More coats equals more warms.
When she cuts loose with that little bit of profanity, it gets a snort of laughter out of him. A painful snort.]
Okay. Y'know you're cute when you swear, though. Just a little. Not like a shoreman.
no subject
[ She offers the softest elbow-nudge. Carefully. Making his wound worse would super not be a good thing. ]
Though - you're still not warm enough? I don't mind grabbing your coat if you do want it. And don't mind the bloodstain risk.
no subject
..m'shaky. Think that last thing with the blood was probably a bit much.
[It's a bit hard to tell because Rhys is always pale, but yeah. At least he's still slowly sipping the water that Enoch gave him, mixed with his own cranberry juice.]
Funny that all I had to do to get snuggles was get dropped into a lifeless hellhole. Woulda done this sooner if I knew.
no subject
[ Because it's far too easy to imagine herself getting up and Rhys suddenly leaking all his blood out at once in the most dramatic manner possible. In fairness, she's seen a lot of people explode into bloodpuddles back home. ]
And forgive me for doubting you, but you don't seem like the type to be low on snuggles. Too busy fighting off were-things?
no subject
[He's tired. Where did all his energy go, wow.
And at that last, he gives a weak smile.]
Bad decisions, mostly. Pissed off all my snuggle buddies and wound up stuck. And in prison. And then stuck.
...I'm really good at bad decisions.
[But Angel is warm, and it's nice to have her here. He appreciates that, his head tipping sideways as he tries to convince himself that the wound in his ribs doesn't really hurt that much and a nap will probably make everything fine.]