taxonomites | [location: Taxon Forest, mainly, but even the Woodsman goes into town for acquiring Stuff]

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[location: Taxon Forest, mainly, but even the Woodsman goes into town for acquiring Stuff]

Once upon a time, there was a man, who was so pained by grief that one day he simply stopped feeling. Not the pain of his own, not that of others; there was nothing that could move him to the point of pangs or aches of any kind. What had once been the most expressive face and bright blue eyes, was no more. Lack luster orbs and too little skin stretched too tight over bone had taken their place.

Some said he was blessed for no matter what hurt or wound might befall him, he couldn't feel a thing. Others said the opposite: that he was cursed never to feel even a knife stabbed into his back. Some said he had once loved so deeply that his heart shattered. Unable to repair it, he could never love again.

For as long as he could remember, he had been a guardian of the woods, the Woodsman, and what ever name he once had, no one could remember. The loss of his name, like so many other things of his past, didn't pain him. It was just a name, after all, and he'd found himself neither lacking nor wanting. 'Woodsman' would do, for that was his nature. The forest was his dwelling and his workplace, and protecting it was his life. Though he had broken too many bones within its borders than he could recall, and though it had paid him in countless scars, all was well. He was alive to tend the woods.

((ooc: No hat for Cain! Rumplestiltsglitch stole it as per the backstory posted in

hamsterball. No one glitched knows that the hat belonged to Cain in real life, but if your character isn't glitched, well... Ask him about it, and you might just get an affirmative. Or not. <3))

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She sought the forest for its song. Perhaps here, where existence and appearances ebbed and flowed like an ocean, she would have regained her power to hear it. But she was deaf to it, still.

She came upon The Woodsman there, to her displeasure. Humans roamed the city like flies, like spiderwebs obstructing her path. She could not escape them. She did not know this one, nor did she care to know him. His presence went unheeded, but still she speaks, nonetheless, looking up toward the shaded canopies above. Her voice is quiet.

"This place...would have sang great tributes to me, once."

[ooc: Unglitched, but sadly I don't think she's seen Cain enough to notice the lack of hat.]

It was plain to see that she was no mere mortal, and as such worthy of the same respect as any other lady who passed through his forest - his only for the protection he gave; a duty placed upon him by the Queen Herself.

And yet, though he would have been moved by such a presence, he merely knelt before her and bowed his head. "My apologies, m'lady, but the forest has long since lost her voice. She is old, and cares for little else but sleep. I speak to her every day, but can't remember the last time she spoke in turn."

[no worries :D]

His show of respect pleased her. A time, all would have cowered before her. To be worshiped was an expectation, not a gift. But her human form did not command such reverence, and so humans forgot their place.

"You are content to speak to it, still, though it does not heed your voice, utterly empty to your presence. Why do you bother?"

"Content, yes," he replied, unfeeling of the frostbite that had long ago set into his body. He moved slower for it, but the cold weather had ceased to matter so long ago he couldn't remember the years.

"She is mine to protect and care for. Silent company though she is, I find her better suited as such than any mortal." He spoke from the heart, though he hadn't felt it beat for an age.

"More to the point, I would not have her forget her place."

Perhaps even more truthful - he was lonely, though he knew it not himself.

"You consider yourself a guardian of this place? A ruler?" asked the god-king, both a realization and a question. She breathed deep. The air felt still, and the space wide. Not wide enough, perhaps, but it would do.

"I find myself unable to escape the company of mortals. They clutter worlds upon worlds, breeding and grieving and failing and destroying. This place...it is an oasis in a desert of bile, untainted by humanity. It does not decay."

The Woodsman shook his head and rose to his feet once more. "I rule nothing and no one, m'lady. I am but a keeper, granted his duties by Her Majesty the Queen of Taxonia."

He allowed himself a small smile, though it reached not his eyes (and indeed his eyes would not attempt to reach hers). "Should you wish it, I'll make my way elsewhere. I wish no offense, decaying mortal though I am, and blessed by Her Majesty's magic."

He would remove his hat, if only he had it still. He felt naked without it, ever since the pixie sorcerer named it his prize.

She looked at him, taking a step closer. He was as the others were...altered, in some way. Ages ago, in her rule, she might have gained entertainment from the ruse. Humans forced to relieve their nightmares, ancient stories, roles chosen by their betters. But she found no amusement in it, now. She tired of worlds of which she did not belong, of which she could not rule.

This one, at least, was not as irritating.

"Your presence is not as displeasing as other mortals," she said, her small acceptance of his company. "You may stay."

Inclining his head instead of a verbal expression of gratitude, the Woodsman found himself hesitating. To be on his way, or to linger in such rare a presence?

He decided to linger, and let his tired bones rest for a while. Not prone to make conversation, he lapsed into silence, awaiting more observations or queries from the fae - for surely she must be one of their kind.

She did not speak. Seconds passed into moments, and moments into hours. Illyria did not move. Her limbs needed no rest, nor did she tire of the forest. She took it in, studied it, analyzed the air. She paid the human no mind, but simply allowed him to be.

He did not pester her, nor attempt to make useless conversation. After a seemingly endless stretch of silence, she finally turned to look at him, and spoke: "You are not like other humans." She paused then, thoughtful. "But I wonder...if this is simply a symptom of your alteration."

For a while, the Woodsman patrolled the perimeter, making sure that no one would trespass, all the while his senses reached and kept his mind's eye on the Lady in blue. After a while he made his return, content to lean on one of the old oaks nearby. There he stayed, feeling only the cool air of the seeming endless darkness, until he almost stopped moving altogether. Save for every slow, paced breath, save for the blinking of his faded blue eyes, he might as well be a statue.

It was her Ladyship's voice that drew his focus once more to the forefront of his mind: to the present time. He blinked for a moment, dazed. His lashes felt heavy for the frost settling upon them. "Perhaps, m'lady," he spoke at last, knowing only of the alteration brought to him by the pixie sorcerer.

"I am not as I once was, and for that I am grateful." He looked away, his gaze growing distant for the space of one heartbeat. "Ever grateful."

"Grateful..." the once glorious god-king repeated the word, barely a breath upon her blue lips. She was not what she once was, but her present nature was but a burden to her. A curse. A weakness. No, she was not grateful to have been reborn.

She did not understand. A while the motivations of humans were more a frustration than a concern to her, she was curious, still. "Were you less then what you are? Or more?"

The Woodsman ducked his head, considering what would be the most proper response. When he looked up, there was not the slightest hint of stirred up emotion in his eyes.

"My family lost to me, I was consumed by grief - but no more. A long time ago, I bartered with a sorcerer who lives in these woods, and as I say, I hold nothing but gratitude towards him. I can breathe thanks to his magic."

Magic. It annoyed her. Used in its primitive form, it was glorious, but she awoke in a world where jesters made illusions and sorcery was used to further the humans' power. It became a weak offense. Disappointing.

But she was not in her old time, nor her new one. She was somewhere else. Perhaps it had its uses. "He rid you of your burden," said Illyria, her voice not only understanding, but somewhat longing. "Of grief, the vilest human emotion. I have felt it, unwillingly. I... do not care for it."

He could agree with one thing, being that grief was vile and wretched and something all should be spared. However, it was somewhat heartening to know even powerful beings were subject to such destructive emotions.

"I believe it to be true, milady, that no one feels such things willingly. You have my condolences."

Her neck turned so to face him, an indignant denial of needing anyone's sympathies ready on her tongue, but she said nothing. She had not met any who scorned the burden of human emotions instead of reveling in and succumbing to them. It was...pleasing.

"Yes," she only said, the one word spoken in barely a whisper. She looked up into the sky, feeling a guarded wind upon her face. "I accept."

There once was a young man called Michael, who enjoyed wandering around the forest greatly, even though the people of town and his older brother warned him of the dangers lurking there. Michael never listened to them. There was nothing dangerous in the forest. It was beautiful and he liked napping underneath the trees, falling asleep to the songs of the birds.

He had just been watching the squirrels play when there were footsteps and they ran away. Frowning Michael got up from where he'd been sitting propped against the trunk of a tree.

"Who goes there?" demanded the Woodsman, for he didn't take lightly to trespassers, and this was Her Majesty's land. He would give safe passage to anyone in need, but curses befall anyone who would seek to steal or wreak havoc on the Queen's territory.

Michael was relieved to find it was a man speaking and not one of the dreadful creatures the village people told srories about.

"My name is Michael," he introduced himself, not daring to move. "I was just taking a walk here, sir." he had been taught to be friendly and respectful to strangers.

"Pray, take heed of my warning: you are trespassing, but I bear you no ill will for it. What is your business within these woods?"

Though his eyes were dulled and his face spoke of hard years spent in the wild both in folds and scars new and old, the Woodsman was not known for a lack of kindness. Quite the opposite, he would never turn his back on someone in need.

Michael did feel slightly nervous now. This seemed to be serious business.

"I'm sorry sir, I didn't know that," he said, hoping the man would see that he was telling the truth. "I was just wandering around" he wouldn't tell the man he'd been napping, or he might think him lazy. "Am I not allowed in this parf of the forest "

"Only if you know your place, young Michael," he said firmly. "Beware the pixies, and toadstools, and old oak trees."

He stepped closer, squinting in the waning light. "It will be dark soon, and worse things yet make a playground of the night."

Michael's eyes widened at the man's words. "Pixies? They exist?" he asked, a trace of excitement in his voice.

The Woodsman inclined his head in the shadow of a bow. "Of course. Magic too, young man. Magic and ill will and spite. Pixies and fae and far worse yet. Wolves, and dragons, beasts who were once men."

It was the closest thing to mirth he had felt in an age. "Have your parents taught you nothing of the woods?"

"I don't have parents," Michael said, with a slight shrug. He'd grown up with his older brother, who'd told him many stories, but Michael had never been sure if he should believe them.

"Can you tell me about the forest?" he asked the Woodsman, eyes widening.

"My apologies," said the Woodsman, and that was as far as his empathy reached. He could ask forgiveness of an ill timed assumption and mean it.

"She is older than time itself," he told the young man. "Full of magic and creatures in possession thereof. Some even claim there are lions here. Lions and tigers and bears."

"Really?" Michael asked, hungry for all the stories about the forest the Woodsmen obviously knew.

"Have you ever seen a lion, sir?"

Every once in a while the pixie sorcerer would pay a visit to past business associates. Partly because it amused him, occasionally as a means to ensure they were still satisfied with their gifts, but typically it was to see if another deal could be brokered.

All three applied to the Woodsman, and the pixie conspired to place himself in the man's path. He perched in a tree, the gray hat dangling from the toe of one shoe as he awaited salutation.

The salutation was, as was the Woodsman's wont, curt and dry as kindling. "You tease me, pixie. Nay, you wound me, to display my forfeited hat so carelessly."

"Wound you? Oh, if it is something so small as that--" He kicked his foot upward with effortless grace, and after brief flight the hat settled upon the sorcerer's wild-haired head. "Then I shan't put forth the effort. How fares the woods this morning?"

Once upon a time, the Woodsman might have envied the pixie the innate fluidity of movement he seemed to possess (and flaunt without shame), but it had been a long time indeed since he last cared for such ugly emotions.

"She is slumbering, as ever. Silent and unstirring. You'd best take care not to wake her," he said with a well practiced ease. "Or I shall be ever cross with you."

"Cross! How could I bear it?" He chuckled at his pun, then dropped lightly from his perch. "You overestimate my powers, sir, and my desire to bring trouble. I too much prefer a quiet forest."

The silence was much, much better than hooves and horns and bells. He dismissed the troubling thought and looked to his friend (if any in the land could bear that title it was likely the Woodsman, for he alone did not pass judgement upon the sorcerer's deeds).

"And what of yourself?" Yes he was curious, endlessly curious about the Woodsman's condition. Rare were the effects of his gifts so profound.

And the Woodsman replied solemnly, "One step at a time, friend." Though they rarely met, they went back a long time, and sad a thought though it may be, the pixie was the closest thing he had to a friend. In that, at the very least, they were equal.

What of him, then? Naturally the sorcerer would like to know, in the tradition of ensuring one's business endeavors remain fruitful. The pixie had his hat (what he had believed to be a trinket, and found to be so much more; it was as inherent to him as his eyes or his hands, and still sometimes he found his eyes stinging in summertime, and his hands reaching to tip a brim that was not there). He had his peace of mind.

But of late, he had become to wonder if it was enough. It was a dangerous thought, that he might find himself regretting his trade after so long a time had passed. He bore the scars of the years gone by.

"I feel older than my years, plenty though they are. I make my rounds and by nighttime, I come home to find my boots filled with blood. My joints pop, my bones grind disconcertingly in places, and yet I feel nothing. I think perhaps I ought fear my safety. Her Majesty's gifted me with long life, but if I grind myself to dust unknowingly 'tis a wasted life. Shall I die for not knowing something in me has ruptured?"

The pixie pursed his lips and made the appropriate noises of interest and sympathy as the Woodsman spoke. He was much more fascinated than concerned, but knew mortals - most mortals - appreciated the show.

"It is possible," he replied with a shrug and stepped closer. "Or a wound gone to fester, or perhaps your own ax will be the end of you." And, because every once in a great while he needed to ask: "If you feel your time is wasted then you could barter for more, or perhaps change your circumstances once again."

The great thing was, from a pixie's perspective, that such tokens (mimicked or otherwise) tricked mortals into believing they mattered. Even one such as the Woodsman, who had been ageless for so long he didn't even remember his own name, whose first trade with the pixie had rendered him numb where empathy were concerned.

Nonetheless, it warmed his heart, or so he liked to imagine. "You wouldn't tempt me if I had nothing to trade. Yet, I fail to see what I've left to tempt you."

The smallest smile lit the pixie's face, and he blinked slowly.

"You live and you breathe and you think, you see, hear, smell, touch, taste." He pointed a long, alabaster finger at the center of the Woodsmand's chest. "That heart I let you keep is still thudding away, you've that to surrender. I know of a tinsmith who could fashion you a new form, so you needn't worry about any ailments aside from rust."

All speculation and fancy, of course, not really a true offer but the chance of one.

His tablet said Wyatt was here. Paul himself was ill at ease in the woods, not being a natury sort of guy, but with the city going fucking medieval he figured get with Cain, get a little sanity somewhere in the bullshit.

"Cain, you in here?" he calls as he walks, scowling and kicking at a leaf. "Don't make me get all Ranger Fucking Rick, I don't look good in those uniforms."

Unfortunately for Paul, once he finds Cain - or rather, the Woodsman finds him - there is not even the faintest glimmer of recollection in his eyes.

Perhaps even more alarmingly: his eyes are dulled from sheer lack of emotion, and his skin is glaringly red for a lack of caution in the weather of late. He seems - and is - completely unaware.

"Who goes there? Speak."

....and of course, the problem with Paul's plan was that Wyatt was temporarily a part of the fucking medieval bullshit. He stopped walking, taking in Wyatt's appearance.

He knew the glitches by now, after this long in the city he sure as fuck knew them. He knew it wasn't going to be permanent, he knew it wasn't anything personal.

There's still an automatic and instinctive sort of revulsion at looking into the eyes of someone you know, someone you know well, and seeing absolutely nothing looking back at you.

Paul stands stock still on the forest trail for a few moments.

"Sorry. Wrong fucking number. Go about your.... your foresty business."

Skin stretching taut from the cold, the Woodsman looked the stranger over and gave a slight frown. A stranger though he was, he seemed more than that if only from what was clear to see in his eyes. There lay confusion in their depths, confusion and something else that made the Woodsman's jaw clench. Could it be disappointment?

He tilted his head, stepping closer yet. "Beg pardon, sir... I meant no offense. Are you looking for someone?"

Paul took an automatic, reflexive step back when Wyatt... when the guy who looked like Wyatt stepped closer. He jammed his hands into his pockets. Cigarette. Maybe.

"...Not anymore. Aren't you fucking cold?'

Fair enough, thought the Woodsman and gave a shrug (and the shrug is the same, and the arch of the one eyebrow is the same, and the faint look of surprise).

"Not for a long time. I am unfeeling where the elements are concerned." He'd thought it common knowledge, when so many called him senseless, a few even going so far as naming him heartless - but apparently, this was not the case.

"It is a boon, granted me by magical means," he went on. "A fair trade, it was."

He's said the words so many times, thought the phrase so often the sentiment itself has started to ring false. A fair trade though it was, he bears the scars to prove just how fair.

Paul looks away. He doesn't want to see Wyatt's mannerisms on.... this guy.

"Some fucking boon, you look like you've nearly got frostbite," he mutters. "Build yourself a fire or something, Christ, get indoors."

Not that he really thinks his advice is going to be listened to. Paul sighs and kicks a tree root. "I mean, you look like shit."

The Woodsman opened his mouth to speak - to explain or protest that his duties were more important than what he looked like - but then closed it again. He had a feeling any such attempt would fall on deaf ears.

So instead he inclined his head, and looked at the other man from under arched eyebrows. "I have a cabin not far from here. I assure you I don't stay outdoors after dark." A beat, then, "I would advise you do the same. The woods are dangerous enough in the daytime, lest you know your way."

Great, he has a cabin. Fanfuckingtastic. Paul leans his head back taking a deep breath of the cold air, stares at the tree branches overhead.

He wants to grab Cain, shake him, maybe slap him, tell him to knock this shit the fuck off and be himself, it's not funny anymore, joke's over, let's stop with the fucking method acting, cowboy.

He recognizes the impulse in himself as irrational, as a coping mechanism, anger to cover up helplessness. Classic textbook really. He knows better. Sure. He jams his hands further into his pockets.

"Yeah. Yeah, 10-4 that, copy. I'll get the hell out of your hair."

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[location: Taxon Forest, mainly, but even the Woodsman goes into town for acquiring Stuff]

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[Location] Taxon Forest

[location] because why not

[location] why not indeed :D

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[location] tralala old timey canon + XTC lyrics XD

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