taxonomites | Moar Snowwww

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Moar Snowwww

The snow has gone from a winter storm to something truly impressive. Ground-level doors are nearly buried in it; windows reveal walls of solid white pressing against the glass. Chimneys have iced over, and cars are buried in deep drifts.

The trams stopped running two days ago, with polite notes reading Temporarily Out of Service - We Apologize for Any Inconvenience affixed to the frozen doors.

Taxon is very quiet.

The Extras huddle indoors, and the streets are long white swathes of virgin snow. No car horns, no hum of traffic. The river is iced as well, and the edges of the shore boast chunks of white ice floating in the black water.

Near the Sanctuary, a water main has burst in the night, and the day's slight increase in temperature thawed it enough to erupt and flood a street. The buildings of that street are hung with sheets of icicles, gleaming like someone's idea of a Christmas decoration taken beyond all reason.

The wind blows from the north, and skirls the snow into further drifts and piles. If you listen-- if you listen very carefully-- you can hear the sound of voices on the wind, and howls that cut as keenly as the Arctic wind.

If you must go outside, Taxonians, breathe slowly and carefully-- for an incautious breath can freeze the very lining of your throat.

And at night...? Well, tonight the howls become more than distantly-imagined sounds: tonight, white shapes stalk Taxon's white streets-- wolves the size of ponies, whose eyes flicker with blue fire and who are hungry for warm meat.

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"Nff," is Jason's first, eloquent response to the nudging. His head's still swimming. He's not sure whether the thing actually has that many fingers, or whether he's seeing double.

He's not particularly afraid. This is due less to confidence in his own abilities, or even Etrigan's, so much as he doesn't think he would even properly register to the Thing he caught a brief, dizzying, non-Euclidean, nightmare-inducing glimpse of.

He might register to the little film of consciousness but at the moment he's not taking bets.

His hand is cold. His hand is getting colder. Distantly he considers that he should get his glove back on, and he should get out of the snow. Etrigan's heat makes him more resistant to the cold than many might be, but resistance is not immunity, and he can acquire frostbite or hypothermia too, with enough time.

He struggles to sit up, and, for lack of something better to use as leverage, he winds up gingerly grabbing the bony limb in order to pull himself upright.

This time he is very definitely not probing for any hint of its nature.

It has that many fingers and more; Metody does not do things by halves.

The limb lifts as he pulls, and as he rises, another sweeps around to support his back. Once he is steadily on his feet, the creature steps around him, then settles down to sheild him from the wind.

The main part of Metody unhappily examines him. Is he sick? Is that why he fell? She wishes she could see color with her boney parts. She's not even sensitive enough top temperature to tell if he's fevered by touching his forehead - not that that'd be very helpful in this cold anyway.

She settles for a light touch to his arm with one of her jaws.

Edited 2013-03-14 22:56 (UTC)

"Ah--" The touch to his back makes him jerk, but the claws and bone spikes do not dig into his flesh, they simply.... help him stand.

The wooden frame of one snowshoe snapped in his graceless fall. Jason stands there a moment, breathing, side-eyeing the bone barrier that is currently keeping the wind from him.

First things first. He tugs his glove back on, numb fingers fumbling to pull it back on.

Now then.

It's old and it's big and the shape of it, as much as he could tell, was something consummately not-human, something vast enough that humanity is likely a very tiny and irrelevant concept.

And yet, it helped him stand, and the jaw bumping against his arm has nothing of hostility in the gesture. If he were to judge it on... body language... alone, he would have to say it's 'concern'.

"...thank you," Jason decides to say, formally. Whatever the entity, it is better, in Jason's experience, than to attempt courtesy than rudeness. As a general rule.

He looks up at the encircling ribs/femurs/everything-else that he is currently quasi-surrounded by.

"Do you understand speech?"

And jaws. There were lots and lots of jaws branching off of every crooked limb and splaying rib, all with far more teeth than any one creature needs. Or any two, or any four, for that matter.

There's no neck, though, and no head, as such. So Metody lifts one of the limb-jaws and tilts it up and down in a nod.

...well enough. It understands speech. A positive omen, as these things go.

...now what.

His snowshoe is broken, the frame snapped in his graceful stumble. Jason scowls down at it from behind several scarves, because while the teeth-and-bones do not particularly unnerve him, he doesn't need to be looking directly at them either and wondering how many originally-living creatures they came from.

(Lots.)

What is this thing? Why hasn't he sensed it, before now? --he can answer that last after a moment's thought, though: many of the things here are... foreign. Extremely foreign, from other worlds, other realities, so removed from his own that even Etrigan's perceptions do not see them.

He crouches down to untie the now-useless snowshoe. "Are you responsible for this snow?"

He doesn't think so. But better to ask and see what response he gets, at least.

What.

No. What? What?

How do you mime being confused and possibly ever so slightly offended?

Metody settles for swinging the head emphatically side to side, then lifting his entire upper body up a little in his best approximation of a shrug. Then he reaches out with a jaw and touches the broken snow shoe.

That is also not his fault.

Jason watches the firm no, and arches a brow at the poking at his shoe. Mmh. He can repair it, but... not something he wishes to do out in the extreme cold, where hands are numb and clumsy and next-to-useless.

He catches himself eyeing a scapula in the mess of bones, a scapula that looks rather larger than human-- no, no, that would be rather rude. (And also, he thinks, ill-advised.)

"Well," he says at last, "I intend to cross the bridge and find out what is responsible, because this is damned inconvenient. Are you going to try and stop me?"

Edited 2013-03-17 08:10 (UTC)

Oh. Is he?

Metody put these bits of himself here to guard against the wolves, even though he suspects the wolves are already out and among them, and anyway, if they're gianty mythical ghost pony snow wolves, they can probably leap across the gap on their own, no bridge needed. But if the wolves are part of the snow, and the snow is actually caused by something, then stopping the snow will stop the wolves, and also, possibly make spring happen.

He would really like it to be spring.

The head swings from side to side, then swings further, folding back into the main mass, which groans and crackles as it collapses inwards. Parts flow into each other in a way that should not be, then expand and extrude again. Three clumsy petals expand then unbloom, compressing into a massive skull ringed in sockets and crested with some kind of pelvic flare, and then legs poke out of those sockets. They bend and sink into the snow, then straighten to lift the whole mass up.

"That is somewhat disconcerting," Jason says, not quite at a volume intending to be heard, as he watches the bones flow and remold. It just goes to show to him that fifteen-hundred years or not, there's always something strange out there he has not seen.

He takes another step back from the shifting ossicite, more careful this time, mindful of his shoes.

"--that is... quite the trick. Your-- legs--" only slight question there on that word, "--are long enough that you're reaching the ground through the snow?"

Whoops, forgot a head. And a tail, a tail is good when you don't have facial expressions. A spine snakes forward, and knots into an approximation of a head, and one extends backwards, and wags. He nods the head, then crouches down.

C'mon. He even made a saddle, sort of. He's mastered 'dog', let's see if he can manage 'horse'.

Ah. Ah, lovely. It wants him to get on.

Jason engages in a measured exhale, studying the-- really, 'equine' or not, it is currently reminding him of nothing so much a puppy-- creature made of numerous composite bones, currently waiting for him to hop on with all apparent eagerness.

Fatalistically, he supposes he's done worse things.

Besides, if it decides to turn into a bleached meat-grinder once he is atop it, Etrigan will make an appearance, and Etrigan will no doubt be more than happy to 'avenge' him in suitably destructive fashion.

(Life with Etrigan: you always have insurance, you just hate to call the policy in.)

"...very well," says Jason, and steps carefully through the snow until he can mount the damned thing. "A moment, if you will."

He strips the other shoe off-- better than to try and ride with it banging into what passes as the creature's sides-- and after a second's deliberation jams both shoes in between what he thinks are the vertebrae of something or another.

"I trust that is not in your way. If it is, I'll move it," he offers, and then takes hold of the bony analogue to a saddlehorn, and hoist himself into the not-quite-a-saddle.

Yes! Wait, what the heck is he - that is so not what that space is meant for. But fine. If Jason wants to be weird, fine. He'll just ignore it.

...okay, this feels strange. He doesn't like the feeling of squashy flesh on him, even if said flesh is muffled in several layers of fabric. But it's not Jason's fault that he's got meat.

And that part of his skull-body is unnecessarily wide. It's forcing Jason into what had to be an uncomfortable splay. The bone flows, and that part of him pinches in, trying to be more ergonomic.

Behind him, the tail furiously whips back and forth in a paroxysm of joy. He's useful! He's genuinely useful!

Okay! What way now?

"--nmn," Jason says as the bit he is sitting on decides to shift, directly below his posterior. Reflexive grabbing with gloved hands at the 'saddlehorn', since there are no reins. He holds his breath until the thing has stopped resorting itself.

Alright, okay, yes, that is more comfortable now but if you do that again he's walking. Not that he says this aloud.

"....right," Jason says, and clears his throat. "Right. Well. Thank you. Forward across the bridge, shall we?"

In a life filled with an awful lot of weirdness, Jason supposes this experience might rank in his top 100. (That's really very high! It's just that it's got a lot to compete against!)

Oh, Jason. Don't give him a challenge. With a little effort, he can probably crack the top fifty.

Across the bridge! He can do that!

He has a strange gait. The longer front legs zip out in front and probe the snow, rapidly stabbing down to confirm the location of the actual ground before the next pair sink into exactly the same spot. It reduces his speed to a trot-equivalent, but at least he's not constantly falling over roots and into mysterious gopher holes.

Back in Gotham, he's got a sentient pillow on the couch who used to be one of his best friends.

The gait is nothing like a horse-- the closest he can compare it to is that of a cat, although that's not right either-- and Jason reflexively holds on to bone spurs/ribs/tibias/and whatever else he can grip against the back-and-forth motion of the collection of bones.

The landscape is white, white, white-- save for the water of the river is black-- and Jason squints into the snowscape and its myriad variations on a lack of saturation. Here and there blues, and pearl grays, and darker shadows... but the only true feature in the landscape is the mountain, rising singular and sharp, a tooth to pierce the sky.

Jason isn't terribly fond of approaching fortresses, but then, this can be recon, he supposes.

"To the mountain-- can you see it?" he asks, since the thing has no damned eyes.

He loosens the sword in its scabbard. Quite pathetic, if they are set upon by wolves and his fancy, stupid blade happens to be frozen in place.

The head turns slowly, scanning the landscape, then twists to face him and shakes side to side. It is a purely ceremonial head, there for Jason's comfort only, and Metody does not need it to see.

And look, Jason, he doesn't have eyes. His vision doesn't involve anything resembling light, and while he has no idea how it works, it sure as heck doesn't extend as far as any kind of mountains.

Jason grimaces at the shaking, hanging on tighter, not just with his hands but with knees-- it's the wrong shape for a horse and the wrong gait but he's spent far too long on horseback over the years to be able to forget the habits of riding.

"Very well then. Forward for now; straight ahead. I'd wager we have a quarter-mile at least. I'll let you know if we get off course."

He's silent for a few more probing steps through the snow. He would like to ask what are you, but given the thing's inability to speak, there is likely no explanation that would work. Even asking How should I call you?, which is Jason's touchstone question of establishing ground rules when dealing with The Other, is not likely to yield a result with something that cannot speak.

He shrugs to himself.

"Thank you for the transport," he settles for saying, a touch of grave formality underlying his words. "It's considerably quicker than I would have managed on my own."

Being unable to speak is infuriating. He is capable of making sounds, but they are not pleasant, or comfortable, or of this world. He feels it is dehumanizing to be mute, no pun intended.

Even if he could just emit tones, it'd do a lot to help. He could have inflection then.

Know what he needs? A xylophone. That's what he needs.

The little head nods in agreement, still facing Jason, then twists down to touch the wedged-in snowshoes. Yes, he'd be pretty slow, given that his shoes are broken.

A xylophone also made of bones!

Jason nods at the gesture of the head towards his snowshoes. Not especially given to long-windedness himself, his first impulse is to leave it there, but, since the creature must be silent, then if he is also silent they will be very quiet indeed.

...although perhaps that isn't such a bad thing, when attempting to slip without significant combat through a possibly wolf-infested landscape. Hrmn.

"I would ask what you are," Jason does say, though, voice pitched slightly lower, "but I recognize that as-- impractical, at the moment. Are you--"

Slight pause, as he thinks how to phrase things in yes-or-no questions for the creature's sake. "--native to this city?"

Oh, what?

He may not technically be a person, but by golly, he does a heck of a better imitation than those things in the city! He has actual, organized thoughts and idiosyncratic motivations and all kinds of internal life. Great seething scads of it, in fact, whole flights of thought and fancy. He is even capable of near-creative work, rather than the much more obviously derivatives the Extras make.

The tp-tp-tp of his gait stops. He might not be capable of facial expressions, but just for this, he will freaking make some, Mr. Jason Blood, just to communicate how very unhappy he is at the assumptions behind your questions. He rummages in the snow a moment, then comes up with a short stick. This is broken in half, and then passed to the knot of spinal column that makes up his false head. Little mandibles form and grip each half of the stick, and tilt them into two angry eyebrow slashes, drawn down in the middle. And then he vigorously shakes his head.

No. NO, he is NOT one of the scary fake people of this world. He is one of the scary fake people of another world, and he is far, far superior, and if he has to resort to do it yourself emoticons to say this, then fine.

Jason tilts his head to the side at the stick-snapping, brows knit behind the scarves and hoods, and then gives a bemused blink at the-- oh, don't say it, don't say it--

--alright--

--the comical expression of anger thus created on the nightmarish bone-creature's 'face'.

His lips twitch behind the parka's concealing ruffs.

"You needn't make that face at me," is what he says aloud. "I am having to proceed by a process of yes-and-no elimination, here. Your current limbs are not wearing one of the bracelets. I've been here nearly a year and have yet to see any individuals made of bone appearing via the tablets. It was a reasonable question.

"That said, I intended no offence by it, and if I have given such then I apologise."

Briefly-- very briefly-- Jason considers attempting to form another connection with the creature, because this is really a very unwieldy way to communicate, but he has no desire to expose his psyche to that vast, stagnant, lifeless expanse again. Pass.

"Are such... entities... as yourself... common, in your home reality?"

That comedy is the product of some fast and sophisticated thought, Buddy. It's not exactly easy for a thing of Metody's size and composition to express anger without looking threatening. Muppet stock eyebrows are a brilliant solution, and he's going to be keeping these sticks. Judging by all his other conversations in Taxon, its just a matter of time until he's made angry or sad and will need eyebrows again.

His false head unfurls into a cluster of fine, rippling spines, and he carefully whiffs the sticks on with the snowshoes. Then he fists his head together again and shakes it from side to side. No. Not common at all.

He hangs his head, whole body sagging with a soft grind of bone on bone. Being unique is not a thing he likes to think on. It is lonely.

But there are more important things to worry on. He straightens and regained his forward motion. Paul wants to go to the mountain, and there are wolves, so he will carry him and guard against other monsters.

Come to think of out - he points forward with his head, then splays it out in a tilted hand-like gesture, tryingto indicate a question.

Poor lonely bone creature.

Jason doesn't do compassion well so he merely nods at this confession. As for the question... it's debatable if he actually understands quite what Metody is asking. Their direction? Their purpose?

"I think the mountain may hold some sort of answers, or the source of this ungodly weather. If nothing else we may be able to gather some sort of information."

He is pleased that he was able to indicate that there was a question at all. Specifics are a far-off dream. And anyway, Jason more or less answered the question.

He considers that, then nods. It makes sense. Mountains are where bad things come from, after all. And there might be some kind of cold-howling monster there.

He gently nudges Jason with his head. He has no particular question in mind, but perhaps it'll spur the man to say more.

"...I am afraid I don't know what you are asking me," Jason admits, but he studies the nudging conglomerate of bones for a few seconds.

"This cold doesn't make your-- structure-- brittle?" he asks curiously. "If it gets much colder than this, steel itself becomes easy to shatter. Perhaps the nature of your power protects you."

He examines the 'joints' but of course they do not follow any rule of mundane biology. No sinews hold the thing together. It simply moves. He has known necromancers who could make bones dance with the semblance of life, but this all speaks of a power far beyond theirs. And the ease and speed with which the entity reshapes itself...

"I am very old," Jason says to the entity, words falling soft in the absolute snowy silence, "but I've never seen anything quite like you."

The ludicrousness of his claim to age in the face of what he had sensed strikes him a moment later, and he laughs, despite himself, despite the chill that tries to ravage his throat.

"--very old for a man, at any rate. As other things reckon it, I'm no doubt another ephemeral flash. Everything is relative.

"I wonder how old this city is."

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