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October Catchall | Open
WHO: Xiao Xingchen and YOU!
WHEN: October, whenever chaos isn't trying to eat this crew
WHERE: Here and there
WHAT: Xingchen just trying to vibe, you know. Doing this and that. Trying to avoid Xue Yang. (He probably won't avoid Xue Yang.)
WARNINGS: Nothing in mind at the moment except probably his standard sads, but will update if necessary.
[ooc: I'll match format, follow your heart!]
1. garden variety
[After the poisoning at Macaluso's banquet, and then Xingchen's (admittedly) poor decision to call out Vannozza along with him, and then everything that has transpired with the witches and the dragon and -
Well. Xingchen really should keep his toes in line if he doesn't want to cause the rest of their group more undue trouble. So he plops himself down on a bench in the palace garden, unmasked and unadorned in Taravast's fashion. He doesn't plan on going very far, anyway, unless necessary.
But then, what use is a blind man really in a place like this?
So he sits there, trying to find some peace in the quietness of the garden, smelling the flowers and steadying himself like those plants. They can't move. They can only rely on the earth and trust that their caretakers will not uproot them needlessly. Maybe if Xingchen can find that same trust, he'll be able to...well. Carry on with everything that's happened to him in the past couple of months. But trust, he's learned, is hard-won. He's not a flower, either. He has legs. Legs that can carry him away from all this if they must. Legs that carried him down a mountain not even that long ago.
...Maybe his master was right. Maybe leaving the mountain really is a bad decision. How much hardship could he have saved everyone if he had just stayed?
Xingchen exhales harshly, knowing these thoughts will never solve anything, no matter how incessant they are. So he gets down on the ground, crosses his legs, and tries to meditate. Become one with the flowers, maybe. Though that has its own connotation, something that's been crossing his mind more often than it ever used to.
He needs to get a hold of himself. Hopefully one day it will work.]
2. happy little accidents?
[Xingchen retreats to the garden again, but this time he can be found with a large pile of papers beside him on the bench, along with a little bowl of black paint, and a paintbrush in hand. It's not quite what he's used to, not from when he could still write a few years ago, but it's what the servants were able to procure for him. Beggars can't be choosers and he's been close enough to a beggar to understand that entirely.
He hunches over this pile of papers, holding his sleeve back with one hand while the one holding the brush starts to hesitantly glide over the paper. Or, well, that's what he had hoped for. The paintbrush isn't meant for writing; the resistance against the paper isn't as giving as a writing brush would allow.
And, of course, he can't even see what his hand is producing.
In his mind, he can see it all clearly. He just wants to write his name, wants the muscle memory of his fingers and his wrist to produce something that should be simple enough, something that used to be simple enough.
晓星尘
From the get-go, however, it all feels wrong. Again, this brush isn't meant for his current task, for starters. But he pushes through and finishes. Or hopes he finishes. Have the strokes crossed over each other? Realistically speaking, they must have, but he just can't tell.
So he pulls that paper away and lets it float to the ground at his feet. And he tries again, much to the same feeling. It doesn't feel right, but he can't tell for sure, and already he can feel that frustration flow through him. His hand grips the brush tighter than necessary. He presses the brush harder than needs to be done against the paper. He can see his name so easily in his mind, he can imagine his hand gliding over the paper without mistake, but none of it translates!
He drops another sheet to the ground. He starts again.
He fails again.
He fails again.
He fails.
How many pieces of paper litter the ground, he doesn't know, but to anyone passing by who can read such characters, his strokes are at times disconnected and at other times bleed together into an illiterate blob. He tries again, his wrist flicking a by now familiar dance that he's sure results in nothing and he tosses that to the ground, too, before sitting up, the sullied brush dangling from his hand over the side of the bench.]
What did you expect, Xingchen? You really are a fool.
3. drink responsibly
[So maybe some nights Xingchen gets a little restless. Maybe some nights he takes to the streets and follows some of the louder crowds. Maybe some nights he ends up in a bar.
Xingchen knows he shouldn't, or at least he should keep himself in check, but when some of the other patrons keep enabling him, keep saying, "Just one more!" it's easy to get swept up in the moment. It's easy to let the chatter and the music and the warmth envelop him and reassure him that just one more - or two, or three... - isn't a problem.
Except, well, he's still just a single blind man in a part of the city with which he's not entirely familiar, and with a compromised sense of balance on top of it all. If only he had a friend to lend a shoulder to lean on for a minute or a kind hand to help lead him back home.
Maybe he won't get lucky at all and someone will ply him with just one more.]
4. wildcard
[Eyyyyy you know how it goes, hit me up, fam.]
WHEN: October, whenever chaos isn't trying to eat this crew
WHERE: Here and there
WHAT: Xingchen just trying to vibe, you know. Doing this and that. Trying to avoid Xue Yang. (He probably won't avoid Xue Yang.)
WARNINGS: Nothing in mind at the moment except probably his standard sads, but will update if necessary.
[ooc: I'll match format, follow your heart!]
1. garden variety
[After the poisoning at Macaluso's banquet, and then Xingchen's (admittedly) poor decision to call out Vannozza along with him, and then everything that has transpired with the witches and the dragon and -
Well. Xingchen really should keep his toes in line if he doesn't want to cause the rest of their group more undue trouble. So he plops himself down on a bench in the palace garden, unmasked and unadorned in Taravast's fashion. He doesn't plan on going very far, anyway, unless necessary.
But then, what use is a blind man really in a place like this?
So he sits there, trying to find some peace in the quietness of the garden, smelling the flowers and steadying himself like those plants. They can't move. They can only rely on the earth and trust that their caretakers will not uproot them needlessly. Maybe if Xingchen can find that same trust, he'll be able to...well. Carry on with everything that's happened to him in the past couple of months. But trust, he's learned, is hard-won. He's not a flower, either. He has legs. Legs that can carry him away from all this if they must. Legs that carried him down a mountain not even that long ago.
...Maybe his master was right. Maybe leaving the mountain really is a bad decision. How much hardship could he have saved everyone if he had just stayed?
Xingchen exhales harshly, knowing these thoughts will never solve anything, no matter how incessant they are. So he gets down on the ground, crosses his legs, and tries to meditate. Become one with the flowers, maybe. Though that has its own connotation, something that's been crossing his mind more often than it ever used to.
He needs to get a hold of himself. Hopefully one day it will work.]
2. happy little accidents?
[Xingchen retreats to the garden again, but this time he can be found with a large pile of papers beside him on the bench, along with a little bowl of black paint, and a paintbrush in hand. It's not quite what he's used to, not from when he could still write a few years ago, but it's what the servants were able to procure for him. Beggars can't be choosers and he's been close enough to a beggar to understand that entirely.
He hunches over this pile of papers, holding his sleeve back with one hand while the one holding the brush starts to hesitantly glide over the paper. Or, well, that's what he had hoped for. The paintbrush isn't meant for writing; the resistance against the paper isn't as giving as a writing brush would allow.
And, of course, he can't even see what his hand is producing.
In his mind, he can see it all clearly. He just wants to write his name, wants the muscle memory of his fingers and his wrist to produce something that should be simple enough, something that used to be simple enough.
晓星尘
From the get-go, however, it all feels wrong. Again, this brush isn't meant for his current task, for starters. But he pushes through and finishes. Or hopes he finishes. Have the strokes crossed over each other? Realistically speaking, they must have, but he just can't tell.
So he pulls that paper away and lets it float to the ground at his feet. And he tries again, much to the same feeling. It doesn't feel right, but he can't tell for sure, and already he can feel that frustration flow through him. His hand grips the brush tighter than necessary. He presses the brush harder than needs to be done against the paper. He can see his name so easily in his mind, he can imagine his hand gliding over the paper without mistake, but none of it translates!
He drops another sheet to the ground. He starts again.
He fails again.
He fails again.
He fails.
How many pieces of paper litter the ground, he doesn't know, but to anyone passing by who can read such characters, his strokes are at times disconnected and at other times bleed together into an illiterate blob. He tries again, his wrist flicking a by now familiar dance that he's sure results in nothing and he tosses that to the ground, too, before sitting up, the sullied brush dangling from his hand over the side of the bench.]
What did you expect, Xingchen? You really are a fool.
3. drink responsibly
[So maybe some nights Xingchen gets a little restless. Maybe some nights he takes to the streets and follows some of the louder crowds. Maybe some nights he ends up in a bar.
Xingchen knows he shouldn't, or at least he should keep himself in check, but when some of the other patrons keep enabling him, keep saying, "Just one more!" it's easy to get swept up in the moment. It's easy to let the chatter and the music and the warmth envelop him and reassure him that just one more - or two, or three... - isn't a problem.
Except, well, he's still just a single blind man in a part of the city with which he's not entirely familiar, and with a compromised sense of balance on top of it all. If only he had a friend to lend a shoulder to lean on for a minute or a kind hand to help lead him back home.
Maybe he won't get lucky at all and someone will ply him with just one more.]
4. wildcard
[Eyyyyy you know how it goes, hit me up, fam.]
no subject
[ Content to teeter along in familiar company Lily stayed by Xingchen's side, her hand still resting on his arm, hoping to help him stay on his feet as much as he was her.
Grimacing at the question about her luck at the card tables Lily gave a shake of her head. ]
Not exactly, more often than not I break even, and I'll only play a few hands for appearance's sake though of course, that's when all the blokes start being generous with drinks. I know they want you to lose but Morgana, what a pushy lot.
no subject
I will do my best, but if we both end up on the ground, please don't think less of me.
[But with the knowledge that she's not in any better shape than he is, Xingchen focuses his steps more carefully, definitely not wanting to end up on the ground. Upon hearing of her troubles, though, he leans in a little closer to her, almost gasping with astonishment.]
They're very generous! I've had this experience, as well, and I'm not even gambling!
[He pauses, and giggles a little again.]
It's a good thing I'm not gambling. I don't think I'd get very far.
no subject
[ Regardless, she took a page from his book and did her best to step carefully. ]
They got to you too? I suppose the bright side is that you don't have to wear a corset, so you're at less of a risk of drunk louts conversing with your chest. Proper terrible!
no subject
[He starts to giggle, pleased with his own joke, even if it ends up that no one else may be. But then Lily keeps talking and saying things he doesn't understand. So. Pardon him for his curiosity.]
What is a...a corset?
[And what does that have to do with chests? He splays a hand over his own chest, as if offended at this hypothetical.]
no subject
I wonder if he picked that name for himself - it does suit.
[ Any further ruminations she might have had on the subject were derailed by the question, and she cocked her head to the side, initially bewildered until she realized he likely had come from such a place where corsets didn't exist. Lucky for the women of his world. ]
It's sort of a shaping garment, you might say? Ladies wear them, they're meant to make your waist small so you end up looking something like an hourglass - they're beastily.
no subject
[He doesn't know Fox, though the name is vaguely familiar. He might have heard him over the devices once or twice. More importantly, though, is this corset explanation, though when Lily gives it, he can't help but press his free hand to his own waist, as if imagining being cinched. His waist is already pretty slim, though, so he can't imagine how small women would have to become to fit some notion.]
Goodness. What's wrong with how women look to begin with?
no subject
[ While she had reached the point in the evening when everyone and everything was bloody lovely, she still sounded full of conviction. All the clothing she'd worn since arriving in Taravast was beautiful and deeply uncomfortable. ]
Do you fancy some food before we go back to the castle? A vendor is selling little meat pies just ahead on the next corner.
[ One of the small positives of trying to play the role of drunken socialite was that she had now found quite a few places to eat late at night after doing too good a job on accident. ]
no subject
I agree!
[And then she speaks of food and Xingchen hasn't even thought about that, but now that the thought has been planted in his mind - his stomach? - he suddenly craves to eat.]
Ah, ah, Lily is wise. Lead us, lead us!
no subject
Lead I shall good sir. I'm famished and a bit relieved you are too. I hate to eat alone.
[ The small eatery she mentioned was thankfully not far from there, and the aromas of savory hand pies and grilled kebabs of meat and veg began to waft fragrant through the air the closer they came. ]