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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 worries! I've been sick this past week anyway
[Yes, that title does make some things fall into place. Xingchen feels his cheeks flush slightly with embarrassment for how he's been acting, even if it probably is normal to be frustrated. But if this doctor's curiosity was just to try and figure out how he could help, then Xingchen really should have been more patient. He stands up and circles his arms in a salute, offering the man a bow.]
Please forgive this one's behavior. It is good to meet someone of your profession here. Have you perhaps met Wen Qing? She is also a doctor among our group.
[As he sits back down, he listens to what else the man has to say. With the way he speaks, it sounds as if he can read his own language, which is kind of comforting. But something else grabs his attention.]
Braille? I have not heard of it.
I'm sorry to hear that.
[ The Doctor hadn't been offended in the slightest! And anyway he knew he could come across a bit annoying for time to time. It was part of his charm. ]
It's little raised dots you can read with your fingers... And write too of course. It isn't the same sort of writing you are used to but it can help to open the world up to you.
I'm doing better now, it's all good
...I see. I suppose it would be too much to ask if you know of anyone here who could teach me such a language.
[How quickly would he even be able to pick it up? He's only spoken his mother tongue his entire life. There's never been a need to learn anything else.]
I'm glad to hear that!
[ And while braille itself was more of a code than a language it still held its fascinations. ]
It's basically a series of six dots in two lines and based on which dots are raised so you can feel them with your fingertips that will tell you which characters you are reading. Hm... let's see, I need something to make a few with.
[ The Doctor found his makeshift stylus sitting right there on Xingchen's work desk in the form of the backend of one of his unused paintbrushes. A few quick presses soon had Xingchen's name written in the middle of one of his sheets of paper in braille dots and further down the same page the individual dots that made up the letters were also pressed into the page where they would be easier to feel by themselves for further study. ]
There we go, your name. And I've the individual characters below that so you can get a feel for them.
no subject
Xingchen doesn't know exactly what he had expected, but he frowns as he tries to make sense of it. It's all very strange and none of it makes sense, even if the doctor says this is his name. Ah, but it is another language, so of course it isn't going to make sense. Still, he goes over the initial portion again, trying to single out these "dots" in a run of bumps that mean nothing to him. Then he moves further down to feel the characters. It still is a jumble of bumps to him, but as he moves from the characters to his name above, it slowly starts to connect, at least for this much. Patience, he has to tell himself. Everything new takes patience.]
...It's so different from everything I've ever seen.
no subject
[ He watched the interaction of fingers running over paper and was quite happily impressed that Xingchen didn't panic or decide to throw the paper to the floor in frustration. It could be very difficult to learn new languages and some did not take to it nearly as well. ]
We should probably take it one character at a time, so you have the chance to learn each one in turn. This was more to show you what could be done with the braille once you've gotten a good grasp of it.
no subject
[He's sure it's helpful, but only if enough people can actually create or read such texts. This doctor seems extremely willing to help him, though, so that has to be taken into account. Perhaps, if Xingchen is able to learn this language, the two of them could strengthen bonds in this way, if necessary.]
Thank you for your patience.
no subject
[ If he wasn't well that was fine too. He could keep the paper with the little dots on it or chuck it in the bin and no harm done. ]
no subject
[Of course, this world could simply be dangerous on its own, and Xingchen certainly believes that, but people among their number do tend to go digging.]
Were we already in Taravast when you joined us? I don't recall hearing your voice before.
no subject
That will make studying more challenging. We can settle on an irregular schedule, whenever both of us have the time?
And yes, I think so. I arrived rather sudden and unexpectedly by finding myself in a bit of trouble... I can't say I recall ever having been to a world where the undead were so lively.
no subject
[As they keep speaking, Xingchen realizes this other man has probably been standing the whole time.]
Oh!
[He moves, gathering up the unblemished papers to set aside...under the bench. Yes, that should be fine for now. Then the paint and the brush.]
Please, sit.
[And ignore his lack of manners. His master would be so appalled. He sets everything aside to make room, even picking up as many of his discarded failures from the ground that he can quickly find by touch.]
I hope the trouble wasn't too, ah, troublesome.
no subject
[ Truly he hadn't minded standing but it was nice to be able to settle onto a bench and just take a moment to breathe in the garden air. ]
It's quite nice out here, not nearly as stifling as the palace. They do know how to craft a perfectly splendid garden. You chose a lovely spot.
[ But right, lessons. ]
I'll have to find a way to make you out an alphabet. Something easier to carry than a giant sheet of paper. I'm not sure what this civilization's level of technology is but... mm, I wonder if I couldn't cobble together something.
[ It required more time to puzzle it out but his mind was already turning over the possibilities. ]