westwhere | oc nu necheth windes blast and weder strong

( McCoy settles in, less because he wants to, more because he has to. It's good to be out of Serthica, at least, where the tangle of memories, the newly-remembered misery of illness and just how much more he misses Jim, haunt him even more than the drifting specters they find here.

He waits for the ghostly attendant and her basket of laundry to pass, his eyes averted to an interesting place somewhere on the floor. The edge of night is here, the chill of a blizzard curling in at the corners despite their best efforts, and so he stops to politely knock at others' doors. )

Thought you could use a little extra insurance against the cold, ( he explains, giving a nod to the wooden crate he carries. Inside, beneath a towel, there's a small and carefully stacked collection of ceramic warmers, radiating heat. )

Keep it under your blankets, by your feet. Careful, ( he warns, indicating they should use the towel if they intend to fish one out for themselves, ) Don't burn yourself.

( Cats lead him.

In the great and twisting series of unfortunate events that has come to colour Lan Wangji's existence, he did not adequately prepare for this interlude of great feline espionage. As ever, his training — successful in tournaments, exceptional in exorcism, diligent at war — proves woefully lacking.

Broom in hand, Lan Wangji accepts his part in the inn's games with fractional enthusiasm and a majority of stupor: Just keep the beasts out of the guests' way. He wronged the inn, to assume, rats were at play. Then, squirrels. Then, bats in the winding corridors of the attic. Instead, he is quick to learn, the grounds have been assailed by stray, miscreant, sprawling, well-fattened, ungainly... cats. Worse, cats so convinced of their natural sovereignty that they hardly squirm or recoil when they find themselves on the receiving end of human attention.

Earlier, extracting one from the springs' road required the shameful use of bribes, a generous cut of thick, braised fatty ham from the morning's stew. Now, Lan Wangji sleuths the cause behind a sudden feline aggregation within the household, lines and processions of cats drunk on the wafts of sedative incense trickling in through windows, holes in nooks and ill-shuttered doors in crannies.

It has been the crowning realisation of Lan Wangji's exorcism profession that all roads lead to bones.

...or Bones.

When he dashes into the final room on the unhurried, honeyed steps of another cat, only to find eight of them by the door, eyeing Bones with unusual predatory appetite from a respectful distance. Lan Wangji assumes, they think the man weak. On his death's bed (again). Easy prey.

Then, between blinks of blinding braziers, he spies the legion of scattered warmers, happy in their porcelain homes. And suddenly, Lan Wangji knows why the cats are so intent.

He does not groan. A disgrace of sound, like hope in humanity, is for other people. )

Felicitations. ( This, in the Heavens' most unflinching monotone: ) Fresh patients and admirers greet you.

( ...surely, a doctor should welcome the growth in popularity enjoyed by his practice, even among feline kind. )

Keep it down, the universe might hear you.

( so says the doctor, placing the last warmer at the foot of the last futon, before he sits back on his haunches, and casts a glance over his shoulder to Wangji.

And then lowers it to his retinue of fat, fluffy felines. Huh. )

Oh. Where did y'all come from? ( Cue sweet entreaties of 'psst psst' and warm, outstretched fingers, because this dry sonuvabitch heckin loves adorable small animals, awwww. )

( The army is seen.

The army is pleased. Half the arm is suspicious. The other half is... slowly, surely, with an unhealthy deficit of suspicion, purring.

Lan Wangji has never herded cats before but finds himself impossibly aggrieved by their failings of decorum. In a room of cracked, decrepit floors chipped of lacquer and walls absent fresh coats of paint, mould eating at corners no warmth would have grazed in winters, Wangji did not expect the felines to be the foremost embarrassment.

One cat takes this time to roll, delightful and carefree, belly facing the heavens while she bats at the nearest warmer, gleefully.

Lan Wangji's soul nearly deserts his body. )

They haunt the household. ( Light stepped, bright eyes. Wit uncanny. Of course they would. ) The mistress complains.

( Often, in a voice that naturally climbs a pentatonic scale of shrillness. He is told this is a mark of native aristocracy. )

You have prepared solace for the wolf hunters?

She does that a lot.

( McCoy coos sweetly at an adorable tortoiseshell who's taken his lap for a nest, rubbing her chin and scratching behind her ears. )

They ought to have a hot meal and a warm bed, at least, after what they went through. And y'all, ( he gently tells their furred companions, ) Can't be here when they're done with supper, I suppose.

( ...the cats are conspiring towards wickedness, vulgarity and profligate displays of their soft, basking bellies. Lan Wangji, whose stomach last churned with this much contemptuous acid when the Wen waged their war.

He does not scoff. Does not flinch. Hardly flinches when one of the kittens heroically decides life as a bundle of hereby spherical joy is incomplete until and unless it rolls majestically all over Lan Wangji's feet.

Then, polity, he scoots over. )

Perhaps do not amass that which draws them. ( But then, when the kitten in McCoy's lap sprawls to indicate her empire, and Lan Wangji sees his future of failed objections, written clearly: ) Other medics persist. Attend your own healing.

So bossy. Sounds like Lan Wangji's topknot is too tight, hm? ( he asks his lapful of kitten, who yawns and attempts to gnaw at his fingers with her needle sharp teeth. so much for love.

McCoy moves to scoop up a spare warmer, depositing it and cat in the empty crate. As he starts herding the others, he points at his friend. )

And you have no room to talk. I'm not the only one who was dumped in that corpse-ridden sea. How's the head cold?

Improved by the pressures of my tightly-bound topknot.

( ...ah, but he is for lessoning, then, under the dusty, scattered glare of a glass-mouthed brazier that grins when the onslaught of a tender draft threatens the candle anemic. As if he is his Uncle's nephew, his brother's son, the boy bowed at their feet.

And not a fully-grown, competent and accomplished adult in unwilling servitude to yet another cat that scoots shamelessly over, waddling in to wait her turn by Bones' wrist, licking the jut of it. Lan Wangji briefly catches its eye, Have you no dignity?

Defiantly, it slobbers. )

They scent — ( Weakness. ) Permissiveness. You teach them ill habits of indulgence. ( Sir. )

Never you mind them, they're cats. ( the sandpaper tongue is endured for a few more licks before he scoops its owner up, placing a kiss on her little forehead. he lifts his gaze to Wangji, and nearly gestures with the cat, turned boneless and purring throatily in his hands. )

'Ill habits of indulgence' is their bread and butter. ( his look turns shrewd and assessing, as he stands with his crate of cats, before they can decide to spring free. A few little paws reach up to bat at his fingers, at the cuff of his sleeve. )

As long as I've known you, you've been wound as tight as a ten day clock. You ought to indulge a little yourself.

( Everybody wants to be McCoy's cat,
Because McCoy's cat's the only cat who dangles just like that.
Look at'im picking up that feline, whiskers sweet
Thinking he's the best thing off the Star fleet
Now his hair's neatly shorn
His collar's tidily drawn
Ever'time he coos, and puts on his gent tack
You forget it's an act
But he's a doc through and through

Cats acting the fools for his coaxing
Cause a McCoy's the only cat
Who knows true scratching
Who wants to humble themselves for a dainty little purr?
Says Wangji to the abyss now, Sir, stop, sir.
A doctor so young
With such a honeyed tongue
Ever'time he coos and caws
Another cat jumps to'er paws
McCoy's gonna set down the law, start his empire days
Gathering domestics and strays
Because a McCoy cat's the only cat who knows where it's at
While playing the game, showing'im belly on the mat
Cause everybody's wilding to be a McCoy cat
Everybody wants to be a McCoy cat... )

( Throughout this joyous musical interlude, prospective mental breakdown, convulsive blinking and overall staggered indignation, Lan Wangji might be forgiven for only murmuring: )

What occurs to clocks on their tenth-day anniversary?

( ...a cultural difference, surely. )

( Bones peers closely at him. satisfied that Wangji doesn't seem to be in immediate danger of falling into a swoon or a catatonic seizure, he'll do his utmost to shoo him out the door. )

I relieve you of cat herding for the evening, ( he declares, shifting the crate against his chest. ) I'm gonna introduce our furry friends here to the mice in the stables, then I got a date with a bottle of wine.

You in?

( The cats will be relieved of their indignity, promiscuity and inelegance.

The doctor will ease himself to comfort.

All will be right in the world —

...but for the latter half of the proposition, mouth petrified agape in the thickening, dusty clout of warmth the room's countless braziers breathe out like dragonic exhalations. Drink, then.

It horrifies him, blood relieved of his cheeks, pallor a misfortune of miscalculation. In his lap, hands clench and dispel their clasp, fingers stiff when a pretty feline creature cradles her head between them. He rasps out: )

Drink does not favour me.

( ...notice here, sir. The choice of articulation. After a time, a man does not choose his cups. They find him lacking. )

( Leonard feels, by Wangji's scandalized reaction, as if he asked him to a full-contact strip club. )

One glass, ( he clarifies, maybe hoping to assuage the man's terror, ) A nightcap.

( Ah. But then, they are but two men overcome by a plethora of cats, the doctor McCoy does not understand he has entered the territory of perpetual landmines. Allow Lan Wangji's mien to blanch to the powdering of the snow that dusts their sills, before he murmurs: )

Unadvisable. ( But then, perhaps a man is owed the debt of sophisticated warning. ) Minacious.

( If the brush strokes to spell out this particular hint were broader, Lan Wangi's master of calligraphy would cordially evacuate him from this metaphorical exercise.

Perhaps, mouth thinned and hand stiffened, best to detour the doctor's interests: )

You drink for sport?

'Minacious'! ( he scoffs. )

To relax, ( McCoy stresses, gesturing at him with the box of felines. More little paws emerge to pat-pat-pat over his fingers. )

Which you could sorely use. Glass of wine, soak in a hot bath, ( Wangji gets an eyeball then, and Bones decides to go all-in on teasing him, ) Massage from that strapping young man of yours...

( Indulgence, inebriation, idleness. Lan Wangji's very core might tolerate each of these items, independently. They send him to the dull, shivered heavens of indignation, in rapid succession.

Until the good doctor, grace be, ends his parade of vice with... flattery.

Of Wei Ying.

Careful, so careful, watch the unbinding of his fingers, loose, watch how he coaxes the trinkets of his diplomacy back to this sleeves' pocket. Then, only residually astringent: )

You have encountered him.

( ...and found Wei Ying apparently not wanting. Ah, but to be a fly on every wall Wei Ying has dutifully honeyed before charming base metals to mirror's silvers. Of course this rapprochement was a foregone conclusion. )

( He's sure he senses no danger in the easing of Wangji's bearing, and so relaxes himself, offering a shrug. )

Here and there. You've got to remember, it's been years for me, but I recall his kindness when I had taken sick in Serthica.

( Five years, to be precise, a long road between the cadet he had been then, to the seasoned Starfleet Officer he is now. McCoy adds, slyly: )

...and he's gorgeous. Were I you, I wouldn't be wastin' my time with cats.

( Sir why are you not tapping that right now? )

( Drenched, his voice. Positively saturated. A wonderfully embittered marinade. Don't mind if Lan Wangji salts his own hemorrhaging wounds with an airy: )

You would expend it singing his praises.

( Perhaps this is how better men live, with cats sprawling in their laps and braziers licking pleasantly at the roots of their backs and trading courtesies over the other halves of their lives. Perhaps he is not intended to grow brittle and cold and to exit his own skin, as if he manipulates sooner than lives the moment.

But then, he is not the better man. )

How fares your family?

( He fled. Returned. The doctor, who also possesses kin and kind in his own world. )

I'd do a sight more than singing, ( he murmurs to himself, not kidding around anymore.

McCoy smiles then, touched. )

She's well, thank you. Joanna's twelve now and growin' like a weed. What about your son; how's he getting on?

( A man, his wandered eyes and Lan Wangji's sword. A strained triarchy. It summons his bile, sours it down his throat. It trickles in slow, steadied beads, then, carefully: )

Some better suit song. ( ...and distance. From dead, roused and necromanced husbands, who skillfully dance steps around their allegiance. ) Others, silence.

( Cue, the inevitable, the explicable: a lowered gaze, his hand travelling the swollen span of a cat's arched back, knotting and binding in all the ways that earn her purrs. He is not for the easy expression of affections. Joanna, twelve and grown. Growing still. )

My son remains beside me. ( A blessing. A curse. He cannot say. But he thinks, to lose the company of a child — is enough hardship that his own hand seeks touch, hovered, then tickling down over the mountain chain of Bones' knuckles, before urging him to stroke the cat Wangji had suffocated with attention. ) Strength. I do not envy you the loss of your daughter.

[ The door that opens (only partially slid closed to begin with) reveals a man who looks like he hasn't been back inside long. Flecks of rapidly melting snow scatter his dark curls and the heavy coat he's in the process of shrugging off. He shivers every so often, an abrupt involuntary gesture that suggests he's still in the process of adjusting to the temperature change. ]

Ah, that would be welcome.

[ He hangs up his coat, giving another involuntary shiver before he turns back to McCoy. The warning about burning himself has Wrathion hesitate. Well, he wouldn't, but no need to advertise that. He takes the towel to fish one out, feeling a faint wave of relief at the warmth against his hands as he moves it and sets it down. He attempts to suppress another shiver, holds out the towel back to McCoy and offers a small smile of thanks. ]

Commendable timing. I was just thinking I could have used something to keep warm.

( McCoy drops the towel back over the crate, having watched Wrathion shiver his way about the small room. )

This weather's dreadful. ( knowing the man better, he might've just come out with a 'you look frozen', but errs toward something polite. ) How about a warm blanket, too? I was about to grab a few off the rack.

[Ah.

Well. ]

It isn't my preferred climate.

[ He'd love to protest that he was fine, but he suppose the visible shivers do somewhat undermine that. The offer is appealing. ]

I wouldn't say no, if you can afford one.

[ In fact, he'd quite appreciate a blanket to add to his extensive pile, but he's not about to make himself sound desperate. Wrathion runs his hand through his damp curls, trying to encourage the last flecks of snow out and his hair to dry. ]

Edited (how did i get that bracket backwards, and TWICE. lmao, apologies....) 2022-12-13 22:16 (UTC)

Wouldn't offer if I didn't. I'll be right back.

( With the box gone, also toting a towel, and a quilted jacket meant for guests, the blanket wrapped around another hot water bottle. )

Better safe than sorry.

[Yes, the cold is terrible, but Viktor is naturally industrious, and he's not going to let a thing like the temperature stop him from doing work. If he's to earn his keep here, there are plenty of things to fix, and after a few days of tinkering with whatever he can get his hands on, the locals task him with constructing various devices. In service of this, he's taken over a little corner of one of the common areas, spreading tools and scraps of metal across the whole of table (that is now not usable to anyone else, sorry).

The intrusion, then, is regarded with surprise, and no small amount of suspicion, giving the idea that the man at the desk, surrounded half-built gadgets and obviously in poor health, is simply not used to someone making these kinds of gestures to him. When he speaks, it's with a degree of caution.]

Are you distributing these to the whole inn?

[A job he's been assigned, or something he's taken upon himself?]

To anyone who needs one.

( the implication here being that, of course, Viktor looks like he needs its warmth. also a blanket, probably something more warm than what he's wearing. )

It's an icebox in here.

Magnanimous of you.

[That said, Viktor is going to take one after only a moment of hesitation. It’s not that he doesn’t want the warmth, rather, that he hates feeling like he owes someone a favor—not that it’s something he’s going to say out loud.

He shifts, slightly, so that he can accept the warmer, then turns back to his notes. It’s only after a second of realizing that yes, this is nice, does he become aware of the fact that he should probably say something else.]

Thank you.

[ When Vanessa hears a knock, she knows it isn't who she might first suspect before she even opens the door. That doesn't keep her furrowed gaze from carrying just a hint of suspicion as she peeks out through the crack in the door to a very different doctor than who she might usually expect to be bringing random gifts.

She realizes she's being rude to just stare, and slowly opens the door a bit wider to reveal that she's removed most of her overdress and unbound her hair, but she doesn't seem to care like she might once have. She has yet to step back to let him or, or reach out to take anything he might offer Some part of her that's still human, still empathetic, is relieved to see him carrying on so well, but she's reluctant to have any of his newfound energy spent in her direction.

Even though...she can smell food. ]

Save what you have for the others.

Edited 2022-12-19 02:29 (UTC)

( She looks spent, weary, and suspicious. Professionalism keeps him from reacting more than the dart upward of an eyebrow, taking in Vanessa's relative déshabillé with even calm, his worry quiet. )

I haven't even told you what I brought.

( He lifts the covered tray for emphasis. )

[ That isn't playing fair. She leans, slightly, to look with a raised eyebrow.

Whatever he's cooked is probably going to be more appetizing than what the Doctor cooked earlier on that day. Still, she's noticing a trend since arriving at the inn. ]

Is it common practice now for doctors to cook for everyone?

( That eyebrow goes further up. )

I haven't the faintest idea of what you mean, ( he tells her, puzzled, as he gives her a peek at the simple dish of hearty chicken stew, and thick slices of crusty bread with butter. )

You mind if I come in and set this down? It's heavy.

[ Somehow, he must have managed to avoid the Doctor's attempts to commandeer the kitchen for everyone staying at the inn at meal times, which is to Doctor McCoy's credit. The edible creations have been...inspired?

It does make her a touch leery of what this doctor brings, but he shows her something that looks not only normal, but delicious, and the reminder that she's making someone wait outside with a gift triggers some deeply-rooted discipline, even in her subpar state. ]

I— Yes, of course. My apologies.

[ Vanessa is remarkably submissive as she steps back to open the door further. She shrinks against the wall like she might disappear into the screen while she watches him with wide, confused eyes. She's still baffled as to what he's doing here. ]

...It is good to see you looking so well.

[ Compared to before, at least. Now she's likely the one who looks ill, but at least she's having no trouble standing. Lurking is a specialty she'll never lose. ]

( Nudity doesn't bother him. Bodies are bodies, an architecture of flesh and bone, no great mystery to a surgeon, and not worth getting fussed over in an environment like this: crisp snow and clean air and gloriously hot, therapeutic water.

A dead man's head on a rock, though, that is definitely worth turning a hair over. He's perfectly polite about being dead, as if he were any other bather keen to enjoy himself, but the effect is entirely too unnerving.

McCoy reaches up to adjust the folded towel on his head and

slowly

scoots away toward the deeper end of the bubbling pool. This affords him two things:

Distance from the headless ghost, and a suddenly unimpeded view of someone on the path to the hot springs, who may or may not be eyeballing the aforementioned ghost. )

Hey, Nosy Parker! ( yeah, heads up, he lifts a dripping, steaming arm in salutation, ) He won't bite.

I should be terribly surprised if he did.

[ Illumination nods ones to the ghost and wishes it well before firmly putting it from her mind and heading towards the spring itself. Unsure if the rules of home apply here, she's used to ghosts becoming more troublesome the more they are noticed - best not to dwell. ]

Then again, I have met a few beings that kept their mouths in unexpected places. Perhaps that spirit is one of them.

God, ( he complains, sinking a bit further into the water, like it'll protect him from the chomping mouths of errant spirits. )

Why'd you have to give me that mental image?

Life is full of disappointments.

[ Lu smiles and it might take the sting off that comment or just involve showing a bit too much tooth. Hard to say. ]

Mind company? At the very least, I can promise not to bite.

( his little 'tch' is half at her, half at himself, but he sweeps a dripping arm in a broad half-circle, in welcome. )

Not at all, there's plenty of room.

( just, y'know, a dead guy on the other side, but he's keeping to himself. )

( he is not going ice skating, or traipsing across the ice, or touching the frozen water in any way, shape, or form.

setting up on the banks with blankets, a basket of sandwiches and hot tea though, mccoy's pretty amenable to that. the wind has stilled today, the sun visible behind a thin scrim of clouds, so there's a lovely brilliance to their surroundings, peaceful in spite of the surety that things lurk beneath the ice, and shades haunt the grounds. right now, things look perfect, and he'll take that.

should he see a familiar face -- or just someone from their group -- he'll wave them in closer with an offer of refueling, and warming up.

should he see someone take a spill on the ice though, he'll turn his gaze toward them with laser intensity, and wait intently for them to rise on their own, or show signs of injury. )

[ The positive about these ghosts, are that they don't throw cutlery, and for that reason alone, things are looking up. Clara's found paper, she has something to write with, and she plans to sit in the sun near one of the big trees by the lake.

Except it seems to be close to where someone else is already sitting; Clara pauses and looks around for another spot before deciding to simply ask if they mind. If yes, she'll save the spot for a later day. ]

You wouldn't happen to mind a quiet neighbor, would you? This is the best view of everything, and it's sort of magical, watching everyone have fun.

[ She tilts her head toward the lake and then adds: ]

Magical if you ignore whatever's under the ice. But still, I don't think there was much of a chance for whimsy before.

( he looks up from his ham on something-like-rye and chuckles, leaning over to snag one of the blankets from the pile to hand her. )

I'll keep taking my whimsy well enough away from whatever's lurking. ( but he smiles, and sets his snack aside to go digging into the basket near his feet. ) Have a seat. Would you like some tea?

[ Clara laughs softly and spreads her blanket out beside his. ]

Never could turn down a cuppa, thank you. [ As she sits, she introduces herself. ] I'm Clara. I was out on the ice yesterday and was knocked off my feet by something under there. Don't think I'll take my chances again.

Leonard. It's a pleasure to meet you, Clara. ( He hands over a steaming cup, snagging his empty for a refill. )

And that sounds like a solid plan. I don't trust any body of water I can't see the bottom of.

[ Clara thanks him, wrapping her hands around the mug with a happy sigh. ]

Likewise, Leonard. And honestly, after the last body of water, I should've known better. [ There's nothing quite like dead skin sloughing through ones fingers. ]

But I get it, wanting to feel normal-ish for at least a little while. I'm gonna try and be optimistic. The ice'll hold and everyone can make their memories. I hope.

[ Wen Qing had dared to traipse the ice. Growing up in a hot, dry environment, ice isn't something she's terribly familiar with, and until now, she'd never had the chance to see this much ice, let alone think about something as frivolous as ice skating.

She stays upright on the ice for a few feet, wobbly and inelegant; her edges softened as she stops worrying and relaxes into skating, only to stumble and sprawl on the ice. When she rises, it's to realize her ankle throbs: no more ice skating for her.

Not entirely a disappointment; despite the lack of wind, the chill feels like it's settled into her bones. It is an annoyance, however, as she hobbles to the bank, doing her best not to fall again and not to be seen limping, a blow to her dignity. All the times she's scolded people about taking care of themselves, only to injure herself doing something children can manage.

She manages to make it to the edge of the lake to remove her skates, and upon spotting McCoy, heads his way. At the very least, he has tea. ]

( it's truly a beautiful day, the kind he yearned for as a child, dreaming of frosted landscapes of ice, when all Atlanta typically got was slushy, biting winters. he hails Wen Qing with a wave, and watches her with some curiosity as she crosses the snow toward him. )

Good morning. Have a square, ( he means the blanket he's set up on, offering out another to wrap herself in or perch on if need be, already going for the tea and a cup. )

You all right? That looked like it hurt.

[Kamala is largely here because she doesn't know what to do with herself. She kills time by making tea and foraging. She treats herself to little doodles here and there. Eventually she just needs to get up and do something which leads her here.

Kamala is kind of grateful for the out. Open water, frozen or not, doesn't really mix with the teen. As her best friend reminds her often: she fell into the Hudson river. Twice.

She waves at the doctor, smiling as much as can under the layers keeping her warm as she approaches.] Hey, thanks! I'm just looking around.

oc nu necheth windes blast and weder strong

the inn

i made it worse

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1/2

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this is the greatest thing ever

pleased 2 serve

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the springs

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the lake

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