Flint Madden (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flint_garou) wrote2012-07-27 11:31 am
flint_garou) wrote2012-07-27 11:31 am
Entry tags:
Scare the bad out.
Cleansin' worked. How much good it did, I'unno.
27 July, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (58% full).
Most of the morning has passed, and it's only a little bit after the appointed time that there's a series of very quiet knocks on Nieve's door. Flint leans on the doorframe slightly, dressed for around the building in loose cotton pants and his sweatshirt and socks, and the boy's quiet, for a moment, before adding, "Nieve-rhya?"
The Theurge has spent the night fasting and meditating, the room around her scattered with little artifacts. Flint will recognise most of them as his; a bit of wood that was worked on but got discarded, an odd sock that went missing from the laundry, maybe a almost-empty bottle of wood varnish that got replaced, that sort of thing. They're set out in a circle around where she is sat cross-legged. "Requiem." She speaks without opening her eyes, taking a deeper breath and coming to life from her previously statue-still pose.
Flint takes a few steps in, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt, shoulders hunched a little. "I. I'm ready?" he says, half-asks. "I think."
"Good. Come and sit where I am, please," Nieve requests, rising to vacate the impromptu circle so he can sit in. She then moves to the side to pick up a few bits and pieces; a trio of silver birch sticks, a zippo and a bottle of Evian.
His steps are hesitant, but he does so, first kneeling and then settling into a mostly crosslegged position, and looking up at Nieve. Then Flint nods, breathing steadying into a measured count for the moment.
"Alright. Have you ever been part of a cleansin' before, as a riteworker or subject?" Nieve asks, pushing her dreadlocks back out of her face and wrapping one around the rest as an impromptu restraint.
The cliath shakes his head slowly. "No," Flint says. "Bits, of. Remember, but not my memories. Not, no." Focus falls to his breathing a little more, in, out, several counts each.
"Okay. Th' basic premise is, I draw a circle 'round you to contain the bad. Then, I scare it out of you. Then, 'cause it can't spread an' can't return to you, it is banished," Nieve explains, lighting the end of one of the twigs and letting it smoulder, the dry bark blackening and curling.
Flint nods, equally as slow as the previous gesture had been. "Okay," he says, voice perhaps a little small, quieter than even the nervous and anxious usual of the past several days.
"You don't need t'do anythin' 'cept sit there, but it won't be ruined if you speak or move, so long as you stay in th' circle," Nieve finishes. Blowing out the twig-flame, she begins to use the charred wood charcoal to scratch a circle onto the floorboards around the cliath.
"Okay," Flint says, and the boy starts to hum, barely audible under his breath, quiet and gentle strains of melody that go with the evenness of his breathing for now.
"Din't say nothin' 'bout hummin'." Nieve is jesting though, gently, as she continues to scratch charcoal onto the wood below, often re-lighting the twig again to gain more soot to draw with.
Flint turns his head to follow Nieve, half-watching what she's doing, and the humming drops half a step in volume. The melody eventually becomes recognisable, if not very audible, the tune to "Puff the Magic Dragon".
The drawing pauses as the circle is finished. Nieve goes around again a few times checking for breaks, and putting down bits of paper to cover the gaps in the floorboards, continuing the circle over them.
The boy eventually closes his eyes and bows his head over his lap a little, no longer watching the proceedings yet. The humming as well ceases, back to focusing wholly on his breathing and calm.
"This'll be wet," Nieve cautions a few minutes later. The bottle of Evian is uncapped and ceremoniously up-ended over Flint's head. By this point the older Walker is in Glabro and begins a low croon at the back of her throat, a faintly menacing and threatening sound.
Flint raises a hand to push through now-dripping hair, glances at Nieve a little more, and sits there, hands fidgeting in his lap.
The Theurge continues the low growl as she circles Flint, bulking up to Crinos and making menacing gestures along with the sounds, hackles raised and tail stiff, ears flat to her skull. It's frankly terrifying—the same traits that make her so easy around people combine to give her a truly intimidating air now.
A shudder passes through the cliath's body, arms wrap around his chest, and there's a furtive, anxious glance for the door before Flint manages to remain sitting, trying to steady his breathing but not having as much success as he had earlier.
The growls and snarls reach a crescendo in a howl, the kind of sound that would have had villagers locking their doors and hiding under beds back in the dark times. This is followed by chanting—not in the tongue of the mother, but in some other nuanced form, the tongue of spirits perhaps. And then, finally, Pirate-Trader sprinkles the last of the water on Flint and breaks the circle with a claw.
Several more shudders pass through Flint's body, until he finally ends up on his knees, half-looking to bolt. And then he starts retching, for the moment dry heaves accompanied by sounds of clear and evident physical pain.
The older Walker fishes out a bowl and places it in front of Flint in case the dry heaves get significantly more messy, crouching and stroking a hand along his back in a comforting manner. Bits of hair are pulled out of the way as well, if they look in danger of getting chunk'd.
It does get more messy, but what comes up isn't the remains of breakfast, or dinner, but a substance that looks like blood, thick and dark and it certainly doesn't smell very good. And it's not much, and then Flint sputters, the sounds of pain increased but the heaving at least done with and out of the way.
"Embrace the pain," Nieve exhorts quietly. "Accept it, breathe it in, then breathe out the bad. Let it leave you." For once her accent is noticeably missing, and her voice is soft, almost soothing.
Flint's hands dig into his knees, white knuckled, and his breathing steadies with Nieve's words. "Hurts," he says, at one point, and there're several minutes and one more time of dry retching before it all finishes, and from kneeling Flint half-collapses, breathing heavily, looking around until his gaze settles on Nieve. "'s it done?" he asks, then.
The older Walker presses a light nuzzle to the side of Flint's head, claiming another hug. Again, no permission asked, but firm and reassuring. "Cleansin' worked. How much good it did, I'unno."
Flint curls, knees to chest and leaning against Nieve, part of him trying to be small. "Guess we'll, see?" he says, quietly. "I hope, I." His gaze falls towards the bowl a moment and then away again, quickly.
"Go an' sleep. That's an order. If y'can' sleep on y'own, I've got some nytol an' you can stay in homid so it don't metabolise," Nieve replies, still holding the cliath tightly for a moment, then helping him up along with her. "If y'want company, I'll wolf an' sleep on your feet."
Flint isn't terribly steady on his feet, at the moment, and eventually ends up allowing Nieve to help him stand after a moment of struggle. "Company's good, I. I think. And, yeah. That, then sleep, okay." He pauses, looks at Nieve, a bit. "Bit later, could I have a knife? If I need to?"
"Only supervised," the Theurge replies with a faint frown, looping an arm under the Galliard's shoulders to help with the walking back to his apartment.
It takes a moment for Flint to turn for his apartment, and he kicks the door open, easy enough since it still hasn't been replaced and thusly doesn't latch. The cliath nods, and squirms out of his sweatshirt before heading not for the bed, but for the bathroom. "Ick," he mutters, rinsing his mouth out a good half-dozen times. "I. I know. If. If I need to, would you, stay so I can?" he asks. There's a good measure of nervousness and trust both in the tone of Flint's voice when he finishes the request. "Sleep, first. Though."
"Alright. But, if I call it, it's called," Nieve replies, helping Flint to the bathroom, then to his bed if needs be, before wolf-shaping and hopping up to sleep on the end of the bed, between his feet. She's not a dog, but she understands how to comfort like one.
Flint falls asleep quickly enough, eventually curling with the pillow such that he can set one hand on the adren's fur. He doesn't sleep peacefully, but he does sleep.
27 July, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (58% full).
Most of the morning has passed, and it's only a little bit after the appointed time that there's a series of very quiet knocks on Nieve's door. Flint leans on the doorframe slightly, dressed for around the building in loose cotton pants and his sweatshirt and socks, and the boy's quiet, for a moment, before adding, "Nieve-rhya?"
The Theurge has spent the night fasting and meditating, the room around her scattered with little artifacts. Flint will recognise most of them as his; a bit of wood that was worked on but got discarded, an odd sock that went missing from the laundry, maybe a almost-empty bottle of wood varnish that got replaced, that sort of thing. They're set out in a circle around where she is sat cross-legged. "Requiem." She speaks without opening her eyes, taking a deeper breath and coming to life from her previously statue-still pose.
Flint takes a few steps in, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatshirt, shoulders hunched a little. "I. I'm ready?" he says, half-asks. "I think."
"Good. Come and sit where I am, please," Nieve requests, rising to vacate the impromptu circle so he can sit in. She then moves to the side to pick up a few bits and pieces; a trio of silver birch sticks, a zippo and a bottle of Evian.
His steps are hesitant, but he does so, first kneeling and then settling into a mostly crosslegged position, and looking up at Nieve. Then Flint nods, breathing steadying into a measured count for the moment.
"Alright. Have you ever been part of a cleansin' before, as a riteworker or subject?" Nieve asks, pushing her dreadlocks back out of her face and wrapping one around the rest as an impromptu restraint.
The cliath shakes his head slowly. "No," Flint says. "Bits, of. Remember, but not my memories. Not, no." Focus falls to his breathing a little more, in, out, several counts each.
"Okay. Th' basic premise is, I draw a circle 'round you to contain the bad. Then, I scare it out of you. Then, 'cause it can't spread an' can't return to you, it is banished," Nieve explains, lighting the end of one of the twigs and letting it smoulder, the dry bark blackening and curling.
Flint nods, equally as slow as the previous gesture had been. "Okay," he says, voice perhaps a little small, quieter than even the nervous and anxious usual of the past several days.
"You don't need t'do anythin' 'cept sit there, but it won't be ruined if you speak or move, so long as you stay in th' circle," Nieve finishes. Blowing out the twig-flame, she begins to use the charred wood charcoal to scratch a circle onto the floorboards around the cliath.
"Okay," Flint says, and the boy starts to hum, barely audible under his breath, quiet and gentle strains of melody that go with the evenness of his breathing for now.
"Din't say nothin' 'bout hummin'." Nieve is jesting though, gently, as she continues to scratch charcoal onto the wood below, often re-lighting the twig again to gain more soot to draw with.
Flint turns his head to follow Nieve, half-watching what she's doing, and the humming drops half a step in volume. The melody eventually becomes recognisable, if not very audible, the tune to "Puff the Magic Dragon".
The drawing pauses as the circle is finished. Nieve goes around again a few times checking for breaks, and putting down bits of paper to cover the gaps in the floorboards, continuing the circle over them.
The boy eventually closes his eyes and bows his head over his lap a little, no longer watching the proceedings yet. The humming as well ceases, back to focusing wholly on his breathing and calm.
"This'll be wet," Nieve cautions a few minutes later. The bottle of Evian is uncapped and ceremoniously up-ended over Flint's head. By this point the older Walker is in Glabro and begins a low croon at the back of her throat, a faintly menacing and threatening sound.
Flint raises a hand to push through now-dripping hair, glances at Nieve a little more, and sits there, hands fidgeting in his lap.
The Theurge continues the low growl as she circles Flint, bulking up to Crinos and making menacing gestures along with the sounds, hackles raised and tail stiff, ears flat to her skull. It's frankly terrifying—the same traits that make her so easy around people combine to give her a truly intimidating air now.
A shudder passes through the cliath's body, arms wrap around his chest, and there's a furtive, anxious glance for the door before Flint manages to remain sitting, trying to steady his breathing but not having as much success as he had earlier.
The growls and snarls reach a crescendo in a howl, the kind of sound that would have had villagers locking their doors and hiding under beds back in the dark times. This is followed by chanting—not in the tongue of the mother, but in some other nuanced form, the tongue of spirits perhaps. And then, finally, Pirate-Trader sprinkles the last of the water on Flint and breaks the circle with a claw.
Several more shudders pass through Flint's body, until he finally ends up on his knees, half-looking to bolt. And then he starts retching, for the moment dry heaves accompanied by sounds of clear and evident physical pain.
The older Walker fishes out a bowl and places it in front of Flint in case the dry heaves get significantly more messy, crouching and stroking a hand along his back in a comforting manner. Bits of hair are pulled out of the way as well, if they look in danger of getting chunk'd.
It does get more messy, but what comes up isn't the remains of breakfast, or dinner, but a substance that looks like blood, thick and dark and it certainly doesn't smell very good. And it's not much, and then Flint sputters, the sounds of pain increased but the heaving at least done with and out of the way.
"Embrace the pain," Nieve exhorts quietly. "Accept it, breathe it in, then breathe out the bad. Let it leave you." For once her accent is noticeably missing, and her voice is soft, almost soothing.
Flint's hands dig into his knees, white knuckled, and his breathing steadies with Nieve's words. "Hurts," he says, at one point, and there're several minutes and one more time of dry retching before it all finishes, and from kneeling Flint half-collapses, breathing heavily, looking around until his gaze settles on Nieve. "'s it done?" he asks, then.
The older Walker presses a light nuzzle to the side of Flint's head, claiming another hug. Again, no permission asked, but firm and reassuring. "Cleansin' worked. How much good it did, I'unno."
Flint curls, knees to chest and leaning against Nieve, part of him trying to be small. "Guess we'll, see?" he says, quietly. "I hope, I." His gaze falls towards the bowl a moment and then away again, quickly.
"Go an' sleep. That's an order. If y'can' sleep on y'own, I've got some nytol an' you can stay in homid so it don't metabolise," Nieve replies, still holding the cliath tightly for a moment, then helping him up along with her. "If y'want company, I'll wolf an' sleep on your feet."
Flint isn't terribly steady on his feet, at the moment, and eventually ends up allowing Nieve to help him stand after a moment of struggle. "Company's good, I. I think. And, yeah. That, then sleep, okay." He pauses, looks at Nieve, a bit. "Bit later, could I have a knife? If I need to?"
"Only supervised," the Theurge replies with a faint frown, looping an arm under the Galliard's shoulders to help with the walking back to his apartment.
It takes a moment for Flint to turn for his apartment, and he kicks the door open, easy enough since it still hasn't been replaced and thusly doesn't latch. The cliath nods, and squirms out of his sweatshirt before heading not for the bed, but for the bathroom. "Ick," he mutters, rinsing his mouth out a good half-dozen times. "I. I know. If. If I need to, would you, stay so I can?" he asks. There's a good measure of nervousness and trust both in the tone of Flint's voice when he finishes the request. "Sleep, first. Though."
"Alright. But, if I call it, it's called," Nieve replies, helping Flint to the bathroom, then to his bed if needs be, before wolf-shaping and hopping up to sleep on the end of the bed, between his feet. She's not a dog, but she understands how to comfort like one.
Flint falls asleep quickly enough, eventually curling with the pillow such that he can set one hand on the adren's fur. He doesn't sleep peacefully, but he does sleep.