singillatim | Part One: The Cabin

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Part One: The Cabin

Who: Arthur Lester and others
What: Adjusting to life and vision
When: Late August/Early Sept
Where: Largely Milton generally

Content Warnings: Catch-all warning for Malevolent content (Lovecraftian horror et al) and spoilers through S5

Getting by on getting by (Early on)

It took Arthur a few days for it to really sink in.

It was one thing to know that John wasn't there, that he had his vision back, his arm and leg and was expected to just. Learn how to survive all over again, in a new town in a new world in an environment he had only ever associated with death and hardship, not least of all his own.

It was another entirely to make peace with the fact: to finish smashing the mirrors in his claimed cabin and screaming for Kayne until his voice went hoarse. Either the god wasn't listening or couldn't hear him, and Arthur wasn't sure which was worse.

This too shall pass. And if it didn't, then he'd fucking well learn to live with it. Just like everything else.

The house next to his had been half demolished by something in the past, which left him with plenty of lumber to wade through the ruins and collect, ripping it loose with his gloved hands if he has to, and board over the bottom storey windows of his own cabin. And an empty house across the street provided blankets aplenty to throw over his shoulders, and haul awkwardly back to cut to shreds and insulate the windows inside.

(It also gave him a quite stellar view of the community centre, so. Something to stare at and make notes on, memorise the silhouettes when he needed a break.

Anything but thinking.)

Make Yourself Seen (September)

After that, he hasn't got much excuse to avoid people.

He'd met a few people already, but this time he's rugged up securely in scavenged clothes, hiding his malnourished frame. Not much to be done about the rough sand scars across his right temple, but at least he could hide his ruined ear beneath a knit hat and pray no-one asked much further.

So he starts actively hanging around. Exploring Milton properly. There's plenty of people to meet, it seems like, even if all he does is loiter around the message board. He does eventually pin something there, nondescript and no-nonsense about it, before he walks away.

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"Better that you took the time," he agrees with a nod, looking at the mess in front of him to decide which one he wanted to tackle first. The great Southern Art of Staring at a problem for a minute before starting it.

"Once you get the run down of this place, it can be a lot. Then again, magic isn't somethin' I'm used to, to start with but I imagine even if you happen to be used to it, this is some kinda deep end."

He steps up into the house and starts pulling some trash wood away to clear himself some room before squatting down to work at a damaged piece of wood that would give him clearance to pry at something better.

"It is something I've... become used to, in recent months," he admits. "I wasn't aware it was real when I was younger, but I was rather forcibly stripped of the notion when it came crashing down my office door." He gives a short huff, as he yanks his prize free of the floor. "Even the concept of- of other universes, other realities with different rules, I-I've had some- first-hand experience with, on multiple occasions."

He stands upright, throwing the plank back towards the footpath, well clear of Raylan. "The problem I've been encountering, honestly, is that- the being who subject me to all of that is very much the kind who would take joy in all of this, but I haven't heard word of him since."

"Sounds like you're ahead of the pack then. Not that it's a particularly good thing, I suppose, dependin' on your view of regular reality," he grants, finally finding his purchase with the hammer and pulling up, wood and nails groaning as they give way a little.

"Though wouldn't bein' rid of the person who got you into it be a good thing? Why's that a problem? Save for you bein' stranded in the middle of nowhere."

"Better the devil you know, Mr Givens," he huffs wryly. "Kayne may have been a right bastard, but at least I knew I couldn't trust him. I've yet to learn anything about this place, except for that whatever this Darkwalker being is, it's killing people by some as-of-yet unknown means, functionally scaring them to death."

He pauses briefly, looking over the wood for his next target. "I encountered the Doctor here, quite shortly after I arrived. He was extremely forthcoming."

"The Doctor? Yeah, he's-" Raylan huffs an amused breath before prying at the board again enough to put aside his hammer and start pulling. "-An interestin' character. Exuberant might be the word I choose. The DarkWalker-" He bobs his head a little before chucking the piece of wood out from where he came.

"Haven't gotten many answers about that yet. Though, good news - the people here have talismans that help a little. Somethin' better than nothin'. Afraid you're not gonna find anythin' that's happier than that particular hellscape."

The feeling of the Darkwalker haunted him in the dead of the night most nights, regardless of how long it's been.

His head turns quickly towards Raylan at the mention of talismans. He's more than familiar now with what power symbols and words can have, both for and against these sorts of beings.

"Talismans?" He pauses in his work to straighten up - already his back is aching. "Are they something we can create ourselves, l-like with special sigils or equipment, or is someone handing them out?"

"Yeah. Actually-" He pauses from his nail pulling, each one going into his coat pocket because they needed those, goddamnit, before unbuttoning his wool overcoat and the denim so he could reach into a pocket. It gave Arthur a good look at his side piece too, held secure in it's weathered patina holster before Raylan handed him something much more interesting to look at.

An amulet with a sigil carved deep into it, stained with blood.

"Methuselah taught a guy named Heartman how to make them - he's missin' now, but the knowledge lives on. Our blood - Interloper blood - is the trick for helping ease the Darkwalker's coming and goin', but apparently it can't be your own. Might be other applications too, but I don't know much of anythin' about that kind of thing so I'm afraid I'm not much help."

Arthur is absolutely memorising the carved symbol as he turns the charm in his hands.

"Do you mean the person who carved it can't use their own blood? Does it have to be- willingly given, or...?"

He looks back at Raylan, and chuckles, awkward and sympathetic. "Should I ask around a little more with some of the others?"

"Let's say for the sake of humanitarianism that consent is a non-negotiable, yes - someone else's blood." No cutting people up for their blood now, Arthur. Raylan's dark mind didn't shy away from all the wild possibilities and that was something that applied to everyone.

"But I always ask around more with some of the others, see who's got what little piece of information or lore, anythin' that makes this place make sense in some kinda way."

"No, er- y-yes, what I mean is- some forms of magic, o-or at least some of the ones I've encountered - willingness matters, more than raw power, it's vital."

After everything with John and the King, he's definitely lead to believe it was the most important thing.

"But, er- right, yes, that's exactly what I'd do as well, I'm-" he smiles, aiming for more reassuring. "I'm a private investigator, myself."

"I can't say either way, but considerin' the stakes, I'd opt for the safer route."

But that was him. Still, he was set a little more at ease by Arthur's revelation of gumshoedom - Raylan always had liked those kind of stories. It was a decent job, though usually for former LEO's who didn't want the grind of the street beat.

"That so? Well, you'll find yourself in a lot of similar company. I'm a US Deputy Marshal, we've got a detective and a sheriff kickin' around too. But apparently there are a few people who don't take too kindly to cops, which I suppose doesn't apply to you, but who knows. Better to warn you than not."

"Certainly not myself, no," he chuckles, squatting down again and ignoring the quiet protest of both knees. "I-I actually only got into the whole business because of my partner, Peter Yang. And of course he was never going to be a policeman, so."

Of course, like it's self-evident, a blindingly obvious fact he doesn't need to elaborate on.

"But if that shouldn't be a problem here, then- well, it certainly makes working together easier. Get all of the curious bastards pointed in the right direction, we're better than any damn sniffer dogs. Especially if there's more of us that have experience with the supernatural."

"All the same flavor of 'used to bullshit', I'd say. Might even be even on stake outs, if you ever wanted to compare." No one ever did, they just wanted to talk about how shitty those three or so days were.

"But that's what I figure. Enough people askin' enough questions, we're sure to hit on the right one sooner or later, and smart people askin' questions is how we got those talismans. You heard about the occultists yet?"

A muscle tightens in his jaw before he can help himself, with a too-even breath.

"Not the local ones, no. I'm plenty familiar with cultists back home, mind you."

Raylan hums an interested note, eyebrows lifting with the sound as he settles on his hunches, eyes taking in Arthur's general everything.

"Yeah? You might be helpful in that area then. All I know is that they're bat shit crazy. Talkin' about the Darkwalker comin' to consume us all. I can't decide if their fanaticism is based in reality or their own twisted head. They started out as protestors against industry, apparently. No idea why they are the way they are now - the forest, mountains can do that to a man, but it takes time. Trauma. Both of which they got here, I guess."

"The Darkwalker itself, perhaps," he comments flatly. "Look, gods like these, they don't leave their followers unscathed. Regardless of supernatural influence, this thing is obviously corrupting these people's minds - have they been harmful, to the rest of us, or just sticking to their own crowd?"

Raylan winces a little at the question. He wasn't going to lie or sugarcoat their situation - either Arthur would understand the position that the community was in or he'd find someone who could explain it better than Raylan could, probably. Raylan disagreed with a lot of the actions that had been taken, but he'd also just gotten here. Wasn't his place.

"They've been tradin' shots with Young Bill, over at Lakeside, breakin' into stores, stealin' shit. I don't have all the pieces of those particulars, but there was a town meetin' around if we should go after their food stores, hidden out in the trees and take them for ourselves, explore Lakeside more, push into their territory. Afraid the community chose that route.. And then someone went and got stupid and kidnapped one of their numbers. That one I missed completely but it's knowledge around town."

Raylan wasn't going to mention the rest of it, of the young Levi kid apparently almost killing the Forest Talker, but he hadn't dug into that. He didn't know how much stock to put in it and trust was low here.

"It's gonna come to a head at some point."

Edited 2024-09-10 01:53 (UTC)

It was a fairly diplomatic answer, all things considered, but it was thorough, and Arthur appreciates his candour immensely.

"It's a turf war, now," he summarises flatly. "You're certainly right - I'm familiar with the sort of- of gang mindset, as well - there's no doubt going to be repercussions from that, if there haven't been already."

He looks back at his house, and grimaces. "You know, I was only doing this because if I was going to live alone, it just felt sensible. Now it feels... more prudent, I suppose."

Some of the tension goes out of Raylan's shoulders in relief at hearing Arthur get it, the full picture in a nice succinct frame.

"Better that you're ready for the worst, in any case. Especially here. Speakin' of, we should probably make sure you get a weapon or somethin'. How do you feel about axes and knives? There's guns about too, but those are harder to find and ammunition remains on the rarer side. Not to say it can't be found of course, but rare enough that I'm savin' all mine for dire emergencies. Huntin' is bein' done old school."

Without any ceremony or fuss, he reaches inside his outer coat to pull his knife out of his belt and display it - a black blade, glossy in a way that might suggest stone rather than metal and glints unpleasantly. The word knife is far less applicable than sacrificial dagger.

"I came here with this one, actually. And I know how to use it." A simple statement of fact. "I also know how to use a gun, a-as well as maintain it, if you do happen to see me with one." He tucks his knife away again. "Don't let the accent fool you - I'm more than capable of holding my own when push comes to shove."

"I don't tend to judge people on their accents, lest I be judged on mine." He follows the statement with a wry smirk and a nod.

"But good. You'll likely be puttin' it to use, one way or another. Seems to match the general theme around here." Dark and creepy, though it looked more than serviceable. Raylan finishes pulling another plank and hucks it to the side.

"Milton ain't exactly Vegas, but the community ain't bad. Helpful sorta people when things aren't hittin' the fan. There've been.. incidents before."

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Part One: The Cabin

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