Thomas Jopson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lieutenantsteward) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-11-02 08:20 pm
lieutenantsteward) wrote in singillatim2023-11-02 08:20 pm
There's a certain Slant of light
Who: Jopson and OTA
What: Just being a sad scurvyed, lead poisoned cold boy
When: Arrival and after
Where: Outside of town, then around! Never too far from center.
Content Warnings: illness and disease, talk of death, more TBD
Jopson pushes himself up from the snow, a feat that already has him worried. If this is indeed heaven, then God's picked a poor place. If this is hell, well, Jopson almost yeans for the warmth of hellfire. He tucks his forelock behind his ear, touching the hair that’s gotten far too long, taking stock of himself. Shoes. Trousers. Feet that aren’t frozen yet. Fingers that work and only hurt when they move. A coat -
- he’d been wearing this coat when he was promoted. When things didn’t seem so bleak. This rifle, pointed right at Hickey. And the kit in an inside pocket?
The devil has a terrible sense of humor.
So.
He walks.
Only when the woods clear does he see the town in the evidence of small fires and smoke that billows up in around dilapidated buildings. His feet give out long before the first house is within reach, but he uses the rifle to keep himself up.
He calls out with the last bit of strength remaining in his skeleton where each bone strikes the other.
He can walk. It’s a miracle in itself, considering the last memories he has before coming here are of dragging himself across frozen rocks and ice and everything falling apart around him. It's the feast in the hall, it's the clatter of plates and cups and silverware. It's the feeling, the unending, yearning maw of guilt and horror and grief and loss all over again. It weighs on him, even here.
He takes several breaks as he tries to map out the place. He should be resting, he knows he should be, but it feels good to be upright, to have a view that isn’t the inside of the tent.
He leans against the walls of homes, of stores, and catches his breath in the sunshine. As it starts to get dark, he’ll return from where he came - a structure of four walls that had once been someone’s home.
Of course, once Jopson’s mostly back on his feet, the first thing he needs to do is make himself presentable. There’s no reason to be sloppy. Not here. Not when he can move about, when everything doesn’t seem bleak.
There’s a house he’s found but is loath to claim as his own. It feels wrong, somehow. But still, that’s where his belongings, meager as they are, rest. That’s where his fire sits. That’s where he boils his water. And that’s where the filthy mirror is.
After cleaning it, he walks outside of his house, scissors in his hand, catching what light he can while he can. The beard is more difficult, considering the quality of knives he’s seen around, but he can at least trim his hair. The back is more difficult and he tries to turn a bit to do it himself, but it’s proving quite ineffective.
It also doesn’t help that he’s still recovering. Shaky hands and coughing fits do not a clean trim make.
What: Just being a sad scurvyed, lead poisoned cold boy
When: Arrival and after
Where: Outside of town, then around! Never too far from center.
Content Warnings: illness and disease, talk of death, more TBD
[I. Arrival - Closed to Crozier]
Jopson pushes himself up from the snow, a feat that already has him worried. If this is indeed heaven, then God's picked a poor place. If this is hell, well, Jopson almost yeans for the warmth of hellfire. He tucks his forelock behind his ear, touching the hair that’s gotten far too long, taking stock of himself. Shoes. Trousers. Feet that aren’t frozen yet. Fingers that work and only hurt when they move. A coat -
- he’d been wearing this coat when he was promoted. When things didn’t seem so bleak. This rifle, pointed right at Hickey. And the kit in an inside pocket?
The devil has a terrible sense of humor.
So.
He walks.
Only when the woods clear does he see the town in the evidence of small fires and smoke that billows up in around dilapidated buildings. His feet give out long before the first house is within reach, but he uses the rifle to keep himself up.
He calls out with the last bit of strength remaining in his skeleton where each bone strikes the other.
[II. Should You Really Be Outside? - OTA]
He can walk. It’s a miracle in itself, considering the last memories he has before coming here are of dragging himself across frozen rocks and ice and everything falling apart around him. It's the feast in the hall, it's the clatter of plates and cups and silverware. It's the feeling, the unending, yearning maw of guilt and horror and grief and loss all over again. It weighs on him, even here.
He takes several breaks as he tries to map out the place. He should be resting, he knows he should be, but it feels good to be upright, to have a view that isn’t the inside of the tent.
He leans against the walls of homes, of stores, and catches his breath in the sunshine. As it starts to get dark, he’ll return from where he came - a structure of four walls that had once been someone’s home.
[III. This is a Good Idea - OTA]
Of course, once Jopson’s mostly back on his feet, the first thing he needs to do is make himself presentable. There’s no reason to be sloppy. Not here. Not when he can move about, when everything doesn’t seem bleak.
There’s a house he’s found but is loath to claim as his own. It feels wrong, somehow. But still, that’s where his belongings, meager as they are, rest. That’s where his fire sits. That’s where he boils his water. And that’s where the filthy mirror is.
After cleaning it, he walks outside of his house, scissors in his hand, catching what light he can while he can. The beard is more difficult, considering the quality of knives he’s seen around, but he can at least trim his hair. The back is more difficult and he tries to turn a bit to do it himself, but it’s proving quite ineffective.
It also doesn’t help that he’s still recovering. Shaky hands and coughing fits do not a clean trim make.
iii
So when the Lieutenant had come to ask her fairly urgently to seek out one of them who'd recently arrived, there was really nothing more to be said. The bottle of rosehip syrup is carefully tucked into her satchel as she heads out looking for the man — a name and a general description in mind.
Eventually, she does come across said man, in the midst of trying very hard to cut his hair in the dim daylight — looking far worse than Lieutenant Little, Mr Goodsir or... with an internal grimace: yeah, even Mr Hickey. It's hard to hide the worry, she was never all that good at lying — no even with facial expressions.
"Excuse me, Mr... Jopson?" she raises a hand in greeting, a tiny smile at her lips. "Sorry to bother you. I'm Kate Marsh. Lieutenant Little sent me?"
Re: iii
He inclines his head, a small bow of acknowledgment.
"Miss Marsh. Is there something I can do for you?"
And indeed he sets the scissors aside, ready tontry and attend to whatever she requires.
no subject
"Actually, it's more— well, something I can do for you." There's a little hesitation, as if trying to go about the gentlest way of explaining it. For a brief moment, she looks apologetic, then fretful. "I'm... I know about the situation, your situation. About the Scurvy in the Expedition, and the problems with the canned food."
She turns to retrieve something from her satchel and pulls out a large glass bottle filled with an orange-red liquid. Rosehip syrup.
"I promised I would help, if— if more of you came. I made it myself." she holds it out to him. "Please, it's a gift."
no subject
He accepts the bottle and inspects it tightly. Rather than agreeing, he tries to find more information.
"What is it?" he wonders, ever curious.
no subject
"Rosehip syrup." she tells him. "They grow all over here. I learned in a foraging book that Rosehip's actually packed full of vitamin C. It's a nutrient our bodies need to stay healthy."
There's a little pause, upset in her expression for a brief moment.
"The fact you were all on limited diets, and being poisoned by lead for years— you need this more than ever." He... doesn't look well at all. No wonder Lieutenant Little had told her it was urgent. "You can drink it neat, a spoonful a day, or maybe even mix it with some water to make a drink with it, if you find it too sweet. It'll help you get better. I have dried Rosehips too, if you might like it as a tea, too."
Yes, he can absolutely have both.
no subject
"I will try it, Miss Marsh, thank you." He bows his head again, setting it aside but close so that he doesn't forget it.
"You needn't trouble yourself more with it. I'm sure this will be sufficient."
no subject
She doesn't know how to hunt or fish, or do any of that kind of stuff. It's all too easy to feel guilty about not pulling enough weight. But there's still some things she can try to do. Speaking of:
"You're... trying to cut your hair?" she motions to the scissors.
no subject
He shakes his head a little, making himself slightly dizzy, then checks the mirror again.
no subject
"But I can help, if you like." she offers, "I've... never cut anyone else's hair before, but I've trimmed my own."
It shouldn't be too difficult, right? And he looks like he might topple over if he stands for too long.
no subject
And indeed the front is a little uneven, but he works on snipping the last bits so he can tuck his forelock behind his ear properly.
And he already is starting to feel better.
no subject
"Much better." she says with a smile, before frowning thoughtfully. "If you need stuff to shave with, the general store in town should totally have some. It's... they're going to be a little different to what you're used to, though."
no subject
"I will find my way there once I've time to rest," he assures her. "Thank you, Miss Marsh."
no subject
"You're welcome." There's a little nod of her own. Speaking of: she'll leave the man to try to get said rest. "If you ever need more of the syrup, or want to try the tea instead — I stay in the Community Hall. You can find me there."
no subject
He needs to work up to walking that far on his own without breaks, but he trusts that the syrup will work wonders.
no subject
She raises a hand, giving a tiny wave of farewell.
"See you around, Mr Jopson."