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.
no subject
Since she doesn't have the strength or energy to stand at parade rest, she stays leaning against the wall as she asks the next question that seems the most logical. "Are you an associate of Lieutenant Little's, Mr Jopson?"
no subject
"Is he so charming that his is the first name you recall?" he wonders with a sigh. "Though I'd rather be seen as an associate of his than Hickey's."
no subject
"He was the first of your era I met here," she explains simply, her tone professional and not conveying the connection she does feel toward the aforementioned man. "It seems there are quite a few of you."
no subject
Until he was left behind.
no subject
"It's an interesting theory," she says. "I wasn't with my crew and none of them have been here since I arrived."
no subject
"So many of you are - just alone?" he wonders.
no subject
Another cough shakes its way through her and she curses that she can't currently help with such a task. She feels so useless like this, but perhaps he'll appreciate the suggestion of something to spend his time on.
no subject
"Yes, ma'am," he finally adds, remembering that he needs to say something. "But - please, would you rest?"
no subject
"We won't do anyone any favors if either of us drops into the snow," she points out for her own benefit as much as his.
no subject
He really means it this time. He's aching, his bones feel like they're scraping together, and he really wants to sit on something that isn't the cold ground or a wooden stair.