Micolash, Host of the Nightmare (
grantuseyes) wrote in
nexus_crossings2017-10-12 07:51 pm
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This Mortal Coil
Micolash is in the Nexus Plaza, thankfully looking cleaner and smelling better than the last time he'd been asking questions. The cage is still in place, of course; why would it not be? He even looks a little healthier! Not much, as his skin is still sallow and gaunt over angular bones and features. But at least not as unsteady and proportionally more alert as well.
He's not quick to ask a question, however. The scholar is instead on a sofa, long legs pulled up onto the seat with him and folded in front of him. The rest of the sofa, normally big enough to seat three, is piled with books. Easily two dozen, if not more. A glance at the covers that are visible will show a selection of possibly recognizable names: Erwin Schrödinger. Charles Hartshorne. René Descartes. David Ray Griffin. The one he has open on his knees right now is a collection of Thomas Aquinas' summae and related theories.
The scholar is content to immerse himself in this reading for hours on end, but eventually, he seems to recall where he is. And that he can ask questions if the fancy takes him.
"What do you think. Or believe. Happens after death?"
Getting RIGHT to the heavy stuff, it appears.
He's not quick to ask a question, however. The scholar is instead on a sofa, long legs pulled up onto the seat with him and folded in front of him. The rest of the sofa, normally big enough to seat three, is piled with books. Easily two dozen, if not more. A glance at the covers that are visible will show a selection of possibly recognizable names: Erwin Schrödinger. Charles Hartshorne. René Descartes. David Ray Griffin. The one he has open on his knees right now is a collection of Thomas Aquinas' summae and related theories.
The scholar is content to immerse himself in this reading for hours on end, but eventually, he seems to recall where he is. And that he can ask questions if the fancy takes him.
"What do you think. Or believe. Happens after death?"
Getting RIGHT to the heavy stuff, it appears.
no subject
Micolash smiles serenely. Someone's pale eyes are just as piercing back. Has he actually even blinked once since this exchange began?
"Twice, in fact."
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He grins, and his nose twitches slightly, not unlike that of a mouse.
"Prove it."
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"And it is hardly academic to urge someone to believe me on word and anecdote alone. Alas."
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"But, for argument's sake, let's pretend I believe you. How, in fact, did you return from the dead? Twice even?"
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"But moving on," he drones, now moving to cross one leg over the other at the knee. The foot of which bobs thoughtfully, untied laces swinging with the motion. "It was not so much as return as it was a departure. Vacating my body by way of ritual, planned and researched judiciously, to see my spirit to the higher plane of the Nightmare Frontier.
"And from there? When my Nightmare of Mensis was invaded by a hunter? Ahh, we had a merry chase for some time. But all good things much come to an end. The form I'd taken there was thusly chopped to pieces and I perished once more. Only to find myself here in yet another Dream." He frowns bitterly at the memory.
"So with that being said," Micolash concludes airily, "if nothing else, I have personal confirmation that ones' spirit or mind will persist on other planes of existence when the body fails. Again, no proof but the memory. And I assure you, death tends to be a vivid one."
no subject
He listens intently as the other speaks, his eyes occasionally flicking back and forth, possibly deducing, possibly filing away information in his own mind and only half-listening, as he sits back and places his hands together under his chin, fingertips pressed together tightly.
This goes on for a few long moments even after the other one finishes his thought. Sherlock was either frozen, or completely lost in thought.
Then suddenly, he burst into activity again, leaning forward, hands pressed tightly to his worn trousers. "So in effect, you died, and that form was also destroyed? Then how did you end up here?"
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"And that is precisely why I have put it to research, my good sir. And to inquire at large, perhaps...how others arrived here. If their own culture's understanding of the Waking, the Dream, the Nightmare or death itself. Informs this place's position in the stratum of reality."
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"Now that's interesting."
He gets up, walking closer to the other man. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, nose twitching, trying to catch a scent.
"Are you still alive, in the biological sense, here? Blood, heartbeat, cellular division, what have you?"
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The line of questioning makes the caged scholar grimace in disgust. "Miserably so, yes. It's a. Sensitive subject. I consider returning to a human body made of wretched flesh and bone to be quite the step backward." Everyone treats him as though he's mad for saying so, but they don't know the visceral horror of abandoning such things as eating and sleeping and then being forced back into them.
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"Completely understandable, biological needs would seem base and superfluous after an experience such as that.." He's not being sarcastic, his disgust is equally genuine. "Sleeping and eating are tedious enterprises, and really ought to be done away with if one can help it. I can only imagine what someone who's experienced an existence beyond a mortal body would be loathe to return to it."
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The other man's response? Honestly? It stuns Micolash. His eyes go huge and he's left to uselessly stammer before giving up and waiting until he can form words again properly. It gives him time to look the other man over with fresher eyes. Why does this man ring distant bells of memory, actually? Was someone telling him about this person once before...?
"Y-...Yes! Everyone acts as if I am demented for finding such matters distasteful," he finally manages. "Tedious and revolting. All the more since I knew a time where it was no longer a concern. Were I able to abandon it again without dire consequences for this body, I would in a moment. How do you-...?" He's flummoxed again, trying to find words. "How is it you know what I mean? That you agree? You are the first!"
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Sherlock smirks, the other man's reactions continue to interest and amuse him. "The body is just transport. Food and sleep are but fuel, though I tend to not bother with either when I am on a case. Bad for brain work."
A careless shrug. "Most people are idiots."
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Hopefully.And Micolash is always nothing if not dramatic and unusual in his reactions and explanations in things. Eccentric might be the kindest word for his ways. Always good for entertainment! "Exactly! Good heavens, if only everyone understood so readily. Who has time for such distractions as food or sleep when research has hit a fever pitch? Why would you display such a lack of conviction for your work to lose progress like that? Discoveries won't unearth themselves and tests won't begin without you!"
He's grown increasingly fidgety with excitement over finally finding a kindred spirit on these matters. Shifting in his seat, hands and fingers constantly in motion, travelling from the drawstrings on his regalia, his knees, his waistcoat, his cage. Always looking for new textures and places to rest before the search unthinkingly happens once more. His smile is wide and wobbly and the scholar giggles fitfully from time to time. Giddy!
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John would probably say yes.
But he's pleased at least someone around here--or back home--or elsewhere--has actual sense. "Indeed. Digestion slows me down and takes valuable energy and resources and blood that can be used for more important things, like thinking. And sleep is a waste of time in and of itself." Of course, the detective did sleep, or more like crash, once a case was over, and he didn't mind sleeping in if nothing was on.
Still, it would do to get more information from this man who had sense, and yet, walked around with a cage on his head.
"What is your name?"
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Now that he's upright, Micolash offers a pale hand! Once it's taken, it proves to be cold and clammy. Wonderful.
"I am Micolash. Once Headmaster of Mensis, once Host of the Nightmare. Now simply Micolash." A shame. He so misses both of those titles.
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"Surely there's a story behind that," Sherlock smirked, in references to those odd names. His voice indicates he's just humoring him, but information was information, even if it was...well, wild. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."
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This is one of those moments when he finally hears the man's name. Sherlock...
The hand that had taken the other man's in greeting tightens its grip and the other hand snatches at Sherlock's wrist, intent on grabbing onto it as well. Micolash's face has become one of frantic realization, eyes wide and unblinking, his voice lowered in the same.
"You. You're the beast Ashlynn is looking for. Aren't you?"
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"Beast?! Ashlynn? I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
The word bristled on his lips. The body was transport, yes, but the body was also much better when human and not a rodent. He hated being called what he was.
How did this man know what he was?
There was something wrong in his memory palace. A whole wing, collapsed. Debris everywhere. He knew he'd been missing something, he just didn't know what. And he could not trust a single person here.
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"You're lyingggg~," he replies in an unsettling singsong. "Your sisterly friend has told me all about you." His grip has only tightened now in his increasing glee of this discovery. What providence! What fortune! That he gets to be first to come across this marvelous specimen, to be the one to march him back to his newfound friend, Ashlynn! And what a reunion it shall be. He will not harm the beast, no. Of course not! That would be a clear disservice to the lady, as she'd told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to be hurt.
But that doesn't mean he can't satisfy his scientific curiosity first.
"Show me," Micolash hisses. "She said you can become beast, then man, then back again. I want to see it."
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The detective's eyes widened--
"What friend? I haven't the foggiest, and you're spouting off nonsense, let GO!"
He wasn't going to put himself in a vulnerable position--if he shifts fully, right here and now, he could easily be captured, put in a cage, anything--
RP with Micolash: goes from 0 to 60 in weird and creepy at the slightest drop
His bony fingers are still vice-like in their grip, his eyes still wide with fervor, his smile still sickly and forced. The excitement he'd felt when he first heard of this unique breed of beast, one who retains the ability to change one way or the other, to keep his faculties intact? Oh, but it bubbles back up with such intensity, such elation! This situation is tremendous to his research, to the nature of the Beast Plague! What differences and developments can be found? What can be replicated and sussed regarding the dire transformation of man to animal? And why such a creature as a rodent? That's a new one!
But. Miraculously? Something manages to pierce the frenzy Micolash is gripped by. The man demanded he be let go. And while courtesy's priorities drop dramatically when fresh Insight is afoot....The scholar thinks of Abysa. His caretaker since finding the Nexus. How would he react if he found Micolash like this? Clutching a strange man against his will and comfort? Demanding things of him?
Even if his own morality is stunted enough that this kindness only comes in such a roundabout way, it's still a small blessing that the caged man hesitates... then loosens his grip fractionally. And then finally opens his hands fully, releasing Sherlock's forearm. Takes a step back. Arms still held in the same position, face still locked in that unsettling glee.
"...She is looking for you, you know," he eventually murmurs, unblinking. "She wanted me to take you to her, were you to be found..."
>:D
However, in the excitement, his blue-green eyes seem to be...somehow, impossibly, completely overlaid with black. And a split second later, they are back to their normal hue. An unfortunate price to pay when things get heated on a good day, and ever since he'd found himself wandering this place, his control had withered away to near nothing. Instincts amplified. Bits of brown fur might be visible at the edge of his sleeves.]
Hmph.
I really don't know what you're taking about. I don't know anyone here.
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"...No?" he finally says, the word not a question but a confused statement. "No." Firmer now, asserting it. "No, she said Sherlock was her friend. I am unquestionably certain of it." He won't add that she described a man that sounded a lot like himself, down to the same height, but it's still a detail the scholar retains. "And she said that he was a man who changed into a beast, a rodent, at will. And that is where my interest-"
The eyes returning to blue is what makes him notice they'd changed at all. Micolash stops mid-sentence when he spots it. And then his own starts to searching feverishly over Sherlock once again, skimming for clues, for changes.
...fur.
Micolash's arm jerks, as if he'd been tempted to grab the other man's wrist again. But he stops himself. And then just wordlessly points at the man's wrist instead, his smile reappearing. Oh, but he feels so wonderfully validated right now.
Whoops! Sorry I totally botched the formatting on that previous reply lol
—he glances down at where the other man is pointing.
Damn. Sherlock quickly tries to pull his sleeves down but it’s mostly out of embarrassment now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag.
“I’m much more than a beast or a rodent.” It’s almost snarled. There was a reason he valued his intellect, his human side far more. He was a brain, the body was just transport, but being a mouse was a terrible means of transport, and his mind could easily turn to mush in the throes of instincts. Many people who knew what he was, once they discovered it, forgot about his intelligence and focused on what he was and what he could do. Plus, they could easily take advantage of him once they knew.
it's fine!
"I do so hope when you've been reunited with your friend, Ashlynn, you will let me examine you in full? Oh but you must! The answers I could glean from you..."