[Open] All the world seems in tune on a spring afternoon

[restingstitchface]

Who: Jonathan Crane
When: Month of April
Where: Cadens + Horizon
What: Cadens (Cadfael) + Horizon (Open) + Sarstina (Norman)
Warnings: Possible discussions of trauma and PTSD







Hello! If you want a prompt message me on safekeeping or Discord.

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Sarstina (Norman)

[restingstitchface]

[The Sarstina. Crane visits during the morning, lurking in darkness in the corner, seated towards the back. People walk by. This man is nobody. This woman is nothing. Their lives are insignificant. Observing them is a way to pass the time.

He squints at the door and raises a hand. Fingers burrow through his hair and support his head. Nails scratch his scalp; once, twice, three times before settling their movements.

Limbs and shoulders align and he straightens as someone approaches his table. Fingers glide together and his hands slide between his knees. Eyes glance in the direction of the newcomer. An impassive, polite expression lightens his face - honest and open as he looks his associate in the eye.

Calm. Controlled. Confident. His voice is soft and polite, though he possesses the awkward manner of being a fish out of water.]

Glad you could make it.

[Such a curt phrase spoken so nicely. Not a personal inkling of annoyance at all.]

[takeatrip]

[Between the strange schedule he's been keeping and the difficulty of tracking time in the Horizon, it's a wonder even to Jayden himself that he manages to arrive on time to the meeting. But he does, leaving his room with a few minutes to spare, but thankfully all he has to do is go down into the main part of the Inn and look for the new arrival.

The bruising on his face has mostly faded in the time since being rescued, just hints of shadows here and there, and he looks pale and tired. But other than that, and his left hand and arm still being wrapped in bandages, there isn't much evidence of the month he spent trapped in that cave. Physically, anyway.

He slides into the seat opposite Crane, nodding in his own polite greeting, though he's already a little mentally distracted and has to force himself to refocus.]

Yeah, of course. Glad you found the place okay; how're you doing with getting used to... All of this?

[You know, the whole lack of technology and presence of magic and all the other weirdness.]

[restingstitchface]

[Pale and tired. Crane can understand burning the midnight oil, though his reasons for doing so are different to most. It is an image he keeps to himself as he looks towards the bar; a range of liquors and spirits bottled at the rear. He returns his attention after a moment.]

Better than some by all accounts.

[One hand rests upon the table, fingers tapping in thought before both hands slide into his lap.]

What kind of people would perform such barbarity?

[You're a profiler. You can tell him, right?]

[takeatrip]

[Jayden's gaze follows Crane's just briefly, only enough to figure out what he's looking at, and he wonders for a moment if Crane's considering drinking at this time in the morning. Maybe that's just because Jayden had himself, for just a moment before coming downstairs, contemplated the possibility of getting a drink at this time of the morning before deciding that no, that was probably pushing it.

He draws his own thoughts back to the present again, and gives a small shrug, though he then mirrors Crane in pulling both his hands under the table as well.]

You said you'd heard somethin' about what happened recently? How much were you filled in on?

[Jayden's allowing the diversion in topic for now, but he'll circle back to his original question later.]

Horizon (Open)

[restingstitchface]

[Appointments are booked and scheduled. Meetings planned and arranged. Crane expects people to be punctual but also expects little progress. Individuals have their own desires and love to oppose his opinions; patients often refusing to change their behavior. Not that he is hypocritical enough to deny his own pleasure for prompting change. That desire is why he stands alone in a world of change. One world he can change.

The Hall is the core of his own little pocket of space and time: a distinctly gothic and ornamental manor with windows surrounded by flourishing ivy. Sunlight dazzles overhead as refreshing winds swirl around corners marked by hedges and trees. Flowers bloom and their scent carries on the breeze. Birds are chirping while leaves are budding on the branch. Crane bows his head and listens to the sounds of nature. He is reading beneath a tree until somebody intrudes.

Starlings and sparrows fly amongst the trees, making him reminisce until he closes his book before standing on his feet. The spring breeze reminds him of unpleasant times. He tucks his book beneath his arm and strolls through The Corridors. Columns and arches line the aisle and grant pockets of cavernous space. People looking indoors may find him leaning over a glass table with too little space for his journals and notes. Time crawls by until he knocks something off. He seems distracted by work.

Work. Pleasure. Both have lost their distinction over the years and in this world he craves the same line of stimulation. The story he spins for others is that of an everyday man going about his business. Nobody would be surprised to find his academic ass inside The Study on the second floor. The small room is full of books. Journals about psychology. Novels of classical literature. Psychiatric publications and periodicals. Visitors can wait outside or dare to trespass inside.]

[vecna]

[A meeting, promised. And now planned and arranged. Henry is punctual, always pristinely presentable when he arrives, his footsteps which softly sound down the hall the only real herald of his arrival. The sunlight dapples across the ground, across his own form, and the sound of birds twittering carries here and there.

A peaceful, novel sort of place, he thinks. Doctors of his ilk are always trying to make their patients feel so comfortable, so comforted, in the spaces they craft for themselves. For their work. Admittedly, some do better than most; his time spent in HNL was only half as aesthetically pleasing, pops of color among the sterility reserved for the children, and certainly not the "employees".

But Henry will set his biases aside (no he won't, not really) for the sake of meeting another Summoned who might claim to heal the mind, dredging up trauma just to file down its harsher edges. No such thing to (sincerely) apply to himself, of course. But he is curious.]

Dr. Crane.

[-he announces as he nears the man, who's apparently busied himself reading beneath the swaying shade of a tree. Henry strands, straight-backed and made up of nothing but polite edges, and clasps his hands behind him, as he often does. The default Friendly Orderly stance.

He smiles, amicable as anything.]

What a nice place you've already crafted for yourself. I'm impressed.

[hello sir, meet the emoji bastard]

(╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

[restingstitchface]

[Crane knows not to trust a smile. This world born from imagination holds the illusion of warmth; a welcoming place in all but name. First impressions are misleading, he knows, because he enjoys making them. There is a pause while he closes his book and leans against the tree. He adjusts his glasses and looks up at his guest

This is a young man. Not the soldier he's been speaking to about trauma. Nor the one craving the stupor of medication. He already knows the names of others and has met some in person. It's a pleasant challenge, really, shortening the list by process of elimination. He considers asking the younger man for his name but decides there's not much point.

He doesn't climb to his feet. Not yet.]

Not as much as I by your punctuality, Henry.

[oversight]

[ Blake isn't quite ready to accept the Horizon. His comfort level here isn't great — the idea that it's all part of the mind bothers him — but the allure of those darkened streets and familiar smells coupled with a modern attire more like what he's used to, and some days here feel easier to go to his block-or-so of Gotham to hide.

With his own Horizon space nestled close to Crane's it's only a matter of time before Blake finds his way there, leaving his skyscrapers, but bringing the rain. He recognizes how out-of-place this feels, all artifice and some conception of classical, but the more he wanders those halls, the more eerie and liminal everything feels.

How could anyone work here? How could someone be treated here? Suffocating. Blake supposes he knows why it suits Crane with its winding architectural elements and dense hardwoods. At any moment he expects to open a door and find the build of cobwebs leading to some treacherous dungeon full of howling victims.

(He only wanders this labyrinth of insanity because he knows eventually he'll wake up.)

So, dare to trespass, he does. He's inside Crane's study, fingers drawing over the spines of those imagined books, mind racing to put pieces together as quickly as possible. The evidence for all he needs to know is here — that much he's certain about — although he makes no effort to hide his intrusion or the fact that he's snooping.

Near the fireplace, he pulls a book from the shelf and flips the pages, toasted by the flames and illuminated by the firelight. Outside the rain patters against the half dozen windows and Blake can sense the way the dampness cling to his shoulders and hair. It wouldn't be surprising if he'd left a trail of wet footprints all the way here. ]

[restingstitchface]

[Murmuring voices. Whispered speech. Screams and cries of distress. Crane imagines the former is the latter and smiles to himself as he wanders the corridors towards an ornate set of stairs. He climbs with a spring in his step, fingers gliding across the iron railing, swirling across the end before sliding into his pocket. He imagines himself whistling as he strolls past an empty room that might make a fine laboratory.

Luckily, he has never been one to whistle. Nor ignore the signs of intrusion. The heavy rain is unusual, not of his own preference nor design. He listens to its patter and spots the droplets dampening the floor; a trail of moisture that leads towards his study and ends at its door.

He silently twists the handle and slips inside. Rain beats against the window. The door is closed without making a sound. His body blocks the only way out. There is something cold and devilish in his tone as he announces his presence.]

Boo.

[carmesi]

[two of her ravens—unnamed, as of yet; bound to her—travel from the depths of her horizon to follow her along to this gothic and ornamental manor, a place far too scholarly for her. a space far too contrarian to the chaos and nature that overflows her own space in the horizon. wanda arrives uninvited, all too aware that she is trespassing.

but the space is new, the space is fascinating. like many universities she has seen on magazines and tv, or just walked past in her brief stay in new york.

her curiosity enables her further inside, finds it empty. her ravens lead the way towards a study on the second floor. they fly off from the balcony to join her on the other side of the window as she steps inside. there is no one here, currently, but the small room is full of books, and while the horizon doesn't quite retain writing unless one makes it so, she thinks that these books will have content in them. wanda grabs one from the shelf, flips through the pages of tiny, packed letters in aged pages. she grabs another, tries to find interest in them, but finds the contents a little too complex for her: medical jargon, beyond what she's ever learnt as far as language is concerned.

leaving them on a table nearby, wanda goes instead through the journals, the publications, the periodicals—leaves them slightly off from their original positions. the shelves with novels of classical literature catch her eye, having a preference for these, out of all that she can find. she picks at a book, finally, and seems to settle for it, alice in wonderland, surely dripping with psychological analysis in its margins.

(like goldilocks and the three bears, herself.)

with her back to the door, only her ravens keep an eye out from the window.]

[restingstitchface]

[Crane enjoys detail. His inquisitive mind relishes the challenge of analysis and enjoys the construction of opinion. Exploring the unknown rattles his bones and shakes his soul - not that he believes in spirituality outside of the realm of psychology. Magic is an equally strange concept and his mind wanders towards technology and progress, his body passing beneath the stone arch. Feet direct him towards the vestibule and over the threshold.

The corridor is no source of comfort for his current mood; a passage in name as he climbs upstairs and slowly ambles towards the comfort of his library. He yawns outside the door, exhausted in body and mind. People? Exhausting. Relationships? Demotivating. He has no desire to tolerate either and seems to find comfort in being transported to different worlds of literature. The old image of reading in school comes to mind. The library had been nothing but a harsh lesson on human nature; the children who had driven him outside teaching him there was nowhere he could escape to.

Because they had found him there, too.

He twists the handle and begins opening the door.]

[aquilus]

[Altaïr isn't surprised to see a new domain among those he discovers on this particular wandering through the Horizon. The one thing the Summoned seem to have in common is the urge to constantly create in this plane, and the newest among them haven't wasted any time doing so — something he's helped along, because someone should.

This particular domain is a little more hemmed in that some he's been to, including his own. He walks the corridors with leisure, no particular destination in mind, not even looking for the creator of the domain. The architecture seems to catch his interest and in time he pulls a small notebook out of of his pack to make a few light sketches.]

[restingstitchface]

[The morning is silent. The novel has reached its climax, leaving him to question the false reality of this phony world and how it would seem magical were he a child. He doesn't question his mood as he leaves his study. He doesn't let doubt sink in as he heads downstairs. He doesn't hide from his thoughts or deny the potential he might learn something in this place. He simply walks towards his newfound friend with his hands at his back.

Never let it be said he refuses to enjoy admiration. Not when it is freely and truly given.]

Mr. LaʼAhad. This is unexpected.

[Or perhaps not? He has just learned people love wandering around.]

Cadens (Cadfael)

[restingstitchface]

[Late?

Crane considers himself many things; an intelligent man, a visionary, disciplined, fearless, weak in the eyes of others - but laziness is an anathema he refuses to indulge. His meeting with the monk remains a few minutes off as he had arrived early.

A long while early, in fact.

The marketplace scheduled for their meeting has an old world atmosphere, with traditional foods and bottled spirits. Exotic spices and teas catch his eye, while the smell of meat and fish from the nearby wet market curls his nose. People branch off into narrow streets that lead to immoral destinations.

Observations come to an end when a loud patter draws his ear: a swindler peddling miracle elixirs and patent medicine. He reaches the back of the crowd and feels distance from the people surrounding him. He keeps his thoughts to himself and allows them to be fooled. How can he possibly help when they allow themselves to be fooled? Not only by the charlatan but himself. How can they understand? They know him as nothing but a stranger.

His entire body stiffens when his associate comes over. Perhaps he is simply angry about the fraud?]

Sometimes this world is a blessing; at other times a curse.

[rarebenedictine]

[Cadfael rose early this day, as it was his habit on any given day. Even so far from the safe confines of Shrewsbury Abbey, he continued his established routine as much as he was able to. The sounds, the smells and the sights of the city reminded him of the Holy Land. So much so that he half expected the hear a call for the morning prayers earlier that day. It took him a while to realize it is not Akka, but entirely different place, and he has been thrown into an entirely new adventure.

The memories of his youth lingered still when he weaved through the crowd with a vigor usually uncommon for men his age, crossing the marketplace to the meeting place agreed upon with his newest acquaintance. They have put him in the most benevolent and understanding of moods. Not the cries of the many merchants, some of the shady, not the push of the throng moving about the marketplace with a mind of its own. Nothing seemed to be able to bother him.

It did not escape his notice though, that the man he came to meet is in quite the different mood.]

It is just the nature of this imperfect world.

[Cadfael's views is usually a lot less bleak.]

Good day to you, my friend. I hope I did not make you wait for me long.

[restingstitchface]

[Crane inhales deeply - and holds his breath - and releases it in a second. Two seconds more and he is as calm as the man he came to meet. Shoulders relaxed, hands resting by his side. He tilts his head slightly to the sky and turns his back on the hawkish display.

Perhaps it is this man keeping him calm. Perhaps it is his own nature. To ensnare, to bewitch and to beguile. To lie almost from compulsion. If not through his words than through his image. He ]

Not in the least. Though perhaps it is fortunate you arrived when you did.

[He is aware of his mood more than any other. All his training affords a deep level of insight.]

— cadens ( crane & blake)

[theidlemaiden]

[ The timing of new arrivals in Abraxas is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it means that Hilda has something to occupy herself with (adding to the growing list of hobbies she had suddenly become very invested it) and a curse because refusing to face what's plaguing her is probably worse for her in the long run.

But as it stands, she has no desire to untangle the knot of nebulous thoughts in her heart and mind, so donning the role of gracious (un)official welcome committee member is the role she happily plays today. Crane's arrival specifically feels fortuitous for a number of reasons. His offer and speciality seem more needed than ever, particularly after what had just happened. Did she understand perfectly what his work entailed? No, but if she did, she might be following a similar profession to him which sounded far too intimidating to begin with. Best to leave it to the professionals.

All of that is to say that Hilda's interest in Crane not only has to do with her (un)official duties but her own curiosities too. She had already extended an invitation to him for dinner, but during the course of their conversation Gotham had come up naturally as a topic and Hilda couldn't have been more delighted. Blake was from Gotham, and what better surprise was there than having someone you knew from home appear here? Crane's suggestion to keep his presence a surprise is well received and their plan is put into action.

The restaurant she picks is not too far from the Sarstina (a soldier had taken her on a date there and while the date hadn't been memorable, the food had been) and she's seated facing the door, chattering away with Crane when she spots Blake.

Cheerfully she raises her hand, ushering him over. ]

Blake, over here!

[oversight]

[ Since returning from the pit, Blake has remained quietly guarded, often reliving the horror of those conditions in the quiet, lonely hours. When the emptiness forces his stomach to growl, he suffers the hollowness it brings. Desperate for water even more aggressively than before, the combination of the desert landscape and memories of his extreme dehydration and thirst mean even a marginally dry mouth feels like torture. He's taken to carrying water here and there for the sake of comfort, but it hardly does all that much, meaning his mood remains low.

There aren't a whole heck of a lot of people from which Blake would accept a dinner invitation at the moment for this very reason, but Hilda is different. Her companionship and studious nature doesn't set him on edge like strangers. She took care of him after his rescue, and still checks on him even when he's gone quiet himself. All-in-all, a good thing he doesn't want to ignore, even if his proverbial dark clouds want to convince him back to bed.

Upon his arrival, dressed in something new and slightly more appropriate for an evening in Cadens, he even feels a little bit excited as he meets eyes with Hilda, waving reflexively. There's a back of a head between them — dark hair, thin frame, — and Blake briefly considers he might be here on the wrong night before remembering he'd been specifically invited today.

An old friend? A new friend? Blake's reminded that he met Jayden here and wouldn't mind him welcomed to the table, so he doesn't think (and wouldn't) begrudge Hilda company, either.

(It'll be fine. He'll be fine. Not all strangers are strange.)

Table-side a moment later, he's grasping Hilda's hands and leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek familiarly before turning a smile and introduce himself to her companion—

(What the fuck? Oh shit, oh shit, oh no—)

Face falling, expression immediately shifting to something utterly void of happiness, he's looking then between the two of them, back and forth like this might be some kind of joke, noting Crane and how Hilda seems utterly unfazed by his presence. ]

Uh... Am I—? [ Hands falling free of the connection, palms instantly clammy, he clears his throat — (Is it dry in here?) — but it doesn't do anything to stop the stutters. ] I-I don't wanna interrupt—

[restingstitchface]

[The invitation had come through private message: a surprise at first until he had chewed, swallowed and digested it until it was drained of substance. Hilda had seemed interesting by letter and looks outright intriguing in person. Elegant in appearance, strong in personality and physique. She would have to be to tolerate Blake, wouldn't she? He glances at Blake with a face full of politeness and poise - bitter with none of the poison he had exhibited in their last meeting.

Would others call him petty? Yes, he knows it, but for him his presence here is the result of one man's actions. Blake can only blame himself. What else would he expect after intruding within his realm? To speak and act in that accusing manner? This is simple: actions have consequences.

He smiles and offers a friendly gaze.]

Quite alright.

[His voice is clear and articulate.]

Come along and pull up a seat. We've just been gassing away whilst awaiting your arrival.

[Gassing.]

Execution (Reno)

[restingstitchface]

[Six seconds pass in silence. The monster that descends looks torn from a book of psychological symbolism - a monster born from the darkest recesseses of imagination. There is nothing to imagine about the expression dominating his face: eyes shining with curiosity.

The sight is both something one never witnesses and something one sees every day. The impossibility of being everything and nothing. He understands occupying that unthinkable space between the lines. People assuming him the opposite of frightening until learning his benevolence is a figment of their imagination.

Still. It's the strangeness of witnessing all of this that makes him mumble to himself, moreso than anyone in particular.]

Birds are up early, I see.

[oversurge]

[ Unlike a chunk of the people here, Reno's got about zero personal interest in this woman's head coming off. (Or whatever's about to happen to her.) He'd been on this planet for a grand total of two weeks before all that happened. Not exactly, y'know. Best friends with anyone.

He's off to the side, leaning casually against a nearby stone pillar, ankles crossed and arms folded. His brows knit together. Look, rituals and shit? Don't see that on a daily basis where he's from, unless you count plopping in a precise three sugar cubes in a coffee. So, yeah.

Man, if he didn't know better, he'd say that was a giant ass summon. Hell, maybe that is what it was. Who knows? He's still eyeing the pile o' bones with the look of a man who's debating if it'd be appropriate to toe a corpse that just got picked clean by a buncha birds when the guy next to him speaks up.

Reno glances over. ] Well, you know what they say. Early bird gets the...sacrificial sheep lady.

[restingstitchface]

[Crane focuses his attention on the corpse, paired to the bone. His lips are pursed, his nose slightly turned. There is no personal connection to the remains, neither the face once worn or the personality once displayed. He shares no history with the condemned nor those who passed judgment. No connections to a world where his existence has barely passed a fortnight.

That all offers the perfect environment to experiment.

He directs his focus with a cold and impassive gaze, separating himself from the audience as he continues eying the corpse for a short while. Still, he is turning over the other man's comment in the back of his mind.]

I suppose so.

[His voice is barely above a whisper.]

I would have expected them not to make a mess of things, hypothetically speaking.

[A mess of things. His own private joke.]

Gala (Blake)

[restingstitchface]

[Crane returns from the execution with questions and answers. He would not have paid thought to fantasy in his world, but in this one fairytales emerge from the page. Thus begins the process of defining his variables, figuring out his hypothesis, all after wording his question.

But what question should he ask?

He is thankful for the week's grace before celebrations begin; lanterns still being hung and food carried into place as he strolls around the memorial park. His eyes remain on everyone else throughtout the evening. Locals selling paintings and pottery. The summoned who congregate around the table.

The eyes which follow no matter where he goes.

He strolls away to find silence. His path leads to a bridge over flowing water, lillies floating on the surface. This is a nice place. Nobody will ask him to dance. He leans across the wooden beams, hands clasped together. Lips thin and purse as drunken stragglers wring and weave past, squeezing him against the railing. The next person who comes gets an earful, naturally.]

Really?!

[oversight]

[ Similar to Crane, Blake has moved to a place where his thoughts are given a bit more space. There are still plenty of mingling figures — brightly adorned and full of smiles — but the crowd has thinned to reasonable levels and for a moment he can breathe.

But only for the moment. Because when that moment passes, he finds himself standing next to one of the people he'd hoped to avoid during all this. Clothes have changed, as well as the setting, but the tension is very much the same. ]

If I didn't know better, I'd say you were followin' me...

[ Although he's also not moving on, and there's no telling who arrived here first. And maybe this is fortuitous— no, convenient; if he's keeping Crane away from making trouble, then he's too busy to risk socializing.

He settles, back against the railing, elbows propped. ]

[restingstitchface]

[Oh. Wonderful. Crane growls and massages his hands, directing his frustration to the flow of water beneath his feet. Blake's presence in this world should come with a loud warning.

He glares out at the party visible in the distance, all light and sound.]

Not on this occasion.

[Which begs the question: what occasion? Crane stalks each celebrant as they gather food at the table, all as though he might find his own answer to what he should follow.]

Life is not always about you, detective.