daemonized | RECOLLE IC CONTACT.

I don't know.

The memory simply consists of the two of us appearing before someone as

[Ghosts, but the word doesn't feel right.]

Spirits, I suppose.

[He isn't quite sure what to think about that. Spirits? Maybe not too far fetched, with everything else they've been remembering too.]

How do you know? That you were spirits. Immaterial, I take it?

Yes. And no.

We weren't see-through. We weren't floating. But we weren't

[A long pause, and then:]

We were untouchable. And I remember being . . . amused, in that same distant way. Derisive. I can't remember what we said, or to whom we appeared, but I remember it was on purpose, and it had a purpose beyond cruel amusement.

Edited 2017-07-26 03:51 (UTC)

Amused? For what reason did you have to be amused? I would think it would be a terrifying experience for most.

Unless... whatever purpose you had, it overrode any sense of fear. You said "derisive". Revenge, maybe? For your death.

Perhaps I was amused because it was a terrifying experience to someone else. Certainly I don't recall any fear or grief - nothing one would expect from death. Not even joy, nothing like that. I

[Another pause.]

In any case: perhaps it was revenge. Perhaps we appeared to the same person who caused our deaths.

[The bit about not experiencing much of anything is... well, it's a little worrying. It's true different people react to trauma in all manner of ways, but to feel nothing at all? Except amusement?]

You did say you were untouchable. What did you mean by that? Were you given some sort of power?

[No, she almost types, but . . .]

I don't know.

[God, but she hates that answer.]

We were dead. I don't know there's much more you can do to a person once that's happened.

Then my question is what manner of revenge did you intend to take? Being dead and all.

[But he wonders if the answer would just be another "I don't know", and so:]

Are you all right?

[A very long pause, then.]

I don't understand why I am all right.

What do you mean?

[This is even a little more worrying, but- A second or two, and then he adds:]

A cognizant attempt to not let these memories affect you as much?

[Or is it the opposite?, hangs the unspoken question in the air.]

I dont

Do you remember when I wanted to experiment with Jack? You were terrified I'd end up killed, and truth be told, so was I. I can remember that. I remember sitting on his couch the day he told me he killed a man, and being scared-- not that he'd kill me, but simply that a man I knew had done such a thing. That he'd be perfectly capable, and perhaps even willing, to kill me if I provoked him by evoking his dead wife.

I was scared. I almost went and bought myself a gun, that's how uncertain I was, and I hate the damn things.

But I'm not, now. I think of death and nothing happens. There's no fear, no terror-- or at least, not as much as there should be. I can feel a little, faint, I can

I'm not feeling as much as I ought to. And that scares me.

Edited 2017-07-28 01:56 (UTC)

[It isn't what he wanted to hear, of course. That these memories had gone so far as to potentially affect another one of his close friends -- the fear had always been there, what with happened to Jack. But he had been hopeful (naive, perhaps) that this instance was an isolated one. A rarity, a simple case of misfortune and extremity. It gave him comfort in thinking that, for both himself and his friends.

Reading Rosalind's text, he can't hope to pretend this is the reality anymore. There's a pause before the reply comes through.]

And this is how the other woman in your memories felt? No fear, no real sense of trepidation? If this is a bleed-over of personalities, maybe it's only felt more poignantly because of how fresh the memory is.

[Hopeful. Or is it wishful thinking?]

How are you feeling otherwise? The state of your other emotions? And is there anything I can do?

I wouldn't turn down company. If you're free.

[Just that, because she's no idea how to answer the other questions.]

Are you home right now?

[And even if he can't provide comfort in the way of providing answers, he can at least provide company.]

Yes.

Then I'll be over as soon as possible. Wait for me.

[And so he will be, not that long at all, as promised. The ring of the doorbell heralds his arrival.]

[Her apartment, somewhat familiar to Ardyn, is in a state of near disarray-- or at least, as close as Rosalind's apartment ever gets to such a state. Idle scientific projects lay scattered on the table, half-finished and then abandoned. There's even a sketchpad out, though he'll have to flip through the pages to see any real drawings; she'd given up on that too. And though her eyes are dry and her stance is as proud as ever, Rosalind looks pale as she opens the door.]

Come in, then.

Edited 2017-07-31 06:06 (UTC)

[The first thing he notices, of course, is how paler she is. And stepping in, having been accustomed to a certain level of neatness in Rosalind's apartment, he's surprised to see the various projects scattered about -- all small details, perhaps even barely worth the attention to those who aren't a friend to her. But Ardyn certainly is one, and all of this only causes him to feel a growing concern, piled upon what he was already feeling before.]

Rosalind...

[He starts, and for once he has to actually search for words, stringing them together, instead of them flowing naturally.]

You've been distracting yourself?

Trying to, anyway.

[She crosses her arms over her chest as she steps back, turning to head into the apartment proper. There's a mug of tea already waiting for her near the couch (and a few books scattered there, too, picked up and abandoned one after another).]

I was going to ask for your help in that, actually. I wanted to see if I could sketch out your Behemoth. But I think that may have to wait, though I'd rather do it sooner than later. It's not as if it's a project with any urgency, but certainly it would help to have a visual guide for some of these things-- I've already drawn out a few locations from my own memories, and I find it useful to have it on paper, it's easier to catch details like that, and--

[She's rambling, she realizes, and cuts herself off, shaking her head sharply.]

. . . in any case, ah. Yes.

[Yes, she's rambling, and Ardyn only looks at her with a furrowed brow. He takes it upon himself to sit on the couch, considering something.

It's hard to know what to say; what there is to talk about, in the end, without the two of them going in circles about memories and how they might affect them. But it would naive of him to ignore the topic completely for the sake of distraction; however, if it's a distraction she's wanting, why should he deny her of it?

His eyes land on the sketchbook, and he seems to decide on something in-between.]

Show me, if you like. The locations from your own memories. I admit I'm curious, and if you want, I will describe the Behemoth to you later, in the best detail I can muster.

[She hesitates, then nods. Taking the notebook, she settles in next to him (and even that is telling, as she draws one knee to her chest in a posture far more childish than she usually allows herself).

As she flips through it, Ardyn will see there's a fair few sketches in there: portraits, some more complete than others. Some are celebrities, and some are people he doesn't know, and some are even people from the app, though these sketches are the ones least finished. There's a few doodles, here and there, childish and cartoonish, made while she was idling on the phone or busy with something else. And then-- ah.

There's no people in her sketch (and no anachronistic swimwear, either). But it's detailed, and Rosalind has obviously spent a great deal of time on it.]

The boardwalk. The one where he and I offered our pendants.

[Even if some are rushed, her sketches are good, as they always have been. Faces of people he recognizes and those he does not. Doodles, born from idle scribblings and little more. And then some sketches which are far more detailed, far more impressive than the rest.

The sketch she shows him of the boardwalk qualifies. He leans in to look at the line work, to take in the image presented before him.]

It looks like a place where many might enjoy themselves. Sunny, perhaps even... [He gestures vaguely at the drawing.] Lively, if it were to be filled with people. [Much like a boardwalk should be, he supposes.]

A place for tourists.

Not particularly a place I'd usually find myself.

[She pushes her fingers through her hair, frowning down at it, and taps two of the anthropomorphic battleships looming over the beach.]

I was discussing this with someone else . . . I wonder if they were a city that prided themselves on their naval tradition. Battleships aren't typical of beach towns.

[He eyes battleships, finding something rather novel about them.]

And is that instead a place you'd find yourself?

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