A.J. Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
freeatlast) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
felldenlogs2019-11-04 01:12 pm
freeatlast) wrote in felldenlogs2019-11-04 01:12 pm
Entry tags:
[QUEST/CLOSED] my fairy king can do right and nothing wrong
WHO: Crowley + The Bone Carver + NPCs
WHAT: Tasked with investigating the rumor of 'false gods', Crowley goes to prison. Thankfully not legitimately.
WHERE: Odii Prison
WHEN: November 3rd
WARNINGS: Prison themes, spookiness, maybe violence
One would, if they were of an intelligent sort, think that mysterious omens given from mysterious books would be something to stay away from. That chasing after mysteries was something that could only end in bad times.
Ever since the Warlock’s book had begun spitting some nonsense about false gods, Crowley had been giving it a wide berth. Sure, he’d accepted the thing with the promise of answers to so many of his questions, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to realize that this was some serious bad juju. Perhaps it was something to do with the magic, perhaps it was something to do with the terrible time that had just passed, who knew? Maybe, against all odds, the Warlock was just screwing with him; he seemed like the type of guy to do that. That seemed asshole-ish enough for him.
The book, however, doesn’t seem to like being ignored, and after a while it seems to all but thrum with repressed power. More bad juju, in Crowley’s opinion, but oh is he a curious sort and oh is he weak of will at times. Despite knowing that it’s probably a bad idea, he does open the thing, fully expecting more gloom and doom. It isn’t, surprisingly, but that isn’t necessarily a good thing. There are more words that write themselves upon the pages, and- oh. Something rises from the paper and it’s a good thing that he’s not the squeamish sort.
- Take this vial.
- Find a large bone.
- Go to the Odii Prison and request The Bone Carver.
- Ask as many questions about false gods as he will allow.
Well, he had been told that the book would fill in after favors were granted, but he really has to stop and weigh his options here. Crowley is a fan of spooky, a big fan, but this just doesn’t sit entirely right. Really, he should just put the book down and go about his day. That’s the smart thing to do.
Which of course means he does entirely the opposite.
-----
He isn’t going to go out and try to go bone hunting, that seems like far too much work and could have far too many connotations to it. Luckily he has a favor to call in, though he’s banking on Dimitri following through on his end. Thankfully, or not so thankfully, the man seems to be of a rather honest stock and he does complete the task, which means Crowley…Crowley is about to do something incredibly stupid.
Bone in tow, he scours the halls for the blasted mirror network. Surprisingly, there’s one that connects to this Odii Prison, which seems rather odd, but for now he’s not going to question things. Why the Emperor had a magical portal to a prison was decidedly odd, after all, but the faster he gets this over with the faster the Warlock has to fulfill his side of their bargain.
When he steps through, he’s entirely certain that he’s managed to get lost. It’s dropped him off within the mountains, in the frigid cold, and it’s honestly just terrible. The worst. Crowley curses and draws his coat closer, scowling at his new surroundings as if that will be enough to cow the weather into switching to something much better. It doesn’t work, of course, it never works, but it does make him feel the slightest bit better.
He sets off, cursing the Warlock with every step as he tries to find where this prison may be. Really, it was his own fault for not doing research beforehand, but he’d much rather blame someone else for his own lack of foresight.
-----
It takes time, but eventually he manages to stumble on something that looks like it might be an entrance. The only problem is that it seems that there’s no way to open it. For all the rashness of his actions, however, Crowley is a clever sort, and this sort of thing seems very familiar to something one of his ilk would do. He worms in his pocket, pulling out the small vial that the book had given him and looking it over. Were there runes or anything with the message he’d been given? He doesn’t remember any, nor any sort of instructions, but- well, if it’s blood in the vial it can’t be too complicated, now can it?
Throwing caution to the wind, he shrugs, turns the small glass thing over in his hand once or twice, and then, with surprising speed, hucks it. It shatters spectacularly against the stone, blood splattering everywhere and with a low groan, the mountainside begins to shift. Huh. He hadn’t been entirely confident that that would work, but he’ll take it. Point: Crowley.
-----
The tunnels of the prison feel surprisingly homey, which of course no normal person would ever think. For a demon, however, the dank, dark space and the wails and howls of the damned are par for the course. A new problem has presented itself, however, in the form of he has no idea where he’s going. It isn’t as if there’s a map of the place, after all, and the few prisoners that he’s tried to talk to have been less than helpful. But Crowley keeps on track, bone in hand, as he searches for the needle that he’s supposed to find in this hellish haystack.
[current word count: 969]
WHAT: Tasked with investigating the rumor of 'false gods', Crowley goes to prison. Thankfully not legitimately.
WHERE: Odii Prison
WHEN: November 3rd
WARNINGS: Prison themes, spookiness, maybe violence
One would, if they were of an intelligent sort, think that mysterious omens given from mysterious books would be something to stay away from. That chasing after mysteries was something that could only end in bad times.
Ever since the Warlock’s book had begun spitting some nonsense about false gods, Crowley had been giving it a wide berth. Sure, he’d accepted the thing with the promise of answers to so many of his questions, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to realize that this was some serious bad juju. Perhaps it was something to do with the magic, perhaps it was something to do with the terrible time that had just passed, who knew? Maybe, against all odds, the Warlock was just screwing with him; he seemed like the type of guy to do that. That seemed asshole-ish enough for him.
The book, however, doesn’t seem to like being ignored, and after a while it seems to all but thrum with repressed power. More bad juju, in Crowley’s opinion, but oh is he a curious sort and oh is he weak of will at times. Despite knowing that it’s probably a bad idea, he does open the thing, fully expecting more gloom and doom. It isn’t, surprisingly, but that isn’t necessarily a good thing. There are more words that write themselves upon the pages, and- oh. Something rises from the paper and it’s a good thing that he’s not the squeamish sort.
- Find a large bone.
- Go to the Odii Prison and request The Bone Carver.
- Ask as many questions about false gods as he will allow.
Well, he had been told that the book would fill in after favors were granted, but he really has to stop and weigh his options here. Crowley is a fan of spooky, a big fan, but this just doesn’t sit entirely right. Really, he should just put the book down and go about his day. That’s the smart thing to do.
Which of course means he does entirely the opposite.
He isn’t going to go out and try to go bone hunting, that seems like far too much work and could have far too many connotations to it. Luckily he has a favor to call in, though he’s banking on Dimitri following through on his end. Thankfully, or not so thankfully, the man seems to be of a rather honest stock and he does complete the task, which means Crowley…Crowley is about to do something incredibly stupid.
Bone in tow, he scours the halls for the blasted mirror network. Surprisingly, there’s one that connects to this Odii Prison, which seems rather odd, but for now he’s not going to question things. Why the Emperor had a magical portal to a prison was decidedly odd, after all, but the faster he gets this over with the faster the Warlock has to fulfill his side of their bargain.
When he steps through, he’s entirely certain that he’s managed to get lost. It’s dropped him off within the mountains, in the frigid cold, and it’s honestly just terrible. The worst. Crowley curses and draws his coat closer, scowling at his new surroundings as if that will be enough to cow the weather into switching to something much better. It doesn’t work, of course, it never works, but it does make him feel the slightest bit better.
He sets off, cursing the Warlock with every step as he tries to find where this prison may be. Really, it was his own fault for not doing research beforehand, but he’d much rather blame someone else for his own lack of foresight.
It takes time, but eventually he manages to stumble on something that looks like it might be an entrance. The only problem is that it seems that there’s no way to open it. For all the rashness of his actions, however, Crowley is a clever sort, and this sort of thing seems very familiar to something one of his ilk would do. He worms in his pocket, pulling out the small vial that the book had given him and looking it over. Were there runes or anything with the message he’d been given? He doesn’t remember any, nor any sort of instructions, but- well, if it’s blood in the vial it can’t be too complicated, now can it?
Throwing caution to the wind, he shrugs, turns the small glass thing over in his hand once or twice, and then, with surprising speed, hucks it. It shatters spectacularly against the stone, blood splattering everywhere and with a low groan, the mountainside begins to shift. Huh. He hadn’t been entirely confident that that would work, but he’ll take it. Point: Crowley.
The tunnels of the prison feel surprisingly homey, which of course no normal person would ever think. For a demon, however, the dank, dark space and the wails and howls of the damned are par for the course. A new problem has presented itself, however, in the form of he has no idea where he’s going. It isn’t as if there’s a map of the place, after all, and the few prisoners that he’s tried to talk to have been less than helpful. But Crowley keeps on track, bone in hand, as he searches for the needle that he’s supposed to find in this hellish haystack.
no subject
When he arrives at the cell, he'll find that the bars are not bars at all. Instead, they are made of bones, intricate art carved into them depicting a number of deaths, fewer lives, and many battles of the past. Difficult to see in the dim light for those with human eyes, to be certain.
There is no time to linger, for Crowley to inspect the carvings, as the cell door swings open and that gentle push from before becomes an insistent tug. Within, a familiar face greets him. There is something unnerving about it, aside from the familiarity. The dull glow to its eyes, perhaps. ]
Crawly.
no subject
But eventually the incessant pushing stops before a cell, and this must be it, he assumes. The aesthetic is certainly demonic, if a bit heavy-handed, if he’s being honest with himself, and certainly it would fit from someone calling themselves ‘the bone carver’.
He doesn’t have time to ponder over the theatrics, however, because before him is-]
Crowley.
[Trickery and false faces, it has to be. He’s familiar with both, has used both many a time before, but there’s something disconcerting about seeing Aziraphale’s face twisted into such an expression. Even more concerning is the fact that whatever, whomever, this thing is is able to wear the angel’s form so easily.
Steeling himself, he shoots a dull look over his glasses before hefting the large femur from over his shoulder, letting the head of it rest against the floor with a dull ‘thunk’. It’s an offering, something to forge a tentative peace between the both of them, because he really doesn’t feel like getting discorporated today.]
Nice place you got here, you decorate it yourself?
[He’s not anxious. Demons don’t get anxious. They really don’t.]
You and me, we’re supposed to have a talk, but I’m guessing you might already know that if you’re all gussied up like this. So.
[He lets go of the bone, letting it fall to the ground before him.]
False gods, hm? I’m told you’ve got some good info.
[416]
no subject
Information comes at a price. A price, a price, a price, a price. [ Mocking again, as though knowing it will irritate Crowley more to hear it in Aziraphale's voice. It grows tired of it quickly though, voice returning to Aziraphale's usual tone. ]
Tell me a secret. A secret that no one else knows, a secret you have never uttered in your life to another.
no subject
The deal was supposed to be a bone for information.
[At least that's what the book had said. There'd been nothing about this level of horseshittery when he'd agreed to take this on. Really, though, it shouldn't surprise him that things were more complicated than they'd seemed. Of course the Warlock would make this difficult.
All of this makes him extremely uncomfortable, he doesn't like talking about himself and he certainly doesn't want to give anything about himself away. There's no telling what something like this thing could do with it. Besides, for someone that's been alive for six thousand years, 'never uttered in your life' is fairly difficult.
To Crowley's credit, he doesn't squirm under the thing's gaze, but internally he's certainly terribly jittery.]
'm not wearing shoes.
[That counts, right? It totally counts.]
[195]
no subject
Do not waste my time, demon.
[ A secret, or the Bone Carver will not speak again. ]
I don't give multiple chances, Crawly. Choose your next words wisely.
no subject
Crowley never wants to see that expression again.
And there’s a part of him that’s angry, so angry, that anyone would dare to challenge him like this. It flares up against the ice forming beneath his ribs, hot and furious, that he’s being played. He’s spent thousands of years, literally, being the one to wring things out of people, being the one in control of the situation, that this-
It scares him.
That in itself drives his anger, he doesn’t like this helpless sort of feeling that’s circulating through him, doesn’t like the anxiety gnawing at the back of his brain. This was supposed to have been an easy thing, a task done with the promise of more information and yet things have been turned entirely on their head now. Crowley wants to snap back, to scathingly question why anyone would have the right to demand such intimate things from him. The words are even on the tip of his tongue, acidic and spiteful, but he can’t force them out.
He feels raw, ripped open in a way that he’s so distinctly unused to, and things have come to a precipice. There’s no doubt that he could strike back, lash out and let his fury and his fear drive him, but then that will be it. He’ll have failed. He’ll have failed and would have to relay that to both the Warlock (negligible) and Aziraphale (damning).
The last time that he failed something, the world all but ended. That’s surprisingly forefront in his mind; apparently he hadn’t had enough time to process that, even though he’d thought he did. Crowley hates this, hates that someone could make him feel anything and everything just from a few curt words, and right now? Right now he hates the entire situation, hates the Bone Carver, hates himself for this abject weakness.
There’s tension wound in his posture as he shoves his hands into his pockets, glare intensifying. In a show of his stress, the whites of his eyes have all but disappeared behind his glasses, replaced by a bright sharp yellow that betrays his infernal heritage.]
I-
[It’s like forcing himself to vomit, dredging up something deep from within that should never see the light of day. It’s made all the harder by the fact that the Bone Carver is wearing such a familiar face, amplifies Crowley’s discomfort to astronomical levels. He feels like he’s going to choke on his words.]
I fancy someone.
[568]
no subject
[ Nothing more is said. The Bone Carver is a purveyor of secrets but not one to dwell, gossip. Instead, it holds a hand out, the bone Crowley brought flying to its waiting palm. It draws attention to the sheer number of bones surrounding it, all carved, none left with even an inch of space open.
It sets to work on carving, tool miraculously in hand. ]
You may ask questions until I finish carving. [ His movements are quick but the bone is long. One must still ask quickly in hopes of getting all the answers one needs. ]
no subject
[The words are out before he's even got a hold of himself. After all that, hopefully he hasn't completely ruined his chances at getting a few answers. It would be just his luck that things would turn that way, but a look over to the Bone Carver shows that apparently the thing doesn't quite care. Finally it seems as though his bone offering has been accepted.
Crowley still isn't at all enthused about being played in the manner he had, however. But there's work to be done and if he has a limited amount of time it'd behoove him to let himself waste any time.]
False Gods.
[It's what he'd come here for, after all. Information to bring back to Aziraphale for the both of them to look over and try to piece together everything that had been stricken from common knowledge.]
There's been a lot of talk of them. What does that mean?
[160]
no subject
[ What a helpful prick this one is.
His hands move quickly, carving intricate designs but leaving large blank spaces to be filled in later. Incomplete pictures so Crowley isn't able to see what is being carved. ]
Mortals who disbelieve in their prophets, gods, and higher powers. You know all about challenging that belief and authority. Some believe, some challenge, some renounce.
no subject
Right, helpful, real helpful.
[Sarcasm is his mother tongue, and it's never been more obvious than it is now. Some of the fear and anxiety from before has bled into something defensive, something terribly cynical in the wake of everything. It's a coping mechanism, and a rather terrible one at that.]
I know the definitions. What does that all have to do with that bastard of an Emperor and the Priestess? Heard they were 'immortal', that have something to do with it?
[Does this include the Warlock too? There had been some terrible writings in the book earlier before, but given that Crowley doesn't absolutely dislike the guy he's wont to leave him out of his accusations for now. Still, it's something that he has to consider and something that he may or may not have to bring up with the man later on, after all this. Certainly he has a few choice words to say to him regarding this whole journey he'd been sent on.]
[226]
no subject
[ The sound of knife to bone might be unsettling to some. It's notable that it doesn't seem to affect either entity in the room. ]
There are worshipers of deities who only believe in one. A singular entity above all others to place their belief in. Extremists will say eeeeeevery other God is a false thing, a lie, deceivers.
no subject
Seen two of them, heard of a third, but the Devil and Death are new faces.
[It's also somewhat strange to try to wrap his head around the idea that there are multiple Gods. The last time he'd seen Death, the entity had been an good omen of things to come. And the Devil...well, if it could be a long time before he laid eyes on Lucifer again it would be a very fine thing indeed.]
These worshipers, they a fan of someone in particular? You're saying that they boost up one person, after all. I'm guessing it's not the Warlock, just call it a hunch.
[A bloody book was a pretty good warning.]
[181]
no subject
The Warlock is nothing compared to those that climb the Tower.
Tower climbers, Tower climbers, Tower climbers. You. Want. Tower. Climbers.
[ The knife continues, intricacies upon intricacies, growing faster. ]
Fanatical Tower climbers clambered to the top,
Fanatical Tower climbers never knowing when to stop.
Tower climbers, Tower climbers when will you return?
Tower climbers, Tower climbers, the entire world you'll burn.
[ The bone is thrown back to Crowley for him to pick up. It shows his life with Aziraphale. The Garden of Eden, flaming sword included, meeting as knights, saving Aziraphale in Paris, taking care of who they thought was the Antichrist, all that ensued following.
It displays their time in Fellden thus far.
It shows things that have not yet come. A maze. Standing beneath falling snow. Holding hands outside of Kyst with an tormented expression upon Aziraphale's face. It continues on and on and on.
The final pane is Crowley kneeling on the ground, Aziraphale in his arms, anguished.
Before it can be inspected too closely, the bone once again flies into the grip of the Carver. ]
One more question, Crawly. One.
no subject
Tower climbers, the thing says over and over, and it makes so little sense. It's like the ramblings of a madman, but there has to be something there. Something that Crowley isn't quite getting. It's more arcana imagery, and while he's not the most knowledgeable about things of that nature he can at least recognize that there's something very bad in what's being crowed.
The clatter of the bone at his feet pulls him out of the trance that'd overtaken him, and though he doesn't trust anything the Bone Carver does he finds himself picking the thing up and flicking his gaze down to the stories that have unfolded across the stark, white facade.
It's eerie, there's no way that any person, any creature, should know these things. The past is something that both he and Aziraphale have guarded well since their arrival in Fellden, and yet here it all is, laid bare by the knife of something that's far more sinister than Crowley had ever considered. The stories continue on and on, and he runs a finger over the carving of his own, forlorn expression before the bone is summarily ripped from his hands. He shoots a glare over to the Bone Carver, something wild, angry, and afraid behind his eyes.
One more question. How could there only be one question now, with what he's been shown? There are a thousand things he wants to ask, wants to yell and curse, it's impossible to try and choose just one. He wants to be selfish, demand to know what's going on, but-]
Where, specifically, do I find them? The Tower climbers?
[If there's a bit of a waver to his voice, he'll deny it to the day he dies.]
[366]
no subject
They exist across this land. [ It will be gracious enough to provide some specifics: ] The Claws of Sin. The Coastal Haven. The Hungry Swamp. The Home of Fledgling Faith. All draw the climbers.
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[He may be one of the only imaginative demons to exist, but Crowley is spooked and entirely off of his normal course. There could have been so much more he could have asked for, so many better things, but he's fixated on what he's seen now, what that bone has revealed.]
Right.
[It's going to be hard to remember each and every single location that the Bone Carver has listed off, but he's going to have to try his hardest. This has been a harrowing experience, and one that isn't going to fade from memory any time soon. There are still so many questions that Crowley has, about what exactly the Bone Carver is, how it has come across all this knowledge, what is even going on, and so much more.]
They sound like great folks, really. You're really giving them a stunning seal of approval.
[What does that bone mean? He wants to scream.]
....you're keeping that bone, aren't you?
[It's a question, but not a question.]
[176]
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[ There is the vague sound of a ripple and the Carver takes on the appearance of Adam Young. What is more unsettling: wearing Aziraphale's face, or that of a child? ]
I see the past, present, and future of all within Fellden. [ A precursor to what it explains next. ] A final advisement in exchange for your secret: You cannot stop what has already begun. All opportunities for changing course have passed.
no subject
But then the creature continues to speak, and the anger that had been simmering in his gut before suddenly flares back to life. He bristles, stuffing his hands in his pockets for the lack of anything better to do with them, and glares.]
Sure, right, "ineffable" would you say?
[The sarcasm just drips from his words, and all that he's seeing in his mind's eye is that last panel carved so delicately into the bone. It's got to be something designed to unnerve him, a hollow threat, but it is nothing if effective.]
Already did the whole 'it's going to happen' thing, I'm not doing it again.
[There's a tinge of uncertainty now though, even as he huffs and makes a show of looking around the cell. How many stories litter the walls there? It's so strange to think that these could be works of prophecy...let alone things that could be true. That's something that he doesn't want to think about. He's had enough with prophecies, thank you very much.
When he goes to speak again, Crowley finds that he's at a loss for words. What does one even say to something so...something so seemingly omniscient?]
...enjoy it then, I guess. Apparently it was a pain to get.
[Is it polite to wish someone that's just rent you apart emotionally a good day? Probably, and demons shouldn't be polite, but really who in the world would be keeping track anymore. With a muttered 'thanks', Crowley takes his leave, trying to ignore the cackling of the other inmates as he stalks through the corridors and tries to find his way out of the hellhole.]
[Emerging from the dank depths, the compass in his pocket begins to chirp. Crowley is in no mood to deal with anyone after his ordeal, he's not even certain that he's entirely in control of his own emotions at the moment. But a quick glance to the blasted thing shows that the caller is someone he just can't ignore.
Ah, Crowley? When you get this -- if you could just pop on by the Kyst bookshop, I would appreciate it.
The last thing he wants to do is face Aziraphale after all of this, it feels like there's a certain crushing awkwardness between them now, but bless it all he can't leave his partner in crime hanging. Fumbling with his compass, he manages to activate the voice function as he trudges through the snow, back towards the mirror.
Yeah, hold on a few, angel. I’ll be there when I can.
But he needs to stop off back to his room before he goes anywhere. He's gone through all of this, and he'll be blessed if the Warlock isn't going to pay up on his side of the bargain. There better be information in that book now, or he was going to have to have very strong words with the man.]
[The trouble doesn't begin until he opens the door to his room. Really, if he'd just gone straight to Kyst he wouldn't have to deal with the sight that awaited him.
THE DAMNED ARE UNDESERVING
He doesn't recognize the poor sap that's been nailed to his wall, some sort of minor demon native to Fellden itself maybe, but the intent behind the display is understood. It's a threat, a very overt one at that, and the timing of it all is far too convenient to be a coincidence.
Bless the book and bless the Warlock for getting him into this mess. Crowley, admittedly and healthily put off by the fact that someone has been so bold as to invade his personal space like this, takes a moment to breathe before he snaps his fingers to get rid of the mess. Nothing happens. He tries again to the same result. That's even more alarming, he's never come across anything that he hasn't been able to just miracle a fix for, and he's entirely and totally done.
All the pent up anger from his time with the Bone Carver comes to a peak, and he bellows out something decidedly profane as he stalks over and, with a good amount of effort, rips the thing from the wall. It's cold, its skin clammy, and even that seems to spark something within Crowley. An almost feral look crosses his features as he whirls around and flings the thing's body to the side. Ever attentive, the nearest plant has the audacity to slither forward and snap it up without a second thought. There's a moment of uncomfortable snapping and crunching, but at the very least that's dealt with the problem of disposing of the corpse.
The blood, however, will have to be scrubbed out. He's not looking forward to that.
Kyst though, he needs to get to Kyst. Grabbing the Warlock's book and tucking it beneath his arm, he stalks out of his room, yelling at both plants that they better behave or so help him as he slams the door shut. To Heaven with everything.]
[921. TOTAL: 4,178.]