A woman enters the tea shop while Jon is working. She is wearing a red linen dress and a brown leather coat, rough and piecemeal in its construction with a jagged hem, creating an odd silhouette. The pieces of hide that form it look fused, not sewn, and a wreath of battered black fur rests upon her shoulders like laurels. The features of her face draw the eye far more than the coat--- striking attractiveness, raven curls, dark eyes like scalpels, long doe's eyelashes, a cherry red lip like a warning. Danger! Danger!
She sits at the counter. As soon as he makes eye contact, the air is electric as two forces of nature collide. She's old. It doesn't take the Eye's blessing to sense that in a fellow avatar. But her skin has been replaced, her organs refashioned as many times as she needs.
The smell of steak and garlic. Of wine and chocolate. Of blood and sex.
The Flesh.
"Hi honey." A smile finds her lips. Her accent is American with just the slightest hint of German. "Any chance I can get a London Fog?"
There aren't many avatars on Marrow Isle, and certainly not ones that Jon hasn't come to expect. When Daisy stops by, the looming presence of the ties of Hunt are immediately palpable; when Martin enters a room, a breeze of Lonely follows him. There have been glimmers of other things in people who have come and gone, familiarity found among those who would flirt with inhumanity but never lose themselves to it entirely.
But never, save for objects kept carefully under lock-and-key, has there been Flesh.
It's so palpable that it almost leaves Jon stunned, floundering for a moment, before he comes to his senses again. This version of himself had not yet had his encounter that would leave him forever marked; he doesn't know just how far the Flesh's reach can go.
He does not return the smile, but he's not unpleasant; this island is made up of all kinds, and he's not exactly in a place to judge, considering his history.
"Ah--- good morning," he manages with only a brief stumble, setting aside the freshly-washed pitchers he'd been returning to their place on the counter behind them. He tries not to look too deeply. He fails. What a strange, immaculate patchwork she is. Every seam fits together just so.
He tears his attention away before he can look any deeper. There's work to be done, after all. "Of course. Would you like that hot or cold?"
"Hot, please. With lavender, if you have it." She drums her nails on the table. They're like tigers claws, encrusted with ruby. There are hardly acrylics in Victorian fantasy-land. Despite their appearance, these must be something akin to Daisy's claws. Part of her now.
As he gets to work, she sings quietly to herself when his back turns. Soft and smokey in quality. "Jeepers, creepers, where'd ya get those peepers? Jeepers, creepers, where'd ya get those eyes?"
"Interesting choice. Bit on the nose, isn't it?" It's a half-joke, but the deadpan doesn't make that apparent on the surface. He glances back her way for just a fleeting second, brow raised, before he's right back to it. Martin would never let him hear the end of it if he got burnt over 'giving the customers a hard time' again.
He pauses, just long enough to reach up on one of the higher shelves to reach for some dried lavender, before bringing over the still-steeping pot. "I don't think we've met," he starts, tentative, passing over a mug - red, by pure circumstances, but he's certain she won't complain. "Are you new in town?"
(He doesn't think it's an especially unfair question to ask, considering how he's certain he would've noticed before, but judging by the coat, she's already had enough time to start making herself at home.)
Olivia laughs. "Sorry. It got stuck in my head when you looked at me. I date the Archivist back home. The one from Warren-Hill Institute in the US. Judging by your accent, I'd guess you're with Magnus, though," she muses. "Even so, I'd know the eyes anywhere."
She accepts the mug, delighted by the color. "No, we haven't met. Olivia Fleischmann. The Hostess."
The Hostess, another Archivist, Warren-Hill Institute. Points Jon's yet unfamiliar with, though perhaps these things stem from the same source that him appearing from a separate time does: different places, different people, the same story. Varying universes are something that get no easier to understand when they're this close to home.
At least the first part is easy enough to understand. The Spiral has Distortions, the Eye has Archivists; it should come as no surprise that the Flesh would have it's own chosen. Apparently there's need for more than just Boneturners; it doesn't exactly shock him that different situations call for different professions when it comes to serving the Fears.
"Jonathan Sims, and... no offense taken, of course," he assures her after a beat, and offers a hand to shake--- not his wisest move, electing to shake the hand of another avatar, considering the way that went last time--- before finally finishing with the process of getting everything together. Once he's done, he still lingers, leaning lightly against the counter. "Of the Magnus Institute, yes. I wasn't... aware that other institutes had Archivists."
Perhaps it doesn't really matter much, now that he's here, and it may not even be the case in his own world, but since when has he ever been able to resist the call of looking into the sorts of things that may even apply to him tangentially?
"God, how would they function without one? Who'd pull the statement? Absolutely nothing would get done," Olivia teases. The handshake is harmless, of course. There will be no rending or morphing of flesh today, even if his scars sing at her touch. Her fingers slot perfectly into the mark left by Jude, and she can taste the charred meat in her tongue, smell the sear of flesh on screaming hot wax. Her thumb brushes over the ridges as she pulls away, lapping up his hatred of how it looks. Not how it used to look. A reminder of failure. Poor Jon.
"Mmn," Jon gives the derisive sound with a small shrug. "I guess you've got me there. All a part of this ecosystem, or something."
That loathing, Olivia gets in spades as she pulls her hand back. The dulled touch ensures it; he's more aware of it anytime anyone slots their hand into it, and in his waking life, he's not had enough of a run-in with the Flesh to know that loathing is exactly what she's after. The most that catches on his radar at this very moment, not looking for it as he perhaps ought to be, is that she reached for it by being drawn to that scar. Perhaps he should be looking harder. That's a later-Jon problem. (Hopefully.)
"It's a long-winded story, but to give you the short of it, we stopped the Stranger's ritual with explosives. Apparently, I'd gotten knocked into a coma, but that's close enough to death to bring me here," Jon explains, possibly too-casual. Cut him some slack, he's had a lot of time to think about it. "And yourself?"
"Mmm, Orsinov," Olivia muses. "Good to know about the explosives. I'm certain I could pull a few favors with the Desolation."
Now that Olivia looks at him, she's nearly certain that this is some version of the scruffy, interdimensional drifter that ended up finding his way to Dietrich van Oort's guest bedroom. He'd been found in abysmal shape under the Olentangy Trail bridge, tattered and bloodsoaked and without his memory. Olivia refrains from confusing him with such details. It's not her style. If Montrell were here, he could do that.
Olivia smiles tightly at the question. "Ritual went wrong," she replies vaguely. "You know how it is."
"I do. Well, hopefully you... haven't got any need to call in favours like that here," Jon half-jokes dryly. "I'm hoping we won't be seeing any of her or the circus in town for some time, or any rituals, for that matter. It didn't go so well for the last clown. If you haven't heard the story, I'm sure someone would gladly regale you with it."
He would, of course, but keeping Mendel's name as far away from him after everything he'd done is high up on his priority list. Maybe Jean or someone closer to the incident itself could share.
"I've got a few other customers to check in on, but I'll be back around momentarily. Unless you need anything else?"
"Oh, don't worry, honey, I meant when I get home. Though I will say that my monster-to-monster networking abilities are second to none, if it ever becomes necessary," Olivia teases, chuckling. She didn't get that external liaison position for nothing.
"You go do your rounds. But I'd like to pick your brain a little when you get back." Unsettling verbiage from the Flesh.
Jon doesn't love that, and it shows in the way his face scrunches with distaste for just a flicker of a moment before he's able to catch himself. He corrects it with a tight, awkward smile. "Of course. I'll be back shortly."
True to his word, making his rounds only takes about ten minutes, between some short conversations and topping off hot water, before he's able to make his return. Perhaps he drags his feet just a bit, enough that it wouldn't let on too hard; after all, they're going for a cozy, intimate atmosphere, so he's got to take the time with everyone, right?
Well. Everyone includes getting his brain picked, unfortunately, and return to the counter he must. At least, beyond some Flesh-related discomfort, she's been perfectly polite.
"Need anything? More hot water?" Jon asks as he passes by, glancing back before he scoots a finished tray towards the back of the counter. He doesn't spend long there; he's always been a little overly vigilant, but maybe the Eye's influence has made that worse, these days. "Or are you alright for now?"
"I'm okay for now. I'm taking my time with it. I like to savor things." A smile returns to Olivia's full lips, so red that the crimson devours the eye. "I just had something I wanted to ask you."
Even with how easy that smile is on her, her demeanor so perfectly calm and collected at every beat, it does nothing for Jon's nerves. That's likely the point, Jon imagines. "By all means. What is it?"
"There's something of mine in a shed out by the Bluffs. My understanding is that the shed belongs to you, is that right?" Her smile widens just so. "I'm wondering if I can repay you for the cost of it so that I can have it returned to me."
And there it is. Jon tries to play it off as best as he possibly can, but he can't help the way that his hand tightens against the edge of the counter, that subtle tightening of muscles of a trod-upon nerve.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I'm not looking to sell it. I understand your... connection to it, and I can appreciate that much, but---"
Before he can say another word, a hand snaps out and catches his jaw, pressing into his cheeks to force his teeth apart. Dull points from her nails dig into the flesh there. She makes intense eye contact.
"It's not a connection. It's mine. And you can relinquish my property the easy way or the hard way."
Jon's face instantly drops to terror, a sharp breath taken through his nose, and a hand snaps up to catch her arm. He doesn't dare try to pull her away, though - not with the way those nails dig. A sickly vision of his face being pulled away like clay from a block rises to his mind, and try as he might, he can't shake it.
"L--- let go of me," he tries to manage, though it's barely coherent, with how his jaw his held open. His other hand fumbles the counter, searching. For what? A tool to push her away, something to call someone over? He isn't even sure, but he needs something.
"You are never going to see that grinder," Jon shoots back, fear turning to boiling anger the instant that he's free, even in spite of the half-step that he takes back. "And you'd do well to get the fuck out of my shop."
Same shit, different Avatars. He's going to need a hand making sure that thing never sees enough light of day to get found.
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no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 01:57 am (UTC)She sits at the counter. As soon as he makes eye contact, the air is electric as two forces of nature collide. She's old. It doesn't take the Eye's blessing to sense that in a fellow avatar. But her skin has been replaced, her organs refashioned as many times as she needs.
The smell of steak and garlic. Of wine and chocolate. Of blood and sex.
The Flesh.
"Hi honey." A smile finds her lips. Her accent is American with just the slightest hint of German. "Any chance I can get a London Fog?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 02:18 am (UTC)But never, save for objects kept carefully under lock-and-key, has there been Flesh.
It's so palpable that it almost leaves Jon stunned, floundering for a moment, before he comes to his senses again. This version of himself had not yet had his encounter that would leave him forever marked; he doesn't know just how far the Flesh's reach can go.
He does not return the smile, but he's not unpleasant; this island is made up of all kinds, and he's not exactly in a place to judge, considering his history.
"Ah--- good morning," he manages with only a brief stumble, setting aside the freshly-washed pitchers he'd been returning to their place on the counter behind them. He tries not to look too deeply. He fails. What a strange, immaculate patchwork she is. Every seam fits together just so.
He tears his attention away before he can look any deeper. There's work to be done, after all. "Of course. Would you like that hot or cold?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 02:38 am (UTC)As he gets to work, she sings quietly to herself when his back turns. Soft and smokey in quality. "Jeepers, creepers, where'd ya get those peepers? Jeepers, creepers, where'd ya get those eyes?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 06:15 am (UTC)He pauses, just long enough to reach up on one of the higher shelves to reach for some dried lavender, before bringing over the still-steeping pot. "I don't think we've met," he starts, tentative, passing over a mug - red, by pure circumstances, but he's certain she won't complain. "Are you new in town?"
(He doesn't think it's an especially unfair question to ask, considering how he's certain he would've noticed before, but judging by the coat, she's already had enough time to start making herself at home.)
no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 06:26 am (UTC)She accepts the mug, delighted by the color. "No, we haven't met. Olivia Fleischmann. The Hostess."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-03 09:54 pm (UTC)At least the first part is easy enough to understand. The Spiral has Distortions, the Eye has Archivists; it should come as no surprise that the Flesh would have it's own chosen. Apparently there's need for more than just Boneturners; it doesn't exactly shock him that different situations call for different professions when it comes to serving the Fears.
"Jonathan Sims, and... no offense taken, of course," he assures her after a beat, and offers a hand to shake--- not his wisest move, electing to shake the hand of another avatar, considering the way that went last time--- before finally finishing with the process of getting everything together. Once he's done, he still lingers, leaning lightly against the counter. "Of the Magnus Institute, yes. I wasn't... aware that other institutes had Archivists."
Perhaps it doesn't really matter much, now that he's here, and it may not even be the case in his own world, but since when has he ever been able to resist the call of looking into the sorts of things that may even apply to him tangentially?
cw: gross meat stuff
Date: 2025-01-04 05:52 pm (UTC)"So, what are you in for?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-11 01:08 am (UTC)That loathing, Olivia gets in spades as she pulls her hand back. The dulled touch ensures it; he's more aware of it anytime anyone slots their hand into it, and in his waking life, he's not had enough of a run-in with the Flesh to know that loathing is exactly what she's after. The most that catches on his radar at this very moment, not looking for it as he perhaps ought to be, is that she reached for it by being drawn to that scar. Perhaps he should be looking harder. That's a later-Jon problem. (Hopefully.)
"It's a long-winded story, but to give you the short of it, we stopped the Stranger's ritual with explosives. Apparently, I'd gotten knocked into a coma, but that's close enough to death to bring me here," Jon explains, possibly too-casual. Cut him some slack, he's had a lot of time to think about it. "And yourself?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-11 05:53 am (UTC)Now that Olivia looks at him, she's nearly certain that this is some version of the scruffy, interdimensional drifter that ended up finding his way to Dietrich van Oort's guest bedroom. He'd been found in abysmal shape under the Olentangy Trail bridge, tattered and bloodsoaked and without his memory. Olivia refrains from confusing him with such details. It's not her style. If Montrell were here, he could do that.
Olivia smiles tightly at the question. "Ritual went wrong," she replies vaguely. "You know how it is."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-12 06:22 am (UTC)He would, of course, but keeping Mendel's name as far away from him after everything he'd done is high up on his priority list. Maybe Jean or someone closer to the incident itself could share.
"I've got a few other customers to check in on, but I'll be back around momentarily. Unless you need anything else?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-12 02:48 pm (UTC)"You go do your rounds. But I'd like to pick your brain a little when you get back." Unsettling verbiage from the Flesh.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-13 10:38 pm (UTC)True to his word, making his rounds only takes about ten minutes, between some short conversations and topping off hot water, before he's able to make his return. Perhaps he drags his feet just a bit, enough that it wouldn't let on too hard; after all, they're going for a cozy, intimate atmosphere, so he's got to take the time with everyone, right?
Well. Everyone includes getting his brain picked, unfortunately, and return to the counter he must. At least, beyond some Flesh-related discomfort, she's been perfectly polite.
"Need anything? More hot water?" Jon asks as he passes by, glancing back before he scoots a finished tray towards the back of the counter. He doesn't spend long there; he's always been a little overly vigilant, but maybe the Eye's influence has made that worse, these days. "Or are you alright for now?"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-19 02:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-01-19 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-01-27 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-01-28 11:09 pm (UTC)"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I'm not looking to sell it. I understand your... connection to it, and I can appreciate that much, but---"
no subject
Date: 2025-01-29 02:09 am (UTC)"It's not a connection. It's mine. And you can relinquish my property the easy way or the hard way."
no subject
Date: 2025-02-03 12:02 am (UTC)"L--- let go of me," he tries to manage, though it's barely coherent, with how his jaw his held open. His other hand fumbles the counter, searching. For what? A tool to push her away, something to call someone over? He isn't even sure, but he needs something.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-09 01:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2025-02-10 02:35 am (UTC)"N--- no."
no subject
Date: 2025-02-10 05:30 pm (UTC)"Oh, honey, you're going to regret that. Because I will get it. I'm just going to make sure that it's a really terrible experience for you."
no subject
Date: 2025-02-12 10:08 pm (UTC)Same shit, different Avatars. He's going to need a hand making sure that thing never sees enough light of day to get found.