You can't wake up, this is not a dream [OPEN]

[thetyrant]

WHO: Logan and YOU!
WHAT: Open log for August and Kingsway, Logan settling into Skyhold.
WHEN: August and Kingsway
WHERE: All over Skyhold
NOTES: mild to moderate horror in introspection, probably nothing else

1.you are not a human being
Some person of seemingly minor importance was being entertained in Skyhold. Logan stood against a wall in his whole uniform except for breastplate and shoulder pads, finely-made clothing that marked him out. He had his arms crossed, hiding the marked left hand, observing quietly as someone he hadn't met yet made a formal welcome to this visitor. He was learning the etiquette and social requirements of this place, so he might be somewhat prepared whenever he had to meet someone important.

2.low on self-esteem so you run on gasoline
Logan had been offered a bed in a tent, at least for now, down in the valley below the castle. It was cold and terribly public and not at all what he was used to, but he told himself it was temporary and accepted it without complaint. He was not a king here, and had no right to demand things of the organization that had taken him in. The distance of several worlds from the Crawler seemed to make him more able to take such things rationally. Some small blessing.

It didn't stop the nightmares, though.

Some nights, he could control it enough to stay in his bed until dawn. Other nights, it drove him up and out of the tent, gasping and staggering behind it to vomit and just praying he didn't hit anything important. He stood there in his trousers with no shoes or shirt, hands on his knees, shaking, left hand clenched tightly. He was covered in sweat, despite the cold night air.

3.are you insane like me
Most of the soldiers didn't want to spar with Logan, which was fine. He was left-handed, which made a spar awkward, and he didn't know what would happen inside his head if he injured someone. The Crawler's influence was lessened, but not gone.

His preferred style of sword seemed rather uncommon, so he had a plain, common longsword, and he was learning on a training dummy what movements might work and what didn't. He paused, thinking he might get a drink of water, but his attention was caught by the light when he let go of the sword. The ache was radiating up his arm -- he'd overworked it, and that was making it worse. He stared into the light, wondering if he might see through it.

Cut it off, hissed the Crawler's sibilant voice. It won't hurt anymore, and it is no use to you. You don't need to fight. You're tainted, broken. Let the blade fall, let all of the blades fall...

He clenched his hand tight, then picked up the sword again and began swinging almost frantically. The water was forgotten.

Comments

[thetyrant]

Imagine how it feels to live it.

"Fine," Logan said, without slowing. He was out of breath from the effort, but that was fine, he was just pushing himself. "Don't concern yourself." Given long enough, he'd tire himself out and have to stop, but who knew how long that might take, and what damage he might do to himself in the meantime?

[tactical_alert]

The best way to get someone to get concerned: tell them they shouldn't be concerned. "Ser," he repeats, stronger, though not yet a bark of an order, "you're going to drop. I suggest you stand down, take a seat, drink some water, and deal with whatever demons you think you're fighting somehow else."

[thetyrant]

Logan stopped, and he was shaking. Whether from exhaustion or some other source wasn't clear. He turned a glare on Malcolm. "You do not command me, and I suggest that you stand down, before you are taught a lesson you won't soon forget."

There was something cold and inhuman in his gaze. Logan had forgotten, briefly, where he was and that he was in no position to be teaching lessons. He had these incidents less, since falling through the rift; he didn't often lose his grip on reality here. But they clearly hadn't left him entirely.

[tactical_alert]

It's true that for his size, despite tone musculature and a sure stance, Malcolm doesn't look very imposing. In armour, it's a different story, even to those who aren't sure of Seekers. So perhaps this gentleman feels a fight would be unfair.

One might suggest never bringing a bow to a swordfight, but if one is good enough, one doesn't even need a bow to disable an opponent. Duck in, elbow, grab and twist the wrist at the right angle--

The look is one that sets him on edge, alarmed. It reminds him of abominations before they turn completely into monsters, or blood mages with no sense of right or wrong. The sort of scoundrel he's been taught to take down all his life.

With one long-practised motion, Malcolm pulls an arrow and draws it, aims between Logan's eyes. His voice is cool and even, the tone absolutely now an order. "I do so command you to stand down and sheathe your weapon, or you will be made to stand down." Being dead is standing down, technically.

[thetyrant]

No one in Albion had used a bow going on twenty years now, but Logan knew what it was, and that it could be just as deadly as a bullet in the right hands. Having an arrow aimed directly in his face was enough to jar him out of whatever happened.

"I'm sorry," he said. He felt suddenly unsteady, and staggered backward a few steps, hanging his head low. "I'm sorry," he said again. He was still holding the sword, hand clenched white-knuckle tight around it, but he wasn't raising it and it was blunted anyway, meant for practice

[tactical_alert]

In the right hands, or even just very strong or quick hands, even a blunted object can do much damage. The cold light in the man's eyes goes out, the shift palpable even before the apology comes out.

This is an unusual situation, but he'll take the deescalation with pride, slipping the arrow back in its quiver and throwing the bow over his shoulder on a careful approach. His voice is much softer now. "Let's go sit, ser, and smother this flame inside you with some water."

[thetyrant]

Logan nodded and let Malcolm lead him away, shaking a little, left hand still clenched tightly on the blunted sword. "Wait, I...let me just..." He gestured vaguely with the sword, and turned away, taking the few steps to the nearest rack of practice weapons. It seemed to take him a few moments to set the sword down.

When he returned he already looked steadier, though, standing tall, one hand casually behind his back as though he'd been trained to stand some genteel way.

[tactical_alert]

He let out a steady breath he had been quietly holding, stance...not so much relaxing as loosening, still ready for a physical fight should it come to it, although it was looking to not be the case. "That was quite the display. I should hope you normally save your strength and your rage for our enemies." His tone still held in it an air of suspicion. It was only fair, he felt.

[thetyrant]

Logan hung his head low. Behind his back, his left hand was clenching and flexing, largely of its own accord. Logan could keep it still if he wanted to, but it took concentration.

"I should go," he said abruptly. He wanted to get out of here, go lick his wounds in peace.