closed | i'm crooked, but upright

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac, Coupe, Casimir, Jenin + Others
WHAT: Catchall for the month
WHEN: Waves my hands
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Addddding starters to the comments as I go. If you want a prompt hmu.

Comments

[reshapes]

The gull steadfastly ignores his suggestion, as if to insist that No, he's just fine where he is thank you very much. The most consideration Isaac gets (as opposed to Isaac's sleeve, which is very entertaining indeed) is a few lackluster hops and a lazy flap of wings. How about you piss of, mate, eh? He was here first, you know. And really - what's the point in working for breakfast when he could get just as far by screaming about it? Why, look at that chap out there and all the work he's doing.

That chap being a far more industrious seagull, breaking away now from its wheeling counterparts to rocket with rare predatory instinct at the wine dark sea. Gulls aren't graceful hunters. Not really. But this one seems to know what its doing. It skims the harbor water, snatches a heavy silvered fish from it, and then rises on labored wing beats again. Higher, higher, higher it climbs as the fish in its grip thrashes.

From the vantage of the Gallows ramparts, it's difficult to say exactly what goes wrong for the gull's work ethic at first. One second it has its catch clenched firmly in its beak, and it the next its catch has its beak firmly clenched. The flapping becomes wild and irregular. A series of tentacles constrict and wave, beating on the gull which sends it zig zagging in a haphazard panic across the gold brushed dawn touched sky. Other birds scatter to avoid it. The gull beside Isaac gives him a flat look, then takes off with a scream of protest as the overpowered bird comes writhing through the air toward them.

With a squawk, a flurry of loose feathers, and a final wet slap, the octopus abandons its stranglehold on the gull and drops to the ramparts. It lays there in a motionless pile at Isaac's feet. One of its inert limbs pulses with a sickly green light, seawater and black ink and bird spit oozing all about the creature. In a small voice, it says, "Take that, you overgrown pigeon."

[wythersake]

He doesn't squeal.

It's not at all near that volume — in the taxonomy of surprised noises it's more of a strangled yelp, and the instinctive reel of surprise that precedes a hard kick forward.

Only about halfway through does he realize it's spoken. Really, this only solidifies the decision; really, it ought to. Still catches him off-balance, sends him diving for the barrier that separates stone from sky.

It's all extremely dignified.

[reshapes]

It could be worse.

--For Bartimaeus, anyway. For the man on the ramparts, it's all a rather embarrassing display. But in the grand scheme of shocked reactions, Bartimaeus personally will take witnessing a person leaping around and making absurd squawking noises over getting punted like a football any day. The human fight or flight response is a hell of thing, isn't it?

Never mind all that though. Give him a second and he'll be over the far side of the wall, suction cupping his way merrily down into the Gallows courtyard below. Ol' Squealer will be left up here wondering whether he'd had a particularly lucid half-awake daydream in this nice brisk morning, and this will fade as an unimportant happenstance in both their minds. The end.

He gathers himself. With great effort--

Slap. The octopus flops one of its tentacles with mortifying weakness against the stone.

[wythersake]

Isaac braces for impact; at length unpeels an eye, and then an arm from rock.

The octopus squelches. He stoops over it to squint. If it's a hallucination, he's done better — as some leftover of the Gallows' latest ghostly infestation, it's not a terribly impressive one. An eye over his shoulder, but they're temporarily alone,

"And what do you think you're doing?"

— Spoken to himself, and not the octopus, gripped at the tail end of a tentacle and lifted aloft. This isn't the greatest idea he's ever had, but a bruised ego demands some satisfaction. A certain inner six year old poking things with sticks does.

[reshapes]

One of the tentacles writhes, slithering up to wrap around the man's hand and arm. It's a slippery, suction cup-y sort of affair from the jello sack splattered on the ramparts. It's punctuated with:

"Didn't your mother ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself?"

[wythersake]

Disgusting.

"Disgusting," Mused. Bartimaeus is welcome for that very important thought. He shakes the hand experimentally, considers winging it the rest of the way over the rail. Instead, heat ripples brief along his skin, not quite enough to catch to flame. Enough, maybe, to see what it does. "You don't have much of a mouth for this."

Backtalk is a hell of a thing coming from a — beak? Do fish have beaks?

[reshapes]

"Excuse you-- Ouch!" The tentacle recoils from the flush of heat, repulsed backward. The octopus, all limp twisting limbs, squirms feebly in the man's grip even as the voice that responds is very sharp indeed. "It's better than the one you've got, if those noises you were making earlier are any indication. Now put me down, or I''ll show you exactly how disgusting I can be."

As if to punctuate the claim, a selection of the creature's tentacles have begun to melt improbably, sticky limbs growing slowly more slimy and dripping the longer it's held aloft. Which isn't actually what he was going for - no, he was thinking about something showy like reforming his essence to add a few extra eyes in unsettling places or maybe just spitting on him -, but fine. Whatever. Lean into it.