multiversallogs | (no subject)

Who: Deucalion, OPEN

What: Arrival shenanigans

Where: Outside of the Valhalla Inn

When: 7/11 in the evening

Notes: your face

Warnings: my face

Deucalion’s arrival was spontaneous, unexpected, and unexplained. Once again, he’d been thrown out of the womb of the world he once knew, and into someplace entirely unfamiliar and strange. While there were certain similarities to the world he called “home,” he realized that it was not identical. This was not home. It wasn’t New Orleans, Austria, Tibet, or anywhere he’d been for that matter.

Prior to his arrival, Deucalion had been in "a mood." Jonathan Harker had been killed and after a quick visitation to Detective Connor’s home, he had move on. Back to the depths of the cities, back to the shadows. It wasn’t exactly a life he regretted or brooded over, but it wasn’t one he reveled in either. He existed, he explored, and he controlled his rage. The last element, the most important, as difficult as it was. Finally, by doing all of these things, he worked his way closer to bringing down Victor Helios, Frankenstein. The process was long and strenuous. 200 years had gone by and he still hadn’t achieved his goal, and now, more than ever, he was moving closer to it.

But also, now there was a setback. He’d been torn from his duties, without reason, without explanation. His instinct was far beyond the extent of simply being “upset.” It was maddening, there was no doubtin that. However, he almost instantly realized there was nothing he could do about it. Not at the moment. His only explanation he could currently give was that this was a result of fate. It angered him, yes but if he let the anger overcome him, he would begin this life as he began his last. The overwhelming sensation of fear, images of the mob, and triggered flashbacks enveloped him.

It wasn’t worth it.

Furthermore, Deucalion didn't feel it was necessary to waste his time on the communicator. He had found very little merit in using a cellphone and hardly saw it necessary to spend his first moments in this new world, talking to an inanimate handheld device. After keeping his hood up, head down, and generally too himself whilst roaming the halls of the inn, he headed outside. It was conveniently nighttime and for this reason, he almost instantly felt more at home. Though, the shadows of this world were hardly as familiar. A hulking silhouette of a figure would still be easy to spot in his current position. The alleyways and darkened corners of New Orleans were so far, preferable. Perhaps in time, he would grow accustomed to this place.

Assuming everything he'd learned in the provided pamphlet wasn't a lie.

Only time will tell.

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Integra does little more than nod, painting a bit of a funny picture for a knight guarding a princess, with her long blonde hair and glasses (and being a woman). The look on her face is not unkind, just serious - she's not alarmed by this man's appearance, but it's her duty while out on these rides to maintain a healthy bit of wariness where the Princess is concerned.

He feels a tinge of guilt, as there's not much he can exactly do about the situation, but for the same reason, the feeling doesn't linger. In fact, he's intrigued by the situation.

While Deucalion is extremely cautious in regards to who he confides his trust in, he does not fear necessary interaction. He prefers to keep to himself, yes, but he has learned that throughout time, as comforting as solitude is, nobody can survive on it. As he traveled the world, he realized that not every human was as cruel and merciless as the ones he encountered in his first few years of life. The trust and faith he had in humanity had taken many years to build and furthermore, the rage in his heart took longer to quell. He had finally mastered it and now interaction, despite his awkward dialect and strange philosophy, came much easier to him.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," he replies, giving an acknowledging nod to both of them. "I've gone by many names," he paused and then added, glancing over to Nuala, "And at one time, I did not in fact have a name at all. But you may call me Deucalion." The coincidence was curious and he realized that perhaps bringing about the subject of a former friend might be painful. However, he needed to ask.

"May I inquire as to what this man you knew was like?"

"Deucalion," she repeats, committing the name to memory and studying his face, his eyes, the way he carries himself. "He spoke as do you; he enjoyed poetry. He lived beneath the city, and caught me out of a blizzard I oughtn't have wandered into."

Literally, in fact; she rolled down a snowbank into his arms. She remembers having been affronted at the indignity of being so weakened by elements that shouldn't have been capable of as much, and grateful for a warm, safe place to weather the rest of it until she could return to Integra and Alucard.

(She sidesteps the memory of how abashed she was for her own foolishness when she did return. That part is irrelevant!)

"I believe he was from an earlier period, as some here are as well. You and he feel...alike to me," she lifts a hand, "but I believe I couldn't mistake you twice."

Psychics. They're wily.

Even in the small description she had given, there was a distinct familiarity to her words. They were only minute details, but they applied to him. Perhaps they could apply to a wide range of people---but something about the present circumstances... it was odd. Strangely coincidental.

He certainly did enjoy poetry, as it tied in with both his love for philosophy and history. Poetry after all, was one of the oldest forms of both writing and storytelling. It provided fantastical portrayals of ancient civilizations and their beliefs.

"I am very old," he starts again, a small hint of weariness in his voice. No, he hadn't grown tired of life but every time he looked back on when it all started, he recognized just how long it had been. "I've dabbled much in the study of quantum mechanics throughout my years," he continues, "And earlier, a woman proposed the idea of alternative dimensions." He paused, considering his next words. "I believe it is a likely possibility."

"Just so." It isn't the first time for Nuala, after all, and the familiarity (and not) of someone who might have been someone else is something she's learned to identify. After a moment, she offers a touch more specifically, "I believe he was of a German origin, and spoke of time spent in the Arctic - he called himself apart from mankind."

There's an implied question, there. She'd presumed as much (in both cases, now), but she's never known the reasons why, and curiosity is a great vice she rarely believes in not indulging.

Edited 2011-07-16 23:06 (UTC)

"I am of Germanic origin. The story that was written about what happened, the book, claims that I was created in Germany. I was in fact, created in Austria," he thinks for a moment, considering the other alterations and then concludes, "A subtle difference compared to the film's errs." Though, he wasn't exactly sure the princess would have seen the 1931 fantasy.

"I did indeed spend time in the Arctic. I had committed many crimes in my early life. At the time," there is an emphasis on these words, "I believed I had just reason. But despite what I believed then and what I often consider to this day, my actions were inexcusable." She didn't ask for those details, but he felt it was necessary to elaborate on them since they were half of the reason he fled to the Arctic. "My maker, Victor Frankenstein, at the time sought me out to destroy me. I fled, seeking both seclusion and solitude to find peace and hopefully, eventually, atone for my sins." The ending of the story that had been made famous by Mary Shelley, was of course, a fabrication. Victor never died and Deucalion never sought him out on a ship trapped by ice in the North Pole. Though, that (naturally) was a much more romantic conclusion.

He had caught Nuala's implicated inquiry and realizes that (if in fact it was) an earlier version of himself might have been less open about his story. Especially to a stranger whom he apparently found companionship in. Something that he had longed for for much of his early life. So he indulges her.

"And as I noted before, I was created. Never born. My body was sewn together from various corpses taken from a prison graveyard. I was brought to life in a laboratory, via a strike of lightning."

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if chrome crashes my tag again i will poop in its face

a chilling threat.

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