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[tongueamok]

Hello, this is Carlisle. I mean, it's not Carlisle as in I'm actually answering you right now, so if you're trying to reply to me at the second, you should probably save your breath because I'm not really here. This is some kind of a recording of my voice, but this is my communicator. I'm going to assume these devices are as common here as they are in other places — not my world, but others, ones more technologically advanced than where I come from— so if you'd like to leave me a message, then you may do so here, or er... Right. Here is fine. So just leave yo— [beep]

Comments

[aroundthecoroner]

[Well, now he feels like he's refusing an invitation, one that Carlisle probably doesn't make lightly. And, well, maybe they could both use the company?]

Well... Yeah, I guess it would be nice to not smell like burning city for a while. If you're sure?

[tongueamok]

Yes. I'm sure.

[He's going to drink otherwise if he doesn't have someone around to hold him accountable, he just knows it. Carlisle isn't one to invite people over, given how private he and Glacius both are, but it's for the best at this point. He's not sure who else to call who a) isn't helping with the fires as well, and b) is on speaking terms with him.]

I live in the second Spire in apartment 401.

audio --> action!

[aroundthecoroner]

[Technically Michael should be doing clinic work, but he took a break to go sleep for a while. Which... also didn't happen. Whatever. This is adjacent to clinic work, right?]

Alright, I'll be there soon.

[Soon-ish, since he has to divert around the still-burning areas. But at least 401 should be the ground floor, easy to find. And the second spire is the only one by the river, so, also easy to find. After a while, Michael shows up to knock on Carlisle's door, holding a bag of things he would prefer not get torched.]

\o/

[tongueamok]

[Speaking of not sleeping, Carlisle looks like he hasn't done any of that himself lately. That hair he keeps so tidy? As frazzled as his nerves. His tabard? Tossed over the back of one of the chairs at the table. Even the clergyman's hands twitch with a nervous energy as he clasps them together, his fingers picking at his gloves.

Or maybe he's trembling because he's cold -- one thing Michael might notice is that it is far colder in the apartment than just about anywhere in the city. Maybe that's why Carlisle wears so many sweaters.

He steps aside to let Michael in, his brow knotted tightly with a worry he doesn't know how to express, his shoulders stiff as he closes the door behind them and gestures toward the couch. There's a teapot over there, as well as a couple of mugs and some papers with glyphs, their lines as shaky as the hands that wrote them.]

Thank you for coming.

[He murmurs that despite the fact that he made it sound as though he was doing Michael a favor over the phone.]

[aroundthecoroner]

[This is definitely different than the Carlisle he met during the furniture rain. Michael doesn't know him quite well enough yet to know if this is completely abnormal, but the guy definitely seems out of sorts. Also yes, he does indeed notice the cold- good thing he's almost always wearing a jacket, himself.

Michael follows Carlisle over to the couch and dutifully takes a seat.]

Yeah, no problem.

[Aaaaand now he's not sure what to talk about. Stupid social shortcomings.]

Feeling any... better? [He knows he isn't. Shit. That was dumb.]

[tongueamok]

Of course not.

[Carlisle's answer is sharp, as chilly as the air around them. He tries again, knowing he should be kinder to someone who is doing him a favor, no matter how much he'd like to insist otherwise.]

Sorry. I- I am sorry. I am not well, no, but perhaps I can entertain more than my vices now.

[He slides into the easy chair across from the couch and slips one of the pieces of paper under the teapot, his hands still trembling as his fingers fumble with the sheet.]

My- Glacius is covered in an icy layer that is crucial for his survival.

[He just kind of blurts out that explanation, as though he's anxious about this train of thought and hopes to derail it with facts that may or may not be pertinent to any potential conversation.]

[aroundthecoroner]

[Michael takes the snapping considerably well, but then he decides it was his fault anyway.]

No, sorry, that was a stupid question.

[And then Carlisle blurts out what he's thinking, and suddenly, everything makes sense. The temperature, for one, but mostly why Carlisle is so anxious.

God, what does he do here? Michael's awkward at the best of times, but this is even worse. His friend back home is the more level-headed between them, he's not entirely sure how to handle situations like this. What would he want someone else to do for him?]

I'm sure he knows what he's doing, right? Though I get why you'd be worried. [He pauses, thinking.] Do you want to talk about that, or would you rather be distracted?

[tongueamok]

[If the way he continues to fret with the paper between his fingers is any indication, Carlisle isn't sure if Glacius knows what he's doing. The icy warrior did go heading off into a raging inferno, after all.]

I don't know. I... I suppose I'd prefer a distraction. This is normally where I would drink myself into a stupor, numbing myself to the torrent of suffocating, terrible worry that floods my mind.

[He bares his teeth as he speaks, placing a finger on the glyph on the sheet beneath the teapot. It lights up for only a moment, fading as the liquid in the pot begins to steam.]

But I'm not supposed to drink anymore, and I am left instead with my conscience and my fears. I... apologize for inviting you here under false pretenses.

[aroundthecoroner]

[Michael watches the magic quietly, thinking. He definitely knows what it feels like to try to give up a habit. God does he know.]

Don't apologize, I get it. Anxiety's a bitch.

[He shrugs.]

I, uh, indulged in some vices myself during that last stunt the gods pulled. It's probably better if I can help somebody else avoid it, and whenever I don't trust myself, company's a good idea.

[tongueamok]

[Carlisle nods, his eyes on the teapot as he pours one mug, then the other, scooting the first toward Michael. He'd hoped hosting would help ease his mind; it has not. Perhaps he should put more faith in conversation.

Unfortunately, conversation is a two-way endeavor, unlike confessional. He pushes a sigh through his throat.]

It's quite normal to imbibe where I am from. I have long thought it a reliable method for dulling the claws of my fears, but Glacius would argue otherwise. It was easier to deal with the aftermath without someone around to suffer it.

[Or so he thinks. It's hard to remember sometimes. That was a part of the point, though -- to drink until he can't think anymore.]

[aroundthecoroner]

[Michael takes the mug, but doesn't drink just yet. The warmth of it is nice, especially in here. Hard to believe there's an inferno raging not far away.]

It's pretty normal where I'm from, too. The drinking part. It's not too uncommon for people to go overboard, either. I'm not really into it myself, but I can see the draw.

[He got blackout drunk exactly once, and he almost told a cop he'd just killed someone. Not his finest hour. Besides, he's always been about a very different kind of self-medication.]

I'll be honest, my coping mechanisms aren't exactly healthy, either. [They're a collective mess, oops. But this half (2/3?) of the collective mess, at least, has had people try to help him.] But I've heard that other people, uh. Meditate? Or do a lot of physical activity? Do either of those sound remotely appealing?

[tongueamok]

Do I look like the sort to do a lot of physical activity, Michael?

[Bony frame, glasses, bags under his eyes, skin that looks like it has never seen the sun before, a temperament more inclined to argue about push-ups than to actually do any, the fact he was slightly winded by the stairs when he came to get Dave—]

[aroundthecoroner]

[ALL FAIR POINTS... Listen, he's trying.]

Yeah, okay. Me neither. Worth a shot?

[God, what else is there?]

You could, uh... [Problem-solving doesn't really apply here. He doubts journaling would help.] Well, I guess we already talked about it. Shit, I'm supposed to be distracting you, not making it worse.

[He pushes his glasses up to rub at the bridge of his nose.]

[tongueamok]

[Carlisle does nearly the same, shoving his glasses to his forehead so he can rub at his eyes.]

You are as good at this as I am, it seems.

[Sigh. He tries again.]

I wonder if the false gods brought the fire to this place, or if it was someone living here. Perhaps they wanted something, or perhaps they are getting revenge in the cruelest way possible.

[aroundthecoroner]

[Right, okay, he can follow along with this.]

I would hope it's not the gods. Trying to smoke us out seems kind of counter-productive for them.

[But what does he know about their agenda?]

Maybe somebody just likes to start fires? That's a thing. Pyromania. If it was for revenge, then they sure played themselves. Unless they live south of the river. Know anybody who hates a lot of people?

[tongueamok]

Not anyone who is here anymore.

[Thankfully. He sips at his tea, remembering far too vividly when Shadow burned his rooftop garden. How long ago that seems now.]

[aroundthecoroner]

[Well that sounds vaguely ominous.]

I guess if it's revenge, it might just be aimed at one person. Honestly though, it was probably an accident. That's how most of these things go. Mistakes in the kitchen or something.

[tongueamok]

Perhaps.

[And as the subject of a fire-based revenge once, he goes quiet, inhaling the steam of his tea. He probably should have infused it with some paw plant leaves to calm his nerves better, but that's generally not the kind of tea one serves to company.

There are some soft steps from the hallway as Carlisle's pet nug meanders into the room, its pink, hairless body covered in a sweater much like its master. It roots around the floor behind Carlisle's chair, looking for crumbs.]

One would have to be a very poor cook indeed to start a fire of this magnitude. And I thought my ineptitude spoke volumes.

[aroundthecoroner]

[Carlisle sniffing his tea reminds Michael that he's holding a cup of his own. He takes a sip. He's not a big tea drinker normally; he survives on a large amount of coffee, instead. But this is nice, too.]

I don't know, I guess people forget they have stuff in the oven? What- [He stares at the nug. Is that... supposed to be here...??? It's wearing a sweater so it's probably not just a random animal. Probably. One never knows in Hadriel.]

Is that, uh. Is that your pet?

[tongueamok]

Hm?

[Carlisle looks from his tea down to the nug in the sweater as it comes around his chair, still rooting around the floor, and gives the animal a soft smile despite that notch of worry still in his brow.][

Ah, yes. A friend gave him to me before she was taken from here. He's a rabbit of... some sort, in case you don't have those where you come from. Thankfully friendly, and he keeps out of my plants. I'm... honestly not certain this is the best environment for him, but he seems to have adjusted.

[Or he doesn't mind wearing sweaters. It's hard to tell.]

[aroundthecoroner]

[Well, this is certainly a distraction.]

Are you... sure that's a rabbit? [It's awfully large. And those legs aren't quite right, either.]

Looks kind of like a big-eared capybara. Or a shaved aardvark.

[It's cute, though, in a weird way. The sweater helps.]

[tongueamok]

[Carlisle, for one, is thankful for the distraction from his thoughts and desire to drink; unfortunately, the rabbit doesn't make a very good conversationalist, so Michael has the advantage in that regard. The clergyman leans forward just a bit to scratch behind the creature's ears, his look confused as Michael questions it.]

A... an art-what?

[aroundthecoroner]

An aardvark.

[Time to play everyone's favorite game, "spot the world differences".]

It's like an anteater? Or like a really big mole.

[Surely a world with rabbits also has moles??? Jury's out on anteaters.]

This one's nose is different, though. Not piggy enough. What's its name?

[tongueamok]

[Carlisle just looks progressively more confused as Michael carries on. He seems to reach the apex when asked the most simple question of all.]

Name? He— oh.

[Oh indeed.]

He doesn't have one. But- but he looks enough like a rabbit. An odd... otherworldly sort of rabbit.

[He looks down at the rabbit; the creature glances his way, his ears flicking before he goes back to shuffling along the carpet.]

Miriam -- the girl who gave him to me -- said he ought to have a name, but- but I suppose I never got around to it.

[aroundthecoroner]

[Okay, no on the anteaters. And maybe the moles?]

I guess you could name him Rabbit, if he isn't one. But that also might be a little like naming a dog "Cat".

[He takes another sip of his tea.]