the one with werewolves

[theshabbiestofmen]

Who: Remus & James; Remus & the crew of the Paisley
Broadcast:
Action: on the Paisley
When: Last week of November!

closed to James;

[They've done this . . . god, he's lost count how many times. Since around fifth year, once a month every month, no matter how many protests Remus has voiced. The routine is always the same-- Remus on his own at first, stripping off his clothes and hanging around awkwardly with his boxers on, waiting for the others. The actual transformation has around a half-hour's time frame, always starting with an ache, always ending with screams.

Even after they graduated, they did it-- not in the Shrieking Shack, and not every month, not with everyone scattered to the wind on Order missions-- but often enough.

So now Remus waits in his room, clad only in shorts, fingers twisted in the blankets nervously. It won't be long now.]

on the Paisley; open to all crew

[The poor crew; what must they have heard? Well, all of it, frankly, which means: at 2300 and 0500 hours, there are screams coming from Remus' room. The door is locked, sealed physically and magically both, no matter what anyone tries to do. They're most definitely painful screams, and if you listen closely you can hear awful sounds-- bones snapping, sobs, Remus whimpering in pain. Fortunately, it only lasts five minutes each time-- and between, there's only silence. Perhaps an occasional whine or the click of dog nails on a hard floor-- but  beyond that, nothing.

After all is said and done, Remus seeks out each of the crew the next day. This is a conversation he'd prefer not to have with any of them-- but there's no way everyone on their ship hadn't heard him screaming. Might as well get this over with. He approaches them all one by one, his expression determined, his body held so tensely he's nearly shaking.]

I'd like to talk to you about last night. The noises you must have heard, the-- the screams and the like. This is a conversation I suppose I ought to have brought up before, but-- regardless. 

closed to Mal;

[The morning after, and Remus is still reeling over the revelations of the night before. The ability to be able to exert control over Moony-- even if it isn't absolute, even if it's only a fraction of a fraction of what James and the others can do-- is astonishing. The ability not to tear his friends to shreds once a month, to not put everyone's lives at risk, to say no and have it actually stick-- he still can't quite believe it. It seems a dream; it's only because James has assured him that he knows it wasn't.

An unconventional transformation. It makes sense, then, that the next day would be unconventional as well. Remus hesitates for quite a while before heading over to Mal's ship. He brings some coffee  as well, more to have an excuse than because he thinks Mal won't accept his company. James is splendid, of course, he couldn't ask for a better friend-- but it would be nice, for once, to be around someone who understands.] 

Comments

[complicatedliar]

[Loki settles back on his his habitual insolent sprawl. After a long moment of staring at Remus, he finally nudges one of the other chairs toward him with the toe of one boot.]

I'm familiar, yes.

[Tempting to throw back a, "Do you know what frost giants are?" But that's really no one's business. He isn't going to be any more unhinged than normal because of it.]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[Well, then. He takes the slight invitation and sits. His hands tangle in his lap, fingers winding around each other. If Loki looks closely, he'll see some new scars on the backs of his hands, leading up into his sleeves. Moony was better this month, but he was hardly perfect.]

Well, then. That's what I am. And I would ask that you keep the fact of my lycanthropy to yourself for the time being. While it's impossible to keep it a secret on this ship, I hardly see why the entire fleet has to know.

[complicatedliar]

[Scars are noted for consideration, though he doesn't say anything yet.

Dryly:] You really have no idea to whom you speak, do you.

I'm rather curious why your control is so poor.

[theshabbiestofmen]

I--

[Is he another supernatural creature, then? First Mal, then Stefan, and now--]

I haven't any choice. It's been that way since I was a child. I become entirely instinct. It was only this month that it became something I actually had any semblance of control. Sorry, are you not human, then?

[complicatedliar]

I'm most assuredly not human. [Thank goodness. Humans. Bleh.]

Curious. Most of the skindancers I knew were in control of their transformation. Though I've been given to understand it's an art that requires much practice.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Then what?

[And then, before he answer, far more heatedly:]

It's not an art, nor a gift. It's a curse. I'm not-- I don't change because I want to, it's because I'm compelled to.

[complicatedliar]

Aesir. [What's one more lie, really? Though Aesir would be far more true than Asgardian.]

Whether by choice or not is immaterial.

Sheathe your claws, kitten. I'm not someone with whom you wish to pick a fight.

[theshabbiestofmen]

[His mouth opens and shuts-- partially in offense, partially in embarrassment. He wrinkles his nose.]

Remus. And I can hold my own, thank you. What is an Aesir, precisely?

[complicatedliar]

Yes, I am aware of your name.

[Really?] I don't know what they're teaching you humans these days.

'tis simple, really. Aesir are those who dwell in Asgard, the realm eternal.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Well, not Norse myths, for one.

[Which is a bit rude, but!]

Or I suppose not myths for you. Are you trying to say you're some sort of deity, then?

[Asgard. Isn't that their version of-- or, no, wait, that's Valhalla, that's their version of heaven. Remus' knowledge of Norse mythology is sketchy at best and woefully incomplete at worst, but he knows a few things.]

[complicatedliar]

Your legends are stories about us, yes.

[Smile.] Why, yes.

[theshabbiestofmen]

[And now he just looks annoyed.]

That's entirely impossible. You're speaking to someone who has magic, remember; simply because you have abilities doesn't make you a god.

[complicatedliar]

Oh yes, and a human with nary a hair upon his chin when it isn't his time of the month is the best judge of what is possible.

[Please.]

I'm the god of magics, you unimaginable twit.

[theshabbiestofmen]

You're not much of a god if you're stuck here with the rest of us.

[complicatedliar]

You've read too much Christian mythology if that's your benchmark.

But please. Do share your boundless wisdom and explain to me what I am. I'm certain you know better than I do.

[theshabbiestofmen]

[All right, that's fair. He holds up a hand in a silent gesture of apology. He's far too much an agnostic to truly believe in the word god-- but he's being unfair.]

I suppose I simply take issue with the actual word-- but perhaps we have different definitions. You can do magic, then-- what kinds?

[complicatedliar]

[Shrug.]

They're all fundamentally same. One tells the world what it will be, and the world yields.

[Though admittedly, some come easier than others, but he's not going to just out and say that, not when he's got his hackles raised.]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[But now he's trying to make peace, so--]

Most times. I personally can never get my charms to stick, not unless I'm having a lucky day.

[complicatedliar]

[Okay, he's a bit mollified by this. He likes talking about magic. It's one of the best ways to get him to have a mostly civil, non-asshole conversation. Hit him right in the nerd.]

I don't particularly care for healing. I've never been all that good at it.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Nor I.

[All right, peacemaking is a go. Remus even tries for half a smile.]

My friend broke his nose once, and we weren't in any place that we could get help. His nose is still a bit crooked to this day.

Defense work, on the other hand-- I think that's my specialty.

[complicatedliar]

[All right. Look at them, having a conversation like normal people. Unbelievable.]

I've kept a few people alive until better aide could be given. I don't like doing it.

Mmm. What sort of defense?

I like creating illusions best of all.

[theshabbiestofmen]

Shields, mostly. I like-- well. Everyone, every creature, has a weakness; once you learn them, it's easy. Like taking away a support beam from a building. My illusions . . . mm. They could be far better. They can't hold up against any scrutiny-- but they could fool an animal, perhaps. Could I see one of yours?

[complicatedliar]

Ah. I understand your meaning. [Well yes, he does like finding out weaknesses, the better to exploit them.]

Observe.

[He closes the fingers of one hand for a moment. When he opens them, there's an apple seed in his palm. The seed sprouts and begins to grow rapidly, roots curling down around his fingers to reach the floor, and then it grows into a stately tree. Grass, such an intense green it can barely be imagined, grows around the base of the tree and spreads, and then the room--

Is no longer a room. It's an orchard of apple trees on a perfect, golden summer afternoon. A breeze that can be felt rustles the tree leaves, birds sing sweetly, insects buzz. ]

[theshabbiestofmen]

[Oh. Oh. Remus' mouth drops open in awe and-- after a moment-- pure delight. He hasn't any capability to produce illusions like this. This is utterly encompassing, so perfectly crafted-- he wouldn't think it was a fake if he hadn't seen it created just a moment before.]

Brilliant.

[He glances around, fingers reaching down to brush against the grass, before turning to stare in delight at the other man. He still doesn't believe he's any kind of god-- but he's immensely talented, at the very least.]

Utterly brilliant. This is amazing-- my god, I can't come close to this.

[complicatedliar]

Well, of course. [Of course it's brilliant. He made it. But he does grin, since he likes doing magic, and it's nice to have an appreciative audience.]

A millennium of practice does wonders. [This is as close as he gets to humble, remember it.

And he's not even breaking a sweat, it should be noted.]