i. [artifact] and i was in the darkness / so darkness i becamecw for: self-hatred, possible discussions of suicide, and depression; artifact description here.
[Martin knows what it is when he sees it-- or rather, what it must be. While he's never known artifacts to seek anyone out, the point of them is always to find their way into the hands of someone who will use them. Someone who will do the damage, and Martin seems to be all damage these days. The whistle fits into his hand well, cold to the touch no matter how hard he presses it into the warmth of his hand.
He takes it, of course. He can stop it. He can stop anyone else from having this, holding this. That was the point.
But of course, there is so much suffering around. So many people who were drawn into this mess he made, the world he was left behind in that he ruined. The temptation is his own, before too long, to get the fix he needs and remove these feelings from his chest. It is his fault, after all, and there is little reassurance for him of trying to keep hope. There's only so long he can hang on to it. This whistle came to him. Maybe it will answer something else.
So he does. He hides and he waits and when he's finally almost alone, he lets that cold, low sound echo over him and whoever happens to be nearby. He listens, and tries to hear, tries to accept this.
He can't.
It's not long after before he becomes near-impossible to find until you hear the call, round a corner into fog, until the voice in the nothingness reminds him-- or you, or both, perhaps-- that you could have stopped this, if you'd really wanted to. But you didn't. No wonder you're alone.
Either you'll find him by feeling the effects yourself, starting to succumb to the feelings and the cold to see someone through the fog, or by fighting your way through because you know he's there, and you'll find him standing and looking away-- always away, and always maybe a bit too far to reach. And the words he says will be the same.]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
ii. [later] and knew that somehow i could find my way back
[Okay, so, that was bad. It was very bad, and he's sure someone's going to have words about it to him, but if he stops too long to think about that he's likely going to explode. Instead, because being alone got him here, he's going to maybe-too-aggressively make himself useful. Before too long, he's puttering around to everyone working on something-- somehow he's achieved hot tea and has raided every cabinet he can find for cookies, and he'll find anyone off by themselves who needs a spot of brightening up with a smile and some tea and food.]
Hey! How, uhm, h-how are you doing? With this or just, uh, in general, I suppose.
iii. [wildcard] in the shadow of your heart
[Hit me up at cancerously or on discord if you want to plot something else for this!]
martin blackwood | ota, i'll match your format!
[Martin knows what it is when he sees it-- or rather, what it must be. While he's never known artifacts to seek anyone out, the point of them is always to find their way into the hands of someone who will use them. Someone who will do the damage, and Martin seems to be all damage these days. The whistle fits into his hand well, cold to the touch no matter how hard he presses it into the warmth of his hand.
He takes it, of course. He can stop it. He can stop anyone else from having this, holding this. That was the point.
But of course, there is so much suffering around. So many people who were drawn into this mess he made, the world he was left behind in that he ruined. The temptation is his own, before too long, to get the fix he needs and remove these feelings from his chest. It is his fault, after all, and there is little reassurance for him of trying to keep hope. There's only so long he can hang on to it. This whistle came to him. Maybe it will answer something else.
So he does. He hides and he waits and when he's finally almost alone, he lets that cold, low sound echo over him and whoever happens to be nearby. He listens, and tries to hear, tries to accept this.
He can't.
It's not long after before he becomes near-impossible to find until you hear the call, round a corner into fog, until the voice in the nothingness reminds him-- or you, or both, perhaps-- that you could have stopped this, if you'd really wanted to. But you didn't. No wonder you're alone.
Either you'll find him by feeling the effects yourself, starting to succumb to the feelings and the cold to see someone through the fog, or by fighting your way through because you know he's there, and you'll find him standing and looking away-- always away, and always maybe a bit too far to reach. And the words he says will be the same.]
I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
ii. [later] and knew that somehow i could find my way back
[Okay, so, that was bad. It was very bad, and he's sure someone's going to have words about it to him, but if he stops too long to think about that he's likely going to explode. Instead, because being alone got him here, he's going to maybe-too-aggressively make himself useful. Before too long, he's puttering around to everyone working on something-- somehow he's achieved hot tea and has raided every cabinet he can find for cookies, and he'll find anyone off by themselves who needs a spot of brightening up with a smile and some tea and food.]
Hey! How, uhm, h-how are you doing? With this or just, uh, in general, I suppose.
iii. [wildcard] in the shadow of your heart
[Hit me up at