maskormenacelogs | they're lost sad and brawny like an apple core

[ Most visitors to Dr. Chilton’s hospital have an appointment.

The gentleman loitering in reception now has more of an impromptu invitation.

He’s tall and hairy and rough, all whiskers and gristle in denim and a leather jacket occupying the space like a piece of moth-eaten taxidermy in a museum of modern art. Apart from his late entry, he’s been polite. Hands kept to himself, a motorcycle helmet under one arm, he keeps a weather side-eye on the NPC helming the desk even as he roams to squint at elements of the decor.

It’s unsettling, in a familiar way.

Very clean.

The longer he’s left to his own devices, the deeper distaste carves fuzzy lines in around his mouth. ]

Edited 2017-10-11 05:22 (UTC)

[Fortune always seemed to grace Chilton at the most ungainly of times. It was sheer circumstance that he was walking out of his office, headed towards the receptionist's front desk, it was uncanny coincidence that Chilton had arrived half an hour early to his office and -- quite logically -- such diligence had a domino effect on his coffee consumption. Half an hour early did his afternoon round get swallowed, and now he was leaning to place another order.

It just so happened that Reggie was out today. Chilton couldn't blame his imPort for faulty intuition in the event his coffee was distributed incorrectly; he had to speak with this Not Reggie in person.

This was the reasoning for a precise moment, a specific placement.

So it was by graceful happenstance that he turned a corner only to run face-to-face with a man none other than the fuzzy-lined Jorah.]

Oh.

[ Ser Jorah makes a better wall than a window. The smatter of rain he caught on his way in really brings out the stink of the street on him -- acrid fumes and a fading vestige of whatever bar he’s been bouncing. Stale humidity cloys warm in their shared space, his jacket blunted dirty and damp at its edges. City strays have the same look after storms.

He doesn’t offer his hand; the presence of Chilton alone is enough to coil restraint through his back and into the muscles of his neck. Choking up on his own leash, adjusting the hold he has on his helmet. ]

Doctor Chilton.

[ He forces cordiality through wire mesh -- not here to cause trouble

if he can help it.

It might happen that he can’t. ]

[A quick wrinkle of his nose -- Chilton could mask most of his disdain for Jorah, on behalf of Baelish's acquaintance with the man. That connection alone bought him allowance into this hospital, despite the sarcastic invitation, despite the fumes that accompanied him.

Chilton had to be patient.]

Come for that signed copy, I suppose. [There's a lingering look in his gaze, as he glanced up and down Jorah's body once more. Comparison and contrast -- the clone had been so remarkably similar. Identical. A physically perfect specimen.

And what a cathartic use of it, too. Chilton savored the memory, his sharp little smile deepening.]

Rincewind is already out for the day, I'm afraid.

[ Almost perfect.

There’s more grizzle in this one’s beard, dull silver worn in to gain a foothold from the fringes. A little floral neckerchief tucked in under his collar is all he needs to mask any other visible trace of a difference. Speaking of contrast, it sets an unusual stage for the sweaty bristle at his throat. ]

Not his signature I’m looking for, [ he reassures, with a smile of his own. Half of one, at least.

You’re the star of the show today, Chilton. He’s here for you. ]

Is it still a signature that you want?

[The social alchemy of their interface; now Chilton sought clarify over mockery, comprehension in lieu of condescension. The stiffness in his starched collar rubbed against the back of his neck.

He found no comfort in that half-smile.]

Shall we go to my office? Get you that book.

[He glanced at the receptionist, still within view, and raised an eyebrow at him. A signal, to be vigilant, in case a suspicious amount of time was spent in close quarters.]

An autograph.

[ That’s what it’s called, when a native wants you to write your name on whatever useless piece of garbage they happen to be clutching at a given event. Rare and valuable as signed copies of Chilton’s masterpiece must be, Ser Jorah’s John Hancock is nigh unto impossible to find. Cryptid tier.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to write. ]

If you’re not busy.

[ Chilton always looks busy.

His suit is very clean and his collar very starched and his tie very important. Mormont’s looking down his nose at it when he catches wind of the glance exchanged between doctor and front desk, and he follows it with a nod of his own. Reassuring. Polite.

They'll be back in a jiffy. ]

Not too busy at all, no.

[The tone adjusted by Jorah set Chilton's brow to knit, yet his stride still carried him back to his office, guiding his company along the way. Alarm bells might ring off in the back of Chilton's skull, but his frontal lobes lodging all those identity issues, all his ego and starving self-image, those brain bits would scream loudest in his mind. Every brisk step taken sparked a cognitive choir.

He unlocked his office door, opening it for his guest. An entire segment of the bookshelf backing his desk housed readily available copies of his book.]

Any particular inscription? [Asked Chilton, back turned to Jorah. His finger stroked against the spine of a fresh copy.] I admit, when we were... Coaxing each other, I didn't really think you would take me up on the visit.

[Coaxing. A polite turn of phrase.]

[ ‘Coaxing.’ Mormont looks at Chilton like he’s talking about them tickling each other’s balls, at an utterly alien remove from polite turns of phrase in this context. Eyes narrowed, suspicion dim at the back of his skull.

He said he would come, so he came.

What good is thinly veiled intimidation if you don’t deliver meat and bone and stink where it’s promised, when it’s promised.

But manners are all that separate Jorah from the average, literal bear, and he doesn’t loom or hover so much as he occupies the space just inside the door like a tall, dirty, dented package. One that’s been delivered to the wrong office on a rainy day. One can see that there is an entire section of that bookshelf dedicated to the book Chilton’s fingering from here. ]

You can make it out to Turtle, [ he says. Seriously. ]

It’s a pet name.

A... Pet name? From whom?

[He drew down the volume, but he gaze didn't leave Jorah's face -- from the glance over his shoulder to the full frontal pivot, Chilton peered for answers. It was endearing, a sentiment that seemed entirely isolated from Jorah himself, and Chilton proved to be inquisitive over the apparent contradiction.

He poised his focus, with a look down his nose. His shoulders relaxed.]

You'll have to tell me the story behind that one.

[Any hairline fissure that broke Jorah's monumental enigma was bait enough for Chilton.]

A friend. [ This sounds better than ‘the technopoltergeist who sleeps on my couch,’ or ‘a hostile anonymous spirit that haunts the network and calls people names.’ He’s able to say it decisively, without irony. Maybe he believes it could be true.

It wouldn’t be the worst decision he’s made.

Or the worst friend.

As for the story behind it? He sizes up Chilton from the space he’s claimed for himself at the door -- a doctor at ease in his natural environment, up against this burnt out, soggy monolith of a Mormont. ]

It’s personal.

I see. [Said Chilton, who quite obviously had already assumed something sexual and intimate abut this personal matter from a friend who apparently had affectionately nicknamed Jorah "turtle". Chilton would err on the side of visual metaphor, and he unconsciously glanced around Jorah's belt, as if to confirm his suspicions. Curiosity -- one of his kinder sins.

Nevertheless, he signed the name as instructed.]

Remind me, have you had a chance to read up on the material? Surrounding the subject, I mean. [He cleared his throat. And then, to clarify, the corners of his lips perked with a twitch:] Walter White. Have you already heard anything about him?

[Some imPorts invested into the social history here, others preferred more concurrent focuses. Chilton was still feeling out what breed Jorah was.]

[ Is meatgazing a thing in Westeros? If it is, Jorah fails to catch on, watching Chilton glance with all the steady on patience of a zoo gorilla having pennies flicked at it. He fails to register the implication entirely, or decides not to, hands hanging idle at his sides. As threats go, if what Chilton’s provoked in him even qualifies, it’s as passive as it is present. ]

I know that he’s dead, [ he says, matter-of-fact.

There’s not much especially inclined to twitch or perk about him; he’s as murky and slow as the weather, all the way up until eye contact. There, a sliver of sharper reflection invites Frederick to speak down to him on the subject. ]

Do you know how he died? And what events paved the road to his death, and those he had murdered along the way?

[Incise questions, but ones without the sneer of judgement. Most imPorts glossed over the details, and Chilton tended to benefit from the name recognition without any scrutiny. He wasn't sure about his footing in Jorah's mind -- those sands seemed endlessly shifting.]

The context, I think is important.

[Because there was what really happened, there was what Chilton wrote about in his book, and then there were the conspiracy theories.]

[ In the absence of any friction for Mormont to prickle against, the only thing for him to do is to think about it in earnest. ]

No.

[ No, no, and no, respectively. Just the one no alone has the ring of an admission. Maybe even concession.

He takes a slow step deeper into the office -- then another, #aesthetic buffered against the decor by a soggy cocoon of denim and leather, pride buffered against degrees and certifications and leatherbound books by self-awareness. ]

Isn’t that what the book is for?

[ Dry. Also an honest question. ]

Yes. [The edge to Chilton's smile sharpened. Better that Jorah remained unsullied by predisposition -- he was a cleaner slate to work with, and Chilton took his reply at face value. It seemed, he thought, unlikely for Ser Jorah to lie. At least, unlikely to lie over a detail so removed from his own life.

Chilton banked on that calculation.]

I hope you enjoy it.

[And he handed it over, cover signed and ink dried.]

My publisher had considered having Raina stand with me, in the jacket duster photo. But we hadn't been engaged at the time, an impermanent status could have been... Awkward. For sales.

-- Should I lend you a psychiatric dictionary, as well?

[He asked, sincerely, not realizing how condescending it might very well sound.]

[ Mormont takes the book heavy in hand with a shade of suspicion for that sharper smile, eyes squinted, jaw blocked off stiff -- biting back on bad manners. It’s just a book. Frederick’s been nothing if not accommodating.

He eyes down the smaller man for a good, long moment before he turns his attention down to the ink on the cover. And further, to the inner flap, curiosity easily led after his initial reserve. He knows who Raina is, even if I was too bad at time management to ever actually tag into the clone facility raid. ]

I can get one from the library.

[ There’s an odd ships-in-the-night evasion of condescension where borrowing books is concerned. He’s made a habit of ruining them.

And this book in itself is distracting, now that it's his -- he closes it and turns it over to skim the back. ]

I have a friend who works there.

Edited (dont abandon me ) 2017-11-12 05:46 (UTC)

Which library would this be? [He had his suspicions, even while he repressed the edging sneer from the corners of his mouth. The camaraderie that Jorah and Rincewind shared was not easily forgotten -- soft manners would not erode that coarse itch away.]

Baelish's own?

[Pushing. Pushing the details as he watched Jorah skim over the back book jacket.]

You maintain a connection with Baelish, isn't that right? [An image flickered in his mind, one of Jorah, but not Jorah, in pale imitation strapped to a clinical chair. Writhing. Agonized.

It brought a warmer smile to his lips.]

Aye, that’s the one. [ Were Jorah to derive any genuine pride in being a part of being Team BElish, the library in Maurtia Falls might be the source. He is a fan of libraries -- appreciative of the opportunity this one affords him. And the opportunity it’s afforded Rincewind.

Back to the front cover, and Frederick’s John Hancock, the old knight tucks it in against his elbow and nods. Just once. ]

I work for him.

[ This seems like the sort of thing Chilton should know, and Jorah’s temporary foray into something almost like geniality coils comfortably back into a more aloof appraisal of the doctor. What of it. The way a bear might look at a fox thinking of shitting on his carpet. Whose office is this, again? ]

Edited (what an important edit) 2017-11-14 04:41 (UTC)

Do you? Still?

[A set of questions that might leave Jorah to wonder if Baelish had ever discussed Jorah with Chilton -- which he had -- and how that pertinent topic of employment might have gone. With a glance towards the crystal decanter displayed on his bookshelf, Chilton bought a moment of spare time.]

Would you like a drink? Or are you more the sober type of man?

[Which was not intended to be insulting, but Jorah struck him as that recovering addict breed of gruff.]

[ Jorah’s grunt to the affirmative saws low in his throat. He just said that he did.

The follow-up what do you mean “still” or why do you ask never finds a voice. There’s a leaden silence instead, and a settling of weight -- the sort one’d expect from asking a gorilla. Or a dimly suspicious boulder. ]

I have what I came for.

[ A book for turtle, a reminder for Chilton that Jorah is a bigger than him, and something something personal sense of accomplishment for being polite because Daenerys thinks Frederick is swell.

This doesn’t have to get weird. ]

[And Jorah came so well, yes he did.]

Ah, well. [Chilton's hand did not stray from the decanter -- he was quick to pour himself a drink, clearly unmoved by the disparity between them.] Suit yourself.

[He looked up to meet Jorah's eyes, glass to his lips.]

This was fun. We really ought to do it again.

[ Another grunt. This time Jorah juts his jaw, rough as unfinished wood and probably at least as dense, before he turns to lead himself out. ]

You know how to reach me.

[ If Chilton wants tea time, the ball is in his court. ]

Thank you for the book.

[ He holds it up as he goes, as if to eliminate any doubt as to which book. The book for turtle. ]

[ A stream cuts through these woods -- quick cold and clear, running shallow between trees and over stones. Crayfish and minnows flicker in the current; raccoons leave their little handprints on the banks in the night.

Afternoon sunlight dapples the banks, tinted through leaves that have just begun to turn.

Birds are singing.

A beast the size of a dumpster wallows on its back in the icy water, barely deep enough to cover its paws. It’s built for a biological demolition derby, heavy bone strapped with heavier muscle, massive paws tipped with claws longer than a man’s fingers. The grizzled scruff of its coat is wreathed in scars -- stripes of grey hide laid bare around its middle. Stumpy rear legs kicked lazy into the air, the creature sighs a great gout of steam out against the rapids it’s created with its own bulk.

Its eyes and ears are little, brutish snout garbling the tail end of a diesel rumble down into the water.

It sounds content. ]

[Cassian is walking.

He does a lot of walking lately.

The novelty of getting to spend time on an actual planet, in its nature not just ports, not just tear through between landing and taking off again…

the novelty of getting to spend time

It hasn't worn off. If it ever does… it'll be because of total amnesia. Of everything before.

He's obscurely grateful that his guerilla years were on a volcanic land. Otherwise he might find forests as unrestful as Jyn does. Even so, abrupt noises—though he knows for a fact that almost every time it's going to be a squirrel—make him snap into defensive stance. Vision going telescopic, autonomic nervous system screaming alert. It takes a while to come down.

That probably will never wear off, either.

This sound is something else. He finds a stealthy approach and creeps forward to see.

The sight of the beast makes him freeze. Not really in fear—though he doesn't carry a weapon anymore so he does have to be careful—but in interest.]

[ The bear’s gargling chops off into a sneeze, and then a lurching splutter -- it struggles over onto its side, and further on upright. Bolts of muscle twist under the slick of its coat until it gives itself a shake, bristling out its fur into a porcupine prickle.

It sneezes again.

Too at ease and too distracted with a glimpse of rainbow color through the snot and mist to give much thought to the possibility of an audience, it (he) lumbers up out of the stream. He drags water with him as he goes, like a truck fording up out of a flooded road.

A broad flat rock in direct sunlight is the ideal perch for drying off on, and he grunts and snuffles and coughs that way. Head down, claws outstretched, he’s just reached to flick a rumpled pair of trousers off the edge when he stops in his tracks and sucks in a deeper breath. Then another.

The pants land atop a pair of discarded boots.

The bear turns to squint into the trees, belly dribbling, little ears laid flat. Suddenly he’s very quiet. ]

they're lost sad and brawny like an apple core

CHILTON - MAURTIA FALLS

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CASSIAN - DE CHIMA

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