maskormenacelogs | Lord, lift me up from this cold earth. Let judgement day declare my worth.

[at least there weren't questions. There were fleeting looks, of course, and an awkward silence, but the officials who work the Porter had probably still seen worse; they at least knew better not to ask.

He considers taking a cab, but can't imagine the cabbie who would let him near their car's interior. Sam's caked in blood and flecks of gore. Dried, it plasters his hair and stains his skin, his clothing stiff and brown-black from where it soaked through or he tried (with limited success) to wipe it from his arms.

Barefoot, he walks down the sidewalk as the morning chill seeps from the pavement and the city stirs into lively action. There are stares as he walks, and more than once someone ducks inside a shop or crosses to the other side of the street to avoid him. One person leans halfway out of their car to take his picture. Sam ignores them. He's settled in his grief to a numb haze, where hardly anything can pierce the veil. He may as well be alone.

With the empty, aching pain in his chest, it certainly feels like he is.]

[March works best when people think they are alone, or as close to it as possible. Perceived loneliness allows septic fingers to hold and caress, to massage and encourage, to enable and indulge. None of his pupils had known he was there until the very moment he wanted them to.

So is the case with Sam now. March has taken a stroll for No Good Reason and hit the damn jackpot. At first, he thinks he's hit it just for the fact there is a bloody mess of a man roaming the streets. Then, he realizes that man is Sam, and suddenly the jackpot has tripled what he originally thought.

One moment, he's under a street lamp. The next, there isn't even a shadow. March's hand reaches out to companionably grip Sam's shoulder, stable and real, and not at all hesitant about getting dirty.]

Sam. [Low, concerned. If Sam will not turn around, March will step so he can be seen, eyes clearly trying to assess this situation, where the blood and muck came from, if Sam is hurt, the very basics.] Sam, my dear boy, let's get you off the street.

[Don't worry, buddy, he is Here To Help And Not Judging At All.]

[Sam's shoulder stiffens. Far from not responding, there's a clear, intended violence in the shifter's face when he turns to face March. It vanishes the moment he recognizes him, blinked away into wary surprise.]

Mr. March? [Sam's bloodied brow furrows. From this close, March should be able to tell that beneath the grime, Sam's not wounded. Wherever this gore came from, it wasn't the man standing before him.] Where did you...?

[he glances around him, as if making sure the world is still as he left it, and in doing so seems to realize where he is. In public, on a sidewalk. In full view of mothers with their children, commuters on their way to work - policemen, if this street's a part of their route. Reality seeps through the haze, and the muscle under March's hand loosens. Sam closes his eyes, tired. Relenting.]

Yeah. Okay.

[the faded black aura March has come to know appears in flux, at a crossroads. It darkens and lightens with the rhythm of waves breaking on a beach.]

[Slowly, he takes his hand away, only to wrap his bloodied palm around the head of his cane. He would never risk Sam thinking March found him filthy, that he needed to wipe off the mess. Just the opposite. March embraces whatever madness has literally soaked the man so much he smears it about. Acceptance.

He'll lead the wa, beside Sam, not in front of him.]

How lucky you are. This is a lovely night for a wet walk. [Injecting a little dark humor into the situation, naturally.] The Castile, even lovelier. It's been quite quiet the past few days. You'll have your pick of place to shower and sleep if you'd like, and not a thing to be concerned about.

[Look at it ebb and flow. So beautiful! Of course March wants to take it home, clean it up, give it a good shine, and let it back into the world only to destroy said world.]

[Sam only nods, eyes on the path in front of them but his mind clearly elsewhere, lost in a zoetrope of memory, a looping image of Luna dying on a field of dark, deep grass. His chest aches.

March can say what he likes on their stroll, make whatever promises or comment on the scene around them, and Sam will murmur responses or nonverbal assent, but a glance would tell the ghost all he really needs to know.

Sam's gaze focuses only once they reach the hotel itself. His shoulders tense, hesitant to drag his mess through its lovingly decorated threshold. While he believes that March isn't a man to value carpeting over friends, he still points out:]

You don't have to do this. I know you're a busy man.

[March grows quiet once he realizes how truly out of it all Sam is, using his energy to Make Faces at anyone who looks too long or with concern. No. His. Back off. Rah rah rah!

He's already reaching for the door himself when Sam speaks. March's head whips round immediately at the sound of his voice. At last...ah. He smiles, rather like a man on a date instead of ushering in a blood-covered gooey mess.]

Busy with you now. [The door opens and March puts a hand on Sam's shoulder again.] Come. A warm shower will do you well.

[An ever-present bellhop has just reached the two of them, and takes in the sight without much surprise. Even his voice falls flat of being truly shocked.]

Christ Jesus, you bringin' back roadkill, are you?

Hilarious. Here. [March shoves his cane at the man, who holds it to his chest like some prize heirloom. At least someone is getting a laugh out this.] Take this to my room. Go to the laundry and find something suitable for Mister Merlotte here. He is our guest. If you have make a trip out, be sure to come back with a receipt. Yes?

Yeah, yeah, take the laundry to your room, make a trip out with your cane. You ain't even got a fuckin' limp, boss! I'd've seen by now!

[Definitely hilarious; he vanishes with the sarcasm, leaving just March and Sam to traipse through those carpets. He pats Sam on the chest as though making certain the man stays here, with him, mentally.]

The first floor do you just as well, Sam?

[They can make this a short trip or a long one. No skin off March's back.]

[hard to argue with the offer of a shower. If March isn't worried for his plumbing, Sam won't be either. Maybe there's still a life worth living under the layers of caked viscera and the stink of decay.

The bellhop with the comedy act gets a moment's glance (and not a hint of a laugh), but otherwise the conversation hums like static in the background of more intrusive thoughts. Eventually he glances down, surprised, to see March's hand on his chest and the bellhop gone.]

- Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. Thanks. [any room with running water.

He walks alongside March down whatever hallway the man heads for, and into whichever room he decides, unquestioning. Not blind, but clearly trusting. James has long since proven his skills as a host and his attentiveness as a friend to Sam, and honestly, tired as he is, it's a relief to drop the burden of choice. His own poor decisions lead him to the state he's in now, so why not hand the reins over to someone else for a change? Maybe March can do something with them Sam can't.]

Hope it's okay if I just toss these clothes in a trash bag, [he says, once he's sure they're out of any earshot.] I don't want to scare your maids, and they're not mine anyway.

[He certainly can do something with the reins to an aura in such a crisis. Something wicked, something truly foul and evil. May whoever helped drop such a beautiful opportunity in his lap be blessed.]

Absolutely! You may do whatever you so desire with them.

[March's reply comes from the bathroom. A quick looksee to make sure all was in order is followed by the loud crackling of someone flapping a trash bag open, and then he steps out with the bag's gaping mouth held aloft, a smile, and plenty of room for Sam to migrate into the bathroom himself. If he chooses only to take off his shirt, has some hang ups over nudity about fully dressed roaring twenties weirdos, that's just fine. March just gotta keep up that host with the most, naturally.]

The maids will never know. [CHARMING WINK] Are you hungry, Sam? I can have anything you'd like whipped up while you get clean. Just say the word, dear boy.

[the last fuck Sam had to give about being naked in front of people has either gone into hiding or died out completely. The shifter only casts March a last lookover, weighing the possibility of an potential embarrassment on his host's part, then starts to fill that bag. His shirt makes an audible, stiff crackle as he pulls it over his head, dried blood flaking from cloth. A string of something thicker is dislodged and falls to the tile, its landing suggesting that just two hours prior, there would have been a squish.

The pants are easier to remove, and there's no underwear to join them and his shirt in the trash. It becomes quickly apparent, once Sam's fully in the buff, that the blood wrung into Sam's clothing was soaked up from beneath. There's not an inch of clean skin on the man, the whole of him stained in browns and reds and blacks.

That seems to embarrass him more than the nudity does. With a murmur of thanks, Sam slides his eyes from March and heads for the shower.]

No, thanks. [he's not sure his stomach could handle even the look of food right now, much less the smell of it.] ...But maybe a drink, if that's all right.

[a big one.]

[March shows little reaction to the blood and buff. This is how things are sometimes, March simply keeps the bag open so Sam may disrobe with the utmost ease. He is devoid of horror, confusion, and judgment. He isn't excited, either, not about whatever had befallen Sam. Just a stable, accepting presence.]

Certainly. [Quick as you please, the bag is shut and knotted off, March's movements fluid enough to suggest he's done this before.] Take all the time you need to clean yourself, yes? I'll be here whenever you're done.

[March is sure to end with a smile as he steps outside the bathroom, eyes never once wandering DOWN SOUTH.

From there on, it's almost like March vanished just outside of Sam's sight. Because he did. He has to burn a good chunk of the evidence, first off, and then he's got to see to it that Sam has something comfortable to change into. And drinks!

He won't hear a thing, but whenever Sam finally comes back out, he'll find a comfortable pair of silk pajamas laid out on the bed. Next to them is a plaid shirt and pair of jeans with a faded brown leather belt. Whatever he feels comfortable in, if he feels like he wants to stay the night, he has choices. Between them, even, rest two pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear (boxers AND briefs), and an undershirt. The nightstand now has a silver platter holding bourbon, whiskey, and rum, with various fixings. A still-sweating six pack of the most expensive beer one could find on a late night run rests on a towel in front of the mirror. And March is nowhere to be seen...for a bit.

Accommodating af.]

[Sam showers, water and a soap bar slowly revealing the man beneath the muck. He has to pull the drain stop to keep from flooding it, as bits of someone else's body are lost to the piping. The water runs hot enough to turn his skin pink and steam the room. He cries for longer than he'd care to admit to, silent with his head against the tile, an arm wrapped tight around his middle while he suffers the wound of Luna's death as a physical pain, a ragged, open tear. The shower isn't quick; it runs until the pads of Sam's fingers shrivel. It's only when the temperature starts to chill that he finally exits.

At least he's clean now - a man reborn in misery.

March's kindness doesn't go unnoticed. Sam chooses the bottoms of the pajamas and the flannel top, mismatched but comfortable enough to rest in. He takes the bourbon and a seat on the bed, and drinks. Straight from the bottle - no need to dirty a glass. Not tonight. It's not like the liquor will need to last.]

Edited 2017-04-07 02:42 (UTC)

[Sam has some quiet time. Ten, fifteen minutes to situate himself and become great friends with the bottle. He does not knock. He also does not open the door. March has the decency to clear his throat as he steps through the door, stride casual, relaxed, jacket off, suspenders and shirt showing. Dressed down compared to his usual, something much more intimate.

He sits in the chair across the way, pulling out his pipe and some matches. Sam has no choice in this matter. March simply lights up and takes a puff, leaning back and surveying Sam in the manner of a concerned friend who doesn't want to overstep his bounds.

Which, really, he is. Those bounds are just...not what one might expect.]

I promise you that I have very good ears, if you are inclined to talk.

[Another puff, a slight smile, legs crossing as he settles in for the long haul.]

I'm not.

[he takes another sip from the bottle he hasn't let get more than a few inches from his mouth since he picked it up. His eyes are nearly closed, tired and stinging and seemingly fixed on a spot on the carpet. The ends of his hair, still wet, drip now and then down the back of his neck. He didn't bother to look up when March returned.

He certainly doesn't give a damn about the smoke.

Sam returns to silence, even breathing interrupted by the occasional swallow of warm liquor. That seems to be all, folks - that's all she wrote. No reason for a ghost to hang around something quite this depressing.

But then, a couple minutes later, Sam furrows his brow, and his eyes on the carpet waver.]

I shifted back inside someone, tryin' to protect Luna. Save her.

[rather than explain that, or even give context to who Luna is, he shakes his head and gulps down another burning drink.]

It didn't matter. She died anyway.

[Puff puff puff, nothing unusual here. Just two men chatting at the end of a long day. Silences are to be expected. Encouraged, even — the more comfortable Sam is in James' presence, the better. Better to breed eventual complete familiarity, acceptance, and hopefully a kinship that surpasses the bounds of both morality and mortality.]

You loved her. [A conclusion he reaches quietly, softly, his tone the sort that conveys sympathy and absolute understanding.] Killing for love is often considered noble.

[But she wasn't saved by it, and that's rather why he says it. Nobility is nothing, true morality is a lie, Sam should definitely just keep shifting back inside people for funsies.

Not that he sounds in any way like he's casting judgment on anyone's character. More, he's making a broad statement that Sam can take as compliment or refute, insist he isn't noble at all, whatever the case may be.]

I could have raised a family with her.

[instead, however inadvertently, he tore one apart. The guilt of that weighs on him. If Luna and Emma had never met him, Emma would still have a father somewhere, no matter what a piece of shit he was, and the chain of events which saw Luna dying from her skinwalking would never have happened. In trying to make a family for himself, Sam ended one. At least that's how it feels. There are things he can tell himself, logically, to the contrary, but that doesn't remove the albatross from his neck.

He shakes his head, running a hand through still-damp hair.]

Ain't nothin' noble about death. Anyone's. It was just what I had to do.

[a beat.]

And wanted to.

[that might have been the bigger part of it.]

[Family, blargh. Why does he keep running into men of such potential who are all about family? He'll never understand, not really. Not past the surface. So he dives elsewhere...]

This can't have been the first time you've taken a life. [Stated carefully, just in case Sam would be insulted by a confident claim that Sam had taken life. Some people get so offended by murderous desires laid bare too soon.] Your home must be a dangerous one, surely you've had to defend yourself or others before.

[The question is in his voice but just barely. Enough that the implication is clear: surely Sam, if he killed before, was for a good reason and not just funsies, yes? Surely he would want to kill because it served a need instead of him being a sicko? Yes?]

[another pause, another drink. Sam lets out a breath. No. No, it wasn't the first time. And it probably won't be the last. March is right, his home is dangerous. So is he. The combination is too much like a stray ember on dry straw - sooner or later, something's bound to burn.

He lifts his eyes to March's, shaking his head.]

No, wasn't the first life. ...The fifth, actually. There've been people who threatened me and mine before.

[the man who pulled his gun on Andy. Maryann.]

And -

[Sam blinks and looks away, tension suddenly wound stiff through his shoulders. He sets the whiskey bottle on the bedside table, aware of how it's loosened his tongue.

He'd very nearly mentioned Charlene and her lover.]

So - yeah. Enough to have a count. But I can't say this last one's gonna haunt me any.

[he rubs his hands against his thighs, trying to pull his thoughts back from bones long buried.]

...What about you? Is that somethin' you've ever had to do?

[Haunt. Aw. Cute phrasing around a ghost. Not that March lets on anything right now is being seen as adorable or sweet because Sam is quite clearly not on That Level yet, but. Aw.]

Oh yes. [Grimmer than usual, March ashes his cigarette and dons a rather far off look to his eyes, glossed over as he recalls the Trauma.] My accountant was stealing from me, no question about it. I had to confront him. He must have known that. He thought he was ready, but he was not the one who walked away from that particular discussion.

[And then March had him decapitated and his head mounted, as one does. Of course this is all vague enough that he can't be called a liar later because damn right he murdered Henry just because he wanted to and Henry had bad breath. But it sounds like some serious shit went down and it was all in self-defense and March was justified. Because that's the path it seems Sam is most likely to accept right now, March walks along it.]

A man has to do whatever necessary to protect himself and his, as you say. I've never lost a moment's sleep over the matter and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

[ Silent ripples lap away from the profile of a blue-black beast mostly submerged in the predawn light. The shape of it above water is that of a low, bristled hump -- broad and still and quiet, save for the offset of a few odd bubbles. Perhaps a massive turtle, its shell carpeted under a thick layer of algae.

Or a mud crab.

But a stiff lunge beneath the surface moves more water than a turtle ought, and the head that breaks up into the fog very distinctly has ears, and a long, blocky muzzle. Twin plumes of mist ejected from the snout gives way to the helpless flip and flop of a fat little perch caught in its jaws.

Scale and bones and air bladder make a sort of sick, popping crunch when he bites down. And then again.

It’s still flagging a little when he accidentally drops it back down into the water. He shakes himself before he dips after it, one massive paw hooked lazy just beneath the surface to draw it back in close. ]

Edited (pls dont stop rping w me) 2017-03-25 06:01 (UTC)

[Sam steps outside the door of his cabin to see warming sunlight streaming through the threads of morning fog, birdsong scattered and indifferent to his presence. He sips on his coffee, considers, and then undresses right there in the empty open, leaving even his socks bundled into an Easter egg atop an empty heap of clothing. Not a moment later, an English Shepherd click-clacks down the wooden steps of his porch and then takes off at a run into the woods.

He takes his time heading deeper in, pausing to chase a chipmunk and mark a tree. There's relief in retreating to a dog's mind, a beautiful simplicity and easy joy that Sam's been missing of lat, and he revels in the indulgence. The pond isn't far down the path, and the moment it curves into sight Sam's running again, full tilt. Four legs paddle at empty air after Sam leaps off a log, landing with enough of a crash to frighten a nearby heron into flight. A moment later and he breaks the surface, doggie-paddling for the shallows with a carelessly lolling tongue. Two turtles slide off their sun-bathing rock and into the water at his approach, which provides him with the entertainment of a short-lived chase.

It's not until he's standing thigh-deep at the pond's edge, snuffling in the water after minnows, that he finally takes notice of the other bather in his pond today. Sam's ears are the first to perk before his head follows suit, mud and water dripping off his muzzle. He stares. He works the unfamiliar scent of bear musk through his twitching nose, catching as he does the waft of soggy fish flesh. Human surprise collides with animal interest.

Sam gives a low ruff in Jorah's general direction, and squares his legs.

Then he barks again, louder.]

[ Most of the way through smacking down the still wriggling remains of his perch, tongue looped through his claws after bits of bloody scale, Jorah recoils from the crash with a lurch like he’s been caught with his hand in his pants. His eyes roll white, bits of fishbone fly free from his chops, and he trips into deeper water, waves churning in his wake.

It’s all lost to the dog’s splashing.

By the time Sam catches wind, his profile has been reduced to the grizzled, spiny crest of his dome -- two little amber sparks of color pricked wide apart behind the wide-dished funnel of his nostrils.

He’s still as death at the first ruff.

A disembodied fish tail flips accusingly at the shoreline several meters away..

At the second bark, his eyes narrow to slivers and his ears swing back, twin swells at the surface. Silent warning builds to a growl, low and guttural and garbled half to bubbles. ]

[A bear! barks the dog for a third time, this time with an accompanying splash of forepaws as he play-lunges another foot deeper. His tail wags high and wary. You're a bear!

Or at least such is the most approximate interpretation of the jarring, one-note exclamation, which echoes through the woods two more times before relenting to an eager whine. So much for that quiet morning. All of Jorah's animal signs of warning go unnoticed, repelled off the thick wall of the shepherd's curiosity. How he can he be quiet? How can he not get closer? There's a bear in the pond. Nothing else could possibly be this important.

To prove it, Sam the Dog is already back in the water, canine head pointed determinedly above the surface in Jorah's direction, the rest of him swimming like a sputtering engine, graceless and determined. Some brief, human thought questions why a grizzly bear would be in Virginia, but it ultimately drifts through too quickly for consideration. It can't be important. Nothing but the Bear is important now, the Bear and the Smell of the Bear and getting closer to both.

What Sam means to do when he gets there, and the possible merits or dangers of that, are for someone else to worry over.]

[ The growling stops, sucked into misty silence by the motor of doggy paws pushing the shepherd deeper into the pond. Deeper towards the bear.

Jorah watches through narrowed eyes, cool to his core with resentment. Hounds are revered in America -- raised and clothed and treasured like children, no matter how stupid or malformed. He understands this.

After a long moment, he raises up to his full height, head and shoulders above the surface. Fur slicks flat to the bolts of muscle in his neck; water courses along swells and creases and ragged scars. Dripping, bristling, he’s massive, even for a grizzly, unhappy breath flushed hot across the water’s surface through the blowhole of his snout. Sam the dog has him dead to rights. He is a bear.

He is a bear and he turns to plunge for the shore. A few powerful strokes see him fording up into the muddy shallows on all fours, shaking himself as he goes.

This was a stupid idea. ]

Edited 2017-04-06 06:13 (UTC)

[oh, so now it's a chase.

Any previous concerns stirred by Jorah's size (and there had certainly been some, with the bear towering above the water, sodden and foreboding) are swept to the rocks with the waves. Sam barks again, indignant and shocked, both ears perking before doggy-paddling efforts redouble. It takes longer for his paws to hit lake-bed and then shoreline, but they're no less eager to carry the dog free of the water. It really isn't even his choice at this point; you don't run from a herding dog and just expect them to watch.

It won't be easy. Bears are fast, the dog knows; they can charge with surprising speeds for their bulk. Jorah has a head start on him, he might even make it out of view before the shepherd is able to break into a proper loping gait. But the wet, heavy size of him is going to leave tracks. If those fail him, there will also be a scent.

And Sam has nowhere better to be this morning than out sticking his muzzle where it doesn't belong. One has to imagine Daenerys would be pleased to know her supporters are already getting along so well. ]

[ He rolls on for a ways with no sign of tiring -- a half mile, three quarters, with overturned foliage and great, claw-raked trenches in the soil to mark his retreat. The musty stink of wet bear sinks into the mud and settles heavy into the hollows of roots.

And so they go.

There’s no real sign of a slowdown. No weakness, or break in gait.

Just the backside of the bear himself, given over to an ill-tempered sit in the woods, far along enough now that any enterprising dog owner will be several minutes in catching up. He waits like a mound of damp mulch made of muscle and stank, surrounded by early birds twittering in the brush, flushing bright between branches overhead. A squirrel rattles across the trail he’s left behind, and he ignores it, preferring to stare down a patch of lichen on a boulder ahead at a sullen remove.

At the sound of doggy feet pattering in hot on his trail, he heaves a sigh. ]

[the chase is fun. The chase is downright delightful, tiring and satisfying, leaving his tongue lolling and even his tail swinging in longer, lazier swishes. He breathes in the cloud of Jorah's musk just as he spots him again, the two senses colliding to stop him in his tracks some eight feet away. Victory blossoms in the dog's breast, but beyond a single, soft bark of proclamation, nothing else happens. The dog stays, and pants, and watches Jorah watch the moss.

Then the dog becomes a man.

Sam laughs, resting one arm out against a tree to stretch his back and catch his breath. He runs a hand back through his hair, feeling the mingle of water and sweat between his fingers. That was a good chase. Good and long, which gave him time enough to pace past canine excitement and return to higher, human cognition. Hence why he's standing a safer distance away, and no longer trying to play tag with a grizzly bear. Now that the eyes he's looking back with aren't colorblind, Sam can admit that might have been a stupid goddamn decision.]

Thanks for that. [another soft laugh, still catching his breath.] Sorry for interruptin' your fishin' this morning, Mr. Bear. ...Still damn confused 'bout how you got out here, but - long as you keep from my trash cans I think we can share these woods.

[not that Sam's expecting the grizzly to shake on it or anything, just indulging some good-natured whimsy while he watches Jorah for a bit longer. He's a beautiful animal, Sam has to admit, and one the shifter's never seen in person before. It's a form he may have to try for himself some time.]

[ The block of Jorah’s snout whips down and around at the sound of a man’s laugh behind him, at odds with the expected yipping and yapping. There’s a stormy suspicion to the narrow of his eyes and the pin of his ears, human stench funneled in and out again like the Sam’s bought him a drink he doesn’t trust. Placing the nudity against the voice -- both undeniably familiar, in the context of this acreage.

What would a real bear do.

Jorah gives the question more consideration than a bear would, brow hooded and jaw clamped, already off to a bad start. A real bear might run him down and rend him to pieces. He might re-invent trepanning for bearkind and see if Sam’s brains taste more like people or dog.

Daenerys would be upset.

After too long a pause, he heaves to his feet and circles sl o w ly around to retrace his steps.

His forearm is cracked dry with mange from shoulder to wrist on his left side; he’s torn with battle scars, fading grey at the fringes. Bony under old muscle and wet fur. Sick. ]

Lord, lift me up from this cold earth. Let judgement day declare my worth.

James Patrick March | 3/6, early morning

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Private Property | also early morning

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