fcrtune

[fcrtune]

■ファンアート：IdentityV 第五人格　ノートン・キャンベル(魂を導く者)

使用ツール:SAI2.PhotoshopCC.制作期間:8時間

制作年：2019

[fcrtune]

結局顔だけ描きなおした

[fcrtune]

enmorgue​:

do they placate each other with platitudes now   ?            this stillness is the aftermath of a massacre,   a victory gouged from marrow.     in another game it would be different,   the loss a fleeting disappointment in the myriad of encounters        ———        thus is this purgatory,   this counterfeit game        ———        but not this time  :     not when the hunter is the ripper.     ❝   you really think so   ?     you’re fine with that   ?   ❞     hues shut and events flicker before them,   film projected across eyelids like a grotesque showing  :     blades through the fog,   stark and sharp and stained with blood.     some hunters simply play their roles,   windup toys on a mechanical map to a conclusion,   but others approach their standing with more finesse and ruthlessness    ;    ripper,   in particular,   seems to relish his job as executioner.

❝   no way    …    no way if it ends up like this.     i can’t stand it.   ❞     this bitter sensation of being a lone rescuer at the feet of a predator while the rest of your teammates already bled out.     he feels phantom claws crawling up his back,   settle around his neck until he’s choking a breath,     ❝   did,  uh——————–the others arrive okay  ?     i didn’t get to check on ‘em before i came back here.   ❞

“ I’m as fine with it as it makes sense to be, if hopelessness is the alternative. ”  

There’s no easy way back from a match like this one;  he knows his words don’t hold much water.  His shirt and gloves are marked with dirt where the fabric frays and bloodstains should still be, all evidence of the wounds carved into him conveniently washed away in the transition back to the world of the living--  at least to those who think as much.  What follows death can hardly be called life, and so, to Norton, this is neither.  This is purgatory.

The Prospector retires his argument, and Subedar addresses their teammates.   

“ Don’t know, ”  he replies flatly.  He tucks his hands in his pockets and tips his head back against the wall.  “ I haven’t checked. ”  

Beyond the looming shadows of the corridor, the grandfather clock’s tall hand strikes the hour, and several bell chimes come lurching abruptly through the silence.  To hide the accidental surge of nerves, he faces the darkness and swallows his discomfort.

It’s getting late.  

His reasons to remain here are starting to run thin.  All but the feeling of something pressing him, something to say, or perhaps ask of Naib Subedar, and a coupled reluctance to act.  Norton straightens himself where he stands, his irises made blacker by the depleting glow of the hanging oil lamps.

“ You’re always looking out for them. ”  

He’s seen Subedar throw himself between teammates and their attacker, heard him go back for those since marked for death...  It’s astounding.  His lack of self-preservation is unsightly, yet Subedar doesn’t entirely strike him as a martyr.  That hardened personality lines up with the impression he makes, and still his dedication to the others is confusing.  Norton wonders, now, if he missed something--  if he missed something, or simply doesn’t know enough, knowing only something of his history and nothing of comradery.  Naib Subedar was not exactly a martyr, but...  

“ Why? ”

[fcrtune]

lovesmail​:

‘You don’t know much about manners, do you?’ Victor tilted his head in curious thought. He’s never encountered this vampire before.

Before him, they snarl and bare their teeth at him, and in response — Victor cannot help but bite back the amused smile that threatens the corner of his lips with a twitch. It truly was fascinating… the twisted hue to his blackened, dead soul ached to inspect this new presence, but those feelings rarely last before the ghost of his past self clawed out of that abyss.

‘Unfortunately, if you are the reason for the constant killings, you have become my concern.’ The action of gliding is simple to Victor after all the years he has roamed this world, so it is fairly easy for him to float closer to the tense vampire in front of him. He had to be careful — one wrong move, and suddenly Victor would find himself in a battle that would feel unfair from his part. ‘You’ve been drawing too much attention to the people of this town.’ Outwardly, he sighs; the sound becoming the first noise to actually slip past his lips in contrary to his telepathically spoken words, ‘It’s been becoming rather unfair to the others that need to feed as well. You see, they can’t exactly roam around as freely as before. And because of that, I’m afraid I’ll need some answers or I’ll have to take care of you myself.’ ‘So…’ Rare are the occasions where Victor sleeps and the persona of the “Embrace” overpowers his mind. Though Victor has come to bare a complicated relationship with the being he is now, he can’t help his fondness for others of his kind. After all, he was what some would consider their leader now. With eyes shining an eerie gold in the darkness of the night, he carries on, ‘I don’t wish to ask again. And you are…?’

His shoulders give a small and angry twitch beneath the cover of his capelet.  There’s nothing more insufferable, nothing more worthy of his indignation than the piousness with which this one speaks:  He makes himself seem taller there, authoritative and still as humble as his self-righteous airs allow him to be.  It’s enough to nauseate the one made smaller by his preaching, who seethes over being chided like a child in the presence of someone higher than him. 

Higher...   

Without answers, the Wanderer steps forward and unceremoniously drops the body to the pavement below.  He takes a deep breath in, distinguishing the other’s scent and...  

“I know who you are.”  A show of malintent, he sniffs the air again.  “You’re the one they say is in charge...”  His frown is made slanted by a cocky, upward curl of just one corner of his greyish lips.  Only here does the Wanderer feel superior:  born a vampire, the other turned.  His bloodline may have cast him out, but Norton’s blood is no less purer.  

As he straightens himself, he reveals his impressive height and a pride still curtailed by his circumstances, nonetheless bared for those ‘authority figures’ who pretend to seek order, or perhaps are so deluded as to think their species could relinquish instinct and become orderly...  Still, the man might be a figurehead to him, but Norton won’t risk his survival in the face of abilities that go beyond his understanding. 

The stranger hasn’t earned his respect, or his name.  Unfortunately, to protect himself, Norton knows he’ll have to give one anyway. 

“I’m the Wanderer.”  His smile is thin and cold and barely there. “You want answers from me, but I’m not the one you’re looking for.” 

There are those who kill for sport and leave bodies like breadcrumbs trailing through the alleyways to taunt and antagonize human society.  Norton isn’t so concerned about rebellion to become one of them, although lately he’s still finding himself with a body count.  

[fcrtune]

enmorgue​:

*     𝐅𝐂𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃  :     “and what was the offense of which this is the punishment?”

DOES HE CONSIDER THIS A PUNISHMENT   ?            inconsequential to the question,   perhaps,   but it needles the mind  :    truth is,   sans an absence of time and the otherworldly presences they deem hunters,   this is an existence naib knows well.     one of conflict,   survival,   and empty results.        (    win a game and you are here,   lose a game and you are here    ;    save a teammate and they are here,   fail a teammate and they are here    ;    live and you are here,   die and you are here    ;    it’s a game of war with toy soldiers,   and naib——————–     oh,   naib knows the role well.    )        it’s difficult to consider more of the same a punishment.

this is just life,   sits on his tongue.     he will never say it.     ❝   didn’t figure you for a philosopher,   campbell    …    or someone who pries.   ❞     some days mercenary studies prospector and thinks they are cut from the same cloth,   which is the problem  :     brown as the dirt they’ve dug,   black as the haunted shadows beneath eyes,   red as    …    he halts that thought,   folding his arms in the silence and staring at the manor walls they’ve come to call residence.     ❝   don’t care.     call it hell and we’re sinners,   heaven and we’re saints——ha,   limbo and we’re somethin’ in - between.     we’re here either way.     if thinking it’s a punishment makes you feel better,   it’s not mine to judge.   ❞        /        @fcrtune​​​​   /   closed,     ✉.

A philosopher?  Norton scoffs at the jab, rolling one shoulder where he stands among the flickering shadows of the corridor.  Someone who pries, though, he thinks  —  perhaps, if the shoe fits.  When there’s something worth prying for, unflattering accusations are often worth their weight. 

He doesn’t reply, not until he’s turned the Mercenary’s answer over and back again inside his head.  Self-pity has always left a foul taste on the back of his tongue, but there’s no other way around the implications of his own, heated accusation.  

If this is a punishment, then what’s to be said about the life he’s led till now?  

Calling it that doesn’t change a thing.  There’s no comfort, no justification in it either.  The words seem hollow to him now, enough so that he’d regret them if there was reason to bother. 

Between the two of them, regrets were plentiful enough. 

The Prospector breathes in, then out, steadying himself in his return to neutrality.  His gaze flits briefly to the tired profile of the man beside him, then darts away to the same wall Naib Subedar’s been boring holes through.  Both hands stay buried in his pockets, another layer of fabric to hide the scarring underneath.

“ Forget it...  Punishment has nothing to do with it. ”  Norton backtracks, thinking of the others, and of himself.  It feels good to play the victim:  validating, a relinquishing of power, to the forces pressing down on those trapped horribly in life, or...  in an otherworldly manor. 

But Norton Campbell has always been a fighter of circumstance, not a victim.  The ones who died had been victims, victims of fate, victims of his recklessness.  He was no victim.  He was a survivor, if not then a haphazard executioner.  The thought is a nauseous shadow, creeping up from where the candlelight can’t reach.

He speaks again, flatly, shifting uncomfortably in place.  “ Easier to make your home in hell and call yourself a victim. ”  

Easier than clawing your way out, with dirt in your mouth and blood on your hands.  But there’s more pride in that, he thinks.  “ The others here... ”  Norton starts and stops before he can pass judgment.  Most, but not all of them are completely unlike him.  He nearly doesn’t finish, but the look on Subedar’s face compels him to say a little more than he intends to.  “ Some of them say it’s worthless to do anything else.  But the way I see it... it’s only worthless to struggle once you stop. ”  

And once they stop, they make themselves as worthless as their struggle. 

[fcrtune]

@oletuslured​  said:   “ is there no limit set for your pain? ”   |   from Tracy!

With an ugly grimace, Norton gripped the chair and strained to walk, hoping to retreat to the quiet safety of his room, but Emily was a statue on the other side of the infirmary door, and Tracy’s eyes came lurching after him, weighing on every step he took. 

“I made what I thought was the right call.”  Norton grit his teeth.  “Pain has nothing to do with it.”  

All of them had been injured, although there had been others better suited for an injured rescue, notably the Mercenary, who’d had his role haphazardly snatched away from him by a man who’d been already knocked down enough times to stand just inches from death. Subedar would have been happy to do it too. He seemed to have no qualms about throwing himself in the line of fire, about sacrificing himself to protect his teammates.

Norton was no martyr. His own life had always been worth more to him than anyone else’s. 

So, why had he been the one to save her? Why had he willingly taken the hit, and let himself be mauled by the hunter in Tracy Reznik’s place? No one had expected Norton Campbell to protect another with his life. Surely, his teammates would like to know why.

It was simple. There had been no plan, because he hadn’t thought about it. All he’d recalled was that he couldn’t really die-- not in this purgatory. 

But he could escape the cave. 

Just moments after he’d helped her to her feet, the hunter’s massive blade had slashed apart the Prospector’s back, effortlessly slicing through skin and the tissue underneath. He’d been hacked open, his voice garbled by the pain that shattered his stoic airs and left him fighting for his breath. There was blood in his throat, blood soaking through the torn-up clothes which still clung to the skin of his back, blood pooling endlessly on the rocky floor below. 

He couldn’t move. His limbs had never felt so heavy in his life, but even so, he slowly tried to turn his head and glance toward the sound of some faraway voices.

There, before his vision failed him, in the corner, he saw it-- his tunnel. Twenty-four mangled faces had gathered there to watch him die. 

Norton sucked in a breath, the cool air made sharper and more sterile by the various antiseptics strewn about the cabinets. He wrinkled his nose, then retreated at last, dragging his feet all the way back to the edge of his cot.

“...I already said I thought I was the only one close enough to make it in time. One of us was dead anyway.”  He paused, looking not at Tracy, but past her.  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

[fcrtune]

@oletuslured​  said:   “ you can be softhearted. ”   |   from Helena!

The Prospector tipped his head forward, tilting away from the corridor wall in search of eyes that couldn’t properly look back at him.  He wondered suddenly, needlessly to himself:  When Helena pictured him, what was it that she saw?  That vacant image in her mind was one she knew with clarity, one that must have seemed kinder, or somehow softer than he felt.  The shadows on his face could have looked a little lighter, the scars that marred his body perhaps a little smaller.  But as he were, the burns had swallowed half of him, sore in the day and aching in the night so as to remind him of his burden.  He was a man of callous skin, a skin worn thinner every year, but one that still contained him well, tight as a straightjacket on the enigma underneath.

“...You’d be the first to say so.”  

[fcrtune]

lovesmail​:

━☆ﾟ.*・｡ﾟ  vampire au verse || plotted starter for @fcrtune

He was not a fan of this process.

Despite the years that have gone by, the head of the bloodline known as “Embrace” didn’t think he would ever get used to the ghost feeling of twisting hunger that resided in his gut. No, he did not require a meal to sate the feeling equivalent to a knife twisting in his stomach. He wasn’t even sure why the word hunger was used to describe the feeling in the first place. It wasn’t as if he chewed — at least he was positive piercing into flesh with his sharp fangs was not considered to be that specific action. Intense thirst was definitely a better way to describe it. Nevertheless, he was not a fan of the process… He could sense the fear in his target. The sensation of eyes following their every move making their pulse accelerate in a way that made his mouth water at the thought of warm blood pumping through their veins — how unpleasant… Combined with recent news of deaths being reported at an alarming rate, it was all a perfect mix for a perfect hunt. An added pleasure to the animalistic instincts him, the “Embrace,” Victor… lost track of how many years he had pushed back and fought against to no avail. His muscles coiled in preparation to pounce the moment his target wandered into an empty alley in hopes of shaking off their pursuer, but before he could attack; another figure faster than he’s seen in other vampires blurred past him. The kill was effortless, quick, and silent. The poor victim was given absolutely no time to react before their life was drained in mere seconds. ‘Are you the reason for the recent killings?’ Victor’s voice pierced into the mind of the foreign vampire in front of him currently more focused on feeding. His footsteps held no noise to them against the gravel as Victor approached the new face, it was almost as if he was floating. ‘I hope you realize you are causing this town unnecessary alarm and thus putting others that need to feed at risk. Who are you…?’

There was no easy way to still a victim without silencing them first, although there were ways to silence a victim without killing them.  A shadowy figure had no less dug its claws into the neck of an innocent person, pierced the flesh with callous precision and snatched the light from their eyes.  The body went limp, and The Wanderer heedlessly dipped his head, and in that moment became nothing but a predator savoring its prey. 

The foreign presence came to him like the barrel of a gun against his back, the grave and otherworldly voice a siren ringing through his head, and all too quickly Norton Campbell remembered himself.  Frightfully aware and so suddenly at risk, he nearly dropped the person in his arms when he whipped his head around.

The stranger encroaching upon him was cloaked in red, adorned in gold and impossible not to spot as he glided into view.  Another slew of their words came boring through his mind, intruding upon his defenses like they’d peeled and pried their way inside.

“You’re interrupting me.”  The Wanderer seemed stiffer where he stood. 

He had no reason to give a brazen stranger any answers, and, in any case, it was not only he who was responsible--  it couldn’t be.  But it was Norton who had just left another body behind.  He had, in fact, killed the person in his arms before they could fight back.  He had, although he couldn’t quite say why.

“Who I am is none of your concern,”  he suddenly snarled, tightening his grip on the body.  “Get out of here.”

[fcrtune]

 @enmorgue​ said:   “ i placed in them blind hopes. ”

The silence that followed bore down upon the space with a meaningless urgency. Still, Norton didn’t speak. There was nothing a man like him could say about guilt, and nothing to say about those who deserved to carry it. Subedar seemed to him to bear it like a part of his own flesh, something intimately connected to his essence, in surrender-- or perhaps acceptance, of the life he’d lived. But the expression Norton saw when he glanced over was not that of a man who’d beaten his past. It was rigid and cold, the face of an old soldier still trapped in the chokehold of regret.

The Prospector straightened himself and sank back against the wall behind him, seeming indifferent to the stiffness of the atmosphere. The Mercenary stood at his side, a little shorter, but somehow always larger in presence to himself. One question lingered, unvoiced at the front of Norton’s mind.

Knowing what he knew now, would Subedar have done anything different? 

He fixed his gaze forward, and finally put a voice to his thoughts.   “ If blind hope is enough of a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other, there’s nothing wrong with using it. ”

[fcrtune]

[fcrtune]

classic-starters​:

starters from the 430 b.c.e play by aeschylus, translated by david grene, PROMETHEUS BOUND

“i am forced to do this ; do not keep urging me.”

“you can be softhearted.”

“come, why are you holding back?”

“our kinship has strange power ; that, and our life together.”

“do you not fear that more?”

“you are always pitiless, always full of ruthlessness.”

“i have no answer to this.”

“so must i bear, as lightly as i can, the destiny that fate has given me.”

“what am i saying?”

“my enemies can laugh at what i suffer.”

“this is a sickness rooted and inherent in the nature of a tyranny.”

“against these plans none stood save i: i dared.”

“is there no limit set for your pain?”

“i placed in them blind hopes.”

“let me be and have no care for me.”

“you are better at advising others than yourself.”

“his is a heart you should beware of vexing.”

“your own misfortune will be my teacher.”

“kindness that can never be requited, tell me, where is the help in that, my friend?”

“what land is this?”

“say what you are asking for: i will tell you all.”

“will you then grant me this favour?”

“tell me, who are you?”

“some have been wretched before me, but who of these suffered as i do?”

“and what was the offense of which this is the punishment?”

“i beg you, do not hide from me what i must endure.”

“i hesitate to break your spirit.”

“you would be glad to see that catastrophe, i think.”

have you no fear of uttering such words?”

“worship him, pray ; flatter whatever king is king today.”

“your words declare you mad, and mad indeed.”

“you mock me like a child!”

“i have said too much already.”

“i am the one whom he cannot kill.”

[fcrtune]

  !!   backstory and about updated with more information.

[fcrtune]

eximprsnd​:

      It was only in recent months had you ever even CONSIDERED exploiting your works to those who were willing to listen. Sulfuric Acid truly corroded your hardened, protective shell against the world, and wriggled her way to becoming such a cherish ally in it all. Without her, you surely would have rusted from the harsh weather of this seemingly simple town. Whether her goal was for riches or for friendship, you cared little. It was only the process you grew so obsessed with. 

      It’s what lead you to the secret society… one where groups alike come to prove their worth and abilities. While heinous experiments (like that Ouroboros fellow and his inhumane creations…) were allowed, your focus on creating GOLD from bare minerals. While you begin your set up for the night, with beakers and flasks galore upon the tables, you’re soon interrupted by one of the few mediators of the society. 

      Without any form of grace, you had to be quite LITERALLY pulled away from your work to meet with this individual. 

      Norton Campbell was their name. The man standing and acting so… formal to him. You, however, seemed less than inclined to even offer a smile to the likes of him. However, your head tilts at the mention of being a prospector. With all those burn scars… you might have thought he was some sort of demolitions expert. 

      “…Luca,” you finally say, reaching out with your own metal limb to tightly squeeze the other’s and shake for a moment. 

“What is it that you want? Something that might be of use to me from your… profession?”

It seemed that Luca wasn’t one for formalities. That was fine, Norton decided--  less tiresome this way. His gloved hand slinked back to his side, the odd feeling of having clutched hard metal instead of flesh still lingering there against his palm. 

“I’ve been told my professional knowledge will prove useful to you,” he replied. The prospector straightened himself and continued promisingly, “If it’s ores and minerals you need, I can find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Some measure of distrust seemed to harden Luca’s expression. With his arsenal of wits and words at the ready, Norton prepared to sell himself for the second time that day.  

His acquaintance didn’t strike him as particularly malleable, but he softened his features regardless, offered a lax smile, and began again when it came his turn to speak.  “I’m interested in contributing to your operation. I’d like to put my skills to better use. In return for a small part in what you’re doing here.”

[fcrtune]

hbd nortnort 

[fcrtune]

!!  url changed, blog navigation & pages updated, some graphics changed.

[fcrtune]

@hiiracth​ 

The space they called the ‘photo world’ was silent, static and sapped of its color, and since the wind had ceased to blow, the greenery-- if it could be called that now, looked more like details on a painting without a breeze to lend it any motion. The only life-like thing that seemed to exist here was Norton Campbell, his color so blaring against the endless monochrome that he knew he’d be easier to spot.

Better to get out of here quickly. But first, he examined his surroundings. He’d caught a glimpse of another, richer flash of color from some yards away and strained his eyes to see it better-- the hunter, Norton realized, suddenly looked as life-like as himself, and he was holding something: a monochrome figure strung up almost comically with a set of balloons. Norton crept closer to them, careful to stay out of sight, until he recognized the person’s clothing with a dreadful shudder.

He had to get out of here.

The Prospector dashed back to the other side, back to the sickly greens and blues that kept this space unwelcoming, but comparably alive. He’d been warned-- he needed to find her. The ‘Doctor’ was the one they’d said to go to. Retreating with haste past the old hospital building and towards the shack where he’d spotted her before, Norton hurried into the dingy little structure and called out.  

“Doctor.”

Their eyes met. His lips drew tighter at the corners. 

“We haven’t spoken,” he added needlessly. Get to the point. As uncomfortable as it felt to rely on other people, there was, nonetheless, a request Norton had to make of her. “I might need your help.”

[fcrtune]

@eximprsnd​​

How long had it been, he asked himself, since he’d escaped the underground? All these months past, and nothing about his impoverished circumstances had changed-- nothing but his lifestyle, and his skin, he supposed, which had finally begun to darken under the warm light of the sun. 

And then there were the scars, the burns that had marred his face and body, but those he preferred not to speak of. Still, they liked to be remembered, and reminded him, painfully, that they would be there despite his longing to wipe their presence from his mind. 

Today, a fortuitous day, they ached less than they had in weeks, which had helped Norton to better present himself to the man who always sat at the back of the bar, the one whose mutterings he’d listened in on for days now, of fortunes to be made by extraordinary circumstances… He’d approached the stranger with confidence, eased his way into the conversation and sold himself as someone who’d previously heard of their ‘work,’ spinning an unfounded narrative that he bolstered with his knowledge of the land and its materials, and ones, perhaps, from elsewhere entirely-- the meteorite magnets which he kept upon his person. 

How easy it had been… Irritating, nonetheless, but easier than he’d expected. Although Norton had no intention of giving up the otherworldly metals he’d extracted from the cave, the man seemed especially intrigued by them, and took his aptitude as a prospector at face value, enough to offer him an opportunity: an introduction to the society belonging to the stranger and his even stranger companions, a chance to join them in their unconventional pursuits of wealth, and maybe something greater. 

Norton’s desires stopped there, however. He cared little for anything but the riches he was after, but kept this much unsaid. There, in the belly of the lonely bell tower, was a man who grabbed his eye, dressed in mechanical garb and moving somewhat erratically, like a frenzied scientist at work. 

“I’ll fetch him,”  said the man from the bar. Evidently, they needed to be introduced. 

Struggling to keep his impatience under wraps, Norton stood forcibly still until the other began his unsteady approach. 

“Norton Campbell.”  He introduced himself at once, and wasted no time in cordially extending his hand.  “I’m a prospector.” 

The man was, quite possibly, the strangest-looking person he’d ever seen, with a head full of bandages and those obtrusive metal rings extending from his neck, but parts of the rest of him as well, that were mechanical to the point of seeming inhuman. Something on the skin of the left side of his face seemed to glow… and the disposition Norton had been met with was curious enough on its own that it was near impossible for his attention to stray elsewhere.