Anya Lehnsherr | Earth 97400 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fridgetothefire) wrote2015-03-24 12:00 am
fridgetothefire) wrote2015-03-24 12:00 am
068 ☣ cindery, nonexistent, radiant
[Video]
[She's posting from the floor of the maintenance office, where she is on a tarp in the middle of a mess, boxes and sponges and bits of felt and ash and mutilated pens scattered all around her. She has smears of blue and black ink on her face and hands and bathrobe she's wearing - which, when she turns, is open in a deep V-wedge to keep her mostly decent without touching the red, fist-sized external heart now clutching steadily in the center of her chest. She tries to brush her hair out of her face, and adds to the ink smudges.]
If you're fighting the parasites, or demons, or whatever they are, come by the office. I made stamps with the anti-possession sigil on them. They're a little haphazard, but they'll work. Once you clear someone, stamp them. I don't want anyone getting reinfected.
[Open Spam, wibbly time through through the general throwdown arc]
[Anya is also running around exorcising people herself, knocking on doors, poking anyone she finds to see if they'll snarl or flinch. She's weary and bloody and bruised, after the first one or two, and she could probably use some backup to help fight the monsters once she forces them to manifest with the rituals Dean taught her.]
[Spam for Ben, backdated a wee bit to before the sha throwdown kicked into high gear]
[With Dean shuffled off to the kitchens, Andrew gone, and Stephen and Tig in comas, no is left in maintenance to notice Anya not turning up to work but Peter, and he won't hassle her about it. So when she wakes up to find a fresh heart tucked between and a little below her breasts, arteries and veins sliding back under the skin, the raw muscle wet and twitch, rabbit-fast with her shock, she decides that today is a good day to hide in her room and eat jerky and crackers and do nothing and see no one.
Until, of course, he comes to check on her, and her door opens for him, just like it always does.]
[She's posting from the floor of the maintenance office, where she is on a tarp in the middle of a mess, boxes and sponges and bits of felt and ash and mutilated pens scattered all around her. She has smears of blue and black ink on her face and hands and bathrobe she's wearing - which, when she turns, is open in a deep V-wedge to keep her mostly decent without touching the red, fist-sized external heart now clutching steadily in the center of her chest. She tries to brush her hair out of her face, and adds to the ink smudges.]
If you're fighting the parasites, or demons, or whatever they are, come by the office. I made stamps with the anti-possession sigil on them. They're a little haphazard, but they'll work. Once you clear someone, stamp them. I don't want anyone getting reinfected.
[Open Spam, wibbly time through through the general throwdown arc]
[Anya is also running around exorcising people herself, knocking on doors, poking anyone she finds to see if they'll snarl or flinch. She's weary and bloody and bruised, after the first one or two, and she could probably use some backup to help fight the monsters once she forces them to manifest with the rituals Dean taught her.]
[Spam for Ben, backdated a wee bit to before the sha throwdown kicked into high gear]
[With Dean shuffled off to the kitchens, Andrew gone, and Stephen and Tig in comas, no is left in maintenance to notice Anya not turning up to work but Peter, and he won't hassle her about it. So when she wakes up to find a fresh heart tucked between and a little below her breasts, arteries and veins sliding back under the skin, the raw muscle wet and twitch, rabbit-fast with her shock, she decides that today is a good day to hide in her room and eat jerky and crackers and do nothing and see no one.
Until, of course, he comes to check on her, and her door opens for him, just like it always does.]
Spam - wibbly time, present-dated-ish
Anya...?
Spam - wibbly time, present-dated-ish
[She's cleaning off some of the ink with a damp rag, and she looks exhausted - exorcism is more than just saying the words. All the strength and will in you gets pitted against a thing made of malevolence and feasting, a thing that does not want to obey.]
Re: Spam - wibbly time, present-dated-ish
Hi.
[He crosses the threshold. First things first; she seems like the kind of person who prefers pragmatism.]
Do you have any stamps left?
no subject
Yeah. You've been cleared? Pull your sleeve up.
no subject
Do you know if anyone else needs it? I can help.
no subject
There's a handful of people - do you know if your magic can pinpoint these things? Or just make me less tired?
[She sounds more like begging that she meant to, but she thinks Morgana did that for her once. She probably has more names waiting on her comm now. She takes a breath and tries to compose herself, gathers a rough stamp and inkpad.]
Here, there should probably be one in the infirmary.
no subject
Thank you.
[He accepts the tools and looks Anya over. She looks a bit bruised, certainly worse for wear.]
I could heal you. Maybe do something about the tiredness as well. And - I can drive those things out and kill them, if there's more out there.
no subject
[She slumps in relief with a heavy sigh. She's not terribly injured in any particular spot, but the aches are bad enough to take the edge off her ability, and that's not ideal. Also: help.]
I'll add your name to the contact filter for this, I know Lydia and Dillon are finding them. Just send a text around once you've got one so we don't try to do the same person twice.
no subject
[He comes a step closer, reaches out to gently place a hand on her shoulder.]
Purhaele.
[The spell is intended only for healing injury, and it certainly has that effect on her bruises - but Merlin's magic takes a freer form these days, guided more by intent than the simple words of a ritual. What he gives to her is the effect of rest, the benefit of a long unbroken night's sleep, something he's very much looking forward to himself.]
no subject
Thank you.
[Heartfelt, expelled with her deep sigh, repetitive with the inevitability of it, the inability for a moment to think anything else.]
no subject
You're welcome.
[He won't hang around. She's busy, and he knows he will be soon, too.]
I'll take the stamp to the infirmary, make sure the others know. Will it have any effect on anyone who's already...?