[when artemy's eyes open to see himself surrounded by damp dirt, he isn't especially surprised. perhaps some mugger finally did him in -- or maybe the sand pest suffocated him. although he doubts that, without the plague's hoarse scratching clinging to his throat. or someone could have mistaken him for his father and tried to bury artemy alongside him.]
[alas, when his steady hands claw his way out of the soft ground all but encasing him, the familiar sight of isidor burakh's grave greets him. or rather, the dirt above his body swelling where it doesn't want to accept him. artemy all but bursts out laughing at the absurdity of it all. typical burakh, he thinks; trying to die with such unfinished business that the earth pushes you back out again. you're taking after your father.]
[and yet, he very quickly realizes this is not home. there is no ashen swish sprouting near the graves, this is not the cemetery he's come to know well, and the damp, foggy air is not to be mistaken for the dry smog of the sand pest.]
[so where is he? artemy brushes off the last of the clumps of soil that still cling to him, recognizing the sound of someone's approach but not yet moving. he isn't especially afraid -- even before townsfolk respected him as their surgeon, they feared him as a ruthless butcher. yargachin either way; with his large stature and serious expression and no fear of wielding knives. the people who did this to him don't intimidate him more than the average townsperson might.]
Did you dig this? [artemy calls to the stranger, shaking dirt loose from his blond hair. he gestures to the grave he crawled out of and tsks as though scolding a child.] You have to be careful. If you dig into the earth like this, terrible things will happen. Don't you know that?
TWO. listen to the town's pulse. it's calling...
[artemy need not confess that he's not especially fond of the city. his home -- the town, the steppe, with its flowing rivers like veins and the ground thudding with a heartbeat of its own... it takes very little to make him miss it, and that threshold was surpassed ages ago. the harsh chemical smells of strange automobiles and constant chatter of its residents make him quickly feel overwhelmed.]
[especially when odd strangers draw nearer.]
[he's seen a great deal of strange and frightening things. the dreams, the pantomimes, the sand pest and its victims... the list continues. artemy likes to think himself unflinching, in a somewhat more humble sense of the word. the kind that comes alongside his profession. but when these creatures shamble towards him, he takes one step backwards. then another.]
Ene shi yuun khun geeshebshe? [the words make their way directly from his thoughts to his lips when he doesn't mean them to, surprising even artemy. he's stared down death eye-to-eye more than once. and yet, he finds himself backing away from the steadily growing group.] I have nothing worth stealing. What do you want from me?
[they largely ignore him. to make matters worse, his pockets are devoid of anything sharp. typical. they would forget his work and strip him of anything with the slightest edge to it, from lockpicks to scalpels, and leave him defenseless in the streets. for a brief second artemy considers raising his fists -- until the moment the size of the crowd dawns on him, at which point he turns and bolts in the opposite direction.]
[but one must keep in mind that this is a city, not a small town whose cobblestone streets are filled with meandering pedestrians. this place is more modern than artemy's ever seen and complete with fast-moving motorcars. artemy forgets for just a moment that he isn't running past townspeople who will generally make way, but instead, directly into traffic.]
[a hand grabs the back of his butcher's outfit like it's the scruff of his neck and all but hauls him back onto the sidewalk.]
Let me go! [he reaches back to grab their wrist, very nearly taking a swing at them in the process.] Tenegh! Can't you see I'm being followed?
artemy burakh || pathologic
ONE. you're always welcome here.
[when artemy's eyes open to see himself surrounded by damp dirt, he isn't especially surprised. perhaps some mugger finally did him in -- or maybe the sand pest suffocated him. although he doubts that, without the plague's hoarse scratching clinging to his throat. or someone could have mistaken him for his father and tried to bury artemy alongside him.]
[alas, when his steady hands claw his way out of the soft ground all but encasing him, the familiar sight of isidor burakh's grave greets him. or rather, the dirt above his body swelling where it doesn't want to accept him. artemy all but bursts out laughing at the absurdity of it all. typical burakh, he thinks; trying to die with such unfinished business that the earth pushes you back out again. you're taking after your father.]
[and yet, he very quickly realizes this is not home. there is no ashen swish sprouting near the graves, this is not the cemetery he's come to know well, and the damp, foggy air is not to be mistaken for the dry smog of the sand pest.]
[so where is he? artemy brushes off the last of the clumps of soil that still cling to him, recognizing the sound of someone's approach but not yet moving. he isn't especially afraid -- even before townsfolk respected him as their surgeon, they feared him as a ruthless butcher. yargachin either way; with his large stature and serious expression and no fear of wielding knives. the people who did this to him don't intimidate him more than the average townsperson might.]
Did you dig this? [artemy calls to the stranger, shaking dirt loose from his blond hair. he gestures to the grave he crawled out of and tsks as though scolding a child.] You have to be careful. If you dig into the earth like this, terrible things will happen. Don't you know that?
TWO. listen to the town's pulse. it's calling...
[artemy need not confess that he's not especially fond of the city. his home -- the town, the steppe, with its flowing rivers like veins and the ground thudding with a heartbeat of its own... it takes very little to make him miss it, and that threshold was surpassed ages ago. the harsh chemical smells of strange automobiles and constant chatter of its residents make him quickly feel overwhelmed.]
[especially when odd strangers draw nearer.]
[he's seen a great deal of strange and frightening things. the dreams, the pantomimes, the sand pest and its victims... the list continues. artemy likes to think himself unflinching, in a somewhat more humble sense of the word. the kind that comes alongside his profession. but when these creatures shamble towards him, he takes one step backwards. then another.]
Ene shi yuun khun geeshebshe? [the words make their way directly from his thoughts to his lips when he doesn't mean them to, surprising even artemy. he's stared down death eye-to-eye more than once. and yet, he finds himself backing away from the steadily growing group.] I have nothing worth stealing. What do you want from me?
[they largely ignore him. to make matters worse, his pockets are devoid of anything sharp. typical. they would forget his work and strip him of anything with the slightest edge to it, from lockpicks to scalpels, and leave him defenseless in the streets. for a brief second artemy considers raising his fists -- until the moment the size of the crowd dawns on him, at which point he turns and bolts in the opposite direction.]
[but one must keep in mind that this is a city, not a small town whose cobblestone streets are filled with meandering pedestrians. this place is more modern than artemy's ever seen and complete with fast-moving motorcars. artemy forgets for just a moment that he isn't running past townspeople who will generally make way, but instead, directly into traffic.]
[a hand grabs the back of his butcher's outfit like it's the scruff of his neck and all but hauls him back onto the sidewalk.]
Let me go! [he reaches back to grab their wrist, very nearly taking a swing at them in the process.] Tenegh! Can't you see I'm being followed?