Open Chronicles Seeing Through the Bottom of the Bottle

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Joseph Meier

High Lord of the Winter Court
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Character Biography
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Things had not been going well.

Joseph had a rough night, even though he hadn't paid a cent for his liquor. He'd put one of his favourite form for going out; he might have made a none-too-handsome man but his large eyes, prominent cheekbones and low weight made him a femme fatale. Being female softened his features, turned his large brown eyes into alluring pools, and made his skinny body into a welcoming figure. His one good leg, proud as he was of it, turned into a work of art when he was female. It got him a lot of free drinks, and he was all too skilled at flirting with wound up husbands ignored by their wives.

Sooner or later the illusion shattered, usually when he got too drunk to keep the illusion up. Then the swan turned back into a duckling, and things proceeded in the usual manner. This time it was a bridge too far. He'd been behind the bar, making out with one of the patrons, a whiskey bottle keeping a fair distance between them, when he'd lost the illusion. Even piss drunk it had taken but a few seconds for the man to realize he wasn't squeezing breasts anymore. The gentle hand keeping Joseph's bad leg hiked up around his hip turned into iron, and Joseph was hurtled through the air and into the street.

At least he'd had the good sense to cap the whiskey before he'd gotten thrown, and had kept the bottle against his chest to keep it from shattering. It was another stroke of luck that he'd been thrown frighteningly close to a cart large enough for him to pull himself to his feet. "You fucking lying son of a bitch! I'll kill you!" the angered patron roared, closing the distance between them in that mix of lurch and bull-charge that angry drunk men did.

Joseph put the bottle's neck in his teeth, and thunk dog. In a few seconds a black shepherd was running away, three-legged with the fourth tucked up securely out of the way and holding on to an iron contraption. A drunk man was no match for the speed of a dog, even a lame one, and Joseph lost him quickly in a churchyard. He trotted toward the nearest mausoleum and shifted back, collapsing against the stone with a sigh.

He really had to stop doing this.

He uncorked the whiskey and took a deep swig before he re-arranged the brace on his leg.
 
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It was a lazy night, as it always was. A string of random clouds passed in front of the waxing crescent of the moon, and the crisp autumn air stirred the dying leaves strewn between the headstones. In the shadow of the church, a lanky canine lay in the shadows, almost incorporeal in the ambient moonlight. With her paws crossed and her chin resting atop them, she allowed her bright eyes to drift closed and her ears swiveled sluggishly.

She was bored, but what was new. The black dog drew a deep breath and let it out again, rustling leaves and breaking what would have otherwise been silence. Silent as the grave, she had heard the humanfolk say. About as exciting as it, too.

She didn't know how long she had been in this place, but it had been long enough to see human generations slowly expand their church cemetery. It had been long enough to know that whoever had bound her here to protect this church had been a pessimistic fool. In her years, she had mostly chased a few youngsters bound for mischief. If she had known that the singular thief who had robbed the church would be the only incident of it's kind in decades, she would have milked his fear and blood longer. But no -- she had been young and eager and bored.

Thus was her fate as a church grim, she supposed.

Sighing again, she stretched her legs in front of her and was considering prowling the church grounds for a bit of activity, when she heard the approach of paws.

Her head rose and her ears perked up immediately. Pointing her nose toward the sound, she caught a glimpse of something black darting through the grave markers. It had a strange gait, like a lame dog, and she let out a low growl as she rose to her feet. She'd be damned if some stray mongrel was going to go sniffing about in her cemetery!

Melding into the darkness, she moved silently toward the trespasser. A mongrel, indeed! Her eyes glowed faintly from the shadows cast behind the mausoleum as she approached, watching as the dog slumped against the stone structure. She had been nearly about to let out a warning growl when the shape began to change, and suddenly a man sat before her.

The black dog wasn't sure if this was better or worse. She watched as the man took a drink and began to adjust some contraption on his leg. Though she was uncertain what he was doing or why he was in her churchyard, she wasn't going to allow him to linger. Manifesting from the shadows, she kept her head low as she prowled toward the man with a soft growl. She'd warn him first, her eyes still an eerie white.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph tightened the straps on his brace and sighed. Good grief. Here he was stranded in the middle of a church cemetery hiding from a crazy drunk bastard. Five minutes ago the man had been clawing at his shirt hem, and if Joseph hadn't lost his concentration he would have been swimming in alcohol. Not that the bottle of whiskey wasn't a decent prize he just....could have gotten a lot more if he wasn't pissed. He took another deep swig of the whiskey. It wasn't going to last as long as he wanted. Normally he'd find some excuse to sneak away and ditch the horny men slavering after him, to stash whatever bottles they'd bought him and wander on back to do some more teasing.

Honestly he'd never thought his life woul turn out this way. He was a decent scribe, had command of a decent crop of languages, and had excellent handwriting. He had a flair for the political and he'd traveled in a few courts drafting invitations, political decrees, family trees, even marriage proposals. His fall from grace hadn't been just a fall...it had been a spectacular flaming nosedive off of a cliff. He'd gotten too powerhungry and greedy, and had changed into a few people he shouldn't have to fuck with people he didn't like.

The growl yanked him out of his thoughts and he glared right back at the dog. "What? You can't have the whole fucking yard." he snapped at it. "Shut the hell up. You do not want to tangle with me, dog, trust me."

Maybe he'd emphasize the point a bit. He made a false lunge at her that was more of a drunken shift of his weight. The front half of him shifted. A dragon, myopically out of proportion due to his intoxication, snarled right back at her with a mouth of glittering teeth. When it sank back again, Joseph was human and whole. He hated transforming when he was this drunk. It always came out wrong. Poorly proportioned and painful. "Go home." he muttered dismissively to the dog, waving the bottle at her.
 
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Whoever he was, the man either hadn't been informed that this church was home to a grim, or he was drunk enough not to care. The dog was rarely frightened, but the man's change from man to... whatever glittering black creature lunged at her certainly caught her off guard. Lifting her head indignantly, the dog glared down at him.

Filthy shapeshifter! And drunk to boot! Her hackles went up and she thought to bite him then and there, but she remembered how long it had been since anyone had bothered to offend her, and she hesitated.

She was terrible at determining if trespassers had good or malevolent intentions, but she bared her teeth and growled louder as she loomed over the small man and stalked closer. If he was about trouble, she'd not allow it. But if he was just a drunk who had wandered here, then she intended to drag this out. She liked a good chase, after all.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Alright, dog definitely wasn't getting the message. He took another drink and looked at her as she crept closer and loomed over him. He'd heard about dogs like this. Dogs meant to guard churches, who were bound to prevent grave robbers. Anything from teenagers fucking in disrespect of the church to robbers to drunks like himself. He really wasn't in the mood. He eyed her. The monster hadn't scared her off. That normally struck terror into any animal. Unless this wasn't an animal.

He sighed and sat up a little more. "It's alright, dog, I'm not here to harm your church and you can damn well see I'm not coordinated enough to rob the place. There are a lot of men around the corner who are going to throttle me if I peek my head out of this yard, alright?" he raised an eyebrow at her. "Sanctuary? You know that word?" he fished around and spotted an offering dish. Ah well, what did the dead have use for mouldy crackers and dried flowers? He dumped it onto the ground, gave it a quick rub with his shirt, and poured some whiskey into it. "Come on then, drink with me. It's better than fighting and you look about as fucking bored as I am."
 
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Once again, the man seemed unfazed by her warning, and the dog began to seriously consider the merits of biting him. Her maw was large enough to close around his entire head, a fact that generally aided her intimidation of mosttrespassers. Although he finally acknowledged that she was the guardian of this place, he was yet unafraid and cited a need for sanctuary.

She did, indeed understand that. If she had been better at gauging ill intent she might have seen his need for sanctuary. But alas, she was an inferior grim, apparently. On the topic, she looked beyond him, toward the church. She could sense someone near her grounds, but they had yet to arrive just yet.

Well, guarding the innocent (drunk or not) was as good of entertainment as she was going to get. Stepping around the man, giving him a wide berth just in case, she sat in the open and faced the church. Her form was much larger than his had been, and her eyes flashed red as they reflected the moonlight.

His offer for a drink, however, made the dog's dark head whip around. A drink? Her tongue lashed out to lick at her chops. She was occasionally left offerings of wine and bread, leftovers from sacraments offered to her in thanks for her work, but never much more. Eyes bright in the darkness, she turned herself more toward this small, strange manand scooted a bit closer. She stretched her nose toward the bowl to give it a good sniff. It smelled delicious, and her tongue flicked out curiously. It was delicious. Leaning harder, she lapped up a bit more.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Finally she stopped snarling and sat next to him, and he tried to study her through the fog in his head. Normally he just laid back and let the senselessness take him. He would lay there for hours and drink until he vomited and passed out, consumed in his misery. Right now the mystery of this dog was starting to pique his intellect. It frustrated him that it was slithering through his head, these thoughts, and he couldn't quite grasp ahold of them. He looked at her, frowning and watching as she drank. No dog alive would drink whiskey. Even men who weren't accustomed to it didn't dare touch the stuff until they had become accustomed to drinking.

"You're not a dog." he realized. "You're not even a spirit...a grim." A grim might have been able to sense him. Perhaps sense that he held no harm for this place. If she wasn't, why was she here? Was she like himself? He remembered the warnings he'd been given, about shapeshifters who lost their sense of self and became trapped in the form. It was like learning a foreign language; sometimes the brain didn't snap back as quickly as it should and there was that moment of grasping panic for the familiar.

"You're a shapeshifter, aren't you?" Joseph accused. "You're stuck."
 
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The black dog continued to lap at the whiskey until he spoke. Not a grim? The insolence! Her ears laid back and she whuffed at him momentarily before resuming the task at hand. She was happily cleaning up the last drops of the whiskey when he probed further, accusing her of being a shapeshifter.

Mildly offended, she laid her ears back and sneezed. A shapeshifter? Her?? She was a fearsome spirit, created to terrorize those who meant to harm these sacred grounds. She wasn't some mortal stuck in dog form! Neither would she accept such grievous slander.

With her ears still lying back, the dog rose to her feet, lifted her snout haughtily, and turned her back to him. Sitting with a petty huff, she swished her tail at him.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph stared at her a moment, then laughed. "You ARE!" he cackled. "So tell me great grim, how is it you weren't able to sense my intentions hm? You were the one snarling at a disabled man being chased by a bunch of thugs. Even if he did scam them out of whiskey. That's irrelevant." he smirked and got up onto his knees to look at her better. "Come on. You've got to be. Let me guess, you don't remember how you got here....your name, your birthdate. Your parents. Who chained you here."

He smirked. He was drunk, and scrabbling for some idea, but it seemed to fit. She didn't act like a grim. She was protective of this yard but...well...that did not a grim make. She might have been immortal. Joseph himself didn't know how long shapeshifters lived. He settled back and dug around for a cigarette to light, looking at her. "You're scary, that's for damn sure. You might not even be mortal. But you're not a dog. You don't act like a grim. You're even sitting like some miffed princess."
 
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She sat with her back to him, indignantly flicking her tail at him occasionally and remarking internally as he spoke. She was a bad church grim. Fair. And of course she didn't have memories of her prior life. Also fair. But she certainly wasn't a shapeshifter -- of that she was sure. Her limited skills involved barking, biting, and being a shadow, not shifting into other shapes.

He remarked that she was scary, however, and she ventured to look over her shoulder at him, an eye now gleaming red instead of white. Her pride uncoiled, basking in the modest compliment, but was almost immediately retracted when he teased her, deacribing her demeanor as akin to a miffed princess. Hum!

Unimpressed, she whiffed at him and stood suddenly. She didn't need to convince this human that she was a grim, and she certainly wasn't going to let him mock her. She would much rather go laze around by the church or sit ominously near the woods. This man's company was worse than being bored, even if he did share his liquor.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph chuckled a little bit when she looked over her shoulder at him. She liked being thought of as scary. He settled back and looked at her. She was listening to him, that was for certain, but she didn't quite agree with everything...or was at least questioning his evaluation. That was fair, he was drunk. But there was something off about her. He couldn't quite put his thumb on it, but she'd not always been a dog. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at her. "Cursed, then?" he fished. 'Believe me, I don't think you were always like this. If this were your lot in life do you think at least you'd be content?"

He rose to his feet, using the mausoleum to support himself. He refilled her bowl. "Its funny, usually grims are made to protect graveyards that have something worth protecting. Not a bunch of old bones in a shithole no one cares about." he snorted derisively. "But what the fuck do I care? You're the one who wants to rot here."
 
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Cursed? She sneezed again. Why was he so convinced she wasn't a church grim? Of course she wasn't always like this; as a true grim, she was certain she had a mortal life before this one. Perhaps it was a blessing she didn't remember it, a kindness and a second chance in the afterlife. And who was she to say why or how she had come to be? Grims didn't ask such questions, they just served their created purpose.

And yet...

She watched carefully as he offered her more whiskey. It wasn't affecting her in quite the same way it would him (then again, he seemed the type to have a sound tolerance against its effects), but it was hard to keep her eyes on the man instead of the drink.

Harder yet to focus in his words. She glanced up at his final remarks, then fixed her eyes upon the whiskey. She gave it a few halfhearted kicks before she sat down again and sighed.

The shapeshifter wasn't wrong. She had questioned her place here, over and over again. She was restless and bored and craved so much more than this pointless existence. But what was he supposed to do about that? She couldn't leave the damn churchyard. Not that she'd tried and knew that for sure, because she had duties there she couldn't ignore.

// Joseph Meier //
 
"What, do you really think you have a sense of purpose here?" Joseph snorted. "The gods are dead, they've forgotten this place. I could rob it blind and maybe have enough to get a few loaves of bread. What is left for you? Hm? About as much as there is for me. Jack fucking shit." He shook his head. "At least I keep on living. You? You mght as well dig a grave here and sit in it until you stop breathing."

Joseph looked at her. "You know, I used to be like you. I thought I had a purpose. Turned out it was bullshit. Kind of like your job here." He wiped his mouth and went to make himself comfortable on a raised stone slab a few feet away from her. He curled up on it, taking occasional sips of the bottle, and tried to get some sleep.
 
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She listened to the man, sitting silently and alert as he spoke to her. People had run from her and revered her, but never spoken to her quite so frankly. The church grim thought to bite him for his impropriety, but just let him be. He was sad and that made her feel... something. Pity, perhaps? He seemed to think he was a kindred spirit of sorts, which was confusing. How had this man been like her? For the first time in her decades, the grim looked at the person and wondered why.

Why? Why was he like this? What circumstances had made this small man so sad and angry? And, as he rose to walk to a nearby slab, she finally got a better look at the contraption on his leg. He moved with a limp and she cocked her head as she watched him, her curiosity piqued. No sooner than he had laid down, she padded over and gave his foot a sniff. What had happened to him?

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph was sad. Sad, and miserable. He wasn't afraid of her simply because of where fear came from...it came from a want to live and preserve oneself. Joseph didn't have that. Oh, he had a preferred way of dying. Being beaten by drunks wasn't how he wanted to go, and had run more out of a sense of dignity than self-preservation. Being mauled by a church grim ranked slightly higher in his estimation. He sighed and closed his eyes, shivering a bit in the cold and wishing he had a blanket of some sort.

If she examined his leg she'd probably spot the reason for his constant foul temper. His foot was twisted inward, his smaller toes pitched sharply downward while his large toe reached for his ankle. The foot was held straight, unwilingly so, by three tongues of iron keeping it straighter than it would be on its own. It kept the muscles from entangling, though he still suffered vicious cramps if he attempted to run or walk more than usual.

"The fuck are you looking at?" Joseph snarled back at her. He didn't appreciate it being looked at, either.
 
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"The fuck are you looking at?" Joseph snarled back at her.

The grim's ears perked up, and she looked between him and his foot with a small whuff. His foot, obviously. What had happened to it, she wondered. She'd seen physical ailments before, but none so singular as this. Her head tipped curiously. Wondering if he'd been born this way or if it was due to injury did her no good since she couldn't ask, but she wondered regardless.

Then, deciding she wasn't going to leave a crippled man seeking sanctuary to sleep on a grave in the cold, she bit down on his shirt and began to drag him down from the slab. He would hardly be pleased, she knew, so she let go the moment he started to protest. She walked a few steps toward the church, then turned back to him with another whuff as she returned to his side.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Of course. It was always the goddamn foot. "The fuck is everyone so curious about a barmy goddamn leg?" Joseph growled just as venomously, and pulled it closer to himself to try and keep it away from her. It wasn't as if it was harming him to let her examine it, it was just embarassing. He hated being lame. He could barely remember running on two legs, in his own skin. He just didn't like people staring at it. It was tough enough limping around.

Honestly, the liquor in his system was probably the only reason he missed the wild punch swinging for her head. He thought she'd had enough and the teeth on his shirt were about to go for his neck. "Get the fuck off of me!" he sat up sharply. Maybe a little too sharply considering he had to brace himself with an arm. He was tense, ready for her next move....but it never came. Instead she looked from the church to him. Ah, so she didn't want him passing out in the graveyard. "Fine."

Joseph got up and limped toward the church, supporting himself by leaning on gravestones. "...Thanks." he muttered at her. He wasn't wholly without gratitude. The church would at least be warm, and priests always kept spare robes around he could use for bedding.
 
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She watched curiously as he stood, leaning against the grave markers. He couldn't walk on his leg, she realized. The black dog watched him for a moment, then looked across the distance between where he was and the church itself. It was a long way. Could he make it? As if she could ask, she turned back to observe him once more. There was a short stretch of grass where there were no graves, and therefore he would have to walk unassisted. She'd seen him running here as a dog, but that was with three other legs.

Uncertain, the grim trotted around him. She walked up from behind him and shoved her way between him and the marker he was leaning against, to support him under the arm on the same side as his lame leg. He'd been nice enough to her to warrant a bit of kindness, she supposed. At the very least, he'd entertained her for the evening and given her a night out of the ordinary.

// Joseph Meier //
 
The reaction was probably not what she was expecting. He was drunk, which meant that while he was cognizant of his leg (after so many years, how could he not be?) he didn't feel the pain nor think of the consequences. Alcohol was a muscle relaxant, which kept his fussy calf and ankle muscles relaxed and leaning against the brace as they were meant to. As much as Joseph appreciated the offer of a place to stay, she had hit on the one nerve he would never tolerate: pity. He had been pitied his entire life. His parents had pitied him for being small and for his foot. His siblings, dead as they all were, had pitied him for being a loner. Men on the street took one look at his limp and that hideous softness reached their eyes that made him hate them.

When she pushed up against him, he recognized it instantly. That same...assistance. He responded probably far nastier than he would have sober. He shoved her. Hard. Then he straightened his back, and refused to touch another gravestone. He also made every effort not to limp. That meant putting an equal amount of weight on his foot. He could walk normally...he would just be suffering in the morning for his pride. He walked, in a weavingly intoxicated fashion, toward the church. He took the stairs with a clenched jaw; some pain was starting to lance through the whiskey. But he wasn't about to show weakness, not after what she'd done.
 
His shove took her by surprise, and the black dog stood aside and watched him as he weaved slowly toward the church. She didn't understand, and her mind struggled to grapple what had happened. Had he not wanted her assistance? Or did he not need it? Uncertain what had happened, if it was something she had done, she followed along behind him as he walked. She didn't understand, but he seemed to be walking just fine. Perhaps her error had been assuming he needed help?

She followed his curving line, agonizing over the slow pace but staying behind him nonetheless. When he approached the church, she finally overtook him, walking past him to stand by the door and look around. Her vision pierced the darkness, scanning the area for the men who he'd claimed had pursued him to the church. Seeing no sign of them, she trotted to the door and indicated for him to open it. There was only the one way into the small church. The grim waited for him to open the door.

It consisted of the singular space, where pews were lined on either side of a central aisle and an altar stood at the far end. Just inside the door would be the cabinets where the clergy kept their robes, stored away for the services and laundered occasionally, as well as some cloth they used to decorate the altar for varying seasons and occasions. She would wait for him to go inside before she turned the corner toward one such cabinet, scratched the simple door open with a great black paw, and grabbed a stack of material in her mouth. Dropping it on the floor near his feet, she looked back up at him again, her pale eyes attentive.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph watched her scratch at the cabinets and sighed, taking the cloth where she dropped it. He went into the cabinet for more, building a little nest behind the altar where he could sleep in peace. "I don't like people pitying me." he told her. "I'm not an invalid. I've lived with this thing for years. It hurts. But it doesn't make me any less capable than you. Don't you ever fucking treat me like some blind beggar on the street, needing your back to lean on. I won't take it."

He cuddled up in the little pile of robes. The altar cloth he rolled up and placed under his head. He was able to tuck himself securely behind the altar, and soon fell asleep. It wasn't worship day tomorrow. He didn't have to worry about a bunch of clergymen suddenly scandalized by the sight of a squatter using a sacred cloth as a pillow. He could sleep as late as he wanted. That proved to be beneficial, as he was fairly sure at one point in the night he got up, pissed outside, and then vomited into a large brass chalice before going to bed again.

Joseph certainly didn't intend on waking up any earlier than noon, but fate had other ideas. There was one man making the pilgrimage to the church. He was almost seven feet tall, an absolute behemoth of a being. He had longish, wavy chestnut hair, wild grey eyes, and a frame that had clearly benefitted from too much rich food and no exercise. He had the same sort of plump, jovial look in his eyes as he headed toward the church, dressed finely. This one wouldn't be dissuaded from his journey to the church, and he opened the doors with the fine elegant flourish befitting his ridiculous attire.

Joseph growled, throwing one of the sleeves of a robe over his head to block out the noise.
"And what have we here? A small lamb no doubt come out of the cold into the loving and romantic arms of chastity and sanctity?" The tall man approached Joseph and squatted in front of him. "Come, pet, the morning beckons. Your time here in romantic repose is now lost upon the wind. It's time." He patted the prone form and narrowly dodged a vicious lash with the whiskey bottle.

"Dear me, he's more of a raccoon!" he exclaimed with a chuckle, looking at the grim.

"The fuck...are you doing here....leave me alone." Joseph growled.

"Hardly. I cannot resist a lurid mystery of a goblin who attacks me with whiskey bottles in such a holy place."
 
The grim sat near the altar and watched him prepare his bed in silence. When he began to speak, her ears swiveled toward him and her eyes were unblinking. Had she offended him? He was such a small, angry, confusing fellow. She had been repaying his kindness with hospitality, but it was clear she had gone too far to offer kindness as well. Mortals made little sense. She mentally logged the experience away to keep in mind for future encounters.

She continued to sit silently, watching over him as he settled in and effectively fell asleep. What an evening, she thought to herself. The grim looked over the sleeping figure and wondered if she'd done the right thing, letting him in. She decided, watching the even rise and fall of his breathing, that it was better than chasing him out of the cemetery if he truly needed a sanctuary. Just in case, however, she would remain in the church with him.

Sitting and staring at him for a while until she was certain he was truly asleep, she stepped forward and put a paw into his shadow. Her eyes flared red for a moment before her form dissolved into wisps of smoke and shadow. To an untrained eye, nothing about his shadow would have changed, but to those with truesight her dark silhouette would be visible within. She made herself comfortable, pressed against the floor beneath him, and settled herself for the night's watch.



Curled in his shadow, she had taken a short doze as the sun began to rise, and was roused by an approaching presence. She didn't exist by traditional means in this form; she didn't have eyes to open, exactly, but rather her awareness opened instead and she perceived the world around her in a broader sense from the safety of the shadow. She could hear footfalls that shortly preceded the door opening and she coiled her dark form closer to the sleeping man, pulling the wisps of herself that had strayed back into the confines of his shadow.

A hulking figure approached, speaking in a romantic and excessive way she'd heard a few times before. The clergy sometimes used lots of words to convey a simpler message. She waited, watching as he roused the sleeping man and was nearly struck. A humored ripple passed through her at their exchange, but she remained in her dark shelter.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph really didn't want to be bothered. He sat up, giving the large man a withering glance that would have driven away all but the toughest of men. Joseph was hungover and his leg was in agony from his prideful walk. He was about to give more poison to the amused-looking poet when he snarled and grabbed his leg. His calf muscle had decided a long walk through a cemetery and going up a short flight of stairs was quite enough. The cramps locked up his leg to the knee and Joseph frantically massaged the muscle to get it to release.

"Ah, my poor creature sitting in the shadows. Come, please. I bear you no ill will. As one dog to another." Oscar told Joseph's shadow. "Come with me now. A church is no place for colicky old devils such as yourself. I can feel the stained glass windows shrinking away from your venom. Ah, but your sadness is good company for a place hell bent on mourning dead gods."

"Could you....for once in your fucking life...talk straight?" Joseph stood up, rubbing his mouth.
Oscar peered into the chalice Joseph had vomited in and tutted. "Hardly the most subtle of metaphors." he chided Joseph. "Bring your friend to breakfast, we shall discuss rabbits."
 
She was content to watch this interaction and slip away before the man left the church, but the large man suddenly turned to her directly and spoke. Her amorphous silhouette within the shadow wiggled, curling tighter against the lame man's. How could he see her?! The grim didn't immediately leap from the safety of the shadow but continued to watch for a moment. Peering around the man's body, she took a better look at this man. There was a shimmer of red from within the darkness as her eyes peered beneath the veil of mortal eyes to what lay beneath -- true seeing.

In a whorl of darkness, she manifested once more in her canine form, smoke curling away from her as her physical body took shape. Fae! She barked once, not sure if she was alarmed or excited. She was aware that she was technically fae, but this was something other, something unknown. And it was in the church! She barked a second time, her front paws bouncing off of the ground. What are you doing here? she asked in the silence of her own mind. Having forgotten the drunk for a moment, she fixed her eyes on the taller figure.

// Joseph Meier //
 
Joseph shot the grim a nasty look. He really didn't appreciate the barking through the headache emerging in his skull. He put his head in his thin fingers and rubbed his skin, groaning and trying to come to terms with the alternating waves of nausea and throbbing pain. He'd must have drunk a lot more than usual last night if he was this hungover. Either that, or years of bad diet and too much smoking and alchol were catching up to him. He looked at Oscar tiredly. Breakfast did sound good.

Oscar smiled at the pair of them. "Your friend has a very nasty curse on her, quite nasty and Faustian indeed." he squatted, to get a better look at both the miserable shapeshifter and the false grim. "It is hard to see what you might have been, my friend, but Joseph has taken quite the shine to you. Removing that lovely fur coat might be harder than it appears. You've a talented seamstress that has sewn you into that."

"Don't listen to him, he barely makes any sense." Joseph grumbled.

"Surely even through the brown haze of a bottle you could tell a true church grim. Especially coming from a family of priests and romantics." Oscar tutted at him. "Come now. Joseph, if you could change into something more befitting a man, I'd be most grateful. You smell worse than some beasts."

The shapeshifter gave him a look, and limped out of the church a rather hungover-looking lion. Oscar watched him and patted his thigh to Shuck. "If we're not careful he shall be less the king of beasts and more a handsome throw rug."
 
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