asgardchrysalis | EVENT LOG: (UN)SAFETY MEASURES

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EVENT LOG: (UN)SAFETY MEASURES

Who: ANYONE leaving Asgard to build an outpost
What: the (Un)Safety Measures event
When: January 14 - 22
Where: three days north of Asgard's kingdom
Warnings: claustrophobia

❧ january 14-16: departure.

On January 14, the gods summon everyone to the castle ground to announce that Asgard is moving out to face the newest threat on the horizon. what seems like the whole of Asgard prepares and departs the kingdom. From the youngest to the oldest of the able and willing, all hands are needed as this mission serves two highly critical purposes: to defeat the current threat and to build outposts that can be used as midway safe houses on missions like these.

Similar to the last time Asgard embarked on such a journey, a long train of wagons guided by the eight-legged horses and several of the gods passes through the thicc barrier of the forest into what appears to be a blinding light for any that remain in the city. As the caravan breaks through the treeline, that brightness barely fades as a blistering sun gleams off of what appears to be a solid landscape of pure ice. An odd chill travels from the top of your head to your toes as Honir calls out "Hold onto your limbs!" in a strangely cheerful warning to match the unusual warmth that envelops you afterwards.

Over the course of the next three days, the caravan travels northward through the strange landscape of Yggdrasil in winter. It seems like ice and snow rise and fall at whim, clear skies turning into a swarming blizzard from one stretch of land to another. It's like it can't quite decide what type of winter it would like to be, and the caravan is left to navigate and make camp through this fitful weather. On January 16, the caravan halts as the gods declare this to be the safest point between the kingdom and where the Qliphoth is growing. Construction of the outpost will begin here in the morning, as those moving on to destroy the wretched tree prepare to confront the demons of another world.

❧ january 17-18: setting up camp.

On the morning of January 17, everyone sets upon their separate tasks as those prepared for combat continue onward to travel. All of the wagons and most of the horses are left behind at the budding settlement - the terrain ahead is far too treacherous to risk losing them along the way. But all thoughts of demons and infernal trees seem distant compared to the pressing immediacy of the task at hand.

The gods weren’t wrong: This is likely the safest point between Asgard and whatever mayhem is occurring farther north. Tucked safely out of the elements in shallow valley between two small mountains, the outpost benefits strongly from the sun peeking out over the ridge as it balms the chilly sting of the wind with a diffuse sort of warmth. It’s a warmth that Wanderers will need as they set to work constructing a fallback point for the unimaginable things that those who continued might endure. There’s a job for everyone, big or small, from building temporary housing to assembling defenses to taking stock of all the medical supplies they’ve brought along for the trip.

Honir, meanwhile, has chosen to stay and protect the outpost. Though he doesn’t seem to actively dwell on it, those who knew him before the Battle of Wights can likely tell that he was humbled considerably by his experience. It more than suits the needs of the moment, as he and any willing volunteers scout the immediate area outside of the mountainous inlet to make sure that the outpost is safe.

Alas, even Honir doesn’t think to account for threats from below.

❧ january 19: hidden intentions.

( ! ) content warnings: claustrophobia

On the morning of January 18, your characters will wake up to discover that some of you are missing. Surely they were there when you went to sleep, but an odd number of Wanderers and native Asgardians alike seem to have vanished in the night. Searching the encampment and the surrounding area turns up nothing of use, awkwardly delaying construction between the need to finish this project within a few days and the absence of those that came to build it. A scant few more disappear suddenly throughout the day without anyone seeing or hearing anything more than a vague crunching sound and then silence.

As it turns out, answers come with the still of the night: Those who find themselves awake near the edges of camp hear a faint but unmistakable shouting, coming from beneath their very feet. Characters that have disappeared up to this point are buried underground beneath a thick layer of solid earth and stone. More people begin disappearing, this time in plain sight as stone shifts and pulls them into the dirt. Screams fill the campground as people try to save their friends or find the source of the chaos… Not to mention the shouts of alarm as those who try to dig too violently find the ground itself throwing things back at them, betraying this as the work of some sort of subterraneal creature.

But even as that chaos erupts around them, most of the Wanderers seem to vie for a peaceful resolution (based on the comments on January’s event post), and in fact, some go so far as to attempt to calm those reacting violently.

At first, it doesn’t seem to matter.

But then, the earth starts to shift. Those who have yet to be unearthed seem to be spat back out onto the surface, gently and with what could almost be considered deference. And then comes a gnomelike figure, about the size of a football with stone-brown skin and hair down to his feet, crawling up from a hole that didn’t seem to exist before he had need of it.

“I believe an apology is in order,” he says, twisting at a corner of his beard. “It has been quite an age since the Steinnbregðr have seen humans in these parts, and with such magics.”

“We just wanted to take a look atcha,” comes a younger voice not far behind him. It’s now that you see a number of other figures peering up out a dozen more inexplicable holes in the earth, though these new arrivals keep themselves hidden from the nose up. The girl who spoke had popped up a bit in her excitement, but she too ducks back into her hole under scrutiny, tacking on a - “Gorbit says you brought gods.”

The others all murmur with quiet agreement, some nodding, others looking nervous. They, too, just wanted to look at these humans. To learn.

“We made you fear for your lives and your kin, yet none of you harmed us,” the first gnome continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. He looks from Wanderer to Wanderer, from face to face, and even in his generous age his eyes glow with an almost childlike intrigue. “Do you think it possible that we might... try again? From the start, with quite a bit less borrowing of your people.”

The Steinnbregðr people have extended an olive branch. If rejected, they’ll disappear back into their holes, nary to be seen again. If accepted, they’ll answer Wanderers’ questions, share their knowledge of local resources, and assist in assembling the outpost to the best of their ability… All the while taking every opportunity to observe the Wanderers with wide inquisitive eyes, or even tug at clothing to ask a burning question about the Wanderers, the gods, Asgard, or humans as a general concept.

(Though we won’t be outright NPCing the Steinnbregðr, there will be a top-level in which we’ll gladly summarize or handwave interactions with your characters, answering questions and perhaps even forming a budding CR.)

❧ january 20-22: return.

With the Qliphoth destroyed and the outpost established as best it can be, the caravan makes its way back to Asgard on January 20. While the load is a bit lighter for the supplies it took to build and battle their way back home, some carry new burdens and memories of the strange happenings that took place here. The magic the gods warned of has shown its powerful capacity to overwrite the landscape of Yggdrasil, and new creatures in the world are becoming increasingly aware of the Wanderers' presence.

All along the three day journey back to the kingdom, the gods and the natives can't help but discuss and speculate what this means for the future. A nervous energy travels back to the city with them in spite of their victories, the vast and mercurial landscape of Yggdrasil providing a frigid reminder of their isolation at the heart of it. Asgard may come to contend with the fact that they are safer within their kingdom and the veil of obscurity - and the fact that the veil has been lifted, leaving an open window for them to see out into the dangers of the world, and for the world to look back at them.

[ OOC NOTES: This is the event log for the (Un)Safety Measures event! Your characters are in the process of building an outpost to serve as safe housing for ventures beyond the kingdom when a clan of rock gnomes begins "stealing" characters underground for observation. Because the majority of you elected to proceed with caution instead of aggression, you were able to entreat with the gnomes to understand their presence and motivations, and enough of you actively sought to make peace with them that they have become tentative allies to Asgard for the time being. If you want to discuss interactions or ask questions about the gnomes, you can do so in this thread below. If you have any other questions or concerns, please feel free to hit us up on the mod contact page! Enjoy! ]

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John has in fact determined that if they are to dig, they are probably going to need something more than bare hands or even the dagger he has on his belt. Glancing around while Crowley begins clawing at the ground with his bare hands, John does what he can to locate the best thing readily to hand. Which happens to be --

Well, it is a spade. More designed for digging tent posts than digging a man out of the ground, it is perhaps not ideal, but it is more ideal than Crowley's bare hands or John's dagger, for that matter.

He holds the item out towards the other man for his approval, though he doesn't see why he needs it particularly. A tool is a tool, and this one will have to do. With no further instruction, John begins to dig.

"Keep talking to him," he says with a grunt, as he begins to shift the earth. "Is this the right spot?"

"How am I supposed to know? Do I look like a mole?"

Crowley continues to scrabble with his own hands, dirt under his fingernails. He doesn't know if it's the right place but it feels roughly like it might be, so far as he can tell from the weak sound of Aziraphale's voice calling him. This is insane. This is ridiculous, and Crowley hates it and can't for the life of him --

Dirt starts to fly back toward Crowley and he startles, bracing himself on his hands as he wildly tries to spot where the retaliation came from.

"What the heaven is going on?"

Lord John bites back the retort that as a matter of fact, digging in the ground with his bare hands in such a manner as he is, he resembles exactly that. It would hardly help the situation, as bizarre as it is. He supposes there must be magic involved somehow, if it really is Crowley's friend Aziraphale down there. For one, the man wouldn't be able to breathe, otherwise. For another, how in the hell would he have gotten down there in the first.

That train of thought however is quickly derailed when, seemingly out of nowhere, the dirt seems to spurt back up at them from the spot where they are digging.

Rather like a clam hole, John thinks, bewildered. This really is too much.

"Good god, man -- are you quite alright?" he asks, abandoning his shoveling for a moment to step forward and brace the other man.

"No," Crowley snaps, "I'm not, actually."

Who could be alright at a time like this? Why the fuck would he be alright when -- when Aziraphale is stuck under the ground and the ground itself is spraying him with dirt to try and stop him getting the angel back? What part of any of that is alright? He pushes himself back up, begins digging with his hands again anyway.

"I've had it with his place," he continues, scrabbling back dirt. "I've had it with the stupid tree, and the bracelets, and stupid rules --"

Another eruption of dirt sprays at him, but this time Crowley doesn't pull back. He shuts his eyes, turns his face away to endure it then keeps digging angrily.

John's expression pinches in response to the other man's outburst, but then of course, he cannot blame him. His friend is missing, and he seems particularly distressed by this turn of events. The two of them must be rather close.

He tries to imagine how he might feel if it were someone he cared for, buried underneath the ground in such a way, and turns back to his digging. Flinching as yet again the dirt erupts at both himself and his companion, though Lord John is at least standing and thus somewhat more spared.

"He's still calling out to us," John offers, attempting to be reassuring. "That's a good sign." Provided it is his friend Aziraphale that is calling out to them, of course, but that is neither here nor there.

A good sign.

Crowley supposes, distantly, that it is. That technically he should take solace in the fact that if he can hear Aziraphale, if he can still get answers from him then he's clearly in a state where he's well enough to respond. So, probably conscious and awaiting rescue. Not necessarily fine but you know, in a state where he will be.

Crowley doesn't feel much reassured.

He feels angry, queasy, a prickling rush of irritable emotion over how out of control this has left him. The human has a thing to dig with, but Crowley is still scrabbling back the dirt with his bare hands. It's stuck under his nails, fingers clipping stones that tear and draw blood.

The stones are getting larger.

Crowley realises, with a rush, that he's now uncovering a space underneath the ground. A space which is dark, dimly lit, and which -- under the criss-cross of large rocks -- there might be the person he's looking for.

"Aziraphale," he says, and realises he hasn't the faintest idea which way up he might even be. "Come on, come on I'm here, help me out angel."

If he can move, or start to, he can probably begin pushing more out of the way.

Edited (italics) 2020-02-11 20:03 (UTC)

Darkness.

Ever since he first opened his eyes, darkness has been the only thing that he can see. It's the only thing there is. There is no light, only dirt and rock, and he hasn't the faintest idea of how it had ended up like this. How could something like this have happened without his notice? Where was he? Underground? Had he been buried alive?

Panicked, he acknowledges that the alive part of his current condition might not be the case for much longer. He seems to be able to breathe just fine, but how long was that to last? How long was he going to be left down here? Had they gotten Crowley as well? He feels angry, terrified, and hysterical all at once. He needs to get free, but he's dug against the dirt for ages without any result. The ground seems to fight him, pushing back and throwing more dirt back against his face and hands. It only makes the situation that much worse, that much more terrifying.

Was he only going to help bury himself?

It feels like all he can do is scream.

By some blessing of luck, eventually he's heard. He's heard by Crowley. Oh, thank goodness, it's Crowley. He can hear him yelling back and digging at the dirt from the other side, sounding no better than how Aziraphale feels. His face and eyes feel hot, on the verge of tears, from the sheer relief of getting to hear his voice. It doesn't matter how distant and muffled it is. He knows Crowley won't leave him here, won't abandon him here underneath the dirt.

He won't, he won't, he won't.

He sticks his own hands back into the aggressive dirt, ready to try again. His hands and clothes are already more than ruined. What was a little more? The ground still fights him as if it had some sort of sentience, but it feels easier this time. Easy enough for his hands to hit rock, haphazardly shoving them out of the way to wiggle his fingers through an opening. He feels air.

Was this it? Was this it?

"Crowley!" he yells again for what must be the hundredth time, voice still frazzled and frantic.

Angel, John thinks to himself as he digs, and wonders exactly at the relationship between these two. Not that a good friend would not be desperate to rescue another from such a fate. But a good friend would not, in his experience, refer to another by such a name. No, in his experience, such a nickname comes from a much different relationship.

John renews his efforts in his digging, ignoring the protests his injured arm is making on the matter. Working to uncover what appears to be more rocks -- is it some sort of chamber created out of them, he wonders?

It is not that Lord John had not wanted to believe this was indeed Mr Crowley's friend down there. Just that the cynic in him was attempting to safeguard against the possibility that this too was something dangerous that he was going to need to protect him from. He thinks that perhaps more so than the demons down near that hellish tree, that would be a crueler twist of fate. To use their own friends against them in such a way.

But it's hard to remain so cynical when the next spadeful of rocks and dirt he shifts reveals what appears to be a man's fingers, forced through a small opening in the rocks below. Followed by the somewhat louder (and somewhat more desperate) cries of the man himself.

"Mr Crowley," John says, tossing the dirt aside, careful not to undo the progress that they have just made, "I think we've found him!"

I think we've found him!

Crowley feels a shock of relief, a cold shiver mingling with the panic and anxiety already leaving him on edge. He scrabbles closer to the hand, to where Grey is, and begins moving rocks away more quickly to try and get into the opening.

"Aziraphale," he answers, "Aziraphale, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry angel --"

He doesn't know, exactly, what he's sorry for. For not, somehow, preventing this. For not finding him faster, maybe. For the mess this is all sure to make, for -- oh, for everything really. He fumbles rocks aside until the opening is big enough to plunge both his arms into, grabbing for Aziraphale impatiently to try and draw him out. So he can see him, make sure he's not -- not hurt, not trapped in some other way. So he can drag him into his arms and hold on for just a minute, regardless of how dirty they both are.

A pair of scrambling, desperate hands break their way through the small opening to the surface, forcing it wider and wider. They reach for Aziraphale immediately, grasping for him with desperate vigour. The first one clasps around Aziraphale's hand and the second somewhere near his elbow, the grip firm and determined and insistently tugging him up, up, up. Up out of this hole, up out of the darkness, and up where he's supposed to be and Aziraphale is so ready to be anywhere other than where he currently is right now. He kicks a leg against the dirt wall, using it to steady himself as he helps pull himself out of what might have ended up being his unmarked grave.

He doesn't want to think about it. The thought makes him feel a little sick and powerless.

When Aziraphale finally gets pulled free of his wretched underground prison, he nearly falls against the ground. The only thing that stops him are the clinging hands on him, still pulling at him and still urging him in a direction. This time, towards him. Towards Crowley.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," he says, definitely not sounding alright at all. He doesn't look too worse for wear with the clear exception of the way he had mangled his fingers and nails from an extended period digging and his hair, skin, and clothes were all but covered in dirt.

John takes a step or two back as he watches Crowley leaning forward into the hole he has created, frantically digging the rocks aside until he's made a big enough space to reach into and drag the other man out. Quietly observing the display of affection between them as Crowley pulls this Aziraphale up and out and moves to clutch him close to his chest. Aziraphale quickly folding into his arms in return.

John is beginning to feel rather like he is intruding in this private moment between them, despite the fact that he did play some part in extricating him in the first.

Angel. There it is again. John is doing his best not to watch them directly, to give them a moment's space, but they are just there in front of him and short of actually leaving the scene...

Speaking of which, they should probably do so. He's got no idea what it was that had sucked the other man underground but the thought of winding up there himself makes him rather queasy. Certainly no one would tear him out with the same voracity he had just witnessed Mr Crowley do for -- is that Mr Fell? It's hard to tell from this angle, covered in dirt and everything, but he rather thinks that it is.

"Gentlemen," John says softly, hoping he will be forgiven for his interruption as he does so, "perhaps we might move back to the tents where the ground is less likely to spit back or swallow us whole?"

Crowley is not, in truth, entirely sure the ground is safer around the tents. He still has no idea what happened. He still has no idea why it happened, or when it happened -- in fact Crowley has so little information he really can't make any judgement about anything related to this at all.

He doesn't like that.

His arms fix around Aziraphale, holding him tight into his chest as he takes a moment to regroup. They're both entirely filthy, and he's pretty sure he's radiating a wild mix of panic and relief to match the angel. What a mess. What an absolute mess.

Taking a last few seconds to scan the area Crowley eyes John a long moment before nodding, glancing down at Aziraphale and wiping one of his hands off against his shirt before trying to rub a patch of dirt away from the angel's cheek.

"Why don't we go have a little sit down, yeah?" he prompts, "We'll get you something to eat, a drink, just have a little sit down. Somewhere nice and warm."

Or well, a tent at least.

In an ideal situation, Aziraphale would have some sort of answer for what had transpired and why. Something to explain away why he had been snatched away in the night, buried underneath the ground, and kept there like some sort of prisoner. All the strange going-ons usually had some sort of reasoning behind them even if they were vague and nonsensical, but this was different. Aziraphale didn't know anything and he would really like to even if only to calm his racing heart.

His fingers are clamped a little too tight around Crowley's upper arm, clinging to him in a way that's most unbecoming and a little embarrassing, but it made him feel better. Secure, solid.

"I—" he begins, but he doesn't actually know what he wants to say. He has so many questions, packed tight and heavy in his chest. He's just not sure if he has the heart to entertain any conversation about it yet.

He swallows and glances at Crowley's shoulder.

"Yes, al-alright. Thank you."

John does feel a little erroneous, now that the disaster is over. It's not an uncommon sensation, all things considered. He has felt rather erroneous most of his time spent in Asgard, after all. But until he is dismissed, he at least feels something of a duty to be certain that the crisis is averted.

He does not have to know either Mr Crowley or Mr Fell very well to know that the pair of them are close to one another. Leading the pair of them towards their tent, he leaves Crowley to guide him towards a seat. Hoping they will forgive him for making himself at home as he offers, "Can I get you gentleman anything?"

Glancing between the pair of them, ignoring the throbbing of his arm as he continues on to suggest, "I could put on some tea, perhaps?"

It may seem inane, but he is English and when in doubt...

Crowley guides Aziraaphale to sit down then grabs for a basin of water and a cloth, returns to his side quickly and begins gently washing his hands and face. He'll want to take everything off later, but not yet. Not yet. Especially not when they have company, but also likely not until they feel steadier.

"Yeah, tea," he says softly, looking over at John and then studying Aziraphale again as he carefully washes dirt from him. "He'll make us some nice tea, angel. How's that? Then maybe you can have a little rest. Just a little one, and I'll be here. Maybe we can read, yeah? How's that. Just read. Maybe I'll even read to you for a change."

If not for the fact that Lord John were currently present, this moment would be unfolding very differently. As it were, Aziraphale was putting in an extraordinary amount of effort to remain as composed as he could possibly be considering that he had only just been pulled out of what was very possibly meant to be his grave.

He cracks a little as Crowley immediately starts wiping off some of the dirt and a very measure of blood from cracked skin he'd won himself earlier. He catches one of Crowley's hands in his, holding on tight and desperate as if the contact might comfort at least one of them. At least somewhat. They're here now. Above ground and certainly a little safer.

"I assure you, I'm alright," he tells him, voice low and expression openly affectionate. Everything that Crowley is offering is something that he'd truly appreciate receiving and he hopes to try and collect on some of it later in the evening. When things are better, calmer, and he doesn't feel like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest. "I'm alright," he repeats, still as much of a lie as the first time he said it.

He turns his gaze to Lord John Grey, who had obviously injured his arm at some point.

"I am not sure if the same could be said for our friend here."

John nods, then sets about making himself at home. Putting on hot water to boil -- assuming they have to have tea, though if they don't he has some back at his tent he could fetch if necessary.

Fussing with the water and the kettle, it gives the pair of them as much privacy as he can. Watching out of the corner of his eye as Crowley (very tenderly, or so he notes) washes the dirt from the other man's face. Gentling his nerves as he works.

He's so busy trying not to pay attention to the pair of them that he almost doesn't catch Mr Fell's reference to himself. Glancing up from his mindless fussing and flashing the pair of them a pleasant smile.

"Oh," he says, unconsciously raising a hand to the bandaged arm. "There's no need to concern yourself with me. I've -- had worse." Which is probably not all that comforting, in the grand scheme of things.

Ah. The arm. Crowley had, distantly, noticed it. He just hadn't really processed the information beyond 'well, he hurt his arm'. His priority had been, and still is, Aziraphale.

The angel does like to fuss over people, however. Most likely it'll help him feel better, too, more in control if he can focus on someone else.

Alright, then.

He moves to sit beside Aziraphale sideways so he can watch Lord John, still gently trying to clean dirt from one of the angel's battered hands.

"Come here," he coaxes, "let's see your arm, then."

If playing doctor will make Aziraphale happy, then he'll enable it for him.

Admittedly, one of the only things that is going to make Aziraphale feel more comfortable and at ease in their current situation is to deflect some of the attention off of himself. It's a little overwhelming to both have the entirety of Crowley's focus in an effort to help tend to him and the entirety of Lord John's focus in an effort to pointedly ignore the scene playing out in front of him where Crowley very dedicatedly tends to him.

It was starting to feel like apologies were in order. For the whole fiasco of the day and for how awkward this moment must surely be. He glances over at Crowley, thumb rubbing over the edge of his hand appreciatively. Thank you.

Then he turns his gaze back to the person who was continuing to graciously help them.

"No, I believe he's right. Will you let me see your arm?" he asks, motioning for Lord John Grey to come towards him with his free hand.

He hadn't been lying, of course. He had had worse. Had his arm near blown off, on a battlefield in Prussia. He doubts that's the most helpful news to share just now, though, all things considered. So he does as he is told, stepping forward to join the pair of them where they sit.

"Really, though," John protests. "I doubt there is any reason to fuss. I had it bandaged earlier."

Before he spent the past while stressing the wound helping to dig the other man out of the ground. No, he doesn't suppose that that had helped it much. The stinging ache from beneath the bandage is inclined to agree with him.

"Certainly you have other matters to attend to?" he hazards, glancing between the pair of them, and raising an eyebrow at Crowley himself, whose focus John notes is still mostly on Mr Fell. He supposes that he would know best how to handle the situation, however.

"Lots," Crowley admits, "your arm should be the quickest, though, if you just let him see it."

So really, there's no need to resist. It'll be over nice and easy if he just lets it happen. He lofts an challenging eyebrow back at Lord John in turn, as if daring him to suggest otherwise. Go on. Just show him already. Bandage or not, there's something wrong with it so may as well stop pretending and let Aziraphale do his good work.

With a degree of confidence nobody who had just been buried alive should have, Aziraphale extends his hands outwards towards Lord John with upturned palms. He is very clearly waiting for him to offer him his wounded arm despite the polite protests he has been offering him.

"At the moment, I believe the most pressing concern would be your injury. I wouldn't feel right sending you away in such a condition," he tells him. There weren't any other matters for him to attend to, not at the moment and not any that he would care to offer any priority to. He already had a very exact and fully formed checklist in his head for what he'd like to do with the remainder of this day.

Of course, the first item on the list was to offer Lord John something in return for his trouble. They had only just recently just met and he was already in his debt. Although, he hadn't realised that he knew Crowley as well. He supposed that wasn't all that surprising, but it did make him a little curious.

"How long have the two of you known each other?" He asks, hoping to help some of the tension in the air.

John does his best to shrug out of his jacket, which he supposes will need to be out of the way in order for Mr Fell to get a better look at his arm. Easier said than done, but he does well enough, folding it over his lap as he takes a seat before him.

Reaching for the cuff of his shirt, he glances aside at Crowley before flashing the other man a somewhat sheepish smile. Yes, he supposes they are familiar enough with each other for it to be obvious enough that they hadn't just met now. Which is to say, not overly familiar, but certainly familiar enough.

"I believe that we met on the same evening that I met you, sir," he says, as he rolls up his sleeve to expose a somewhat haphazardly applied bandage wrapped around his forearm. "At the palace ball."

Perhaps not as familiar as Crowley is with Aziraphale, though. He's sat pressed close into Aziraphale's side, one hand braced on the bedding behind him as he watches Lord John roll up his sleeve.

"Right, the ball," he says absently, studying the bandage. "You got that from one of those things, yeah?"

The things that the strange folk here, his weird roommate among them, claim are demons that come from a tree. Would that make the wound demonic, he wonders? What sort of weapon did the demon use? Claws? Blade? Is it even worth considering, when everything else about the situation is so unfamiliar to him? Is the comparison worth while, or just going to confuse matters more?

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EVENT LOG: (UN)SAFETY MEASURES

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dig him out like a sexy root vegetable

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