Into the Blue Again | Arrival You know, for a while, Harry felt like he was doing pretty well.
Making fairly normal decisions, doing a normal amount of drugs, abstaining from most drinking, retaining information that he received... since he'd started the case in Martinaise, things were looking on the up-and-up! Sure, he had some previously-sullied-relationships to put some band-aids on, but who didn't?
That was, of course, until things went dark. He found himself in an office, and couldn't even wrack his mind for how he got there.
One ugly-cry in Mortanne's nice chair later, and here he is, on the docks.
There's a lot of things he could do right now, freshly dead and freed of all policeman responsibilities. He could go pick up poetry! He could get a new job, forge an identity that people could respect!
Unfortunately, however, he isn't going to do that. Instead, he's going to tell poor Yorick that he can handle things from here, walk around (thoroughly lost), and pick things up off the ground.
Maybe he could use some help. Or maybe he's flagging you down to ask you something. Either way, he's here, for better and (probably) worse.
After the Money's Gone | Repairing "Here, hold this."
He barely caught the instructions from a foreman repairing a house before he was handed a toolbag, and he nudged forward, into the building. Maybe he just looked strong and capable to help? He could be strong and capable of helping. If he knew the first thing about construction, that is.
It's probably for the best that he doesn't mess up whoever's house this is by wrecking the foundation by guessing. Instead, he tries to find someone else who's working on this project, and bring them the bag, clearing his throat. Just act natural. Act like you're supposed to be here.
He's doing... okay at it. ( Rolled an 11. )
"Hey! The foreman wanted me to bring these to you," He offers the bag over. Are there more tools where this person is? Maybe. Not his problem. Maybe excessive tools help things. "And he wanted to see if you could tell me where we need help. I'm new on the crew."
(That part technically isn't a lie, at least.)
Once in a Lifetime | Love Potions (CW: Alcoholism relapse) There are several natural rules that are at work, in this place.
If there's Pumpkin Hollow, there is no death.
If you don't have a job, you're at the Oak & Iron.
If there's a bar, Harry du Bois is at it long into the night.
There are nights, in the Oak & Iron, where singers can freely take the stage. This is not one of those nights. Tonight, the live performers have just left, and Harry catches sight of this as he teeters on black-out drunk. (He'd been doing so well, back in Martinaise! What a shame. Such is life.)
With liquid courage running through his veins and his linen shirt feeling much too warm, he abandons the garment, stumbles up to the stage, and hefts himself onto it, ignoring the very helpful small flight of stairs that would've allowed him up there with ease.
He doesn't even remember what he said. Perhaps something along the lines of: "Pumpkin Hollow, I love you. I love you so much. I'm so fucking sorry. I love you so much. This song is for you."
Dredged from some part of his mind, hauled up in a filthy fish-net of brain-debris with as much effort as a real net would take, come the half-remembered words of The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns.
Some sympathetic lute-player has parked themself by the stage, and is trying to give it a tune, and they're able to figure something out, even if it isn't the same.
He's weeping openly by the end of it.
Water Flowing Underground | Horoscopes (Pisces) The next day, after his drunken outburst, Harry wakes up with his mind keenly aware of one thing and one thing only.
Everyone in this town fucking hates him now.
He can't show his face here. They're all bound to be talking about him. They've probably pinned his abandoned shirt to the wall. They're probably throwing darts at it.
He slips out into the cold, wrapped in the thin, wool blanket the inn provided, and, as discreetly as he can possibly manage, hikes out into the woods where he can't be seen, looking behind him every possible moment he can. The paranoia doesn't shake, and he only presses further. He might like to be found, to be rescued, even half-freezing - but his racing thoughts believing good intentions might be a whole new battle in and of itself.
Same as it Ever Was | Wildcard Got something else in mind? Want him to cause a very specific problem, or lend a hand with something? Hit me up on Discord (socksmuggler) or send me a PM here!
Harry du Bois | Disco Elysium | Existing Player
You know, for a while, Harry felt like he was doing pretty well.
Making fairly normal decisions, doing a normal amount of drugs, abstaining from most drinking, retaining information that he received... since he'd started the case in Martinaise, things were looking on the up-and-up! Sure, he had some previously-sullied-relationships to put some band-aids on, but who didn't?
That was, of course, until things went dark. He found himself in an office, and couldn't even wrack his mind for how he got there.
One ugly-cry in Mortanne's nice chair later, and here he is, on the docks.
There's a lot of things he could do right now, freshly dead and freed of all policeman responsibilities. He could go pick up poetry! He could get a new job, forge an identity that people could respect!
Unfortunately, however, he isn't going to do that. Instead, he's going to tell poor Yorick that he can handle things from here, walk around (thoroughly lost), and pick things up off the ground.
Maybe he could use some help. Or maybe he's flagging you down to ask you something. Either way, he's here, for better and (probably) worse.
After the Money's Gone | Repairing
"Here, hold this."
He barely caught the instructions from a foreman repairing a house before he was handed a toolbag, and he nudged forward, into the building. Maybe he just looked strong and capable to help? He could be strong and capable of helping. If he knew the first thing about construction, that is.
It's probably for the best that he doesn't mess up whoever's house this is by wrecking the foundation by guessing. Instead, he tries to find someone else who's working on this project, and bring them the bag, clearing his throat. Just act natural. Act like you're supposed to be here.
He's doing... okay at it. ( Rolled an 11. )
"Hey! The foreman wanted me to bring these to you," He offers the bag over. Are there more tools where this person is? Maybe. Not his problem. Maybe excessive tools help things. "And he wanted to see if you could tell me where we need help. I'm new on the crew."
(That part technically isn't a lie, at least.)
Once in a Lifetime | Love Potions (CW: Alcoholism relapse)
There are several natural rules that are at work, in this place.
If there's Pumpkin Hollow, there is no death.
If you don't have a job, you're at the Oak & Iron.
If there's a bar, Harry du Bois is at it long into the night.
There are nights, in the Oak & Iron, where singers can freely take the stage. This is not one of those nights. Tonight, the live performers have just left, and Harry catches sight of this as he teeters on black-out drunk. (He'd been doing so well, back in Martinaise! What a shame. Such is life.)
With liquid courage running through his veins and his linen shirt feeling much too warm, he abandons the garment, stumbles up to the stage, and hefts himself onto it, ignoring the very helpful small flight of stairs that would've allowed him up there with ease.
He doesn't even remember what he said. Perhaps something along the lines of: "Pumpkin Hollow, I love you. I love you so much. I'm so fucking sorry. I love you so much. This song is for you."
Dredged from some part of his mind, hauled up in a filthy fish-net of brain-debris with as much effort as a real net would take, come the half-remembered words of The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns.
Some sympathetic lute-player has parked themself by the stage, and is trying to give it a tune, and they're able to figure something out, even if it isn't the same.
He's weeping openly by the end of it.
Water Flowing Underground | Horoscopes (Pisces)
The next day, after his drunken outburst, Harry wakes up with his mind keenly aware of one thing and one thing only.
Everyone in this town fucking hates him now.
He can't show his face here. They're all bound to be talking about him. They've probably pinned his abandoned shirt to the wall. They're probably throwing darts at it.
He slips out into the cold, wrapped in the thin, wool blanket the inn provided, and, as discreetly as he can possibly manage, hikes out into the woods where he can't be seen, looking behind him every possible moment he can. The paranoia doesn't shake, and he only presses further. He might like to be found, to be rescued, even half-freezing - but his racing thoughts believing good intentions might be a whole new battle in and of itself.
Same as it Ever Was | Wildcard
Got something else in mind? Want him to cause a very specific problem, or lend a hand with something? Hit me up on Discord (socksmuggler) or send me a PM here!