I. Current Events Caleb hasn't been here two days, and he's already been cornered by someone from staff development. Almost literally cornered - he'd attempted to duck into an office to avoid the unmistakable hazard that is a cheerful person wielding a stack of flyers, only to find that the door to this particular office is firmly locked. And so here he is, back pressed against the door, shoulders drawn up and hands buried in his pockets, radiating discomfort strongly enough that it's almost a physical force.
"I - ah - I'm not very good with--" he begins.
"It's especially important to form connections with your co-workers when you've just arrived," the relentlessly cheerful woman interrupts, and surely he can't be the only one who thinks that wide smile makes it look like she's about to take a chunk out of him. "We're a team! You need to come out and enjoy everyone's company when you have the opportunity."
His slightly over-wide eyes dart, snagging on someone who's just coming down the hall, and there's something a little bit pleading in his expression. Please, please come save him from this hell.
Or, you know, add to the pressure. See if a mostly-depowered wizard can spontaneously combust out of sheer desire to be absolutely anywhere else.
II. Spot the Difference a. Caleb has - reluctantly - allowed himself to be coaxed into something resembling normal clothing, and so doesn't resemble a refugee from a renaissance fair quite as badly as he had for the first several days following his arrival. The sturdy trousers and long-sleeved shirt are perhaps a little heavy for the July heat, but only they heavy leather gloves he wears really look out of place, and those are a precautionary measure as much as anything else, considering the task at hand.
His breathing shallows as he steps into the close heat of the shed, and he squints a little as his vision adjusts to the dimmer light, gaze tracking towards the only other person currently inhabiting the space. "Have you found anything yet?" he asks, voice quiet, and lightly accented in something that isn't quite German.
b. cw: bodily harm The items Caleb has encountered so far - and there have been frustratingly few for the number of hours he's put into this particular task - have been inert when grasped with a gloved hand, though the metal teeth on one stuffed beast were sharp enough that if he'd been anything less than careful, he might have cut himself badly.
Still, all luck runs out eventually, and his comes to an end when he encounters a set of tarnished silverware. At first, he thinks it's just another harmless set - there have been several, fussy things that have nothing to condemn them but bad taste - but on closer inspection, what he initially thinks are leaves appear to be tears, dripping from a graceful curl of thorns.
Or perhaps not tears. He turns the knife he's picked up to get a better look at the design, and a sudden, sharp pain shoots along his shoulderblade. He curses, head whipping around to see - nothing out of the ordinary. But the pain persists, joined by another slash along his ribcage, and something damp trickles along the curve of his back. The knife slips from his fingers, landing with a jangling clatter amidst the rest of the set of suddenly-sinister implements.
To anyone with an angle to see, the dark red bleeding in patches through his cream shirt is probably a bad sign.
c. His patience isn't infinite. After the injuries inflicted the day before, after several days of frustration, of fighting the itch behind his eyes and the knowledge that he could save so much time and risk with one simple spell, something even a child could learn to cast, it runs out.
Caleb isn't a fool. He waits until he's alone - until his partner has stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, or a bite to eat, or gone to relieve themselves, or for the break between shifts that never quite seem to line up.
It takes all of six seconds to cast the spell, and the afflicted items light up like horrible fireflies, on the shelves and inside their boxes. They seem to warp, twist, and there is something jarringly wrong about them, something that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and pries with strange, skeletal fingers on the back of his skull.
Catch him, perhaps, as the last quiet word of the spell falls from his lips - or as he stumbles back, catching himself against the worktable, muttering a quiet but heartfelt, "Fuck."
Caleb Widogast | Critical Role (C2)
Caleb hasn't been here two days, and he's already been cornered by someone from staff development. Almost literally cornered - he'd attempted to duck into an office to avoid the unmistakable hazard that is a cheerful person wielding a stack of flyers, only to find that the door to this particular office is firmly locked. And so here he is, back pressed against the door, shoulders drawn up and hands buried in his pockets, radiating discomfort strongly enough that it's almost a physical force.
"I - ah - I'm not very good with--" he begins.
"It's especially important to form connections with your co-workers when you've just arrived," the relentlessly cheerful woman interrupts, and surely he can't be the only one who thinks that wide smile makes it look like she's about to take a chunk out of him. "We're a team! You need to come out and enjoy everyone's company when you have the opportunity."
His slightly over-wide eyes dart, snagging on someone who's just coming down the hall, and there's something a little bit pleading in his expression. Please, please come save him from this hell.
Or, you know, add to the pressure. See if a mostly-depowered wizard can spontaneously combust out of sheer desire to be absolutely anywhere else.
II. Spot the Difference
a. Caleb has - reluctantly - allowed himself to be coaxed into something resembling normal clothing, and so doesn't resemble a refugee from a renaissance fair quite as badly as he had for the first several days following his arrival. The sturdy trousers and long-sleeved shirt are perhaps a little heavy for the July heat, but only they heavy leather gloves he wears really look out of place, and those are a precautionary measure as much as anything else, considering the task at hand.
His breathing shallows as he steps into the close heat of the shed, and he squints a little as his vision adjusts to the dimmer light, gaze tracking towards the only other person currently inhabiting the space. "Have you found anything yet?" he asks, voice quiet, and lightly accented in something that isn't quite German.
b. cw: bodily harm The items Caleb has encountered so far - and there have been frustratingly few for the number of hours he's put into this particular task - have been inert when grasped with a gloved hand, though the metal teeth on one stuffed beast were sharp enough that if he'd been anything less than careful, he might have cut himself badly.
Still, all luck runs out eventually, and his comes to an end when he encounters a set of tarnished silverware. At first, he thinks it's just another harmless set - there have been several, fussy things that have nothing to condemn them but bad taste - but on closer inspection, what he initially thinks are leaves appear to be tears, dripping from a graceful curl of thorns.
Or perhaps not tears. He turns the knife he's picked up to get a better look at the design, and a sudden, sharp pain shoots along his shoulderblade. He curses, head whipping around to see - nothing out of the ordinary. But the pain persists, joined by another slash along his ribcage, and something damp trickles along the curve of his back. The knife slips from his fingers, landing with a jangling clatter amidst the rest of the set of suddenly-sinister implements.
To anyone with an angle to see, the dark red bleeding in patches through his cream shirt is probably a bad sign.
c. His patience isn't infinite. After the injuries inflicted the day before, after several days of frustration, of fighting the itch behind his eyes and the knowledge that he could save so much time and risk with one simple spell, something even a child could learn to cast, it runs out.
Caleb isn't a fool. He waits until he's alone - until his partner has stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, or a bite to eat, or gone to relieve themselves, or for the break between shifts that never quite seem to line up.
It takes all of six seconds to cast the spell, and the afflicted items light up like horrible fireflies, on the shelves and inside their boxes. They seem to warp, twist, and there is something jarringly wrong about them, something that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and pries with strange, skeletal fingers on the back of his skull.
Catch him, perhaps, as the last quiet word of the spell falls from his lips - or as he stumbles back, catching himself against the worktable, muttering a quiet but heartfelt, "Fuck."