4'10" OF RAW, CONCENTRATED ANXIETY (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
darkov) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2018-03-06 08:10 pm
darkov) wrote in maskormenacelogs2018-03-06 08:10 pm
Entry tags:
blood drums in the ears [OPEN]
WHO: Martin, any
WHERE: All over
WHEN: Early March, mostly in the dark/early, early mornings
WHAT: a Darkov returns to this universe, and...KIND OF STRUGGLES WITH IT.
WARNINGS: blood, self-harm, abuse overtones, potential violence????
o1. RUN BOY RUN - Heropa, any time
[rules for this world are coming in broken, confusing chunks. none of them line up with the rules from home and become. they're a blur, as much as everything else is: lights are painfully bright, the day even brighter. the heat? almost suffocating; even winter in Florida is still stuffy compared to the climes of Olvoski.
strangers press in and out of view, hands grab and pull him, things are thrust into his arms -- some promptly dropped, others hastily pocketed (goodbye, file folder and house key). the only thing constant is what he does in response:
run.
he has no idea where to go, but he goes anyway, as fast as he can, terror gripping him by the collarbone. dodging unsuspecting cars and passers-by, he bolts from street to street, desperate for some respite from all the light and heat and noise. but the more he runs, the brighter it gets. the hotter it gets. and the noise...
the noise breaks away into the behemoth that is the ocean. Martin's legs, already wobbling from exhaustion, give up as his eyes are filled with a horizon of nothing but churning water. his stomach drops with fresh, heavy dread as the rest of him drops, collapsing onto his knees into the sand. gasping for air, Martin's eyes squint and strain to understand just what this horrifying...thing is before him.
it's...horrible. it's bad enough that it's so huge, but it's left him with no means to keep going forward. and under this sun...nowhere to hide. a whimper escapes him between wheezes, his hands curling into fists in the sands as despair weighs him down into a hunch.]
o2. WATCH YOUR HEART WHEN YOUR BACK IS BLEEDING - any city; a construction site, an early evening [BLOOD/SELF-HARM WARNING]
[the acoustics of the large, heavy piping Martin's come to hide in carry little hisses and whimpers, all bitten back as he clamps down on his lip to muffle himself.
this...this would be easier if he were a better Darkov. a Darkov that can conjure blades of any size, not just those monstrous projectiles. but there's no use hoping for family to swoop in and help him, so he improvises.
Martin hesitates, but then forces himself to dig his fingernail back into his skin, trying again to get at this...strange marking on his arm. it needs to get off, whatever it is. it doesn't belong there. it...does strange things, at times, and it frightens him. get it out.]
Khh-hh...! [he squeaks, clapping his hand over his arm when clawing hurts too much. blood -- black, not red -- oozes between his fingers and onto his knees, dripping to the gravel he's sitting above.] Please... [just...get...off...]
o3. DON'T EXPLAIN - any city; late late night
[there are kindnesses here. generous people. but they don't know what he is, or that they shouldn't look his way. even when he insists this, he's been done good things. he knows he doesn't deserve them, and knows he shouldn't keep accepting them. it's...not right.
but he's still not good at this place. he doesn't understand the rules -- the ones he does understand...they don't fit what he knows to be right. he should be deferring his sensibilities and try to understand where he truly stands. but. but...
Darkovs aren't meant to rely on people like this; if he's going to survive, he has to do it himself. or just die.
ramble aside: Martin's scrounging through garbage for something to eat. a few generous handouts don't keep him full and properly on his feet for long, so he has to use what he's seen to try and take care of himself.
so: garbage.
don't mind him.
(or do)]
o4. ANYTHING GOES
[build-a-prompt! or plot @ me on plurk via whyellewhy what uuuup]
WHERE: All over
WHEN: Early March, mostly in the dark/early, early mornings
WHAT: a Darkov returns to this universe, and...KIND OF STRUGGLES WITH IT.
WARNINGS: blood, self-harm, abuse overtones, potential violence????
o1. RUN BOY RUN - Heropa, any time
[rules for this world are coming in broken, confusing chunks. none of them line up with the rules from home and become. they're a blur, as much as everything else is: lights are painfully bright, the day even brighter. the heat? almost suffocating; even winter in Florida is still stuffy compared to the climes of Olvoski.
strangers press in and out of view, hands grab and pull him, things are thrust into his arms -- some promptly dropped, others hastily pocketed (goodbye, file folder and house key). the only thing constant is what he does in response:
run.
he has no idea where to go, but he goes anyway, as fast as he can, terror gripping him by the collarbone. dodging unsuspecting cars and passers-by, he bolts from street to street, desperate for some respite from all the light and heat and noise. but the more he runs, the brighter it gets. the hotter it gets. and the noise...
the noise breaks away into the behemoth that is the ocean. Martin's legs, already wobbling from exhaustion, give up as his eyes are filled with a horizon of nothing but churning water. his stomach drops with fresh, heavy dread as the rest of him drops, collapsing onto his knees into the sand. gasping for air, Martin's eyes squint and strain to understand just what this horrifying...thing is before him.
it's...horrible. it's bad enough that it's so huge, but it's left him with no means to keep going forward. and under this sun...nowhere to hide. a whimper escapes him between wheezes, his hands curling into fists in the sands as despair weighs him down into a hunch.]
o2. WATCH YOUR HEART WHEN YOUR BACK IS BLEEDING - any city; a construction site, an early evening [BLOOD/SELF-HARM WARNING]
[the acoustics of the large, heavy piping Martin's come to hide in carry little hisses and whimpers, all bitten back as he clamps down on his lip to muffle himself.
this...this would be easier if he were a better Darkov. a Darkov that can conjure blades of any size, not just those monstrous projectiles. but there's no use hoping for family to swoop in and help him, so he improvises.
Martin hesitates, but then forces himself to dig his fingernail back into his skin, trying again to get at this...strange marking on his arm. it needs to get off, whatever it is. it doesn't belong there. it...does strange things, at times, and it frightens him. get it out.]
Khh-hh...! [he squeaks, clapping his hand over his arm when clawing hurts too much. blood -- black, not red -- oozes between his fingers and onto his knees, dripping to the gravel he's sitting above.] Please... [just...get...off...]
o3. DON'T EXPLAIN - any city; late late night
[there are kindnesses here. generous people. but they don't know what he is, or that they shouldn't look his way. even when he insists this, he's been done good things. he knows he doesn't deserve them, and knows he shouldn't keep accepting them. it's...not right.
but he's still not good at this place. he doesn't understand the rules -- the ones he does understand...they don't fit what he knows to be right. he should be deferring his sensibilities and try to understand where he truly stands. but. but...
Darkovs aren't meant to rely on people like this; if he's going to survive, he has to do it himself. or just die.
ramble aside: Martin's scrounging through garbage for something to eat. a few generous handouts don't keep him full and properly on his feet for long, so he has to use what he's seen to try and take care of himself.
so: garbage.
don't mind him.
(or do)]
o4. ANYTHING GOES
[build-a-prompt! or plot @ me on plurk via whyellewhy what uuuup]
no subject
This isn't your world, do you understand?
These people you speak of are likely not within it. You put yourself at risk with such recklessness.
no subject
[he swallows, staring back down as he thinks on these words. lying is...well. he can't do that. even if he tried, he's certain he'd fail. he fails at everything else, after all, so why not something he's been trained to not do, as well? even though...yes. definitely, this place. not his. not at all.
still.
what's it matter if he's at risk? it's other people who matter.]
...Sorry. [that's all he's got for this right now, and from his tone it's plain he knows it's feeble and worth little.]