(Untitled)
WHO: Sweden [sveriges], Denmark [yndigt_land] & OPEN.
WHEN: Day 3; Dusk.
WHERE: B5, lingering close to the boarder of C5 and B4.
SUMMARY: Sweden has broken off from his newly formed group of Finland and Estonia to scout ahead while they could rest. The problem though with moving along on your own is you'll never know what will come up next.
OOC NOTE: This post-sets, ( Read more... )
WHEN: Day 3; Dusk.
WHERE: B5, lingering close to the boarder of C5 and B4.
SUMMARY: Sweden has broken off from his newly formed group of Finland and Estonia to scout ahead while they could rest. The problem though with moving along on your own is you'll never know what will come up next.
OOC NOTE: This post-sets, ( Read more... )
Still, he smiled a little to himself. For one, it was easier for him to smile and laugh about the situation than it was to fret and stress. For another, here he was about to brain some poor, unsuspecting sucker with a flashlight. They'd never see him coming! What was not to be enjoyed? The thoughts helped to ease the soreness, at least, and he felt more relaxed.
He waited what seemed like an eternity. Why wasn't the person moving? Or. . .or maybe they were! They could just be being very careful. . .maybe they could sense him? There were times when he could sense the other nations, even when he couldn't see them . . .
Aagggh, this sure made trying to be stealthy a different kind of torment . . . !
He gave in to impatience, crashing furiously through the foliage once rounding the tree, taking a swing at the first pale head of hair he saw.
Wait. . .
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The movement was so quick he did not realize who it was so he was hesitant to swing the blade downward. So, instead when he saw an object aimed for him, he stepped to the side in a movement as graceful as he could manage on the uneven terrain, leaving a leg out though, a foot, keeping it propped, his body to the side, protected and shielded.
But maybe the other was so caught up in his actions he would miss that face, and the leg would be there to meet him, trip him downward. Still, why did that figure look so familiar. Why did those motions seem to pull up a memory, a face from the database of his mind.
Wait.
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He knew that head! That stupid head of colorless, dull hair, that frame, that walk . . . the recognition came to him, there was a moment of widened eyes and dropped jaw, and then he yelled angrily.
And therefore tried doubly hard to hit him with the flashlight! Denmark took a bold, lunging step forward, noting with passing concern the formidable weapon the other was drawing. Sword? Knife?
Helvete, not another pointed blade! There had been a time when he enjoyed the bite of such metal, but this was frustrating. Just as he was bringing the flashlight over his head in an arcing swing, moving from one shoulder to the other, he took another step . . . and then another for balance.
His foot wouldn't move. Before he could even process why Denmark was sent sprawling onto the forest floor, curling slightly at the last moment to protect the flashlight. It wouldn't do to break his only weapon on a rock or simply the ground. Furiously he rolled over, fast, shouting as he sat up.
"What in the skies are you doing here!"
Another growl, then, "Sverige!!"
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Danmark. Of all the nations to fall upon, why did it have to be him? At least in this moment he had the upper hand and silently Sweden wondered if it was the flashlight indeed that the other gained as his weapon because if that was indeed the case, he would have pitied him if he was any other nation. Yet, this was Denmark of all of them and his hand clenched tighter around the hilt of the blade.
The look on his face read only I should run you through right here.
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He should have known he could count on Sverige for that, at least. It was comforting that he could at least reconize that look in the other's eyes, even after all this time. The restless aggravation he'd felt so immediately was even now slipping away, and while his hand still held the flashlight tightly at his side, he only sighed. This would happen. Because as much as he didn't want to admit it, there were other nations the Dane would rather attack than his northern neighbor.
At least, right away. He smiled a little to himself at the thought, then gave a small bitter laugh, pressing his palm to his forehead in exasperation and turning his head so as not to even have to look at Sverige, the metal of the sword brushing his chin slightly as he moved.
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This was a score, this was a point, a loss for the one laying back against the ground and Sweden had come out on top. Could he pull away though and let him live when so much as at stake? Allow for a better battle to happen? One with fair terms? In the woods others roamed he would rather keep the safety of than the nation at his feet, but, even though this was a game--even though he yearned to win, to succeed, prevent himself from his own loss, his peoples loss.
This was something strategic and the more feral part of him, the more deeply rooted past caused him to lean forward a little, brows narrowing, blade pressing against the pale, slim neck of the other, pressing into the flesh, then immediately pulling away, his knuckles white beneath the gloves that covered the skin of his hands.
Taking a quiet step back, he watched the other still, a seriousness lingering there, a darkness, a warning to keep in line as a flashlight would not succeed against a blade, a blade that the Swede knew how to wield well.
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Still, Denmark didn't know which was more aggravating: Being run through by Sverige when he was almost helpless to stop it, or having to sit and look at the other nation after he'd just been uncharacteristically merciful. The years had certainly changed them both.
He sat up after a few more calming breaths, hoping the quick rise of panic, anxiety, wasn't very visible. However, his adrenaline was so diminished, the injury to his side ached even more badly, and he finally got to a sitting position with a grimace even the Swede couldn't fail to notice.
". . . tch." He only spared Sweden a glance.
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His bright gaze flickered downward at the sharp intake of breath the other released, noting the blood, the wound, the way he favored one side than another and how he still remained sitting on the ground at his feet. It was abnormal of him, to be sitting while he in turn was standing, but injury normally caused those to bow in pain whom normally would not otherwise. He did not pity him though, in fact, he knew somewhere, somehow, he deserved this.
He deserved to be run down by his blade or any other injury he had sustained. Still though, with a calm and perceptive glance, he looked downward, and then sheathed the weapon as gracefully as he had removed it initially, the scrape of the metal, the glimmer of the blade in the quickly fading light.
“Wh't happ’n’d?” His murmured voice rose up after a moment of silence, a time to collect his thoughts. Knowing more would give him more ground and if he could get any information from the other, it would be worth his time staying stationary when he knew in reality, he should still be moving.
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. . . which let him to recall that he would need to go fetch his pack. The food and water rations were not something that could easily be found again. Flashlight still in hand, he made his way to his feet, going slowly, smoothly, he hoped, so as not to aggravate his right side further. Satisfied once he was standing steadily, he held his flashlight straight out in front of him, pointing it at the Swede.
"You!" The smile on his face was leering, bitter.
"You, " he sighed, "are the luckiest, today." And always.
"But even doubly so! I'm going to let you stay there --well and whole even! -- while I walk away. It's quite a fortunate day for you!"
He didn't leave, not quite yet. It was always worth sticking around just that much longer to see what the other would do.
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How he would bleed, shed the colors of his beloved flag all over the ground, it would sink into the dirt and he would simply fade into the earth from which he rose. His bone the white, sticking amongst the flesh and broken skin. It was a work of art within his mind really and something he had always yearned to see despite bettering relations over the years. The Dane still made something in his soul itch to cause rather violent harm to him.
Watch those last breaths and if anything, this was the time, yet would it be satisfying without having him at least have the slight chance? Most likely not.
Arching an eyebrow at the other, he nearly rolled his eyes at the comment, but kept his mouth shut, simply turning his body slightly to readjust his parcel. He made sure to keep a steady posture still, least the other try something because honestly, he did not have time for these games and these words. If the other was going to leave, Sweden thought it best he leave now before anything else was uttered to falter the situation.
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"I thought I was lucky at first, because I thought a person would need a great weapon to have an advantage in this game." His eyes narrowed in a clenched smile, "Something real deadly." He stared back at Sweden, the other's silence as grating to his senses as any loud sound would have been. Blue eyes met blue eyes, and the Dane began talking more steadily, less arrogantly.
"And I did get one. You would have hit the ground before you even knew what hit you. . ." An unsteady hand reached up, kneading his forehead gently with a few fingers. "But at least you showed me one thing, Sverige." He waved to the other offhandedly, the same fingers flicking forward off his forehead.
"A weapon does no good if you don't even want it. So you've made me feel good again." He looked off into the trees, about to go.
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The Dane was ungrateful, constantly, like a child, always wanting and taking but never appreciating anything handed too him or anything he gained. He should have run him through and now he was kicking himself mentally for not doing such that, not doing what he knew would have made his life and time on this island so much easier. If he could rid of the Dane, perhaps the threats would lower but he could not help but be curious about his commentary on his own weapon and his own physical well-being if he were to be caught with what he was given.
Sweden figured he could be lying or he could be telling the truth, but fact of the matter, there had to be someone on the island with something that outdid the strength of a blade. This setting, this time period, it was too modern and vindictive to make it that simple, or in other ways, that complex.
"Y'must'a not wanted yer's too badly." His voice murmured quietly per the usual, his gaze retuning to the back of the other whom was slowly testing his patience, his hand resting a little to closer to the hilt of his weapon as the more the other stayed near, the more he thought about his options.
Honor really had no place here, did it?
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"Dense. I meant the game. You have to at least want to win the game." He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, if only to disguise the fact that he felt a little ill. He was completely awake, now, and the last vestiges of the rush he'd felt from the attack were definitely gone, the injury and other unseen contusions burning painfully.
During the night, just after, he'd taken his satchel and emptied it holding the rough fabric against the would to help the bleeding. Even before then he'd been panicked, pouring all effort into just running, fnally collapsing against a tree -- the same one he'd woken up against. He didn't know whether or not it had helped, but he'd surely passed out from blood loss. Anxiety would not have allowed him to sleep so heavily.
He needed to find somewhere to rest, to at least sit down; things hurt badly enough. Again he put his hand to his mouth as he briefly felt dizzy, but it was manageable.
"You -- s-someone like you could have a shotgun and still l-lose this . . ." He sounded so unsteady, wincing at his own voice. Finally, he turned fully away, heading for his belongings.
To his utter displeasure, the Dane half-stumbled, half-staggered, having to reach out for a tree-branch and steady himself. He shut his eyes tightly, loathing how pathetic he must have appeared before, of all people, that yeti of a Swede.
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His neutral stance in the political atmosphere of the days before did not place pressure on how he could act currently when forced into the proverbial corner this game was slowly backing him into.
With a sigh, Sweden silently, quietly following the other, keeping his distance but allowing the shade of his blue eyes to settle on the other carefully, considering him as a threat, but somewhere deep within him concern twisted and knotted up amongst the muscles of his chest. It took him a moment, to remind himself of who he was looking at to shoo away the mild desire to reach forward and steady him, so in turn he stood there, contemplating leaving the other to seek a path to travel in the night.
Perhaps an animal would catch wind of the blood and come to consume him, leaving naught but bones.
So only Sweden arched an eyebrow, a silent question of are you asking me to kill you lingering amongst the calm of his features and the stillness of his body. He had to keep his cool at the least, not let the Dane get to him with his words. If anything, that would help him in the long run and leave it to Denmark to always beg for a reaction amongst the obnoxious tone that lingered in his breath.
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He was glad for the warmth of the island, and the fact that he didn't have to endure both pain and cold, as he had in many a battle. The air was balmy and most, and he felt the comforting moisture in it with each inhalation, making breathing feel easier. He wasn't sure how much was damaged inside, only that the other had used a large knife, such as you'd see in a kitchen, a butcher knife. Such a tool was capable of puncturing quite far, but he had no way of knowing the actual damage.
When Denmark noticed Sweden following him, as much as the other nation tried not to look like that's what he were doing, he slowed his steps. Suddenly he spun around and moved close to the other, his northern neighbor. Instead of speaking, he closed a hand over the hilt of the sword holding it tightly, but not yet pulling on it.
He leaned forward with a tilt to his head that would have been seen as playful, if not for the very serious expression Denmark wore; eyes partially lidded, not so much in a glare of anger as in a gaze of suspicion as he tiredly looked into Sweden's own blue gaze.
"Where do you think you're going, Sverige . . . " His voice was quieter and clearly more dangerous than before, when he'd been mocking Sweden.
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"D'se 't bother you. . ." to not know where I am going, to not know my motive? Sweden did not feel the need to complete the sentence and swallowed his breath, keeping his face and gaze were it lie, on the face of the other, tracing that look that lingered in his eyes.
A look familiar in days beyond the current, the one that loomed over them, hours ticking by screaming act but only in whispered tones.
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