Missing: one Pawn
Characters: Vanyel Ashkevron, open
Content: Vanyel's blurry introduction to Manhattan
Location: the ruined visage of the New York Palace Hotel, across from the cathedral
Time of day: Daytime, likely early afternoon
Warnings: none
The first thing Vanyel noticed was the cold. He was numb all over, fingers and toes feeling blunted by the lack of sensation. Somehow, he was laying on his stomach, although his last clear memory was of the unbearable pain, the burning magic of Final Strike, and the blank nothingness thereafter.
'Dead,' he managed, thoughts as slow-flowing as cold honey, 'I should be dead. Why aren't I...'
Eyes flickered open, briefly only long enough to see a drift of snow, shelled hard with ice and wind, clinging tightly to a balustrade of an unfamiliar, ragged-edged gray stone. Snow, blackened by melt and refreeze dug into his face, a miniature landscape of ice-mountains and foothills. The wind blew, chapping harshly against exposed skin and Van let his eyes close again. He must have slept, somehow, because the light came from a different angle, when next he roused enough to wake. It filtered down through structure ruined by impact, directly onto his back, illuminating the ground around him in dapples and flecks. The light was too bright, and he winced away from it, the small pain of it enough to wake the greater pains, the burning agony in every nerve, rung raw and screaming in rhythm with his heartbeat, and the pounding of his head.
'Backlash,' he decided slowly, sluggish thoughts bulling their way with difficulty through the curtain of discomfort, 'I have to...get warm or I'll...' The thought couldn't finish itself, too distracted by the new goal of finding shelter.
Slowly, like a man mortally wounded, he rolled onto his side, gaining one knee, then the other, kneeling in the hollowed belly of the New York Palace Hotel. Time passed in flitting motes, golden sparks in the rays of cold light. Laboriously, Vanyel hefted himself to his feet, only to fall, unable to support himself. Gritting his teeth, Van tried again, bracing palms flat on the twisted metal and concrete of his strange little nest, he dragged his battered body through the wreckage, towards the light - only stopping when he fell flat across the sidewalk, vision gone gray and panting in the outside and open air.
Content: Vanyel's blurry introduction to Manhattan
Location: the ruined visage of the New York Palace Hotel, across from the cathedral
Time of day: Daytime, likely early afternoon
Warnings: none
The first thing Vanyel noticed was the cold. He was numb all over, fingers and toes feeling blunted by the lack of sensation. Somehow, he was laying on his stomach, although his last clear memory was of the unbearable pain, the burning magic of Final Strike, and the blank nothingness thereafter.
'Dead,' he managed, thoughts as slow-flowing as cold honey, 'I should be dead. Why aren't I...'
Eyes flickered open, briefly only long enough to see a drift of snow, shelled hard with ice and wind, clinging tightly to a balustrade of an unfamiliar, ragged-edged gray stone. Snow, blackened by melt and refreeze dug into his face, a miniature landscape of ice-mountains and foothills. The wind blew, chapping harshly against exposed skin and Van let his eyes close again. He must have slept, somehow, because the light came from a different angle, when next he roused enough to wake. It filtered down through structure ruined by impact, directly onto his back, illuminating the ground around him in dapples and flecks. The light was too bright, and he winced away from it, the small pain of it enough to wake the greater pains, the burning agony in every nerve, rung raw and screaming in rhythm with his heartbeat, and the pounding of his head.
'Backlash,' he decided slowly, sluggish thoughts bulling their way with difficulty through the curtain of discomfort, 'I have to...get warm or I'll...' The thought couldn't finish itself, too distracted by the new goal of finding shelter.
Slowly, like a man mortally wounded, he rolled onto his side, gaining one knee, then the other, kneeling in the hollowed belly of the New York Palace Hotel. Time passed in flitting motes, golden sparks in the rays of cold light. Laboriously, Vanyel hefted himself to his feet, only to fall, unable to support himself. Gritting his teeth, Van tried again, bracing palms flat on the twisted metal and concrete of his strange little nest, he dragged his battered body through the wreckage, towards the light - only stopping when he fell flat across the sidewalk, vision gone gray and panting in the outside and open air.