And then there was one.
Characters: Open to all! (please tag yourself)
Where: The halls on a lower deck.
When: Now's good, yeah?
Rating: PG-13 for I don't know.
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 briefly open only long enough to see an expanse of carpet- no, a rug, spread across the floor and a strange, unfamiliar bed some feet away. The floor roiled subtly beneath him, and the change in balance was nauseating and soothing at turns. The wind blew, chapping harshly against exposed skin and Van let his eyes close again: the porthole must be open. He must have slept, somehow, because when he roused enough to be conscious of his surroundings, the light had crept down the wall to shine directly onto his hair. It filtered down through flickering dust-motes and silence, illuminating the floor around his face in a distorted circle. 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 food...get warm or I'll...' The thought couldn't finish itself, too distracted by the new goal of finding sustenance.
Slowly, like a man mortally wounded, he rolled onto his side, gaining one knee, then the other, kneeling in the hollowed metal box of the cramped Elegante room. 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, he tried again, bracing palms flat on the cool metal walls and concrete of his strange little nest, he dragged his battered body through the halls, towards the light, the outside and open air. There was a sound, hollow and metallic as his own footfalls, and he called out raspingly, "Who's There?"
Where: The halls on a lower deck.
When: Now's good, yeah?
Rating: PG-13 for I don't know.
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 briefly open only long enough to see an expanse of carpet- no, a rug, spread across the floor and a strange, unfamiliar bed some feet away. The floor roiled subtly beneath him, and the change in balance was nauseating and soothing at turns. The wind blew, chapping harshly against exposed skin and Van let his eyes close again: the porthole must be open. He must have slept, somehow, because when he roused enough to be conscious of his surroundings, the light had crept down the wall to shine directly onto his hair. It filtered down through flickering dust-motes and silence, illuminating the floor around his face in a distorted circle. 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 food...get warm or I'll...' The thought couldn't finish itself, too distracted by the new goal of finding sustenance.
Slowly, like a man mortally wounded, he rolled onto his side, gaining one knee, then the other, kneeling in the hollowed metal box of the cramped Elegante room. 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, he tried again, bracing palms flat on the cool metal walls and concrete of his strange little nest, he dragged his battered body through the halls, towards the light, the outside and open air. There was a sound, hollow and metallic as his own footfalls, and he called out raspingly, "Who's There?"