(Untitled)

[behight]

Who: Tifa, Vincent.
Status: Closed.
When: 7:30 to 8:00 PM.
Where: border of Sector 4, near the edge of the city.
What: After his fight with Sephiroth, Vincent's lucky enough to have Tifa stumble upon him.

Comments

[repentingsinner]

If he was any lesser of a man, with even more energy or callous notion, he would have laughed at the situation. Here he was, half dead, many times over had he been anything remotely resembling a normal human, and there she was, catching herself from outright asking if he was all right. Funny, in a morbid sense, but he didn't blame her. At the moment, no, he was not really, very okay.

Nevertheless, the new elevation of his head aided more than hurt, and he weakly raised up his human hand to his mouth, lips parting to drain out the accumulation of blood and dirt and saliva. A low, wet cough - without much force behind it but forced the liquid in his lungs out onto his gloved hand. It took a few more minutes to find the strength to breath in enough air to speak.

"Potion?" he questioned, voice barely above a strained whisper, wiping away the fluid still spilling from between his lips. A choking sound as he fought the reflex to swallow, another cough to force his throat to clear. Afterwards... he had little capacity for much thought. He knew he would not die, per say, but it was an uphill battle to remain conscious and force his extremities and innards to function. Fluid fought to enter his lungs again, and he coughed once more. "Need... to stand," he wheezed. If only to bend over and force everything out of his lungs by way of gravity.

His eyes clenched, bloodied teeth grinding together - his body had complaints against his movements and speech, but he couldn't allow himself to slip away just yet.