closed!
Who: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad (excarnates), Makoto Kubota (wordsoul).
When: Not long after Altaïr is revived, before he posts to the network.
Where: Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high . . . Not far from the ruins. I ALMOST PUT FAIRY RUINS, NGL. /swats Navi away
Format: Action!
What: Why do you ruin everything, Anatole. God.
Warnings: IDK, ask me later.
[ The transition that takes him from the stillness of death back to the busy and frantic world of the living is violent, rough, and it makes Altaïr sick.
He jerks awake, face pressed against the soil, and inhales sharply, sucking dirt and tiny pebbles into his lungs; the junk in his throat sits there for maybe a second, and then he's coughing it right back up. He can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe, and he burns like he's been scalded by something, his skin crawling, and Altaïr can only turn on his side, still coughing so hard the muscles in his stomach begin to hurt, locking up in direct protest.
Something feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. Everything is wrong, and he can't move for awhile, for what feels like hours but it's probably only minutes, because. He has to. He has to move, he has to go, has to leave, get the fuck out of this place where the hell is he what is he doing here he can't remember stop thinking, and he drags his fingers over knotted grass, pushing himself up, knees shaking as he rises to a stand.
The world spins, but he forces it to steady itself.
There's blood and dirt all over his robes, but he barely notices it, doesn't focus on it. He's too busy stumbling out of the ruins, occasionally running right into a pillar or two before he finally manages to make his way back to the city streets of Anatole. He's still not thinking. Thinking is a little beyond him right now. Thinking requires him to consider the situation, and the situation is impossible ( nothing is true, everything is perm -- no, fuck that, fuck it ).
So he doesn't think. He just walks, half limping, half dragging himself over the smoothly paved roads, chin drawn down toward his chest. His back feel heavy, and the blade that sits hidden against his arm feels even heavier, like he's forgotten the weight of it, the way it settles against his skin, against the leather around his wrist.
Altaïr jerks in another breath, leaning too far to the side and driving his shoulder into the nearest brick wall. He pauses, then, because the world is spinning again, and he's forgotten how to make it stop. ]
When: Not long after Altaïr is revived, before he posts to the network.
Where: Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high . . . Not far from the ruins. I ALMOST PUT FAIRY RUINS, NGL. /swats Navi away
Format: Action!
What: Why do you ruin everything, Anatole. God.
Warnings: IDK, ask me later.
[ The transition that takes him from the stillness of death back to the busy and frantic world of the living is violent, rough, and it makes Altaïr sick.
He jerks awake, face pressed against the soil, and inhales sharply, sucking dirt and tiny pebbles into his lungs; the junk in his throat sits there for maybe a second, and then he's coughing it right back up. He can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe, and he burns like he's been scalded by something, his skin crawling, and Altaïr can only turn on his side, still coughing so hard the muscles in his stomach begin to hurt, locking up in direct protest.
Something feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. Everything is wrong, and he can't move for awhile, for what feels like hours but it's probably only minutes, because. He has to. He has to move, he has to go, has to leave, get the fuck out of this place where the hell is he what is he doing here he can't remember stop thinking, and he drags his fingers over knotted grass, pushing himself up, knees shaking as he rises to a stand.
The world spins, but he forces it to steady itself.
There's blood and dirt all over his robes, but he barely notices it, doesn't focus on it. He's too busy stumbling out of the ruins, occasionally running right into a pillar or two before he finally manages to make his way back to the city streets of Anatole. He's still not thinking. Thinking is a little beyond him right now. Thinking requires him to consider the situation, and the situation is impossible ( nothing is true, everything is perm -- no, fuck that, fuck it ).
So he doesn't think. He just walks, half limping, half dragging himself over the smoothly paved roads, chin drawn down toward his chest. His back feel heavy, and the blade that sits hidden against his arm feels even heavier, like he's forgotten the weight of it, the way it settles against his skin, against the leather around his wrist.
Altaïr jerks in another breath, leaning too far to the side and driving his shoulder into the nearest brick wall. He pauses, then, because the world is spinning again, and he's forgotten how to make it stop. ]