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Who: Sufferer and whoever wants to mob join him
When: September 24th, early afternoon
Where: in the Plaza to start
Style: whatever you like!
Status: totally open
In the beginning, there was pain.
The arrow that pierced his side was not the least of it, but only the last. By the time its barbed head sank into his flesh and hit something deep inside, sending a torrent of cherry blood spilling over his hip and down his leg, blood that looked almost black in the bright light of Derse, it was almost an annoyance and nothing more. Hardly a little pang, after the constant burning on his wrists, and the way the flesh crackled and turned black under the heavy irons. He had lost feeling in his hands long ago, the nerves dying under hot brands and his fingers curling inward towards his palms, and the hot blood that ran down his arms felt almost cool by comparison.
And then, after his blood--his cursed, mutant blood--gushed away from his body and left a sticky, clotted pool under his feet... then, there was nothing.
No neverending light, no peace, no absolution. Just darkness, and emptiness, and a million years crying soundlessly into the void.
And then there was a jolt, and a return of the pain, and he was lying face first on cobblestones, soaked through, and this was all very familiar.
Sufferer looks up, his hair soaked and falling in his eyes, his bare back exposed to the air and still slowly running with blood. His eyes blur, and refocus, and he's next to the fountain, in the Plaza. Vatheon. He's back in Vatheon.
Struggling, he tries to push himself to his knees, but he's hindered by the arrow protruding from his side, its shaft slick with blood and its blue (b100) feathers tacky and standing up like little brushes. His hands are useless; blackened, melted things on the ends of his wrists, and the chains he wore when he died, his shackles... they're still there, turned a cold, sullen black instead of pulsing red, and it's hard to tell where the chains end and his wrists begin.
His mind whirls, remembering Vatheon, images coming to him in fractured, fragmented half-memories--Karkat, growling crabbily after getting a hug... Dualscar's fins, moving under his fingertips... Sola, asking questions with that plaintive look on his face... Zelda... Johnny... Jacob... Dave... Disciple... Spider... Psii...
Psii.
He tries again to get to his feet, but his wounds and the chains on his wrists are too much, and he topples forward again, groaning as the arrow digs deeper into his side. He's worthless, useless, he led them all down the wrong path, everything he told them was wrong, he's a failure, he's failed them all...
Sufferer looks up at the bubble's dome, his eyes so bloodshot they're red almost all the way through, and his jaw works, his teeth grinding together and the tendons in his forearms standing out as he tries to clench his hands into fists. His voice is raspy, his throat raw and choked from the last time he spoke, centuries and seconds before.
He throws his head back and screams at the bubble's dome. "FUUUUUUUUCK!"
His voice ripples and echoes back to him, distorted, animalistic, the cry of a brute instead of a savior. Slowly, he bends back over his chained wrists, resting his forehead on the irons, and the red that stains the cold steel is not blood this time.
"...fuck."
When: September 24th, early afternoon
Where: in the Plaza to start
Style: whatever you like!
Status: totally open
In the beginning, there was pain.
The arrow that pierced his side was not the least of it, but only the last. By the time its barbed head sank into his flesh and hit something deep inside, sending a torrent of cherry blood spilling over his hip and down his leg, blood that looked almost black in the bright light of Derse, it was almost an annoyance and nothing more. Hardly a little pang, after the constant burning on his wrists, and the way the flesh crackled and turned black under the heavy irons. He had lost feeling in his hands long ago, the nerves dying under hot brands and his fingers curling inward towards his palms, and the hot blood that ran down his arms felt almost cool by comparison.
And then, after his blood--his cursed, mutant blood--gushed away from his body and left a sticky, clotted pool under his feet... then, there was nothing.
No neverending light, no peace, no absolution. Just darkness, and emptiness, and a million years crying soundlessly into the void.
And then there was a jolt, and a return of the pain, and he was lying face first on cobblestones, soaked through, and this was all very familiar.
Sufferer looks up, his hair soaked and falling in his eyes, his bare back exposed to the air and still slowly running with blood. His eyes blur, and refocus, and he's next to the fountain, in the Plaza. Vatheon. He's back in Vatheon.
Struggling, he tries to push himself to his knees, but he's hindered by the arrow protruding from his side, its shaft slick with blood and its blue (b100) feathers tacky and standing up like little brushes. His hands are useless; blackened, melted things on the ends of his wrists, and the chains he wore when he died, his shackles... they're still there, turned a cold, sullen black instead of pulsing red, and it's hard to tell where the chains end and his wrists begin.
His mind whirls, remembering Vatheon, images coming to him in fractured, fragmented half-memories--Karkat, growling crabbily after getting a hug... Dualscar's fins, moving under his fingertips... Sola, asking questions with that plaintive look on his face... Zelda... Johnny... Jacob... Dave... Disciple... Spider... Psii...
Psii.
He tries again to get to his feet, but his wounds and the chains on his wrists are too much, and he topples forward again, groaning as the arrow digs deeper into his side. He's worthless, useless, he led them all down the wrong path, everything he told them was wrong, he's a failure, he's failed them all...
Sufferer looks up at the bubble's dome, his eyes so bloodshot they're red almost all the way through, and his jaw works, his teeth grinding together and the tendons in his forearms standing out as he tries to clench his hands into fists. His voice is raspy, his throat raw and choked from the last time he spoke, centuries and seconds before.
He throws his head back and screams at the bubble's dome. "FUUUUUUUUCK!"
His voice ripples and echoes back to him, distorted, animalistic, the cry of a brute instead of a savior. Slowly, he bends back over his chained wrists, resting his forehead on the irons, and the red that stains the cold steel is not blood this time.
"...fuck."
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"But you are a prophet, bro, and like-" Smiles, nervously sliding a hand through his hair.
"Still inspiring me, even right now-" He goes off, his words trailing before Sufferer asks about what he had said previously. Summoner sighs, moving to face him a bit more, but still avoiding eye contact.
"Your hands, you need to choose to keep them or replace them for robotic ones."
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He looks down at his hands, grimacing at the charred flesh and the sickly sweet odor that's rising from them. He tries to move them, and winces when the skin around his wrists cracks and bleeds from the effort. The hands themselves don't move. He tries touching them against each other, and he thinks, just for a moment, that he feels something from one of them. But no, it's just the sight of them touching that fools him; when he closes his eyes and tries it again, he can't feel when they're touching each other. He can't feel anything at all.
Absurdly, he remembers the guitar he got from Demyx, and wonders if it's still here.
He closes his eyes and leans heavily on Dualscar, letting his hands fall to his lap. "Take them off."
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"I'll let Darkleer know then-" Smiles, shrugging a shoulders a little and rubbing the back of his neck anxiously.
"Bet your new hands'll look uh, really cool, hey?" Bends his neck back a bit to actually flash Sufferer a nervous smile, this time actually looking at him. He's so tired... so worn. He knew seeing his prophet like this would make him a bit pissed, incite some hot blooded fight in him against highbloods in general, even if his fight was to be side by side with them.
A sigh, pursing his lips, his face getting a bit more somber as he turns back to the window and starts to head out again. But not before flashing Darkleer a quick message.
hE'S GONNA GO W1TH TAK1NG H1S HANDS OFF.
1'M LEAV1NG.
1'LL SEE YOU LATER.
dON'T MESSAGE ME FOR A WH1LE.
sORRY.
And with that he's gone.
No.
He can't deal with this right now.
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D --> Alright
D --> It is okay
D --> Stay safe
Not too long after sending that message to Summoner, there's a knock on the door. "I'm coming in."
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When Darkleer comes back in the room, he doesn't growl or hiss at him. He doesn't even look at him, preferring to turn his head and press his face into the side of Dualscar's arm. It's strange; there is so much rage, so much anger, dwelling inside him right now, threatening to bubble up and spill over and make him lash out again, and yet he's placing so much trust and faith in Dualscar. Any other seatroll would have him baring his fangs and snarling with rage, but all he can feel when it comes to Dualscar is a certain tiredness and dull pity. The purple troll needs a moirail so desperately, and the best one he could get is him.
"Take them off," he repeats to Darkleer, his voice muffled.
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He's well aware that Signless would probably react badly to any other sea troll than him, and he's just happy that Signless is continuing to feel comfortable and safe with him, despite the rather uncharacteristic moments when he's lashed out. He continues to pet and soothe him, and makes a soft crooning, undersea noise against Signless' hair.
He lifts his head when Darkleer enters. "Howw are you goin' to do it? It'll be like a fuckin' subjugglator's respite block in here if he loses much more blood."
DL > Di > Suff > DS?
He just sighs at the question, and opens the door further so he can step in- him and a certain oliveblooded troll whose hand is in his. "I have some instruments being delivered to here, which should be arriving in a few minutes," he says simply. "We'll work on keeping his body filled with the nutrients he needs. I may need to do a blood transfusion, after the blood has been heavily treated to adjust to his body. I will have to be quick in installing the initial base to his arm, which should also help in keeping him from losing any more blood."
He walks closer, taking Disciple with him.
Works for me
It was a state that she had seen him in once, and it has caused her daymares ever since. The searing of flesh from the red-hot metal shackles, all the candy red blood flowing from all the grievous wounds inflicted upon him. Even partially treated as it was, seeing him like that again was almost too much for her.
If she could, she would break down sobs, but she had to be strong right now; he needed her. Claws bite into Darkleer's arm as she tightly squeezes down in her moment of horror.
"Oh, Nubby..." Is all she manages at first.
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Disciple... the last time he had seen her, she had been screaming and sobbing, almost wild with rage and anguish, and he had been... dying. And now he was still dying, but she was here, and he turns his head, his eyes going wide, and lurches forward, trying to regain his feet and get to her, his arms rising from his sides and his worthless hands rising before him.
"Kitten..."
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Oh hell no. Dualscar is just starting to bare his teeth in irritation at the sight of the olive-blooded troll, when Signless makes a foolish and utterly stupid effort to get to her.
He drags him back into his arms, snapping, "No you don't! She can fuckin' come to you. You're in no condition to wwalk anywwhere, for fuck's sake."
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"If he keeps acting like this, he'll hurt himself more," he says quickly and quietly. "Slip this to him until the rest of what I need arrives so I can get started on his hands, alright?" That said, he begins to guide her closer to the bedside, eying the injured troll.
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"I am here Nubby. You are here again, everything is going to be alright."
With that, she finally slips free of her grasp on Darkleer's arm and quickly makes the rest of the way to the bedside. She offers up her hand, carefully placing on his cheek. It is difficult, but she is trying her best to ignore the close proximity of the subject of her ire.
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When she gets close enough, he rests his arms on her shoulders and leans as far forward as Dualscar will allow, nuzzling at her shoulder and the thick fall of her hair. "I'm sorry, Kitten... I'm so sorry..."
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But he can't keep Signless from his matesprit, so he suffers Disciple's approach, keeping Signless as still as he can. However, he allows Signless to reach for her, stroking his moirail's hair with one hand and holding him close with the other, his eyes narrowed and his expression forbidding.
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Also, don't mind if Darkleer just... stays kind of awkwardly right here. He clears his throat once then stops. He kind of has to.. work. here.
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The sight of his hands force a lump in his throat. For once she was thankful of the horrid daymares she had suffered. Recalling him in this state for all those sweeps helped her quickly adjust to the sight of the blackened husks at the end of his arms.
"Why are you sorry? You do not need to apologize for anything." Seeing him reaching out to her cemented a need in her. She pressed closer, trying to embrace the love of her life, seadweller-be-damned.
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"I'm so sorry, Kitten, I... I fucked up everything, I... we failed, we all failed... and it was because of me, everything was my fault... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...
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Dualscar's held Signless as he cried before - cried about this very issue. He shifts over a little, carrying Signless that inch or two closer to Disciple, though there's a part of him that wants nothing more than to simply sweep him up into his arms and leave - by the window if necessary, like Summoner did.
"Shush, noww," he croons, whispering into Signless' hair. "No one blames you. Wwe'vve talked about this. It's ovver noww. You'vve got nothin' to apologize for."
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Disciple leans forward to plant a kiss on his forehead. The awkwardness of the angle, and the proximity of Dualscar made her also yearn to just be able to pick him up and flee back to their hive.
"That is not true, light of my life. You have done far more then anyone thought possible. You..." A poke in her back reminds her of the pills in her hand. "Nubby, There is something you need to take, it will help with what has to be done. But do not worry, I will be here for you. No more leaving." With that she offers up her hand to him. "I need you to take these."
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