09-25-2018, 07:34 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]/ tl;dr he set himself on fire and contemplated some of his life choices this thread is a mess idk what i'm doing
He had heard somewhere before that third degree burns hurt less than second. That there was a point when someone's body could go through so much that suddenly it would stop registering part of it. But to get past it, you had to go through it — the way that burns would heighten senses, the agonizing sensation of it all. Laz had been burned a few times before, but never to the point that he would lose sensation. A paw on hot coals and a wordless howl as he immediately stepped back, or scrambling for the exits as a building burned around him. He would feel ashes on his skin, in his throat. Smoke inhalation was always worse than the fire itself in scenarios like the second. Choking on thick black smoke, eyes watering, unable to see more than a few feet in front of him. But he had staggered out and rolled to the ground with a steady recovery only moments away. Fire had never been that bad, he's just aware that it could always be worse. He's seen it before, sort of like this.
The dog looks like an oil spill. It's early morning and the world is still mostly sleeping through a hazy pink sunrise, but he hasn't slept well for a week now. With the fevers that burned him from the inside out, he could never get in anything more than a few restless hours before he would wake up panting and near hallucinations. He had done everything he could to figure out why it was happening, but Lazarus was never one for asking for help. It'd probably be his downfall one day, even though there are a few people here who have bothered. For that, he's grateful. Gabe — he'd always bothered, but it was a process to understand that others could do the same, that someone else could care. He'd spent his childhood as another cog in a violent machine, and then several more months unlearning it. The process was slow, the lessons hard to learn.
In this case, he's learning it a little too late. There was always some sort of waiting. For them to be disappointed or scared or freaked out, for his awkwardness and hair-trigger temper to be too much. Now oranges and yellows lick up an inky black pelt and he thinks that he's put too much thought into most of this, because if his mouth had been capable of forming words, he would have called out. Instead his teeth are gritted to cope with a heat that still boils from the inside out as flames build higher around him. It starts at his paws as a bright yellow-white and reaches the middle of his leg as a deep, flickering red. He expects pain, something to flinch from as it curls to his stomach and between his teeth, lights a line down his spine and flares higher and dies down low — and it does hurt, but it's the pain of standing in the desert or on hot concrete, and those are both far more tolerable than the fever that had left him sweating.
For a moment, he looks every bit like the nickname he'd never fully managed to shake. The deep black and flickering reds, pouring out of his mouth, off of his back. It catches on strands of grass instead of short fur, and the lines march outwards like people fleeing a battlefield, leaving only burned earth behind. It was instinct that drove Laz to the ground, a primal panic seizing his heart as he hits with a thud and immediately rolls, antlers sticking in the dirt that doesn't kill it. The whole thing is over quickly. Through the fire and into some uncertain numbness. There are no visible burns to color the Cane Corso's fur, but his limbs are shaking with the effort to hold up his own body and his head is low to the ground. The aching fever is gone, sure, and he still wonders if it was some hallucination, some joke his mind came up with. If it weren't for the circle of burned grass, Laz might actually believe that.
He had heard somewhere before that third degree burns hurt less than second. That there was a point when someone's body could go through so much that suddenly it would stop registering part of it. But to get past it, you had to go through it — the way that burns would heighten senses, the agonizing sensation of it all. Laz had been burned a few times before, but never to the point that he would lose sensation. A paw on hot coals and a wordless howl as he immediately stepped back, or scrambling for the exits as a building burned around him. He would feel ashes on his skin, in his throat. Smoke inhalation was always worse than the fire itself in scenarios like the second. Choking on thick black smoke, eyes watering, unable to see more than a few feet in front of him. But he had staggered out and rolled to the ground with a steady recovery only moments away. Fire had never been that bad, he's just aware that it could always be worse. He's seen it before, sort of like this.
The dog looks like an oil spill. It's early morning and the world is still mostly sleeping through a hazy pink sunrise, but he hasn't slept well for a week now. With the fevers that burned him from the inside out, he could never get in anything more than a few restless hours before he would wake up panting and near hallucinations. He had done everything he could to figure out why it was happening, but Lazarus was never one for asking for help. It'd probably be his downfall one day, even though there are a few people here who have bothered. For that, he's grateful. Gabe — he'd always bothered, but it was a process to understand that others could do the same, that someone else could care. He'd spent his childhood as another cog in a violent machine, and then several more months unlearning it. The process was slow, the lessons hard to learn.
In this case, he's learning it a little too late. There was always some sort of waiting. For them to be disappointed or scared or freaked out, for his awkwardness and hair-trigger temper to be too much. Now oranges and yellows lick up an inky black pelt and he thinks that he's put too much thought into most of this, because if his mouth had been capable of forming words, he would have called out. Instead his teeth are gritted to cope with a heat that still boils from the inside out as flames build higher around him. It starts at his paws as a bright yellow-white and reaches the middle of his leg as a deep, flickering red. He expects pain, something to flinch from as it curls to his stomach and between his teeth, lights a line down his spine and flares higher and dies down low — and it does hurt, but it's the pain of standing in the desert or on hot concrete, and those are both far more tolerable than the fever that had left him sweating.
For a moment, he looks every bit like the nickname he'd never fully managed to shake. The deep black and flickering reds, pouring out of his mouth, off of his back. It catches on strands of grass instead of short fur, and the lines march outwards like people fleeing a battlefield, leaving only burned earth behind. It was instinct that drove Laz to the ground, a primal panic seizing his heart as he hits with a thud and immediately rolls, antlers sticking in the dirt that doesn't kill it. The whole thing is over quickly. Through the fire and into some uncertain numbness. There are no visible burns to color the Cane Corso's fur, but his limbs are shaking with the effort to hold up his own body and his head is low to the ground. The aching fever is gone, sure, and he still wonders if it was some hallucination, some joke his mind came up with. If it weren't for the circle of burned grass, Laz might actually believe that.
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｢ GRAVE DIGGER, GRAVE DIGGER. [url=https://beastsofbeyond.com/index.php?topic=7333.msg48711#msg48711]INFO. ｣
