06-10-2018, 11:08 PM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
[ tl;dr: chaboy shows up on the border without a pulse
also we're pretending this occurs on saturday afternoon thnx ]
There was no recollection of how he got there. Teleportation might be the logical answer, seeing how he clearly didn't walk there, and he hadn't been there moments before -- but there was no conscious decision to do that. Later, he wouldn't be able to say if he had gotten himself there or if it had been Beck; later, he wouldn't really recall much of those fuzzy in between moments where he was in Tanglewood one moment, everything fading to black, and on the Ascendants' border the next. "Tomorrow," he could swear he remembered, though he had no idea if that would have been before or after he got there, before or after he forgot how to breathe, before or after the flickering darkness started to settle in -- there was little to no recollection of the last 60 seconds or so, between the burning of his lungs intensifying and everything slowing down.
There was... nothing.
No movement. No pulse. The Seraph was limp on their border, seemingly having gotten there on his own, but it was clear that he likely couldn't have. At some point he must have passed out, the rope pulling tight on his throat when he couldn't keep his weight steady, when he was losing too much oxygen to resist the lulling darkness. Beck's voice was just a wash in the background as his senses had dulled and faltered, and there was no way to tell how long it had been between he initially passed out and when he wound up here. Long enough for his body to give up, surrendering to his screaming lungs and the burning in his neck. 10 seconds without a pulse, maybe 30.
The only sign of damage was the matted fur around his neck, though there was no blood. There was simply nothing.
--
Generally speaking, Bastille didn't dream unless he dreamed in memory. Now, however, he sank and sank through the darkness as his body burned and prickles shot along his nerves. There was no sensation in the darkness until he jolted all at once, and found himself standing in the middle of a clearing, dark indistinct trees all around. Mist rolled through the trees, coated the ground, climbed high to his belly as he stared straight ahead, thoughts sluggish. He had been here before, maybe, though he couldn't say when. It was all so... vague. A half-forgotten memory of a dream.
They were there, though. Directly in front of him stood Echo, and he knew without looking that if he looked over either shoulder there would be Pollutedsoul and Zaniel, completing the triangle piece of a five-pronged star; somewhere to his right, Grimmkit, and his mother used to be to his left. He knew how it should all look, but somehow, he couldn't quite say he was used to it. That he had been here before. It was more akin to deja vu, and he was momentarily at a loss.
Everything was numb. He could feel and remember nothing, was nothing, and when he instinctively made a move to step forward, he found that he couldn't. He was trapped, rooted to the spot, staring into blue eyes colder than his own. He opened his mouth and there was nothing -- just the chilling sensation of not being able to breathe, his throat constricting and burning as his neck throbbed.
"Well shit, boo," Echo drawled, looking vaguely amused, "I guess we see if he killed you or not, huh? Didn't they ever tell you that leaders don't [i]really get nine lives?"
Bastille stared back at him, blank, unmoving, uncomprehending. He? Who was he? Was he dead and did he care? (Was there anything that he cared about? He couldn't call on any memories of his life, any suggestion of existence, beyond this clearing. Only the faint burn in his throat, the rawness of his voice.)
"My money's on you fuckin' dying, kid. I don't think you've got much of a survival instinct," someone -- Zaniel -- said, lazily, over his shoulder. "Is there a limit on how long you can go without air? Tick, tock, yo." A snort of agreement from Echo. Bastille just looked at the stealth-walker, and considered.
Should he be alarmed, and if so, why wasn't he?
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSalso we're pretending this occurs on saturday afternoon thnx ]
There was no recollection of how he got there. Teleportation might be the logical answer, seeing how he clearly didn't walk there, and he hadn't been there moments before -- but there was no conscious decision to do that. Later, he wouldn't be able to say if he had gotten himself there or if it had been Beck; later, he wouldn't really recall much of those fuzzy in between moments where he was in Tanglewood one moment, everything fading to black, and on the Ascendants' border the next. "Tomorrow," he could swear he remembered, though he had no idea if that would have been before or after he got there, before or after he forgot how to breathe, before or after the flickering darkness started to settle in -- there was little to no recollection of the last 60 seconds or so, between the burning of his lungs intensifying and everything slowing down.
There was... nothing.
No movement. No pulse. The Seraph was limp on their border, seemingly having gotten there on his own, but it was clear that he likely couldn't have. At some point he must have passed out, the rope pulling tight on his throat when he couldn't keep his weight steady, when he was losing too much oxygen to resist the lulling darkness. Beck's voice was just a wash in the background as his senses had dulled and faltered, and there was no way to tell how long it had been between he initially passed out and when he wound up here. Long enough for his body to give up, surrendering to his screaming lungs and the burning in his neck. 10 seconds without a pulse, maybe 30.
The only sign of damage was the matted fur around his neck, though there was no blood. There was simply nothing.
--
Generally speaking, Bastille didn't dream unless he dreamed in memory. Now, however, he sank and sank through the darkness as his body burned and prickles shot along his nerves. There was no sensation in the darkness until he jolted all at once, and found himself standing in the middle of a clearing, dark indistinct trees all around. Mist rolled through the trees, coated the ground, climbed high to his belly as he stared straight ahead, thoughts sluggish. He had been here before, maybe, though he couldn't say when. It was all so... vague. A half-forgotten memory of a dream.
They were there, though. Directly in front of him stood Echo, and he knew without looking that if he looked over either shoulder there would be Pollutedsoul and Zaniel, completing the triangle piece of a five-pronged star; somewhere to his right, Grimmkit, and his mother used to be to his left. He knew how it should all look, but somehow, he couldn't quite say he was used to it. That he had been here before. It was more akin to deja vu, and he was momentarily at a loss.
Everything was numb. He could feel and remember nothing, was nothing, and when he instinctively made a move to step forward, he found that he couldn't. He was trapped, rooted to the spot, staring into blue eyes colder than his own. He opened his mouth and there was nothing -- just the chilling sensation of not being able to breathe, his throat constricting and burning as his neck throbbed.
"Well shit, boo," Echo drawled, looking vaguely amused, "I guess we see if he killed you or not, huh? Didn't they ever tell you that leaders don't [i]really get nine lives?"
Bastille stared back at him, blank, unmoving, uncomprehending. He? Who was he? Was he dead and did he care? (Was there anything that he cared about? He couldn't call on any memories of his life, any suggestion of existence, beyond this clearing. Only the faint burn in his throat, the rawness of his voice.)
"My money's on you fuckin' dying, kid. I don't think you've got much of a survival instinct," someone -- Zaniel -- said, lazily, over his shoulder. "Is there a limit on how long you can go without air? Tick, tock, yo." A snort of agreement from Echo. Bastille just looked at the stealth-walker, and considered.
Should he be alarmed, and if so, why wasn't he?
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]