10-22-2018, 01:04 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]i've somehow forgotten how to write so basically he's injured and unknowingly standing within suhaven's borders please don't feel like you need to match this!
Lazarus had seen a lot of people die in all kinds of ways. Bleeding out was common, or infection finally winning. Some of the smaller, more resilient people would survive until their bones could be counted underneath their skin. Some went quiet, some went loud, but he learned easily enough that in the end, everyone went, no matter who people pretended to be. So he made peace with his death at a young age, without resistance. He would stay alive or as long as he could (wasn't that everyone's goal?) but he wouldn't mind the inevitable. He wouldn't let it rule his life. And truth be told, he'd made it longer than he thought he would. Dying on his own terms was a bonus that he appreciated, though even that was simply a result of his time alive. Lazarus had learned to value others, and maybe that had been his downfall. Would he have lived to a ripe old age, violent and bloody but alive if Gabriel hadn't rescued him? It doesn't matter.
This is what he would have chosen, again and again. Maybe that's what saves him.
He jerks awake with his heart beating frantically against his chest. The feeling is miraculous but he doesn't know why he expected anything other than the rhythm against his ribs. His mind feels hazy, sensations overpowering memories. Coarse grass pressed against the sensitive skin of his throat, and the smell of something sweet under raw meat, like summer. His eyes open to sunlight that warms his back. Waking up is slow even though his lungs are burning as he gasps for air, his body is burning as his muscles twitch, adrenaline burns through his veins as he fails. Everything is on fire but this time the world feels calm and his skin feels cold. This was falling asleep in reverse, the hazy exhaustion slowly leaving his mind as all sorts of other things filter back in.
His neck arches as his body spasms again, lifting halfway on shaky legs. Blood drips to the ground as his eyes shut tight and open again. He recognizes it through smell instead of sight, the same way that he doesn't know who he is and where he's at — none of this makes sense to him. The world is entirely wrong; the world is smaller than he remembered. There had been a few days like this, growing up. He would suddenly feel too large for his skin, bumping against everything and stumbling out of the way away. Clumsy. This time, his growth spurt feels larger than before. Broad black paws are spread across the ground with more fur in between his toes than he remembers having. It's all he can focus on now. Then the blood, and fiery streaks low on his legs. Fur that tickles the underside of his jaw when he ducks his head, thick and soft.
Everything hits him like a freight train as he staggers fully to his feet, pain darting up his legs — sharp fish in a bloody pond. Too many metaphors now, for something that doesn't matter. He's alive when he shouldn't be, in a body that isn't his. The former dog (that doesn't make sense) stands there, in the middle of Sunhaven's territory, with blood on his teeth and dripping from his hind leg. There's an entire chunk missing of his thigh, the edges a ragged bite. His weight shifts away from the injury, the heavy paw not even touching the earth. The world around him sways as his heartbeat slows — for a moment, it doesn't even matter that he's alive again. "¿Dónde diablos estoy?"
Lazarus had seen a lot of people die in all kinds of ways. Bleeding out was common, or infection finally winning. Some of the smaller, more resilient people would survive until their bones could be counted underneath their skin. Some went quiet, some went loud, but he learned easily enough that in the end, everyone went, no matter who people pretended to be. So he made peace with his death at a young age, without resistance. He would stay alive or as long as he could (wasn't that everyone's goal?) but he wouldn't mind the inevitable. He wouldn't let it rule his life. And truth be told, he'd made it longer than he thought he would. Dying on his own terms was a bonus that he appreciated, though even that was simply a result of his time alive. Lazarus had learned to value others, and maybe that had been his downfall. Would he have lived to a ripe old age, violent and bloody but alive if Gabriel hadn't rescued him? It doesn't matter.
This is what he would have chosen, again and again. Maybe that's what saves him.
He jerks awake with his heart beating frantically against his chest. The feeling is miraculous but he doesn't know why he expected anything other than the rhythm against his ribs. His mind feels hazy, sensations overpowering memories. Coarse grass pressed against the sensitive skin of his throat, and the smell of something sweet under raw meat, like summer. His eyes open to sunlight that warms his back. Waking up is slow even though his lungs are burning as he gasps for air, his body is burning as his muscles twitch, adrenaline burns through his veins as he fails. Everything is on fire but this time the world feels calm and his skin feels cold. This was falling asleep in reverse, the hazy exhaustion slowly leaving his mind as all sorts of other things filter back in.
His neck arches as his body spasms again, lifting halfway on shaky legs. Blood drips to the ground as his eyes shut tight and open again. He recognizes it through smell instead of sight, the same way that he doesn't know who he is and where he's at — none of this makes sense to him. The world is entirely wrong; the world is smaller than he remembered. There had been a few days like this, growing up. He would suddenly feel too large for his skin, bumping against everything and stumbling out of the way away. Clumsy. This time, his growth spurt feels larger than before. Broad black paws are spread across the ground with more fur in between his toes than he remembers having. It's all he can focus on now. Then the blood, and fiery streaks low on his legs. Fur that tickles the underside of his jaw when he ducks his head, thick and soft.
Everything hits him like a freight train as he staggers fully to his feet, pain darting up his legs — sharp fish in a bloody pond. Too many metaphors now, for something that doesn't matter. He's alive when he shouldn't be, in a body that isn't his. The former dog (that doesn't make sense) stands there, in the middle of Sunhaven's territory, with blood on his teeth and dripping from his hind leg. There's an entire chunk missing of his thigh, the edges a ragged bite. His weight shifts away from the injury, the heavy paw not even touching the earth. The world around him sways as his heartbeat slows — for a moment, it doesn't even matter that he's alive again. "¿Dónde diablos estoy?"
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｢ GRAVE DIGGER, GRAVE DIGGER. [url=https://beastsofbeyond.com/index.php?topic=7333.msg48711#msg48711]INFO. ｣