Zulf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
betrayedambassador) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2013-04-09 02:23 am
betrayedambassador) wrote in entrancelogs2013-04-09 02:23 am
[001] take these sunken eyes and learn to see [CLOSED]
Who: Zulf, Aerith, Martha, Souji
Where: Zulf's room -- fifth floor, number 016.
When: Monday, April 8, very early morning.
Rating: PG-13 -- blood's involved. Also, mention of suicide.
Summary: Some of Zulf's wounds have opened up again and he's losing blood. Aerith, Martha and maybe Souji come to his aid.
Room 016 has transformed itself into a traditional Ura bedroom. There's an empty altar, covered in white cloth, wedged in a corner. The walls are all covered in tapestries. The bed is wooden, only a couple of inches off the ground and piled with blankets and pillows, all in colours and patterns that Zulf finds almost unbearably nostalgic. Loath to bleed on such finery and too weak to move in any case, he's lying on the floor by the wardrobe. Blood is soaking through his waistcoat, turning the muted orange a deep burgundy. His face is a blank mask. He is too tired and too weak to even moan.
His heart flutters in his chest, a bird beating against the mesh of its cage. Every breath he takes is laboured, painful. At least I'm not coughing up blood, he thinks, letting his eyes fall closed. At least--
The pain is, at least briefly, his whole world. He takes what he thinks might be one of his final breaths, deep and shuddering, and starts reciting, voice wavering, a prayer to the Lorn Mother.
This is not how he thought he'd die. He thought he would die in bed, surrounded by family, hailed as a hero in his obituaries. Later, he thought he'd die at the hands of his own people, on the cold marble of the Tarzal Terminals. He thought he would die falling off the Bastion, he thought he would die by his own hand.
He runs out of prayer and concentrates on breathing. In, out. In, out.
In.
Out.
Where: Zulf's room -- fifth floor, number 016.
When: Monday, April 8, very early morning.
Rating: PG-13 -- blood's involved. Also, mention of suicide.
Summary: Some of Zulf's wounds have opened up again and he's losing blood. Aerith, Martha and maybe Souji come to his aid.
Room 016 has transformed itself into a traditional Ura bedroom. There's an empty altar, covered in white cloth, wedged in a corner. The walls are all covered in tapestries. The bed is wooden, only a couple of inches off the ground and piled with blankets and pillows, all in colours and patterns that Zulf finds almost unbearably nostalgic. Loath to bleed on such finery and too weak to move in any case, he's lying on the floor by the wardrobe. Blood is soaking through his waistcoat, turning the muted orange a deep burgundy. His face is a blank mask. He is too tired and too weak to even moan.
His heart flutters in his chest, a bird beating against the mesh of its cage. Every breath he takes is laboured, painful. At least I'm not coughing up blood, he thinks, letting his eyes fall closed. At least--
The pain is, at least briefly, his whole world. He takes what he thinks might be one of his final breaths, deep and shuddering, and starts reciting, voice wavering, a prayer to the Lorn Mother.
This is not how he thought he'd die. He thought he would die in bed, surrounded by family, hailed as a hero in his obituaries. Later, he thought he'd die at the hands of his own people, on the cold marble of the Tarzal Terminals. He thought he would die falling off the Bastion, he thought he would die by his own hand.
He runs out of prayer and concentrates on breathing. In, out. In, out.
In.
Out.
no subject
"I'll take care of the floor." The Mansion would probably clean up on its own if they left it alone long enough, but the smell of blood doesn't exactly make for a restful atmosphere.
He busies himself wiping up the blood, spraying it with the cleaner and then scrubbing it with the rags in his other hand.