battlefront (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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entrancelogs2016-11-15 07:28 pm
battlefront) wrote in entrancelogs2016-11-15 07:28 pm
I'm only joking
Who: Cloud and YOU
Where: Outside the mansion, in the gardens.
When: 11/15
Rating: PG-13 for language and allusions to body horror, body rot, nasty things
Summary: Cloud had a teeny tiny episode in the garden and has been in a coma for four days.
The Story: Time is a funny thing. A concept that loses meaning in the face of grander events, when the whole wide world comes crashing down and you have a small timeframe to save it. Or maybe it's an estimate of how much longer you'll even be on the world at all. Five years feels like ten minutes. Another year feels like five.
He doesn't know how long it is before he can see again, face buried within the weird, unnatural flowers that fix themselves, that move away from him as he shuffles. Flowers were alive, but not that much. A weird world. Weird rules. Some of them coated with a horrible-smelling black stench--
Ah.
His head's pounding. It must've happened again. The smell's coming from him. Smeared on his face and his arm is drenched in it, though most of it has long-since dried up. The arm's still shaking, though, his other hand laid over it in a vain attempt to put pressure on the pain.
What a fucking mess.
It doesn't sound like anyone's around, though. And the light's stabbing through his vision, making the headache worse. So he closes his eyes again, laying it back down, trying to control his breathing. He'll... get up in a few minutes, wash himself off before anyone sees. Too much effort at the moment.
Where: Outside the mansion, in the gardens.
When: 11/15
Rating: PG-13 for language and allusions to body horror, body rot, nasty things
Summary: Cloud had a teeny tiny episode in the garden and has been in a coma for four days.
The Story: Time is a funny thing. A concept that loses meaning in the face of grander events, when the whole wide world comes crashing down and you have a small timeframe to save it. Or maybe it's an estimate of how much longer you'll even be on the world at all. Five years feels like ten minutes. Another year feels like five.
He doesn't know how long it is before he can see again, face buried within the weird, unnatural flowers that fix themselves, that move away from him as he shuffles. Flowers were alive, but not that much. A weird world. Weird rules. Some of them coated with a horrible-smelling black stench--
Ah.
His head's pounding. It must've happened again. The smell's coming from him. Smeared on his face and his arm is drenched in it, though most of it has long-since dried up. The arm's still shaking, though, his other hand laid over it in a vain attempt to put pressure on the pain.
What a fucking mess.
It doesn't sound like anyone's around, though. And the light's stabbing through his vision, making the headache worse. So he closes his eyes again, laying it back down, trying to control his breathing. He'll... get up in a few minutes, wash himself off before anyone sees. Too much effort at the moment.
no subject
Then she sees Cloud, sprawled on the ground and looking like he's in pain, covered in that weird black stuff that she saw beneath his bandages, and it immediately becomes apparent that this isn't going to be relaxing at all.
"Oh my goodness- are you alright???" She comes running over quickly, eyes darting to his chest, to make sure it's still rising and falling- still breathing. Still alive. Her hand moves over to his arm, where he showed her last time, hovering over it and glowing green, in an attempt to assuage any pain he might be in.
no subject
His hearing was still muffled, but he could hear footsteps approaching in the grass - slow at first, then quickening over to his location. Cloud gives a small, irritated grunt as his head turns in the brush, but he knows it's too late at this point. Someone's found him, probably going to fuss over him. He just hopes they don't come in contact with anything before he can tell them not to, that it's too dangerous.
The voice registers in his mind just as he feels the magic come. He tries blinking his eyes open again, green and slitted for just a second before they return to normal, turning to the figure above him.
"...t kinda dizz..."
Oh. That came out... very hoarse. Just how long had he been laying here?
"S'fine. Gettin' up."
A couple minutes pass, but he doesn't make much of an effort to.
no subject
She already knows her healing doesn't heal this. If it helps at all. He isn't getting up, despite his apparent decision to do so. For all she knows, he could be dying right now, and she can't do anything on her own.
She needs to call for help, pulling her phone out with her other hand- her hand shakes a little, having to retry calling once or twice before trying to call Ford- hopefully, he has some way of assisting by now.
no subject
She has a phone out, trying to call someone. Calling-- she promised, didn't she? She promised she wouldn't tell anyone. So despite himself, how heavy his body was feeling and his pulsing, pounding head, he starts to drag himself away from her touch. He's making a mess over the flowers and he doesn't care, he--
She promised.
"Don't. Please don't." It sounds miserable. Pathetic.
no subject
Unfortunately, she winds up getting the answering machine, and immediately grimaces. She doesn't have time to leave a message. "Damn... Okay, just... please stop moving. Unless moving helps. But I do not think that is how diseases generally work." She really doesn't know anything, as she moves over to follow him, continuing to try and heal, trying not to show how panicked she's getting. How familiar this suddenly feels.
no subject
This... mess. It's body rot. It's his insides rejecting the stigma and it's all a war that's destroying more than it's helping. He'd read up on countless books about it, researched it so much, desperate for a cure. But there is none. There is no helping. And it was stupid enough telling her about it in the first place because now he's just gone and worried more people.
Now he has to run again. Because maybe they'll move on. Maybe they'll eventually just forget about him.
She puts the phone away and his breath tightens, body protesting against the sudden movement, after however long he'd probably been laying there. Just... a few more minutes and he can stand. He can leave. And maybe she will, too.
"It happens. It'll pass."
no subject
She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know what's wrong, and right now, it is so, so much worse than it was when she saw him the first time.
Toriel doesn't have a single clue of what to do. It may not be a child this time, but this young man is still too young to die. She doesn't want to have to watch another person slip away from a disease she doesn't understand. She can't.
no subject
Just the fucking way of the world or something. Like a Planet getting fed up with all the shit and spreading a virus that'll kill humanity off once and for all. Like summoning monsters to go and destroy towns and villages and go on a murdering spree to free itself from the pain. It's not just people who're selfish. The world is, too.
He finally moves a hand to rub his face. It doesn't help anything, and it just smears the blackness more, but it's something.
"Just wanted to sit outside for awhile."
no subject
Toriel is not sure what exactly that black stuff is, but... it probably isn't good. Certainly can't be sanitary.
"Please, let me know when you are ready to move. I will do my best to assist you."
She refuses to add an 'if' to that statement.
no subject
"Y-yeah."
Just a response. Any kind of response. He's already trying to push his upper half into at least a sitting position, but everything goes white for just a few seconds and he freezes, blinking a few times to try and clear his vision. The worst part about having these attacks was always initially getting up.
"Don't... don't touch." It comes as a mumble through his light-headedness, and he tries to catch his breath. "Don't want you gettin' sick, too."