08-05-2018, 03:40 PM
[size=9pt]There's a leak in the corner. It drip, drip, drips, bounces, bounces, bounces off the ground and fucking echoes and Moon's gonna' lose his fucking mind.
He's severely messed up. Cuts running down his neck, tooth marks in his hind leg, blood caking under his chin and one eye stained crimson, shut tight He had his head resting against the wall, for the cool temperature of it, if anything. He was weaker than he'd ever been, muscles shaky even as he sat, and his head was throbbing. He was just not doing good. He'd seen the movies; this is where the protagonist reminisces on their life, on their loved ones, on their accomplishments and their faults, and comes to terms with their inevitable death. The problem was, Moon had had a short life, and he really didn't think anyone fucking loved him, and his accomplishments were non-existent next to his faults. So he didn't think about that. He thought about the dripping. Besides, he'd be a shit protagonist.
But he failed to remember the trope next in line; the savior. In enters a knight in shining armor, hushed whispers and a disguise, to save him so he can continue his story, reach his character arch. But here came clicking talons and cloak. He blinks his eyes open, gazes steadily at Gabriel, waits a beat, and promptly shuts them again. "'Thought you were the Grim Reaper. Don't get my hopes up like that." He stares into the blackness his eyelids cast, and when he speaks, his voice is scratchy and torn. "If Panchair sent you, tell him I've kicked the bucket and joined the God Squad. I ain't talking."
It's the sound of the basket that gets the better of him. Curiousity killed the cat. Moon blinks his one good eye open, cartoonish as he always is, and looks from Gabe, to the basket, back to Gabe. Clearly they're trying to fix him up, fatten him up for sacrifice, because they've realized his good lucks under all the skin and bone and they're willing to backtrack on the torture. He's hesitant to trust. Besides, at this point, he's too out of it to even chew up a poultice or tell the difference between Comfrey and Coltsfoot. He'd sooner poison himself than heal himself. When he speaks, it's flat and humorless. "What the fuck are you doing here, man."
He's severely messed up. Cuts running down his neck, tooth marks in his hind leg, blood caking under his chin and one eye stained crimson, shut tight He had his head resting against the wall, for the cool temperature of it, if anything. He was weaker than he'd ever been, muscles shaky even as he sat, and his head was throbbing. He was just not doing good. He'd seen the movies; this is where the protagonist reminisces on their life, on their loved ones, on their accomplishments and their faults, and comes to terms with their inevitable death. The problem was, Moon had had a short life, and he really didn't think anyone fucking loved him, and his accomplishments were non-existent next to his faults. So he didn't think about that. He thought about the dripping. Besides, he'd be a shit protagonist.
But he failed to remember the trope next in line; the savior. In enters a knight in shining armor, hushed whispers and a disguise, to save him so he can continue his story, reach his character arch. But here came clicking talons and cloak. He blinks his eyes open, gazes steadily at Gabriel, waits a beat, and promptly shuts them again. "'Thought you were the Grim Reaper. Don't get my hopes up like that." He stares into the blackness his eyelids cast, and when he speaks, his voice is scratchy and torn. "If Panchair sent you, tell him I've kicked the bucket and joined the God Squad. I ain't talking."
It's the sound of the basket that gets the better of him. Curiousity killed the cat. Moon blinks his one good eye open, cartoonish as he always is, and looks from Gabe, to the basket, back to Gabe. Clearly they're trying to fix him up, fatten him up for sacrifice, because they've realized his good lucks under all the skin and bone and they're willing to backtrack on the torture. He's hesitant to trust. Besides, at this point, he's too out of it to even chew up a poultice or tell the difference between Comfrey and Coltsfoot. He'd sooner poison himself than heal himself. When he speaks, it's flat and humorless. "What the fuck are you doing here, man."
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]