Война Машина | Warsman (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mouthbreathing) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
aungier2013-07-18 07:28 pm
mouthbreathing) wrote in aungier2013-07-18 07:28 pm
Entry tags:
"All that we see or seem..." - November 4th, 1888
Date: November 4th, 1888
Time: 12:30 AM
Location: Second floor hallway
Characters: Warsman and ultimately Robin Mask, but also open to everyone! [OPEN/CLOSED]
Summary: Warsman reacts less than positively to the fungus' spores and finds himself overwhelmed by paranoia in the hallway, taking it out (aggressively) on those around him- including the one person he trusts more than anyone.
Warnings: Event-related horror, violence.
In the hallway, Warsman staggered.
The fear beat against his skull in a brass knuckle one-two, and in between the thuds he could feel his own heart kicking at his throat like a frightened horse. His head had been a dreamy hurricane of stranger's faces and jeering voices only a few minutes before but now he wasn't sure if he'd even opened his eyes at all. What time was it, even? Deep down, he knew he was at Aungier House- he knew he was in the hallway- he knew he was by his bedroom--
But there were so many shadows, so many dark gaps in his vision for things to hide in while he was distracted, and he'd seen so many things in his dreams... he'd spent so many years wrestling (boxing) that it seemed inconceivable to imagine a world like the one he found himself in now that wasn't about to turn on him. More alarmingly, he felt slow and stupid, as though he'd been drugged, and that thought only frightened him all the more; he hadn't had a sensible thought since he'd awoken. If he'd awoken.
He fell drunkenly against a wall with tendrils at his back, but his senses were almost totally self-absorbed. All he could hear was the harsh, shallow sound of his own breathing, that metal ko... ho... sigh that seemed to haunt him day and night and that now commanded his full attention in its inhumanity. But if all he could hear was himself, didn't that mean that just about anything could creep up on him? And with the state he was in, he was perfectly, painfully vulnerable.
Something flickered in the corner of his vision. Warsman's eyes flared a searing red through the darkness and he rounded on it fiercely, fists raised. "Show yourself-!" His voice cracked like old china.
Time: 12:30 AM
Location: Second floor hallway
Characters: Warsman and ultimately Robin Mask, but also open to everyone! [OPEN/
Summary: Warsman reacts less than positively to the fungus' spores and finds himself overwhelmed by paranoia in the hallway, taking it out (aggressively) on those around him- including the one person he trusts more than anyone.
Warnings: Event-related horror, violence.
In the hallway, Warsman staggered.
The fear beat against his skull in a brass knuckle one-two, and in between the thuds he could feel his own heart kicking at his throat like a frightened horse. His head had been a dreamy hurricane of stranger's faces and jeering voices only a few minutes before but now he wasn't sure if he'd even opened his eyes at all. What time was it, even? Deep down, he knew he was at Aungier House- he knew he was in the hallway- he knew he was by his bedroom--
But there were so many shadows, so many dark gaps in his vision for things to hide in while he was distracted, and he'd seen so many things in his dreams... he'd spent so many years wrestling (boxing) that it seemed inconceivable to imagine a world like the one he found himself in now that wasn't about to turn on him. More alarmingly, he felt slow and stupid, as though he'd been drugged, and that thought only frightened him all the more; he hadn't had a sensible thought since he'd awoken. If he'd awoken.
He fell drunkenly against a wall with tendrils at his back, but his senses were almost totally self-absorbed. All he could hear was the harsh, shallow sound of his own breathing, that metal ko... ho... sigh that seemed to haunt him day and night and that now commanded his full attention in its inhumanity. But if all he could hear was himself, didn't that mean that just about anything could creep up on him? And with the state he was in, he was perfectly, painfully vulnerable.
Something flickered in the corner of his vision. Warsman's eyes flared a searing red through the darkness and he rounded on it fiercely, fists raised. "Show yourself-!" His voice cracked like old china.
no subject
"Fuck!"
That exclamation was in Old Gaelic, but not like he notices.
no subject
Warsman hesitates, disarmed and loosening his grip before he even realises it. "Who are you?!" he spits out again, and this time his voice is edged with concern as well.
no subject
"You can call me Lancer, if that means anything to you."
His body is still tense. He's ready to strike out at the monster if need be.
no subject
He's still ready to throw a punch if need be, of course, and he's more than willing to crush him if he has to... but something calmer and more reasonable than anything he's felt so far tells him that he won't have to. "... I'm sorry. I don't know the name." A beat. "Warsman. I'm Warsman, that is."
no subject
His head is swimming. It's hard for him to think. But he knows he should have heard of the name from somewhere, even if he didn't know the person.
"W-what happened to you?"
no subject
"What do you mean? What did happen to me?" Before Warsman can stop himself he's feeling for Lancer's shoulders, just barely highlighted by mushrooms, seizing them in a vice-grip that makes for quite the counterpoint to his trembling. "What do you see?!" He can barely see his own hands in the dark; how does he know they haven't warped and twisted while he was distracted?
no subject
"Look at you! You look like some sort of monster! Some sort of...blob!"