Without Expectation {{Wolfamundo, Day III}}
Feb 16, 2012 5:42:07 GMT -5
Post by meg. on Feb 16, 2012 5:42:07 GMT -5
O Shrol Raidan, such a little boy,
Youngest tribute in the quell
O Shrol Raidan, such a deadly boy
Surely he won’t go to hell?
He could feel blisters forming from his hands trailing the endless cobbled wall, but what else was he to do? Blisters were the least of his worries when his world was just greens and greys, pixels and fuzz. It was a TV screen that had slowly been untuned and soon, he feared, would be turned off for good.
At home, he always slept with the door open a crack, so as to let some light in. It annoyed ?, whom he shared a room with, to no end, but he liked to know when he awoke in the night that everything was still there, in its proper position. Perhaps it was the fact that he did not know where anything in the foreign world belonged, but the fact that slowly but surely his eyes were failing him did not scare him. It had started off with just the background fading away but now, no more than half a day later, the world was just smudges of baby colours, fighting with each other to be painted into a picture. But the picture was not forming, could not be painted.
He had worse things to think about. He was a murderer. And deep down, in the foundations of his religious being, he knew that this was bad. He was so, so desperate to be forgiven, and yet he willingly had attacked her, willingly had tried to hurt her, and it was his fault and no one else’s that she was dead. He was trying to stay strong but he wanted to run back, to find her bloody body and to hold it in his arms, to say he was sorry again and again and again. But it was too late. Hours ago he had heard the cannon sound, as if the blood spurting out of her lifeless body like juice from a plum was not enough to signal her brief departure from the Arena. Her body would be gone now, sent back to her district, and all that would be left of the nameless, districtless girl would be a red stain on the bog floor, like some fancy type of Capitol carpet.
Not only were his eyes objecting to the arena, but his stomach was now, too. He could feel the hunger palpitating his stomach, but he could ignore it for a while longer- there were times at home were he survived on next to nothing for days. But the lack of water was something new entirely, something that he needed to learn how to solve- and fast. He could feel every single blood cell inside his body squeezing themselves, checking in every pore of his body that he was, in fact, dry, and yet still somehow goblets of sticky sweat rolled in slow motion down his forehead.
His hands, one of the few senses he could still rely upon, came to and opening in the wall. He was out. Out into the sand, where he was much less likely to find water, but he reasoned that surely, the arena would consist of more than just the one little tower and endless sand, and so, vunerable as he was with the little sight he had left, resigned to his blindness, he journeyed out to find what he knew must be in the arena somewhere, as rare as hens teeth and as common as muck, and as vital and anything can be to one’s survival. Water.
{OOC: Will le code en le tomorrow. Sorry it looks ice, I spent all evening writing a song for shrol which will not load
}}
Youngest tribute in the quell
O Shrol Raidan, such a deadly boy
Surely he won’t go to hell?
He could feel blisters forming from his hands trailing the endless cobbled wall, but what else was he to do? Blisters were the least of his worries when his world was just greens and greys, pixels and fuzz. It was a TV screen that had slowly been untuned and soon, he feared, would be turned off for good.
At home, he always slept with the door open a crack, so as to let some light in. It annoyed ?, whom he shared a room with, to no end, but he liked to know when he awoke in the night that everything was still there, in its proper position. Perhaps it was the fact that he did not know where anything in the foreign world belonged, but the fact that slowly but surely his eyes were failing him did not scare him. It had started off with just the background fading away but now, no more than half a day later, the world was just smudges of baby colours, fighting with each other to be painted into a picture. But the picture was not forming, could not be painted.
He had worse things to think about. He was a murderer. And deep down, in the foundations of his religious being, he knew that this was bad. He was so, so desperate to be forgiven, and yet he willingly had attacked her, willingly had tried to hurt her, and it was his fault and no one else’s that she was dead. He was trying to stay strong but he wanted to run back, to find her bloody body and to hold it in his arms, to say he was sorry again and again and again. But it was too late. Hours ago he had heard the cannon sound, as if the blood spurting out of her lifeless body like juice from a plum was not enough to signal her brief departure from the Arena. Her body would be gone now, sent back to her district, and all that would be left of the nameless, districtless girl would be a red stain on the bog floor, like some fancy type of Capitol carpet.
Not only were his eyes objecting to the arena, but his stomach was now, too. He could feel the hunger palpitating his stomach, but he could ignore it for a while longer- there were times at home were he survived on next to nothing for days. But the lack of water was something new entirely, something that he needed to learn how to solve- and fast. He could feel every single blood cell inside his body squeezing themselves, checking in every pore of his body that he was, in fact, dry, and yet still somehow goblets of sticky sweat rolled in slow motion down his forehead.
His hands, one of the few senses he could still rely upon, came to and opening in the wall. He was out. Out into the sand, where he was much less likely to find water, but he reasoned that surely, the arena would consist of more than just the one little tower and endless sand, and so, vunerable as he was with the little sight he had left, resigned to his blindness, he journeyed out to find what he knew must be in the arena somewhere, as rare as hens teeth and as common as muck, and as vital and anything can be to one’s survival. Water.
{OOC: Will le code en le tomorrow. Sorry it looks ice, I spent all evening writing a song for shrol which will not load
}}
