eternalize this life / {krueger & lilybird}
Jun 22, 2023 15:04:52 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Jun 22, 2023 15:04:52 GMT -5
He believes his luck's run out by the time he reaches the area, the smell of nature and rot encompassing him as he stumbles forwards. He'd used his knife like a makeshift climbing dagger until he could walk back in the forest, stabbing it into the flesh of the trees and using it to steady himself against the blood loss. His own wounds still simmer on his skin, the stench of his own burning flesh intertwined into the seams.
The last time he'd looked at them the cauterized gashes had been moving. He convinces himself that was just a trick of the light.
He'd sparked his own path from Olete once his limbs had learned to move again, steadied himself in the thinning floor of the forest and looked out towards the areas ahead. He knows this arena is cruel, that this world is unforgiving and wants him dead, but he also knows in crimson and color that the tributes are meaner. It's why he can't tether himself to one area even though his senses remain on high alert, can't force himself to stop and sit down though Olete tells him to rest.
There were things out there that wanted exactly that, nestled in the rustling of the trees or the giant mushrooms that now swarm him, towering into the sky and beckoning him forwards. Keep fuckin' moving, a voice in the back of his head reminds him, and it's only when he stumbles forwards that he realizes he's playing with a double-edged sword.
Both ends bloody, whatever they wanted to find him would do just that, no matter if he's pushing forward or not.
Krueger pulls a root from the nearest rotting tree and wraps it around his wrist, brandishes his other hand with the knife and pretends there's some sort of familiarity laced into the feeling of both. Home, or whatever home was that month, never caused his skin to be torn apart at the seams, never caused him to falter so heavily, to look death in the eyes and realize it's just a mirror. Now all that's left of him is a shining knife and moving wounds, aching heart and bruised bones.
He breaths the rotting stench of a coffin around him, scraping against his lungs. "Come out, come out." He says, short and sweet and so desperately covering up the fact that he is terrified.
The last time he'd looked at them the cauterized gashes had been moving. He convinces himself that was just a trick of the light.
He'd sparked his own path from Olete once his limbs had learned to move again, steadied himself in the thinning floor of the forest and looked out towards the areas ahead. He knows this arena is cruel, that this world is unforgiving and wants him dead, but he also knows in crimson and color that the tributes are meaner. It's why he can't tether himself to one area even though his senses remain on high alert, can't force himself to stop and sit down though Olete tells him to rest.
There were things out there that wanted exactly that, nestled in the rustling of the trees or the giant mushrooms that now swarm him, towering into the sky and beckoning him forwards. Keep fuckin' moving, a voice in the back of his head reminds him, and it's only when he stumbles forwards that he realizes he's playing with a double-edged sword.
Both ends bloody, whatever they wanted to find him would do just that, no matter if he's pushing forward or not.
Krueger pulls a root from the nearest rotting tree and wraps it around his wrist, brandishes his other hand with the knife and pretends there's some sort of familiarity laced into the feeling of both. Home, or whatever home was that month, never caused his skin to be torn apart at the seams, never caused him to falter so heavily, to look death in the eyes and realize it's just a mirror. Now all that's left of him is a shining knife and moving wounds, aching heart and bruised bones.
He breaths the rotting stench of a coffin around him, scraping against his lungs. "Come out, come out." He says, short and sweet and so desperately covering up the fact that he is terrified.
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