ok like, ow / {krueger & torian}
Jun 23, 2023 16:08:40 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Jun 23, 2023 16:08:40 GMT -5
He keeps his pace, one foot in front of another only to remind himself that he is still living. Not that the arena helps with that much- there are mushrooms that match his height and frame and others that exceed it completely, draping their shadows over him like a looming threat or a terrifying promise.
He doesn''t want to stick around to find out which one the arena decides on, it's why he hoists himself up by mangled bootstraps and clings to the nearest tree to steady his resolve, legs trembling against the cuts that now grace them and his wounds still wriggling underneath his clothes. He glides a fingertip against them as he stumbles forwards, daring to tempt whatever fate his far too recently open wounds had in store for him. The wounds react to his touch like a cowering animal, receding away before wrinkling into mounds of contorted flesh.
It's unlike anything he's ever seen before. He fucking hates it.
It's why there's a bite of relief that washes over him when the fungal nightmares finally start to recede somewhat, thinning to reveal the familiar purple and green roots of the paths leading away from the Cornucopia. But it passes just as quick as it comes- the sting of new wounds sitting in its wake and sending a wave of fiery pain out underneath his flesh. He'd nearly died there, running away from the Cornucopia as fast as he could've- one moment a bloodbath and the next an execution.
Now he has to maneuver his way through it, stumbling softly on the soft dirt and still dripping line of red into the grass. He gulps, swallows, pretends like he doesn't know the Gamemaker's dirty tricks and doesn't have an itching idea of what will come next- even as the bushes rustle and he catches the sound of heavy footsteps against the dirt.
There's a whip in one hand and a knife, shaking softly, in the other as he turns towards the noise, trying his best to steel the look of fear that dances across his face when he sees who it is. He hears his cannon in the whispers, sickly little things, and feels his voice scratch his own throat when he finally speaks.
"Here to finish the job?"
He doesn''t want to stick around to find out which one the arena decides on, it's why he hoists himself up by mangled bootstraps and clings to the nearest tree to steady his resolve, legs trembling against the cuts that now grace them and his wounds still wriggling underneath his clothes. He glides a fingertip against them as he stumbles forwards, daring to tempt whatever fate his far too recently open wounds had in store for him. The wounds react to his touch like a cowering animal, receding away before wrinkling into mounds of contorted flesh.
It's unlike anything he's ever seen before. He fucking hates it.
It's why there's a bite of relief that washes over him when the fungal nightmares finally start to recede somewhat, thinning to reveal the familiar purple and green roots of the paths leading away from the Cornucopia. But it passes just as quick as it comes- the sting of new wounds sitting in its wake and sending a wave of fiery pain out underneath his flesh. He'd nearly died there, running away from the Cornucopia as fast as he could've- one moment a bloodbath and the next an execution.
Now he has to maneuver his way through it, stumbling softly on the soft dirt and still dripping line of red into the grass. He gulps, swallows, pretends like he doesn't know the Gamemaker's dirty tricks and doesn't have an itching idea of what will come next- even as the bushes rustle and he catches the sound of heavy footsteps against the dirt.
There's a whip in one hand and a knife, shaking softly, in the other as he turns towards the noise, trying his best to steel the look of fear that dances across his face when he sees who it is. He hears his cannon in the whispers, sickly little things, and feels his voice scratch his own throat when he finally speaks.
"Here to finish the job?"
