EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

[inthenightmods]

EVENT LOG:
ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

characters: those who signed up as defenders for the event
location: all around Beacon
date/time: november 16-29
content: the defenders attempt to drive off a spirit invasion
warnings: lots of horror! body horror, psychological horror, gore, violence, etc.. please cw all threads where appropriate! mods will do the same

in your closet, in your head.

It all happens in a matter of moments. Your friends, your companions, and even some people you aren't all that fond of; everyone who took so much as a bite of the spirits' feast suddenly collapses into a comatose heap. Which is bad enough already, but the worst, by far, is yet to come.

Before anyone can really figure out what's happened to the sleepers, the woods surrounding the town come alive with sound. Rustling, screeching, clicking, howling, and under it all, the characteristic hoots and whistles of the forest spirit tongue. But these aren't the friendly creatures that set up the banquet in the first place, and they aren't the familiar faces (or masks) from around Beacon. As they begin to emerge, bursting forth from the trees, these spirits reveal themselves as a horrifying army of terrors. And sprinkled among them, distinguishable by the emerald glint in their sockets, are the infamous "green eyes", the dangerous spirits that appeared once before.

Attempting to talk to these spirits is a moot point, made obvious by their immediate assault on anyone they get close to. They attack with claws and teeth, with limbs far stronger than they have any right to be, and the green eyes, as they are wont to do, will try to get into your head. Somehow, they seem to know what it is that scares you most, and they don't seem too hesitant to use it. It's not clear what they want— are they here to eradicate you? To frighten you? To send a message?

Whatever the case, one thing is very clear: you and everyone else, sleeping or waking, are in serious danger. Are you ready to defend Beacon?

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vanitas | ota | cw; gore in option C

[evulsed]

A - when we all fall asleep where do we go?

[ They come on fast, and it's a testament to Vanitas' training that he doesn't lose his head as soon as he sees exactly what comes out of the woods. He hasn't seen this brand of spirit since they literally pulled him apart, limb from bloody limb. The ones that appeared with the foghorn weren't even like this— no. He knows these are from somewhere deeper, somewhere in the deeper darker parts of the forest. His skin crawls with white-hot lightning when he sees them.

But he was forged a weapon and he long ago learned the importance of redirecting that fear into something he could use offensively— or defensively. And this situation? It looks more like a run while you can. ]

If you let them surround you they'll tear you apart.

[ He says this as he's tracking some of the spirits and carefully maneuvering himself like he's about to take off, regardless of who might still be sleeping at the table. ]

B - things that are deadly

[ Vanitas has circled this town enough times to be able to, for the most part, use a shadow portal to get from place to place. He could, arguably, avoid being outdoors all together— but that's no way to really keep a finger on the pulse of what's going on.

1. One common denominator anyone outside will encounter are Vanitas' Unversed. A variety of them scatter between the buildings, between one place and another. The smaller ones will swarm into a fight, either to try to assist or to lead violent spirits away. They seem particularly defensive of anyone carrying a Dreamer.

2. Another potential is that wherever someone might be, should they be alone or in a pair, a dark portal will abruptly open up behind them and Vanitas will grab them from behind. One hand in the back of their jacket, yanking hard and pulling them back through the darkness. Coming out the other side, Vanitas will shove them against a wall, into an overhang, or against a particularly large tree— wherever he'd been watching from that seems much safer than whatever situation they'd been in a minute before. ]

C - step on the glass, staple your tongue.

[ It was only a matter of time before Vanitas was going to get the short end of a stick. He flees the fight, porting himself back into the safety of one of the areas locked down and immediately collapses in the middle of whichever room he's landed in. Gasping, he yanks his helmet off and it clatters on the ground next to him. His hands shake with effort and pain, as he puts both on his thigh— but it's not his thigh that's the problem.

It's the rest of his leg. His knee is at the wrong angle, and his shin beneath that is broken clean in half. The bone sticks straight up through his skin, muscle ripped and hanging open like something had either tried to bite through his body or twist his leg right off his torso. Whatever happened, the fabric of his armor is torn, exposing the catastrophic state of the limb to the air, and he's bleeding all over the ground where he'd landed.

Vanitas is not immune to pain. He isn't sobbing, but he hisses each breath through clenched teeth, tears streaking down his flushed face and cutting through a scrape on his cheek and blood that's long since dried on his mouth from where he bit through his own lip. ]

D - wildcard
[ ooc; Vanitas will frequent any space between the museum and the armory chiefly. He'll interfere in the bonfire square near the Invincible, too. He'll also stop in those two strongholds potentially looking for rations or medical supplies or weapons. Also if you have any other ideas you wanna do, just toss them here or find me at scrubdaddy ]

D - the armory; don't think I'm not interested in C too 👀

[equinoctials]

[ The armory's camouflage is more effective when there are no torches to indicate its presence. Riku, who isn't fooled into thinking its location and their other resources haven't been carefully marked and noted by their attackers, has taken every torch from the vicinity and transferred them inside.

He's reluctant to open the door for nearly anyone, suspicious especially of those he didn't tell about his plan to secure people here, because he doesn't know if they've been compromised by the headgames the green-eyed spirits are capable of, he doesn't know their intentions, doesn't know if he can trust someone with the weapons inside.

Which puts plenty of people and Riku himself in something of a bind.

A major exception is Vanitas, who Riku smells coming. The panic, the fear, the malice and rage all belong to the Darkness and that negativity has only ever fueled him, makes him strong. He doesn't even need to pound a fist against the camouflaged door when Riku opens it, reaching for the strange darklight of Vanitas's lantern and instead pulling him inside by the shoulder.

Inside, it's dark. Riku's own lantern casts wild shadows, turning the barricades littering the room into long shadowy fingers and thorns jutting in all directions. It looks like he took every chair, table, and other frame-like object and lashed swords, spears, and polearms to each one until they bristled with sharp edges.

They would surely leave nothing unscathed that chose to blindly charge inside. The torch is near the way downstairs, further away. Riku scarcely waits for Vanitas to say anything before he slides a bar across the door, one brief screechy squeal of metal to shatter the quiet. ]

You came alone.

[ There are questions he doesn't ask in his panted observation. Is he safe? Is Vanitas hurt? How bad is it out there, it's all he can manage to keep a few people safely hidden here. ]

tl;dr wow sorry

[evulsed]

[ This cycle is how Beacon works on Vanitas: the lulls can be long and stretching, bleeding days of apathy into one another. Vanitas has no close ties to anyone in this town, and the people he interacts with he does so at infrequent whims at the best of times. He let it happen, once, with Gene— with Sora— and it did exactly what he knew it would. Bonds were a weakness, until they were shattered. Losing them was probably good. The pain has made him stronger.

But the problem is Beacon has given him a choice, and with that choice, Vanitas does his level best not to let it happen again.

Yet still, when these events happen, when the world acts on everyone and the spirits attack and the grief and despair and anguish start to rise— Vanitas turns to it like a flower toward the sun. Some part of him craves it, something innate rooted in the fact that even now, he has no light inside of him. He can't help feasting on the negativity, and like clockwork, it fosters that black spirited thing inside him.

He can't say what's different this time around. Maybe the fact that half of their number are out, sleeping peacefully. But there's more than enough rage pouring off the spirits this time around to make up the difference. So why it is that Vanitas finds himself helping the citizens instead of trying to further the designs of the spirits, he can't quite put his finger on.

What he doesn't understand is that, whether he's wanted it to happen or not, existing in a place with the constant influence of others— someone other than his Master— is changing him. ]

Who else would I come with?

[ Vanitas says it without looking at the other boy, instead, the reflected surface of his helmet melts away and his gaze sweeps the upheaval of Riku's handiwork. ]

Bruce is sleeping.

[ And he's the only person Vanitas has elected to spend any of his time with of his own volition. This impromptu team up with Jason is only because the other man refuses to leave Bruce under Vanitas' attention alone.

Vanitas turns his gaze on Riku after the fact, and his yellow eyes almost gleam in the darkness. It makes him look as inhuman as ever, and as sharp as he's been in weeks, all trace of his lingering indulgence on alcohol missing completely. All this despair, all the fighting— Vanitas feels as close to his version of normal as he possible could. ]

Where are the rest of your friends?

[equinoctials]

[ Riku has a theory about what's different this go around. Just like those who thought they knew everything about the nature of the heart had it wrong, just like those who thought they knew everything about Nobodies was wrong, people aren't just one kind of thing. Without hearts they aren't empty vessels merely imitating feelings, with hearts they're never entirely without darkness, without light, whether it comes to them internally or externally, no one being is an island, closed off from any influence.

Darkness can be used to bring out Light. It makes sense, when Riku believes without a single doubt that these two forces love each other, don't oppose as much as chase each other, orbiting around in perpetuity. Bright light casts the deepest shadows.

Vanitas has found something to protect, someone that matters. Having seen Bruce interact with Vanitas many times over the last month, he thinks he knows who to thank for that marked shift. It's... good, Riku thinks, because he had nothing to hold on to and so he drifted through self-destructive currents, it would have been a matter of time before it carried him over the edge into oblivion. They've traded barbs and blows, they've shared meals sitting shoulder to shoulder. Riku may not have known him as anything but another opponent before, but he knows him just a little better now.

The boy born out of darkness, raised in a dry and loveless land. He has a sweet tooth and a heart so bruised it's built up thick walls around it like hands form callouses. Riku doesn't ask about Bruce because he knows Vanitas wouldn't have left him unsafe, or as close as he could afford. ]

Scattered. Some are here. [ A pointed glance. ] Or the Invincible. Are you hurt?

Cish

[originallutece]

[It was only a matter of time before he was injured, but that doesn't mean it had to be right then and there.

Here's the thing: it's every person for herself out there, yes or no? Of course yes. Selflessness is all well and good, and certainly one can contribute for the greater good, but if it comes down to her life or the life of some person she barely knows? Ah, well. Best of luck, but she isn't going to risk her life for him.

So it was a fight. So they ran together for a time, thrown together purely by circumstance, and when the creature had pinned them, Rosalind had--

--run. Thrown him forward (not that it mattered much, not with him doing his best to do the same damn thing) and fled, and now here they are, in the Invincible, and she sees the result of her handiwork.]

Well done not dying.

[It's crisply said, but she's grabbing medical supplies. God forbid he bleed out on the floor of what is, technically, her home.]

[evulsed]

[ He isn't betrayed by the fact she'd left him for the figurative wolves. The fact of the matter is that for as much as Vanitas has been intervening in fights, he's been just as quick to bail if the situation is too dire. His concept of danger has always been skewed. Death, as he knows it, can be as temporary as it is permanent. Maybe something like him can't really die. Darkness, after all, can't be eradicated. And this place has only proved it further— he's died once already. He came back. Others haven't been so lucky.

But if it comes down to it, if he can save himself the pain or trouble, he's more than happy to let someone else take the fall. He doesn't know this woman, and doesn't really care to. The only reason she'd been able to make a run for it before Vanitas did was simple luck. He'd been in the process of releasing her into the grip of that violent monster just as she'd done the same to him.

He bares his teeth at her, made bloody by his split lip, but he can't gather the wherewithall to counter with his own abrasive comment— not yet. It's taking everything in him, every ounce of training, to prevent himself from collapsing into the well of pain he can feel rolling around in his stomach. It's just as much the injury as it is the close call. That thing would have ripped him apart if he hadn't gotten away when he did— and the sensory memory leaves him jarred.

When she walks away to get medical supplies, he assumes she's abandoned him to his fate— and that's perfectly fine by him. Xehanort had done the same to him before, and back then his Master had been the one to inflict the injury. This is nothing new.

But he does permit himself the half second to squeeze his eyes shut and swallow the whine that wants to escape his throat. When he opens them again to look down at the mess of his leg. Okay.

Okay.

He needs to fix this.

He lets go of his thigh and reaches for the tattered edges of his uniform, jerking the tear to make it bigger. The movement jostles everything in him, makes pain sear all the way up his body and he has to stop— it whites out his vision. ]

[originallutece]

Stop that.

[Idiot boy. Rosalind kneels down next to him, smacking the back of his hand none-too-gently, glaring down at him.]

Or you'll pass out and be of virtually no use to anyone. Stay awake, so I can work more efficiently. Understand? Now lean back and try not to move too much.

[It's a gory injury, and truthfully, it leaves her stomach turning just a little. But that's neither here nor there, and he doesn't need to know that.]

[evulsed]

[ It stings, but regardless, he still swats back at her— snatching the back of his hand up in such a way to clip her with just as much a snap as she slapped him with. The fact is he's used to this sort of admonishment, but not for the reasons she's asking. He's sure Xehanort would have looked down his nose at him for not being able to deal with this on his own.

It's a little lost on him why she's still here. ]

This is your fault.

[ He hisses at her, his voice a rasp like sandpaper, but the venom in it is bled out the way all the colour has drained from his face to apparently make for the exit in his shin. He has, however, stopped yanking at his own clothing and gone back to gripping his thigh like it might ease the pain. ]

[originallutece]

Yes. But to be perfectly fair, if you'd had your way, it would be me down there. So pardon me if I don't shed a tear of remorse.

[She reaches into her bag, tugging out a pair of scissors. Carefully, more for the sake of the job than him, she cuts away his trousers. It's slow work, in no small part because she wants to be sure she doesn't jar him.]

I don't suppose you know something so useful as your blood type, hm?

[evulsed]

[ Too many things happen at once around the shattering physical agony. She pulls out scissors and they glint in the dim light of their lanterns, and Vanitas' eyes widen despite himself. His heart punches up, just once, but stays there in his throat when she lowers them to his leg. He's still confused that she hasn't elected to kill him in his vulnerable state when the question comes. A little wildly, he jerks his attention up from the slice of the blade through fabric to her face. His blood type? What kind of stupid— ]

What?

[originallutece]

No, silly me. Why would you know something so useful as that.

[She spares him a quick glance, calculating, before tipping her head down to focus on her work. It's ugly, no doubt, and she's going to have to pay a lot of attention to disinfection. And then . . . hm. There's no real anesthetic, but perhaps she can convince him to drink or bite down on something.]

Right. This will sting. Try not to move.

[She says it as she reaches for a cloth and antiseptic.]

A

[pure_havoc]

Is that literal or merely grimly poetic?

[even at a time like this he has to be quippy. Cao Pi has both blades out, starkly placing himself between the feast table and the spirits. He's been back and forth a few times now but lost Jason somewhere, so now it's back to escort duty.]

[evulsed]

Does that look poetic to you?

[ He snarls, pointing aggressively at a spirit with far too many limbs, it's grotesque face contorted with death and fury. Vanitas can taste the anger off of these things— felt it even before they started flooding the area.

Rage, after all, is an emotion he's very familiar with. ]

[pure_havoc]

[aw c'mon Vanitas, where's your mid-battle quip game? Though yeah that thing is disturbingly ugly, he won't disagree]

Depends on your taste, I suppose.

[apparently it doesn't like its victims standing around being sassy either, because the words are barely out of Cao Pi's mouth when it lunges at them. He strikes fast, aiming at the long-fingered hands while whirling himself out of the way, but clearly not fast enough as the spirit somehow comes out of it with all its limbs. Heads up Vanitas, it's in between them now.]

[evulsed]

I'm not interested!

[ He's more of a gloat before and after kind of guy. Which is all the more obvious for the way Vanitas doesn't answer and keeps putting space between them. In fact, he's about to making himself completely scarce once the other guy is engaged in battle— but that initial attack doesn't do anything but put the spirit closer to him.

And now Vanitas is the object of it's attention, and all those limbs, so close to the ground, make it inhumanly fast. Vanitas only narrowly avoids getting grabbed, and half of it is because he throws up a dark shield— a shimmering wall of translucent black that deflects the monster's hand millimeters before it makes contact.

Vanitas steps back and summons his key blade in the same instant his helmet materializes and hides his face. This close it reflects the ghastly image of the spirit back outward like a mirror. ]

[pure_havoc]

[now those are some neat tricks, being able to summon a weapon out of thin air is something he's only ever seen demons do. But given that Vanitas is as much a target of their attackers as he is, looks like he's not a demon. Right, then.

While the spirit is focused on Vanitas, Cao Pi charges from behind, blades held low, right up until he gets close enough for a swing. As he does so, he smacks the ends of the swords together to form a single weapon with a much wider reach, which he spins to try to hack at some of those limbs again. Score! Not a deep enough cut but a cut all the same. It naturally brings the spirit's focus back around to him.]

Keep it pincered, don't let it circle behind!

[evulsed]

Idiot, it doesn't need to get behind you!

[ Though he understands the man's position. Letting it get away, at this point, could put it into a blind spot. It was dangerous enough in front of them. The reach on the arms of this spirit is unnaturally long, longer than the reach of Vanitas' keyblade. He's more than happy to let it's focus go back to its primary target.

Instead of coming close, he holds his free palm up and pulls up on the shadows. Tendrils like vines reach up from the ground underneath it and grab two of the spirit's limbs to arrest it's momentum. ]

[pure_havoc]

[Cao Pi bristles a little - he's supposed to be the one calling everyone idiots! how dare! - but squashes his reaction in order to focus. This is no time to get huffy. He slides back to the side to keep the spirit hunting him while those rather fascinating powers restrain it, and then it's his turn. It's been long enough since the last time he called on his hidden powers, they should be ready for another go.

Breaking the swords apart again, he sweeps them in a circle to call up the ice shards that rain down as soon as he points one blade at his target. The spirit still lunges at him, but comes up short thanks to Vanitas and takes the hits. If the ice does any damage, it's not obvious, but what's clear is that Zihuan has definitely pissed it off. The limbs not held back still thrash at him and he can't back away fast enough.]

C

[moderatelymaladjusted]

[Barely hanging on, dragging the heavy weight of Eliot on the travois for days with only short stops to rest, help people and then it's once more in to the fray - the days and nights bleed together more than they ever did - the darkness a weight against his skin and on his heart. There's cat-naps next to Eliot on the forest floor and there's the screams of people he's learning to know ringing in his ears at all time. Even when it's dead quiet in the forest.

Hollow-eyed and exhausted, Quentin puts one foot in front of the other until he's able to put Eliot down safely - safer - behind the corner of a building, and he falls down on his knees, clothes hopelessly dirty and torn, just breathing in to the still air when he hears it.

A low hiss, coming from close by and Quentin is on his aching feet in an instant, heart slamming against his ribs so hard it's painful, adrenaline hitting his brain like a fist to the gut and grabs his bow and sneaks carefully around the corner.

Shit.

It's hard to see in the dark, against the dark clothes, but the tears glitter in the golden light from his lantern and Quentin moves closer.]

Fuck. [There's no reason to ask what happened. The same thing happened all over Beacon, and for the same reason - the spirits.] You're bleeding out.

[evulsed]

[ It's far from the safest of places. The door is wide open, and anything could creep around the threshold and crawl all over him, come back to finish the job. Vanitas crushes his eyes shut and raises both hands to his face, pressing the heels of his palms into the sockets.

Stupid. Letting himself get caught like that. He knew, better than anyone, what these things were capable of. Maybe Bruce really had been right— maybe all that indulgence has ruined some part of him.

He'd like that to be the case, but the truth is, these things are fast— and they're strong. And Vanitas, the fool that he is, succumbed to the influence of those idiots he's been spending all his time with and has been helping. He can't even say why— why bother risking his own neck for people that he would have no qualms seeing torn apart? It isn't as though he's invested in the mission they've all been tasked with.

But maybe that's just it. Vanitas has never belonged anywhere— and sometimes, it feels like he could belong here. In this lightless world, with all these other lost people.

His head jerks up, and he knows the voice even if he doesn't know the face. There's a certain cadence to him that would be difficult to misplace— but Vanitas is in no position to defend himself. Vanitas wheezes, baring his bloody teeth at him, like a wounded animal that's been cornered, his hands still shaking where they clutch at his thigh. ]

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Shit!

[And once more, with feeling, as he crouches down next to Vanitas. He has no idea who this is, but there are so many people here he haven't had a chance to meet yet. The pile, or the carefully placed, sleepers in the Invincible. Most of them had looked unfamiliar, too. And not just because their faces were slack with sleep or because they were covered in blankets.

This could be one of the new people, who are probably all just trying to find a way to live with the fact that they died and are stranded here now, and then this happens?

But this isn't the time or the place for Quentin to get stuck in his own head again, not with this one bleeding out all over the floor and Quentin crouches down and moves in slowly, placing the bow on the ground and trying not to startle too hard as Vanitas turns those yellow eyes on him.]

Shit. Okay, so-- shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. I-- hello? I can help? I have-- fuck, this is. Uh, not good. Okay, so I have vodka in my bag. I need you to drink some of that? For the pain.

[He fumbles through the pillowcase strapped over his shoulder and pulls out a flask.] I-- know magic?

[evulsed]

[ If Vanitas has learned anything about the people here, its that so many of them will stick their necks out for everyone— even the ones they don't like. Vanitas doesn't share that level of empathy; he exerts all of his energy on keeping himself safe. There's no room for anyone or anything else.

He doesn't wonder why Quentin chooses to help him. Even later, when he has the space to do it, he won't dwell on it. He's a would-be hero just like the rest of them. Acting in any other fashion would be more of a cause for question than anything else.

He comes close, puts his bow down, and Vanitas draws himself up. Its hardly anything, when most of his body wants to contract around the agony in his leg. Every time he blinks tears ooze from his eyes, but he doesn't reach up to wipe them. Its almost like he barely notices them at all; mostly they're a physical outlet for the pain rolling through his senses. All around him the shadows writhe, a subtle undulation, a direct response to his emotion. Another outlet. ]

I don't need vodka!

[ He snarls, because he knows now what it is and what it does. He knows alcohol can numb the pain, because its all he's been doing for the last month, tucked up safely in the museum. But he also knows how stupid and clumsy it makes him. He can't sacrifice any more of his agency or mobility— not right now. ]

CW- gore

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Jesus, okay! It was just-- this is going to hurt. I can't make it painless, but I can stop the bleeding.

[Looking at the mess that's left of Vanitas' leg, he's not sure he can do much of anything else than that. There's bone sticking out, and somehow, Quentin thought it should look whiter. More like movie-bones, but this doesn't look anything like it.

The blood is too dark, too sticky and the smell of flesh and pennies is cloying and overwhelming this close. Like the smell from a wad a meat going bad, sickly sweet and unlike anything else. The bone is greyish, with bits of skin and yellow fat sticking to the really sharp edges. clinging to the fabric of Vanitas' clothes, and Quentin just shakes his head and takes a pull of vodka.

He shakes his hands out, wiping the nervous sweat off on his legs before he starts the smallest healing tut he knows, fingers folding over themselves, shaping geometric patterns in the air just over the gaping hole in Vanitas' leg. He whispers the Old German spell, moving his hands carefully. He knows most of the Circumstances - the altitude and the distance to the water hasn't changed much. Not enough to disrupt the spell. The phase of the moon is tricky, but they've practiced enough to at least get it mostly right, but the age? He has to guess and Vanitas looks around 20? Probably 20. It probably can't mess up the spell too much if he's off by a few years.

The steady flow of blood slows from gushing to a trickle to just drips.]

I can try to get the bone back in? I've watched-- [He takes one good look at Vanitas' pale and drawn face, the tears still running down his cheeks and the weird clothes. This doesn't look like a guy who watches House.]

I can try? Do you want me to try? Just-- uh, nod your head yes or no?

[evulsed]

[ To say he's never felt anything like this before isn't entirely true. Vanitas has his own brand of healing magic, though its nothing like what someone like Riku would use. He's used it to stitch himself up before, feeding Darkness back into the holes of his body, but it's no Curaga. Maybe he wouldn't be half so scarred up if it was.

But Quentin does his magic and Vanitas feels that unfamiliar prickle of another person casting a spell on him. If he could parse beyond the incomparable anguish of the muscle torn and the snapped bone pushing up through tissue and sinew, he might even be able to pinpoint that the tingle that goes through him is the slowing of the bleeding.

Mostly, he's surprised it doesn't hurt more. When Eldin had healed him, it had felt like he was burning from the inside out.

Vanitas hisses through his teeth, his chest heaves under his tarnished breast plate. The stench of blood still permeates everything, copper stuck in his nostrils. This is going to hurt.

It's only pain. How many times did his Master leave him broken and motionless in the desert, expecting him to get back up? This is no different. Vanitas' eyes shine like two gold lamps in the dark when he looks up at Quinten. If this guy didn't do it with his magic, Vanitas would have to push the bone back into his body himself. And he would, but he thinks this will be easier, so: ]

Just do it!

[moderatelymaladjusted]

Alright.

[Since the gushing seems to have stopped for the moment, and Vanitas is no longer in danger of bleeding out right this second, Quentin takes half a minute to get the things he needs ready.

Or, the things he thinks he needs. He places the messy ball of sheet-strips on the ground next to Vanitas, he puts the bottle of vodka right next to it and then he struggles out of his hoodie. Once he's reasonably sure he's not going to fall over, he strips out of his t-shirt with a slight hiss of pain from the shallow slash across his lower back, and folds it carefully in to a square, just a little bigger than the gaping wound right in front of his face.

Jesus.

It doesn't look any better, just because it's not bleeding anymore. It's still a fucking mess, the flesh bulging darkly over the edges with black clots of blood slipping down the pale skin. Quentin swallows hard.

This isn't much worse than when he had to chop Penny's hands off. Except for how really not drunk he is, and how those yellow eyes seem to track his every move - if only one of them had been near-blind drunk, this would be so much easier.

Quentin takes a deep breath, shivering in the cold air as he rubs both hands with vodka, keeping them hovering over the wound after.]

Okay, so. Okay, I-- I'm going to push the bone back? And it's going to hurt, I'm so sorry. But-- okay. I'm going to count to three. Deep breath.

[And Quentin does it, too. Taking one more deep breath, steadying his hands and clenching his jaw.]

One-!

[And the word is hardly over his lips before he plunges both hands inside Vanitas's warm, wet leg - grabbing for the jagged edges of bone and PUSHING to get them to fit together inside this much too large hole, the tendons scraping across the back of his hand and jesus, fuck looking is a mistake, because he's wrist-deep inside Vanitas. The edges of the wound sucking against his own skin, but it's- done! The bone is inside and the spell to hold back the blood is working!

Quick as anything, Quentin carefully slides his hands out and slaps the t-shirt square over the wound and pressing down a little.]

I-- shit. I think I got it?