logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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?

QUICKNAV
comms	\|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	\|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 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. ]

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.]

[ 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. ]

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?

[ 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?

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.]

You aren't making any sense.

[ Vanitas has never had need to know any of these manuals fixes for injury. He's always had magic at his disposal, or at least the magic of people around him. His Master could have dealt with this with a wave of a hand. He'd never had need for doctors, like Gene, to help him.

His breath shakes on every inhale and exhale, and the tremble hasn't left his hands. If anything, his focus seems to be sliding, the way his eyes are beginning to glaze and he doesn't keep looking at her. Shock is setting in, rendering him even less useful as his body tries to narrow down its resources. ]

[She curses beneath her breath-- and it's funny, because she doesn't care about him, but still there's sweat at her temples and suddenly everything seems distant. Old memories keep wanting to get in the way of the task at hand, and she can't pay them mind because this boy isn't going to stay alive much longer if she keeps getting distracted.]

Damn it--

[What are her chances? One in eight, ostensibly, but more like one in three, if he's got AB he can take her, or A-- really, she thinks, shoving up her sleeve, the only thing will be if he has type O blood, that'll be a problem, but so will his dying of blood loss.
She grabs the needle and IV from her kit. It takes her far less time than it ought for her to slip it in her arm, and his, and then . . .

Then, she works faster, tending to his leg, keeping an eye on his color and his reaction, hoping that for once, things will go the way she never, ever thinks they do.]

[ It's a weird sensation. A little like when he was fading out, the darkness of his body seeping out like a water balloon that had been punctured. But this is different, maybe because it happens so quickly. Vanitas finds himself focusing inward, instead of trying to pay attention to the ugly shape of his leg or the face of this woman. She pulls one of his arms off his leg, though, to insert the IV and he doesn't fight it— but turns his head to look at the puncture point when the needle pierces his arm.

Funny, he doesn't remember taking his sleeve off. But it's not really off, just torn, to make space for her to do what she needs to do.

If this were the regular world, where he's from, this probably wouldn't work. What had he been, after all? Not the same thing he is here— because he didn't need to eat or drink or anything like that in the desert. He watches the tubing, the flow of blood through it into his own body with an almost child-like curiousity— right up to the point she starts in on his leg.

Then he jumps, nearly dislodging her quick work with the IV, his hand lashing out to grab her bicep. Maybe it's to stop her from hurting him, but it's clear he's having a hard time keeping his focus on her face. ]

What— are you doing to me?

Helping you. You'll note I'm also giving you my blood; it assuredly isn't for my benefit. Kindly release my arm before you die of blood loss or septic poisoning.

[She jerks her arm, trying to pry it back. He's got a remarkably tight grip, and she isn't exactly at the top of her game right now.]

Let go.

[ Both things Vanitas is only peripherally aware of. He'd never had to worry about this kind of thing in his own world. He hadnt, exactly, been just a flesh and blood creature. The very concept of a blood transfusion is utterly lost on him. She jerks, and it jostles his leg and the needle in his arm. He lets her go.

His leg hurts, but the truly bizarre sensation of the needle keeps pulling his attention back, and the curve of the tube, filled with her blood. ]

Why?

[ Not why is she helping him, as far as he'll be concerned when he can think clearly again, she should take responsibility. But why the tube? Why the blood? ]

Simply because I don't care about your life doesn't mean I'm inclined towards dealing with the fuss a death will cause. A cadaver would be rather enjoyable to have, but the others would likely raise objections.

[Why are you helping me is what she imagines he means, and she grits her teeth as she gets back to work. Shoving a broken bone back where it ought to go is both clumsy and unhelpful, but there's not much choice in a situation like this. Ideally, she'd cut open his leg further, gently guiding the bone back in place, but there's little chance of that now. Instead: she grips his calf and looks up at him.]

Lie down. Close your eyes. Bite on that towel.

[ It's too big of an ask in the end, even for as woozy as he feels, to lay back and pretend like this isn't happening. Vanitas doesn't look for the towel she's talking about, instead, he looks forward— down at the place her hand curls around his calf, and then into her face.

This is utter agony, but he refuses to back down. It's what Xehanort taught him— keep going, until he literally can't stand up anymore, until he can't keep consciousness. He doesn't have the energy to bare his teeth at her like he normally would, not around the way his body trembles and his breath is ragged. If he dies at her hands— well, it's only death. And beyond the fact he's sure he'll come back, it at least then he'll understand what their relationship will be like. ]

Stop— messing around.

[She'll never like him. She may even despise him. But to her credit, she works as swiftly and painlessly as she can. That said: it's a bloody, hard process. Swiftly her hands are covered in his blood-- their blood, perhaps-- and midway through she pulls the IV free from her arm, lest she drain herself accidentally.

But she gets it. Sooner or later, she gets his leg straightened and tied to a sturdy splint. Rosalind is panting as she sits back, blood all over her hands, her skirt, her face sickly pale.]

All right . . . there we go.

[ He's trembling and shocky by the time she finishes, but he stays remarkably quiet through the whole procedure. He's as pale as she is, but where the blood is all over her face and hands, Vanitas sits in a pool of what's left and drying underneath him. He's clammy, his hair sticking to his neck and his face, and doesn't seem entirely there or in his body.

It's done. Now, all he needs to do is come back to himself some, and he can do the rest. Vanitas has magic to heal, his own brand of magic to be sure, but the effort of using it will be difficult until he rests some. He doesn't thank her, and when his glass eyes go back to her face, he seems to be having a lot of trouble focusing. ]

[There. Whatever happens next, at least she did her best. She gave her blood, and Vanitas doesn't know it, but he's only the second person to ever receive that honor. The first is a man she loved-- loves-- with all her heart. Vanitas doesn't come close. She doesn't even like him.

But Robert would be proud of her. And maybe that matters more now.]

Rest. Eat, drink, and sleep, all three. You'll need to replenish your blood.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject