EVENT LOG: GRAVES

[inthenightmods]

EVENT LOG:
GRAVES

characters: everyone.
location: Bonfire Square.
date/time: July 12-19.
content: mysterious shrines appear and bring visions of death.
warnings: likely violence and potentially gore.

time to pay your respects.

It happens when no one is looking, when most of the town is asleep and the rest are inside. A makeshift cemetery has come to Beacon, taking up residence in the middle of Bonfire Square. Each monument, shrine, and altar is dedicated to someone who now resides here, a memorial of their previous life.

Some may be drawn by curiosity, others by fear, and some may simply have to pass through this strange graveyard to get to the Bonfire itself. Whenever a person gets near, the altars beckon with a mysterious urge— an urge to approach, and an urge to leave something behind. They will feel compelled to make offerings at the various shrines, but doing so has a curious effect; it causes one to experience the death of the person whose grave they've honored.

Whether you resist the compulsion or give in willingly (or something in between), you'll also have to wrestle with the fact that a grave exists for you. Will you let your death be known, or try your best to keep it secret? Destroying it sure won't work, as it will return— with a duplicate somewhere else in town.

However you choose to deal with this, one thing is hard to ignore— this a tangible reminder of your death, and the fact that it's probably permanent.

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Comments

gene hicks | open prompts within

[preseance]

bonfire and elsewhere;

[preseance]

( gene'll be actively checkin' on folks should they show signs of shock or upset. this ain't a matter of blood an' bone but one of the soul, an' he's as attentive to that as he is to all manner of physical hurts.

should your character appear to need any comfortin' at all, he'll be there with a cup of some hot liquid appropriate to 'em (hot chocolate for the youths, coffee or hot soup for everyone else) an' he'll push it into their hands an' take up a place beside them.

this goes doubly for anyone puttin' themselves to work to destroy their grave. )

Hey. You got a minute?

cemetary;

[preseance]

( he spends a lotta time here. more than he should, strictly speakin', but he learns right quick not to leave an offerin' or even to pray. it's a hard instinct to shake, because his first thought is always for a prayer of the fallen, but. he does it.

he still takes it as a duty, to memorize things. the names, the graves. it ain't a job that falls to a medical man, but he's been helpin' the dead longer than he's been one himself. he'll remember.

should he be seen near your character's grave, he'll give them a small smile. should they be a stranger to him; )

Sorry to intrude. Weren't plannin' on leavin' an offerin', your death's your business. Just passin' by.


( and should they be a friend, he'll reach out and touch their shoulder gently — )

Hey. Y'all right?

↬

( and should gene spot anybody near his own grave, he'll give them a nod. )

If'n you wanna know, I'll tell you plain how I died. Ain't no point in livin' it, but I don't mind if you want to anyhow.

[callada]

You know that's not a fair question, right?

[He's not all right, but he's faring as well as can be expected considering the entire community has been plunged into each other's grief. Besides, he's got a pounding headache from a few too many days without a smoke. He turns his head to regard Gene with a tired expression, then gestures to the simple grave.]

You here for that?

[preseance]

( he's learnin', around this fella. gene pulls out a rumpled pack of chesterfields. it's his last, but he ain't about to let the commander know that. he just holds it out for him to take. )

No sir. Ain't of a mind to bear witness to what's between a fella an' his God.

cemetery — friend option!

[rehabbed]

[ The hand on Jesse's shoulder startles him. Arms and hands loaded with offerings — cigarettes, coins, candy, flowers — Jesse whips a sharp look onto that voice talking to him, gaze bristling, anguished. But— oh. The anguish torn across Jesse's face pales into rueful recognition: It's Gene. Jesse stares at him for a sorrowful moment. The smell of snow and trampled earth and fresh blood, the sound of bombs and people — comrades, friends — screaming, the air flooded with a whiplash of chaos. The thick ringing trapped in his head from the explosions. The detonation of black silence that struck as Gene had steeled himself and stood up and—

Jesse quickly looks away. A hasty little nod. ]

Y-Yeah, man, I-I'm... [ His voice is deep, shaky; he trails off. A beat passes, and after his eyes land on his grave — desecrated with messy footprints, the remaining offerings scattered around like they've been flung about, a makeshift sign with Jesse Pinkman written across it knocked flat on the ground — Jesse admits a reluctant shake of his head. ] No.

[preseance]

( jesse ain't the subtlest man gene's ever met. it ain't quite like he wears his emotions on his sleeve, but. it's like he's somethin' unrestrained. a sirocco storm of all the things he feels at any given time, an' if you ain't careful you'll catch the shrapnel of it all an' it'll tear into you along every nerve.

he can see the sign plain enough, an' make out the letters well enough in sequence that he can guess that it's jesse's. an' given the nature of how gene came to him that first time, he thinks he's well within his rights to assume it ain't a death any one of them should want to endure. gene reaches up, drops a hand against jesse's shoulder an' lets the weight of his hand give silent voice to the sentiment, i'm here, s'all right. )

What's on your mind?

cemetary

[primordialerebus]

[ By the time he made his way over to her, it had been at least 5 days of her sitting vigil in front of her grave. She’s been attacked, she’s been apologized to, she’s been checked on. She isn’t quite sure this is worth it anymore, sitting in the dirt with nothing but her misery and her own thoughts. People had seen, there was apparently another fucking grave out there anyways. Still, the thought of moving. Of offering no resistance whatsoever. Well…

Still, she’s getting tired. 5 straight days of no real rest, not even the strange stasis she occasionally found herself losing time in. She couldn’t let her guard down. But it’s so hard to move now. To think. To exist. She wants to fade away.

She had felt Gene draw close, yet she couldn’t bring herself to respond at this moment. Unless he tried to leave some sort of offering anyways. Then all bets are off. When he only moves to touch her shoulder though, part of her relaxes, the shadows that had been subtly shifting around her going back to normal. This only served to highlight how still she is, her chest not even moving with breath. At least, not until she speaks, inhaling only enough so words can come out. ]

Fine.

[ She just wants this to be over. ]

[preseance]

( it just so happens, he's brought her a hot meal. it ain't nothin' special or fancy, just a few things he's picked up on her likin' well enough to eat. his hand drops away from his shoulder. )

You oughta eat somethin'. Come away from here a bit so's it don't count as an offering.

( he says it gently, the warmth of his hand the only anchor point between them. )

church; you can take the catholic out of the war but...

[preseance]

( you can find him in the church among the pews. head bowed, hands clasped. he may be silent, or he may be at prayer, in which case he'd be sayin' something like,

may the souls of all the departed through the mercy of god find peace in their own way, and may their suffering be eased through the grace of our lord jesus christ. amen.

if your character is a religious sort an' sits on next to him, he might reach for their hand an' continue the prayers. if they interrupt him somehow, he'll finish whichever prayer he'd started an' then glance up to pay them mind.

if they sneak up on him an' scare the livin' hell outta him, they might get him to go on' and cuss right here in this holy place. )

[chivalrouswench]

[ Beacon has no sept, and while Brienne has offered many a prayer to the Seven without one, she still seeks out the church in search of some manner of... comfort? Familiarity? She's not sure.

She has always been slow, she knows this, and so much about the gods is confusing. The love they offer must be of a singularly cruel sort, considering all the things the people who worship them are forced to endure. Still, she has yet to renounce them, even if she in some corner of her heart wonders if maybe they have renounced her.

She moves quietly, trying her best to more or less make herself invisible, as is her wont. Spotting Gene, however, she ends up just sort of... freezing in place, caught in an awkward moment of being unable to decide whether she should greet him or just turn around and leave so that he can pray in peace.

So, should Gene choose this moment to leave his seat he will have the wonderful experience of someone just suddenly standing in the isle, silent as a mouse. ]

[darkeyed]

_{[At a time Gene finishes up one of his silent prayers and turns to look behind him, he'll find he's acquired a sentinel a few pews back at some point in the process. M.K.'s attention seemingly slides to him only as an afterthought, but his head is up and hands unclasped; it's clear he hasn't been looking to bend the ear of any higher powers while he's been sitting there.]}

What are you praying for?

<sub>[It's the kind of opening volley to a round of idle chitchat that anyone might offer up when most of the church pews stand empty aside from them... except it's coming from him, and if there's one thing M.K. hasn't made a point to do in Beacon, it's chat. Not even with the people he's been sharing room 304 with.

Aside from a few words over the bonfire, they haven't spoken much, often coming and going at different times. But now-- Hm.]</sub>

congratulations you unlocked the hug icon.

[identifier]

[ he'd already left something at the grave. unnamed. probably unremarkable. dick wouldn't like to draw attention to it.

but he keeps drifting nearby. feeling the ache in his heart. feeling strange, too. something out of balance between them.

he goes looking for gene.

very quiet. but not silent. he slips near gene like a shadow. becoming solid. dick is not a churchgoing man. his parents had a short service because it was expected. they were buried in a gotham graveyard. he kept what he could of their belongings. despite long ago being told they should be distributed. he had to hold on to what he had left of them.

he doesn't resist gene taking his hand. he squeezes it warmly and lets him continue. it has been a long time since his anger was quiet. ]

press f to pay respects; (also known as tl;dr, the tag)

[preseance]

( ooc; the short version is 'sniping spawncampers fucking suck, bro.' for anyone interested in seeing ghosts, refer to the first half of the comment. i was thinking about limiting it, but you know what, go nuts. if you just want the death skip to the second half.

a battlefield cross is the only thing to mark this grave, the helmet emblazoned with a red medic's insignia. there are a set of dogtags tangled around the stock of the gun that have the name E. P. HICKS inscribed on them. )

(ghosts)

It's awareness of the cold what creeps on in first. The air's suffused with chill. It sinks into your bones, wraps around them and drags you down into an almost compulsory awareness of it. Your fingers are numb, and blowing on them just seems to make them slick with condensation rather'n'any real shade of warmer. Your hands stay the rough, weathered red of early onset frostbite, and you know you ought to be fighting fit before the call comes up. You tap out a cigarette, instead, and keep your hand cupped around the match longer than you need to light it.

It's early morning, else you wouldn't risk the glow. Snow's fallin' harder than you'd like. Nearby there's a panzer tank still faintly smoldering run off the road. Half your boys are in ditches, the other half in the sorriest excuse for foxholes you've seen yet in this war, scraped a couple feet at best down into the frozen ground. You're sittin' back from their line, crouched against the low retaining wall of a building what's been destroyed just to watch, and find some space to breathe. The 2nd Panzer Division ain't done with you yet, an' you know they just got reinforcements in the shape of an artillery division that just broke past the 89th Recon. The air's too cold to smell like rot, and anyhow the GRS has come on through an' mostly pulled the dead outta sight. But they can't bury them when the ground's froze with this damn nor'easterly wind that lances through every layer you're wearing and flays your bones. Reggie says they just stacked them like frozen firewood in the church at Lierneux.

Anger builds. It builds, an' builds, an' crashes directionless against the beachhead of your calm. You're used to fighting it down. Good at it, now. No point in givin' in. Not a soul alive it'd bring succor to.

"Genie."

Reggie's voice, clarion-bright. It cuts through that schism of anger, gives you an anchor-point against it. You close your eyes, take another drag. When you open them, your friend's leaning against another husked-out wall a short distance away. Reggie's a handsome fella, dark-skinned and lean with a smile that could bring the gods to their knees. He's in civvies, an' he don't seem all that fussed by the cold. Damn New Yorkers, you think to yourself, but there's pain threaded through the thought like ivy in old brick.

You ain't spoken yet today. Ain't sure you can. Yesterday was hard and you're still wearin' the blood of good men. But you give him an acknowledging nod. I'm here. I'm with you. and he gets it. He always does.

"Can't wait for that Alabama sunshine, huh?" Reggie says. His voice is soft an' gentle but there's a playfulness to it, obscured by his accent that can't decide if it's British or Brooklyn. He grew up with one, compounded it with the other, ended up with somethin' not quite either. But he can sound Parisian at the drop of a hat an' knows some six languages besides. You never realized how suited he was for spying until he was in the thick of it. "You better enjoy it for both of us, kid." He ain't never wistful, you know Reggie'd never put that on you. It's just an earnest, fervent wish. Live.

"My pals at the SOE thinks the end's coming, and Aveline — well, ask her yourself, she was in Bauvenn last time I checked in with her. But lord, Genie, you should see the mess of Germany right now. Hitler's losing his goddamn mind. I really think losing Rommel was the tipping point, you know?" Reggie stands up, comes over. Sits down again. The smoke of the cigarette seems to pass right through him. "And the Russians just liberated another camp in Budapest."

Good news. It's good news, an' you should be glad to hear it. But you can't shake this pervasive sense of dread that settled in the pit of your gut around 0300 and ain't yet left you. You ain't even had the heart to bring yourself to eat somethin', even though you know you should. You need to be ready. Can't help your boys if you can't hardly function. Determination cracks the veneer of malaise, and you pull out a tin of ham, prising open the top with the edge of your knife. You've been still so long the snow shakes off your shoulders. "You hear anything about Albert?" you ask at length. You can taste blood on lips cracked in the cold as you stab a piece of gelatinous ham and bite it off the tip of the knife.

Reggie exhales. Shakes his head. "Sorry, Genie. You know how he is. Only damn one of you Hicks boys that can hide from me."

There's a stab of sorrow that lands alongside the cold. Ain't nobody heard from Al now in weeks, it's startin' to wear you down. "It's all right, Reg'. You tried, an' I appreciate it mightily."

"Anything for my best guy," Reggie says fondly. He stands up, makes a show of stretching out his legs. "Anyway, kid. I'm gonna go scout the Salm. 9th Panzer's still out here somewhere, it's driving me nuts." He tips his hand in a salute and wanders off, passing through the retaining wall without a word. You watch him go, and then turn your attention back to the road.

(/ghosts)

(death)

Lou's throwin' snowballs, and Malachi ain't havin' none of it. You can hear the clear refrain of idiot, you want the S.S to roll up while you're playin' with your goddamn dick in the snow? You ain't got the sense God gave baby bunnies, Lawrence! and you catch the moment that Lou hits Malachi straight up in the face with a ball of it and crows with triumph.

It's short-lived. The scream of the first mortar goes up. You ain't sure who takes up the bawl but someone yells it, incoming! The boys scatter, you try to track them in the chaos so you know where to look for the injured. But that first shell hits harmless, throws up shrapnel and steam on its impact. You should be relieved, but you ain't. That dread just won't quit. Lord, not today, don't take any of my boys today—

Another shell thuds against the earth. Another. You can hear Ginny yelling who taught these fuckers how to aim, the Goddamn 2nd Infantry? and a bunch of fellas laughing with nervous, fitful energy.

And then it goes up. That frantic call, you ain't even sure whose throat it gets torn out of but you hear medic hollered into the ether and you're up. The snow an' all the detritus kicked up by the shells makes it hard to orient, but the call keeps on and you run towards it.

First time you ran into danger, your hands shook so bad you could barely dress a wound. Now, fear's an old thing. Dead and decayed beneath the rooted bones of your resolve. You make it. Someone's grabbed Malachi and pulled him down into a foxhole, and you skid on your knees on the dirt and baseball slide into the damn thing with a hand on your helmet.

Malachi is cussing a blue streak and tryin' to fight Jimmy straight-up offa him. But once you're there, he swings his attention to you like a bull spottin' a red flag.

"I'm fuckin'— fine, Doc," Malachi says through gritted teeth. He ain't even let go of his rifle yet. You give Jimmy a look, and he snatches the rifle away when Malachi's distracted with you.

"You go on an' let me see, Mal—" you says gently, ears ringing hard. "Go on, you know I'm just doin' my job. How many purple hearts is this, now?"

"Too fuckin' many! What am I, some kind of goddamn magnet? Fuck! I'm sick of these cocksuckers!" There's blood on his uniform, but it ain't anywhere vital. You rip open his jacket and feel along his chest for the slick spot. No blood on the mouth yet. No laboured breathing that you can tell. Lord, it might actually just be a flesh wound. You find the injury along his back, a hunk of shrapnel about the size of your fist embedded just above the shoulder blade. Ripped right through that coat. You can't pull it out. Right now it's stopping the bleeding, an' there's no telling how deep it is. He ain't going to like that much.

"We gotta get you back to the 51st. Come on, get up." You're already trying to steady him. There's a lull in the shells dropping, which means their mortars are reloading. You might not get another chance.

"I ain't leavin' this fucking foxhole, Doc!" Malachi growls out. "Just pull it out and slap a goddamn dressing on it. I'm shootin' me a Kraut an' I'm gonna nail the bastard's balls on my fucking mantle back home!"

You know he'll listen to you anyway, despite the protests. You peek over the edge of the foxhole, straighten your helmet. Then you stand up, and —

— And you wake on a boat and the soft sway of water, and —

(/death)

this got tl;dr too rip

[evocation]

[Kyna doesn't mean to trigger the vision. She leaves The Invincible to find the line of shrines and graves and feels an inexplicable pull towards them. It's weird, but probably not dangerous, she tells herself, and then she finds herself stopping at what is obviously a soldier's makeshift grave.

She reaches out to run her fingers along the rim of the helmet, hand trailing down to the dogtags caught around the gun. Without thinking, she touches Wash's dogtags around her neck, almost in sympathy. She doesn't recognize the last name, but then, she doesn't know many people's last names here. The urge to leave something feels almost natural, and so Kyna slips one of her rings off—a simple slim silver band—and leaves it at the base of the marker.

The effect is instant. Suddenly she's freezing, and very aware that she isn't herself. It all happens so quickly that all she can really register is Gene's certainly non-human companion and the visceral intensity of it, the speed with which Gene died, there and suddenly gone.

And then it's over, and Kyna finds herself with her hands over her mouth. For a moment all she can do is sit, forcing herself to breathe slowly so she doesn't spiral into a complete panic. It's the vision, yes, but it's guilt too. This isn't something she has permission to see, and just like in Hadriel, it feels like a violation. Maybe Gene would have told her if she'd asked, but this is taking it out of his hands completely, and she hates it.

Kyna scrubs her hands over her face, mutters a muffled god damn it, and then forces herself up. She has to find him, because the thought of knowing something this personal about him and not telling him is... awful. She's sure she's going to fumble this conversation somehow, like she always does, but she can't just not warn him.

By the time she finds him near the bonfire she's practically vibrating with anxiety, and she fidgets awkwardly before snagging his arm.]

Hey, um...

oops

[sulfa]

[ after experiencing jesse's death, after realizing what the small gesture of placing a fresh cigarette on the dusty mound of the unmarked grave would do, wade had immediately resolved to stay far from them. it's simply not right to plunge into another person's memories without asking, let alone to live them, especially where something as intimate and personal as death is concerned - so he won't.

he walks through the firelit square with his arms hanging limp at his sides, not entirely sure what to make of the scene he just lived out through the eyes of someone not that much younger than he himself - but it's wrong to leave jesse without so much as a grave marker over the sandy earth that had covered his body prior to his arrival in beacon, and a wooden cross shouldn't be so hard to make if he can borrow some things from their resident woodworker.

irwin cuts a wide berth around the graveyard out of respect, but he still can't help but to stare at the two battlefield crosses as he passes them - which is when the surface of one of gene's tags reflects some of the firelight back at him from where it's fallen on the ground. he frowns and carefully steps through the sandy corridors between the long rows of graves until he finds himself crouching in front of the marker adjacent to his own. it's probably just an accident that's rolled the thin beaded chain of gene's tags off of the rifle stock they were hanging from, but it's still troubling enough to warrant fixing, so he picks them up, letting the chain pool in his hand.

E.P. HICKS

he studies the tag resting in his palm for a few seconds before he carefully places it back where it belongs, trying not to think of what it must have felt like in the hand of whoever took it from his dead body, when it was still warm with human life from resting on the bare skin of doc hicks' chest. he'd seen countless dead bodies during his time alive - but it's always different when the slack face of a corpse is one you recognize from its time animated. he hates that he can so easily visualize the cadaver of a man he's all but just met - and that his mind doesn't hesitate in producing that image even now that the war that sent them both here is long over.

wade lets the tag slip through his fingers as he straightens up - only to be slammed with bone-deep cold the moment he does. the vision plays out from there, dragging him under the icy waves of the other's memory with the violence of a riptide. it's all too familiar - the banter suddenly giving way to the chaos of a shelling and the scramble to reach the wounded. the small kernel of selfhood that remains in irwin's consciousness as he lives out gene's last moments waits for the shell that'll end him to suddenly hit, to overwhelm him with pain similar to his own, wiping every thought of the friend from before from his mind - but it doesn't come. eugene--irwin--straightens up, adjusting his helmet.

and then there's nothingness.

wade blinks at the dark air, jaw slack as he eases back into his own personhood and attempts to sort the fragments of stolen memories into some logical sequence of events. there had been a shelling, but it doesn't seem like that was what had killed him - the death certainly hadn't been as violent as he had imagined it when they'd swapped causes of death they met. a projectile to the head could have killed him, but he would have felt at least a millisecond of impact first, or so irwin would assume. but what does make sense - straightening up, and only then getting hit, dying instantly - a sniper. there's a chance irwin's own killers didn't see the red cross on his helmet through the smoke and the distance. the man who killed eugene was staring right at it through a scope.

for a moment he forgets how to move - he's not sure how much time has passed, but he'd fallen into a kneeling position, because his calves and feet prickle as he forces them into motion and raises himself up at the same time as the horrible wrongness of what he's just done settles over him in full like a lead shroud. there's the issue of that man walking through a wall, too, and the question of what a SOE operative was doing on the front lines, among other things - but the knowledge that there's something not quite right about that is all he can manage in the moment.

irwin forces a breath into his lungs and resumes the walk to the chapel-slash-clinic, a million apologies he's not quite sure how to word perching on the edges of his teeth and weighing down his shoulders. when he opens the heavy wooden doors and sees gene in one of the pews, however - alive, tranquil brown eyes cast downward and shaded by dark lashes as if in prayer while he sifts through donations, his chest slowly rising and falling at a normal respiratory rate - there pass a few seconds where he can't even think up the words to grab his attention.

he blinks a few times, lips silently forming the motions of at least two different greetings that stop short in his lungs; when he finally manages to speak up, his voice is hardly above a whisper. ]

Eugene. A moment?

[ he mildly cants his head in the direction of the vestry, as if they aren't already the only souls occupying the chapel at the moment.

oh, god. ]

offerings;

[preseance]

( ooc; if your character left an offering and witnessed his death, leave a note here for tracking purposes! don't feel like you need to do a thread or anything, we can always wrangle one later c: )

+1 bullet (a .50 caliber to be specific)

[hardwearing]

[ Early in the morning on the 12th, Wash happened upon Gene and Wade's graves. Not knowing what would happen but feeling the urge to leave something, he pulled the magazine out of his handgun and popped a bullet free, kneeling to press it into the dirt near the marker.

The first thing he's aware of is the cold, then the voice in the conversation he's reliving: Gene. He didn't check the dog tags to know for certain but he recognizes the voice, the distinctive drawl as the soldier talks to -- wait what? Wash doesn't have much time to dwell on the fact that apparently Gene was buddies with a ghost, because now his unit -- no, Gene's, in the past -- is under attack. Wash sees everything. Feels everything, his instinct and focus and the goddamn cold, until suddenly it's over.

It's nice to know, honestly, that Gene didn't feel anything. He kind of wishes he could say the same, but still is struck with an awkward pang of guilt that he just lived his acquaintance's last moments. He likes Gene, and he didn't have permission to see this. Not that this sort of thing ever gives a shit about what they want.

Wash breathes out shakily and glances over at what he assumes is Wade's grave, beside Gene's. He doesn't have permission to experience that either. And now that he knows how it works, he should get up and walk away. Go find his own and destroy it. But... it just feels wrong, to have left something for one and not the other. With the distinct sense that he's going to regret this, that he shouldn't, that he's being an asshole more than respectful but still not able to resist... Wash pops another bullet out of his magazine.

What's one more fuck up, at this point? ]

[fogey]

[ five leaves a single, white candlestick! ]

[evulsed]

[ enjoy 1 (one) small rock, gene ]

[identifier]

[ from dick, a hand-carved wooden bird. ]

Re: offerings;

[knifecollecting]

[Jo hasn't collected much she's willing to part with here, but she leaves a medium rock, naturally pretty well balanced. She might have been carrying it in case she needed to clobber someone, but it felt like a good idea to leave something.

Until it wasn't. But. That's for another day. She only approached because she recognized the name. She's not sure she wants to deal with this right now.]

+1 sketch

[nonscriptum]

[ For a long while Nate stood in front of the marker before committing to it.

Knowing the kind of thing he'd probably see based on the tags - war wasn't a goddamn picnic - gave him reservations, knowing it was a private affair gave him the same amount. In the end he left the little scrap of paper (small, with a cartoonish man peeking over a ledge and the words Kilroy was here) because it felt wrong not to leave something, after the kinds of conversations he's had with Gene. ]

[policier]

( Javert leaves a single coin on his grave. Considering their last conversation, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out who it's from. )

[darkeyed]

_{[BLOOD. IT'S JUST BLOOD.]}