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[OPEN]
Who| Pruna and Marius, Marius and you???
What| Marius is dicking around, and eventually gets robbed and stabbed by a little girl. Today is not his day.
Where| First floor
When| Week 3, after Felicity's attack and death
Warnings/Notes| Blood, violence, etc.; PM me if your character is planning on stealing from/attacking Marius so we can sort something out? :3
Marius blinked rapidly, trying to keep out of his eyes the warm, bright-red blood that oozed from the long and deep incision close to his brows. He was still panting heavily from the sudden encounter with the distraught mademoiselle, his sweat and tears mixing with the blood that trickled down his face and the bridge of his nose.
He watched her die. The thought caused him to choke. He slapped a hand over his mouth and let out a helpless whine, leaning against the cold metal of the elevator. He could not save his friends at the barricades in Paris and he could not save Cosette from Eva's poisoned blade and he could not save this woman, who was bleeding and weak and hysterical and in need of comfort and assistance. Was this the grand fate that the Moirae weaved for him? To simply watch incapably by as sword of Thanatos struck down everyone around him?
No, cease your thoughts on it.
In his other arm, he clutched the bundle of food from sponsors and the crowbar tighter against his chest. He knew he should return to their hide-away in the fourth floor, but he was afraid that if the body of the unknown mademoiselle was still there, he would fall into a sickness he could not recover from. Besides, he had to search for food; the camp was running low on it, and he could not allow them to starve to death.
He recalled that the first floor had a cafe. His attempt to explore may not yield fruit, in retrospect, but it had become something he needed to do. It was a distraction.
The chime signifying his arrival on said floor sounded like thunder in his ears in the silence of the steel box, and he wiped the blood off his brow with his arm, wincing only slightly; the shock from the attack and the death of the woman took over his senses far more than the pain from the knife wound. He shifted his crowbar to his free hand and stumbled out of the elevator: a man with vision blocked every so often by the sticky liquid from his head wound, dizzy and highly distraught, clutching a bag of food against his chest like a lifeline.
What| Marius is dicking around, and eventually gets robbed and stabbed by a little girl. Today is not his day.
Where| First floor
When| Week 3, after Felicity's attack and death
Warnings/Notes| Blood, violence, etc.; PM me if your character is planning on stealing from/attacking Marius so we can sort something out? :3
Marius blinked rapidly, trying to keep out of his eyes the warm, bright-red blood that oozed from the long and deep incision close to his brows. He was still panting heavily from the sudden encounter with the distraught mademoiselle, his sweat and tears mixing with the blood that trickled down his face and the bridge of his nose.
He watched her die. The thought caused him to choke. He slapped a hand over his mouth and let out a helpless whine, leaning against the cold metal of the elevator. He could not save his friends at the barricades in Paris and he could not save Cosette from Eva's poisoned blade and he could not save this woman, who was bleeding and weak and hysterical and in need of comfort and assistance. Was this the grand fate that the Moirae weaved for him? To simply watch incapably by as sword of Thanatos struck down everyone around him?
No, cease your thoughts on it.
In his other arm, he clutched the bundle of food from sponsors and the crowbar tighter against his chest. He knew he should return to their hide-away in the fourth floor, but he was afraid that if the body of the unknown mademoiselle was still there, he would fall into a sickness he could not recover from. Besides, he had to search for food; the camp was running low on it, and he could not allow them to starve to death.
He recalled that the first floor had a cafe. His attempt to explore may not yield fruit, in retrospect, but it had become something he needed to do. It was a distraction.
The chime signifying his arrival on said floor sounded like thunder in his ears in the silence of the steel box, and he wiped the blood off his brow with his arm, wincing only slightly; the shock from the attack and the death of the woman took over his senses far more than the pain from the knife wound. He shifted his crowbar to his free hand and stumbled out of the elevator: a man with vision blocked every so often by the sticky liquid from his head wound, dizzy and highly distraught, clutching a bag of food against his chest like a lifeline.
no subject
He sits as still as possible so that the compassionate, helpful man can clean his wound without much hardship or inconvenience, but he winces and jerks a slight fraction backwards when the cloth touches the open cut, his senses once more reminded of the feeling of pain. He looks up at the man with a combination of distress, panic, and embarrassment in his fast-prickling eyes, far too mortified by his actions to say anything.
no subject
It's with a habitual kindness that Christopher smiles, as if he is accustomed to people yanking away from his help like that. Maybe he's a doctor of some kind! He says, "Wow, there's no need to be so shy. To even be tongue-tied! I know I'm amazing, but it's far better if people converse when they're together. Why don't you tell me all about the friends you've made here instead?"
It is the exact same trick he has for upset children when he has to dress their wounds. Either he talks or they do; either way, the conversation is the distraction.
no subject
"I have several friends from Paris who have been summoned here as well." His voice starts with a crack but quickly eases into an almost casual tone the more he speaks. "And then there is Gallagher, and..." A pause, and then, "and Eponine."
And there are others he would have wanted to consider as friends too, such as Peeta and Maximus and Eliot, but he was not entirely sure whether they would accept him as one, and he would rather avoid voicing out assumptions.