Neffa a Reyeth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lessthanelementary) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-02-15 04:13 pm
lessthanelementary) wrote in thearena2014-02-15 04:13 pm
Entry tags:
friendship is definitely not magic [closed]
Who| Christopher Chareau de Red, Neffa a Reyeth
What| Neffa has a run-in! ACTION ENSUES
Where| Fourth floor, among the dinosaur skeletons
When| Week four
Warnings/Notes| The attempt to beat Christopher up will be pathetic in the extreme, but people are going to get punched!
The museum, the intercom informs Neffa, will be closing in thirty minutes. As he has every other day it's announced this since the first, he ignores it.
He feels almost-- almost-- safe right now, surrounded by these dead, dead things. These are beasts time has conquered; the stark whiteness of their bones in the dimming light has permanence to it, and that feels like an anchor. Maybe, if sleeps here, the nightmares will be better.
Neffa chooses the biggest beast for his vantage point. Its leg bones are huge, too big to wrap both his hands around so that the fingers touch. He allows himself to sit, to let his back slide down the smooth plaster, and it's such a relief to be off of his feet that he can almost ignore the slight dizziness that comes from persistent hunger, the dryness of his throat, and the anxiety sitting in the pit of his stomach and making the shadows move in the corners of his eyes.
Please, he thinks in the direction of the completely absent gods, Let me have just two hours alone. Please bar the doors. Please let no one come in here.
What| Neffa has a run-in! ACTION ENSUES
Where| Fourth floor, among the dinosaur skeletons
When| Week four
Warnings/Notes| The attempt to beat Christopher up will be pathetic in the extreme, but people are going to get punched!
The museum, the intercom informs Neffa, will be closing in thirty minutes. As he has every other day it's announced this since the first, he ignores it.
He feels almost-- almost-- safe right now, surrounded by these dead, dead things. These are beasts time has conquered; the stark whiteness of their bones in the dimming light has permanence to it, and that feels like an anchor. Maybe, if sleeps here, the nightmares will be better.
Neffa chooses the biggest beast for his vantage point. Its leg bones are huge, too big to wrap both his hands around so that the fingers touch. He allows himself to sit, to let his back slide down the smooth plaster, and it's such a relief to be off of his feet that he can almost ignore the slight dizziness that comes from persistent hunger, the dryness of his throat, and the anxiety sitting in the pit of his stomach and making the shadows move in the corners of his eyes.
Please, he thinks in the direction of the completely absent gods, Let me have just two hours alone. Please bar the doors. Please let no one come in here.
no subject
One hop, two, light steps to avoid breaking the weight, well-balanced, and a slide down a tusk—Christopher lets himself fly up, and with a flip, he brings himself back down to the ground in front of Neffa.
"Greetings, fellow in appreciating history! Welcome and good day to you in this home of evolution's dead ends! Would you care to join them today? Oh, but sorry, we're all out of evolutionary failure. Today we fight against Nature's great imperatives to support universal survival!"
no subject
He is sure, for a hideous three seconds, that it is the skeletons moving. That the quick motion above (just a flash in his peripheral vision) is the dip of a dead skull as long as he is tall, and that this is why the floor is deserted, because the dead monsters were waiting.
It says something about how little rationality is left to him that the appearance of a person feels like a relief at first, in light of that.
He isn't still in the seconds it takes to process all this, of course-- at the first sign of movement he jerks clumsily to his feet , but the appearance of the stranger right in front of him sets him flinching backward against the legbone behind him with a sound like "daa--AAAH--" hoarse and startled and not even really trying to be words, with his arms flung up in front of his face.
"--What--?" he croaks, frightened and suspicious and bewildered, upon finding himself not dead at the end of the... Tribute? Gamemaker plant? Muttation... 's speech. He has the werewithal to brace his back against the bone and curl his hands into fists, though looking like he'd be at all competent in their use isn't happening. No one comes to talk about survival.
no subject
no subject
--What? His understanding has come no farther. His mind is spinning, seeking an angle from which those words make any sense whatsoever, but he cannot find one. You don't offer someone friendship in the Arena. You simply-- don't.
"Don't kill me," is his reply-- his plea. He does not lower his clenched fists, and plants his feet more firmly on the ground (because if he's going to be given seconds to prepare he might as well use them). It's not a courageous action; just his only contingency plan when pleading doesn't work. "Please. I'll give you-- whatever I have. Don't kill me."
It's like they're having two different conversations, he realizes. Well, maybe if I understood the one he's having--!
no subject