The Disciple ♌ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
disciplewhomsignlessloves) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2014-03-06 01:28 am
disciplewhomsignlessloves) wrote in thearena2014-03-06 01:28 am
Entry tags:
Waiting for your death in the rain
Who: The Disciple, Donatello
When: Backdated to late sixth week
Where: Floor Five
What: Disciple gets cold burns from nitrogen rain and walks into a murder
Warnings/Notes Death, burns, etc.
The museum isn't really cold but fire an irresistible lure after all this dimness and dark. The rocks are stolen from one exhibit, the grass and wood stolen from another and she's holed up behind some tables and chairs in a corner. Carefully, she coaxes up a spark, a light, her hands warming with that soft glow. Warmth. Real warmth. She'd forgotten it after these months, so much dim light and howling wind. It makes the arena seem that much colder with her palms by the flame.
It makes the abrupt shock of freezing cold rain that much worse. No it's not cold, though it is, it burns. Her skin feels like it's on fire, burning burning and there's nowhere to go. She stumbles over the chairs and tables and her clothes are sticking to her skin, pulling with every movement. It's agonizing, each step, as her pajamas slowly stick--freeze, she realizes. Like snow to her scarf or ice to the fur on her jacket when she fell on the lake, it's sticking and her skin is there beneath, freezing too.
It's only an alcove that saves her, just out of the reach of the dangerous rain. Her body aches, cold cold, and she's afraid to look at her fingers. They feel ...like nothing. Nothing at all. Her breath comes faster, harsher, as the rain finally stops and she can get a better look at herself. Hair broken off in chunks. Bright white burns on her skin that hurt to look at, hurt to think about, because they've stopped hurting at all. But when she moves, when her skin pulls at cloth, she wants to scream. A whimper is all she allows herself, breath coming heavy as she reconciles all of this.
She'll die like this. Hardly able to move or defend herself without screaming agony.
And it's so convenient that the next thing she hears is footsteps.
When: Backdated to late sixth week
Where: Floor Five
What: Disciple gets cold burns from nitrogen rain and walks into a murder
Warnings/Notes Death, burns, etc.
The museum isn't really cold but fire an irresistible lure after all this dimness and dark. The rocks are stolen from one exhibit, the grass and wood stolen from another and she's holed up behind some tables and chairs in a corner. Carefully, she coaxes up a spark, a light, her hands warming with that soft glow. Warmth. Real warmth. She'd forgotten it after these months, so much dim light and howling wind. It makes the arena seem that much colder with her palms by the flame.
It makes the abrupt shock of freezing cold rain that much worse. No it's not cold, though it is, it burns. Her skin feels like it's on fire, burning burning and there's nowhere to go. She stumbles over the chairs and tables and her clothes are sticking to her skin, pulling with every movement. It's agonizing, each step, as her pajamas slowly stick--freeze, she realizes. Like snow to her scarf or ice to the fur on her jacket when she fell on the lake, it's sticking and her skin is there beneath, freezing too.
It's only an alcove that saves her, just out of the reach of the dangerous rain. Her body aches, cold cold, and she's afraid to look at her fingers. They feel ...like nothing. Nothing at all. Her breath comes faster, harsher, as the rain finally stops and she can get a better look at herself. Hair broken off in chunks. Bright white burns on her skin that hurt to look at, hurt to think about, because they've stopped hurting at all. But when she moves, when her skin pulls at cloth, she wants to scream. A whimper is all she allows herself, breath coming heavy as she reconciles all of this.
She'll die like this. Hardly able to move or defend herself without screaming agony.
And it's so convenient that the next thing she hears is footsteps.
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Still, he had to find Mindy. Even if it was just to give her what supplies were left. So he ventured onto the fifth floor - through the stairway, and very carefully. And was hit by the smell of metal, and the sensation of sharp cold. It wasn't cold cold, rather the feeling of cold, but that it had been much colder. Not that Don felt particularly lucky about that as he started shivering his way into the floor proper. His breathing became harsh, and he even began to whimper, as it was cold, so cold for a tur--
...wait. That wasn't him. The whimper was female. If it was female, it could be Mindy. Oh no...
His head whipped around, looking for the source. It wasn't long before he found himself running towards it, only to find that the figure wasn't Mindy at all - Mindy wasn't a troll. But she was still dying, nevertheless. He brought his hand towards her, thought better of it when he saw just why she had whimpered (Burns. These burns. Liquid nitrogen. That's why its so cold in here, this place was doused in it!), instead deciding to use what remained of his first aid bandages for makeshift gloves first.
The sound of tape ripping cut the air.
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