Dave Strider (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shenunigans) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2015-07-05 10:57 am
shenunigans) wrote in thearena2015-07-05 10:57 am
Entry tags:
My body's not even cold.
Who: Dave Strider and you!!!
What: Various Arena shenanigans through the week. Bonfires, powers and getting hit by lightning.
Where: Throughout the Arena.
When: Week 4-6ish.
Warnings/Notes: Vicious lightning attacks.
Like any other Arena, this one is shaping up to be an adventure in self defeat. People are dying, Dave didn't get nearly enough people through, he fucked up with a sword and had a fight with his girlfriend and he's not even being interesting about it. It's his seventh Arena. Seventh. The impression that he's useless cannon fodder has probably been stuck in the mind of every Capitolite like the freakish and ghastly visage of Han Solo frozen in carbonite. He can relate a lot to that mental image. Really, it's a wonder the wind hasn't changed and left him looking like that, face strained with the horrors of sixteen years of what amounts to absolute fucking bullshit.
But he's trying to keep positive.
Somewhere along the way he split with Feferi. Not intentionally and not out of any malicious intent. He went one way, maybe he stayed out too long, but he lost track of her. God. They've only been dating a month or two and he's already clingy. What kind of putz feels this disheartened to be separated from his girlfriend? Murder match not withstanding, of course. He can't help but feel like he'd feel morose about this regardless of where they were.
It's hard to cover ground fast when you're trudging around like this, but Dave can be found wandering the village and the forests nonetheless. He has his sword raised and ready and he's looking around corners, but the lazy way out is still niggling at the back of his mind. He knows by know that using powers is correlated with bad results, but surely a little flying is kosher? Right? He debates it for a long time, but it's stumbling over a rock that has him openly cursing the thankless human creation of two-footed walking. He climbs himself up a tree for the added height, using the leap from his branch to dip himself into the perfectly scientifically accurate act of flying. And it's fine, for a little while. He gets himself up fairly high, a majestic nun in the cloudy sky simply surveying the span of the Arena for telling signs of allies.
But he's not so lucky.
There's a rumble, and it's only a brief hint of what is to come. Dave is already drifting down warily when suddenly, everything is vividly white and he can't hear anything. It's like he's been punched in the back of the head (and he knows that feeling) and everything locks midair for what feels like a very long moment of paralysis. That's when he begins his sad descent, like a fly hit by a bug zapper. Dave drops out of the sky as a sizzling mess and lands with a very graceful thud on the hard ground.
He should definitely be dead. That was a long fall and a lot of fucking lightning. But after a long, long pause, he coughs and pushes himself upward to sit, shades falling off his face in sad pieces and every part of him pulsing like he's hyper-aware of the fact that he just got vaulted like a murder-row prisoner. He's charred and scarred and his shoulders slump as he groans, barely aware of his surroundings as he tries to gather his bearings. "Does anyone smell burning hair?" He asks the trees, not entirely sure if he's being watched. He'll try to play it cool anyway. "I think I smell burning hair." It's your hair, Dave. "Ha. Ha. Didn't hurt. Wow. Overcompensation much? It's like using fucking molotov cocktails on rats, I mean really." He's just going to pet his head and make sure it's not on fire.
Some hours later, Dave will take his charred self to his Celebrus stash in the forest and utilize his fire-starting kit when he decides to just torch the pile. There he will sit, illuminated by a curling and burning mass of photos and faces. There lies the evidence of his success, crumbling into ash as he goes to great lengths to keep his burnt ass warm. He almost doesn't care if it attracts attention. He has a headache and a very meager will to survive. At least if he gets in a fight, he can ham it up for the masses and go to bed in a real bed.
What: Various Arena shenanigans through the week. Bonfires, powers and getting hit by lightning.
Where: Throughout the Arena.
When: Week 4-6ish.
Warnings/Notes: Vicious lightning attacks.
Like any other Arena, this one is shaping up to be an adventure in self defeat. People are dying, Dave didn't get nearly enough people through, he fucked up with a sword and had a fight with his girlfriend and he's not even being interesting about it. It's his seventh Arena. Seventh. The impression that he's useless cannon fodder has probably been stuck in the mind of every Capitolite like the freakish and ghastly visage of Han Solo frozen in carbonite. He can relate a lot to that mental image. Really, it's a wonder the wind hasn't changed and left him looking like that, face strained with the horrors of sixteen years of what amounts to absolute fucking bullshit.
But he's trying to keep positive.
Somewhere along the way he split with Feferi. Not intentionally and not out of any malicious intent. He went one way, maybe he stayed out too long, but he lost track of her. God. They've only been dating a month or two and he's already clingy. What kind of putz feels this disheartened to be separated from his girlfriend? Murder match not withstanding, of course. He can't help but feel like he'd feel morose about this regardless of where they were.
It's hard to cover ground fast when you're trudging around like this, but Dave can be found wandering the village and the forests nonetheless. He has his sword raised and ready and he's looking around corners, but the lazy way out is still niggling at the back of his mind. He knows by know that using powers is correlated with bad results, but surely a little flying is kosher? Right? He debates it for a long time, but it's stumbling over a rock that has him openly cursing the thankless human creation of two-footed walking. He climbs himself up a tree for the added height, using the leap from his branch to dip himself into the perfectly scientifically accurate act of flying. And it's fine, for a little while. He gets himself up fairly high, a majestic nun in the cloudy sky simply surveying the span of the Arena for telling signs of allies.
But he's not so lucky.
There's a rumble, and it's only a brief hint of what is to come. Dave is already drifting down warily when suddenly, everything is vividly white and he can't hear anything. It's like he's been punched in the back of the head (and he knows that feeling) and everything locks midair for what feels like a very long moment of paralysis. That's when he begins his sad descent, like a fly hit by a bug zapper. Dave drops out of the sky as a sizzling mess and lands with a very graceful thud on the hard ground.
He should definitely be dead. That was a long fall and a lot of fucking lightning. But after a long, long pause, he coughs and pushes himself upward to sit, shades falling off his face in sad pieces and every part of him pulsing like he's hyper-aware of the fact that he just got vaulted like a murder-row prisoner. He's charred and scarred and his shoulders slump as he groans, barely aware of his surroundings as he tries to gather his bearings. "Does anyone smell burning hair?" He asks the trees, not entirely sure if he's being watched. He'll try to play it cool anyway. "I think I smell burning hair." It's your hair, Dave. "Ha. Ha. Didn't hurt. Wow. Overcompensation much? It's like using fucking molotov cocktails on rats, I mean really." He's just going to pet his head and make sure it's not on fire.
Some hours later, Dave will take his charred self to his Celebrus stash in the forest and utilize his fire-starting kit when he decides to just torch the pile. There he will sit, illuminated by a curling and burning mass of photos and faces. There lies the evidence of his success, crumbling into ash as he goes to great lengths to keep his burnt ass warm. He almost doesn't care if it attracts attention. He has a headache and a very meager will to survive. At least if he gets in a fight, he can ham it up for the masses and go to bed in a real bed.
goodbye 1989
He also doesn't hold to it when he sees smoke gulping out into the air over the tree line; he runs straight towards it, his muscles rather than his brain pumping through the mantra he internalized well before coming here as he runs towards potential danger without anything more intimidating than a pocketknife, in dingy and ripped clothing for a costumed knight and still limping in his stride from the near-fatal wounds the bats gave him two weeks back: if you can't be smart and you can't be strong, and a twelve year-old is neither, than at least you can be brave.
"Indiana!" he crashes on out of the underbrush, a stranger to stealth so much that announcing his presence seems to be an afterthought entirely. He meets Dave's face with those wide blue eyes, takes in the charred hair and the smoldering clothing, and honest to God concern splashes across his features. "You look like hell."
i wanna be the one in CONtrol
Of course, his worry is short lived. Bayard doesn't take long to identify himself to Dave, given the fact that he's the only one with a reason to call him that. He lets himself settle back down, following an appraising look with a heavy blink that turns into a grimace.
"Funny. I feel great." He forces something like a weak, tired smile for Bayard's sake in the hopes that it will prevent him from freaking out anymore than he already is. "I'm fine. Happens all the time. Glad to see you're still alive, champ. Are you secretly a bad ass? I had no idea."