WHO: Finch Wicker, Casimir Lyov, Melys, Wren Coupe, Isaac WHAT: Catchall for the month WHEN: Throughout WHERE: Kirkwall NOTES: This'll be for closed prompts only, but if you’d like one, feel free hit me up on plurk!
not the way that real drink spins and sends him heaving for the gutter, but the rest of it: all that fogged up feeling in his head, heart beating too fast. ideas getting too big.
he'd been certain in the sunless lands (at least six, no, at least a dozen — no, a hundred times —) that they were all going to die. and then there'd been people that did, the people that had to, and he can't think about that long at all. better not to think about that.
he's alive. and he's gone and done something on a map, off the map, and it feels a bit meaningful. feels a bit fake.
feels drunk.
three months grows the days less strange. he's outside more often now, can't break the habit of looking up when he goes; people always clamber about, lately, it's that same spider of ink.
he worries. most days that's all he does. most days she doesn't fall. ]
much of galatea's life has been spent, for one reason or another, in small spaces. enclosed spaces. behind closed doors. she's done a lot of work in tight spots and getting in and out of them; she's at ease with the weight of a locked door. she knows her way around the shadows, enough. but more is asked of everyone here, and little of the things that she's already an expert in, so always she must be bettering herself! trying to do more, learn more, be more.
get better at things. clamber over this, and under that, gain confidence in the things she is not yet very good at. her approach is committed and methodical; she swims several times a week, mostly in the mornings. she climbs, and every day she feels a little bit steadier doing it, gets a little bit more ambitious;
a little bit more cocky;
a little bit closer to the edge;
and then there is nothing but air under her foot, and her hand slips, and )
he doesn’t, of course. finch’s reflexes are only so keen, and bend towards getting out of the way. she drops like a stone, hits — bushes, at least, then grass. earth. this time last year, the ground wouldn’t have been so kind, but spring's come to the gardens before most of kirkwall. ]
Maker — !
[ the twinge of guilt (blasphemy) shoves aside by the second sprinting step, coat already ripped off (alright, stuck on an arm) and bracing for blood. it doesn’t occur to reach for the crystal, still so new; doesn’t occur to call for a healer.
( the breath knocked out of her by the impact, she doesn't immediately answer; doesn't immediately look at him, staring shocked up into nothing in particular, mildly stunned and nothing so much as confused. she was up, and now she's down. and down is bullshit? she is one large thing that hurts, which makes it hard to identify specifically where are the smaller parts that hurt the most, sore more than she has body to contain it, surely—
she's scraped along the side of her forehead, smacked her head; it bleeds more than it merits, probably, headwounds are that way, she hasn't snapped bone through skin or anything so severe, leather not protecting her from bruises or from the way that her hand suddenly flattens to her ribs when she takes a deep breath and that hurts too, actually, but at least from anywhere else bleeding particularly.
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gala; gallows
[ for the better part of a week, he's felt drunk.
not the way that real drink spins and sends him heaving for the gutter, but the rest of it: all that fogged up feeling in his head, heart beating too fast. ideas getting too big.
he'd been certain in the sunless lands (at least six, no, at least a dozen — no, a hundred times —) that they were all going to die. and then there'd been people that did, the people that had to, and he can't think about that long at all. better not to think about that.
he's alive. and he's gone and done something on a map, off the map, and it feels a bit meaningful. feels a bit fake.
feels drunk.
three months grows the days less strange. he's outside more often now, can't break the habit of looking up when he goes; people always clamber about, lately, it's that same spider of ink.
he worries. most days that's all he does. most days she doesn't fall. ]
no subject
much of galatea's life has been spent, for one reason or another, in small spaces. enclosed spaces. behind closed doors. she's done a lot of work in tight spots and getting in and out of them; she's at ease with the weight of a locked door. she knows her way around the shadows, enough. but more is asked of everyone here, and little of the things that she's already an expert in, so always she must be bettering herself! trying to do more, learn more, be more.
get better at things. clamber over this, and under that, gain confidence in the things she is not yet very good at. her approach is committed and methodical; she swims several times a week, mostly in the mornings. she climbs, and every day she feels a little bit steadier doing it, gets a little bit more ambitious;
a little bit more cocky;
a little bit closer to the edge;
and then there is nothing but air under her foot, and her hand slips, and )
no subject
he doesn’t, of course. finch’s reflexes are only so keen, and bend towards getting out of the way. she drops like a stone, hits — bushes, at least, then grass. earth. this time last year, the ground wouldn’t have been so kind, but spring's come to the gardens before most of kirkwall. ]
Maker — !
[ the twinge of guilt (blasphemy) shoves aside by the second sprinting step, coat already ripped off (alright, stuck on an arm) and bracing for blood. it doesn’t occur to reach for the crystal, still so new; doesn’t occur to call for a healer.
not yet. ]
Are you alright, are you — um —
[ he’s not really expecting an answer ]
no subject
she's scraped along the side of her forehead, smacked her head; it bleeds more than it merits, probably, headwounds are that way, she hasn't snapped bone through skin or anything so severe, leather not protecting her from bruises or from the way that her hand suddenly flattens to her ribs when she takes a deep breath and that hurts too, actually, but at least from anywhere else bleeding particularly.
quietly, and with feeling: )
What the fuck.