Reaper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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deercountry2021-11-02 10:09 pm
no_reload) wrote in deercountry2021-11-02 10:09 pm
Few Regrets (Open)
Who: Reaper (no_reload) & Open
What: Post-death recovery & November catch-all
When: Month of November
Where: In & Around Disaster House
Content Warnings: Will add as they come up.
I. Squid Games
The remains of his body had fully inked and become crystallized. Then the smoke filled crystals cracked, shattered and broke apart to reveal a palm-sized squid that shook off bits of crystal and remaining ink. The black bloody ink did begin to resorb into the squid which seemed momentarily disoriented.
Then it lifted four tentacles and gave a soft hissing squeak to whomever happened to be close by. Another squeak and wiggling tentacles that clearly meant to be indication for picking up.
While he couldn’t communicate with words, Reaper was small enough and determined enough to be close to anyone. He would attempt to cling to feet or legs, and sometimes that meant the risk of getting under foot.
At other times, he would somehow clamber onto raised parts of furniture whether it was a table leg, couch arm or even a shoe and lift two tentacles to the air and wait for someone to pass by before trying to attach himself for a free ride to leg or hand.
II. Bedrest
Since leaving the squid state, Reaper had had a hell of a time adjusting back to his body. He had mostly confined himself to his bedroom, a place he hardly used as anything other than storage previously. Now he was there most of the time, sequestered to the bed as he didn’t have the available energy yet to perform his usual household activities.
After all, breathing was a laboured effort; that’s probably what was supposed to happen when one’s lungs had been vaporized. He could be found in his bedroom, sitting up to make breathing easier and clad in black track pants and a oversized black hoodie where the hood was constantly pulled up over his head, obscuring his bare and scarred face with shadow. The white of his goatee was the most obvious aspect of him to be seen.
"…death has always provided a reset, but you haven’t invested time to knowing how blood effects your abilities either. That was stupid of you…"
Reaper grunted softly as if replying to the scolding and exasperated Irish female voice that happened to be coming from a small laptop-sized device next to him on his bed. His bare hand with its blackened dead looking fingers reached out and patted the device as if he were trying to pat the Irish voice on the shoulder.
"I have this pain again." His voice was strained, nearly breathless.
"Expected. You died, Reyes. You will cope as you did before," the voice said with a touch of exasperation.
"Analysis on point, as always," he remarked with a soft nearly whimsical sigh that turned to a wheeze.
The voice was quiet, a reminder that the person behind it wasn’t actually here in Trench. That old friend had returned to their world and had never returned. He turned the medical device off with press of a button and leaned his head back against the headboard, shifting his weight as if unable to find a comfortable spot to sit in.
Then his chin tipped his head down again. "I know you’re out there."
III. Slow and Steady
Thankfully, the month so far had seemed calm and with little to no effects. He was slow to move around the house, less willing to take up some of his normal activities. He technically was the only adult in the house and that came with certain responsibilities he hadn’t been able to get back into. For one, he tired far too easily, like he was far older than he actually was. Or maybe this was how those of the SEP went out… tired, alone and shuffling around.
He spent much of his time in the house, but sometimes he wanted a chance of scenery. He was ease his way out of the house and seat himself on the ground or on a step. If he was having a particularly good day, he could get himself up to one of the edges of roof and seat himself there, legs dangling.
As soon as he went outside, his Omen, Wraith, would immediately appear. The black peacock would make a show of preening and walking around, shuffling long detailed tail feathers and issuing a low mournful swan song that was not normal for peacocks. Always, the Omen would be on high alert, never staying particularly close to him but clearly on guard to anyone who might know what to look for.
"Careful, his bite is as pathetic as his bark," he rumbled softly to anyone that might stop by to have a look or even appear from the house.
no_reload) & OpenWhat: Post-death recovery & November catch-all
When: Month of November
Where: In & Around Disaster House
I. Squid Games
The remains of his body had fully inked and become crystallized. Then the smoke filled crystals cracked, shattered and broke apart to reveal a palm-sized squid that shook off bits of crystal and remaining ink. The black bloody ink did begin to resorb into the squid which seemed momentarily disoriented.
Then it lifted four tentacles and gave a soft hissing squeak to whomever happened to be close by. Another squeak and wiggling tentacles that clearly meant to be indication for picking up.
While he couldn’t communicate with words, Reaper was small enough and determined enough to be close to anyone. He would attempt to cling to feet or legs, and sometimes that meant the risk of getting under foot.
At other times, he would somehow clamber onto raised parts of furniture whether it was a table leg, couch arm or even a shoe and lift two tentacles to the air and wait for someone to pass by before trying to attach himself for a free ride to leg or hand.
II. Bedrest
Since leaving the squid state, Reaper had had a hell of a time adjusting back to his body. He had mostly confined himself to his bedroom, a place he hardly used as anything other than storage previously. Now he was there most of the time, sequestered to the bed as he didn’t have the available energy yet to perform his usual household activities.
After all, breathing was a laboured effort; that’s probably what was supposed to happen when one’s lungs had been vaporized. He could be found in his bedroom, sitting up to make breathing easier and clad in black track pants and a oversized black hoodie where the hood was constantly pulled up over his head, obscuring his bare and scarred face with shadow. The white of his goatee was the most obvious aspect of him to be seen.
"…death has always provided a reset, but you haven’t invested time to knowing how blood effects your abilities either. That was stupid of you…"
Reaper grunted softly as if replying to the scolding and exasperated Irish female voice that happened to be coming from a small laptop-sized device next to him on his bed. His bare hand with its blackened dead looking fingers reached out and patted the device as if he were trying to pat the Irish voice on the shoulder.
"I have this pain again." His voice was strained, nearly breathless.
"Expected. You died, Reyes. You will cope as you did before," the voice said with a touch of exasperation.
"Analysis on point, as always," he remarked with a soft nearly whimsical sigh that turned to a wheeze.
The voice was quiet, a reminder that the person behind it wasn’t actually here in Trench. That old friend had returned to their world and had never returned. He turned the medical device off with press of a button and leaned his head back against the headboard, shifting his weight as if unable to find a comfortable spot to sit in.
Then his chin tipped his head down again. "I know you’re out there."
III. Slow and Steady
Thankfully, the month so far had seemed calm and with little to no effects. He was slow to move around the house, less willing to take up some of his normal activities. He technically was the only adult in the house and that came with certain responsibilities he hadn’t been able to get back into. For one, he tired far too easily, like he was far older than he actually was. Or maybe this was how those of the SEP went out… tired, alone and shuffling around.
He spent much of his time in the house, but sometimes he wanted a chance of scenery. He was ease his way out of the house and seat himself on the ground or on a step. If he was having a particularly good day, he could get himself up to one of the edges of roof and seat himself there, legs dangling.
As soon as he went outside, his Omen, Wraith, would immediately appear. The black peacock would make a show of preening and walking around, shuffling long detailed tail feathers and issuing a low mournful swan song that was not normal for peacocks. Always, the Omen would be on high alert, never staying particularly close to him but clearly on guard to anyone who might know what to look for.
"Careful, his bite is as pathetic as his bark," he rumbled softly to anyone that might stop by to have a look or even appear from the house.
no subject
Both the person who got killed, and all their friends and family. His own feelings haven't changed much, he still hates the idea of seeing people he cares about dying.
no subject
He leaned his head back against the wall then lifted the spoon for his soup and stirred it. The heat seemed to have died down enough to not burn his tongue. He had enough burns as it was. He took a small gingerly sip of soup.
no subject
What if he has vileblood or something? Or pale? What if being a darkblood means that death is really bad for him? What about coldbloods? What if Varian dies and death for coldbloods is permanent?? Great, he has so much to worry about now.
"Uh man, I think I gott think about this."
no subject
From his conversation with Flynn, he hadn't gotten the impression that the kid was a darkblood like him. Too shiny. Too 'justice' oriented. He would guess paleblood if he had to.
"Don't worry too much about it right now. We don't have enough information, and aside from a select few, I doubt anyone will be volunteering to fully explore any of this."
no subject
Shaking his head, he takes a step back towards the door. "Uh, I should leave you to rest. With the soup."
no subject
"Very well. Don't let such thoughts plague you too much. It will drive anyone mad," he said before taking a sip of the soup. "Thank you for the soup. It's good. Doubt yourself less."