[Reliably, L is a pragmatic man without much use for hope. It's a thing that feels deceptively nice, like the bloom of warmth and comfort that sets in right before one begins to freeze to death in earnest. It's a pernicious influence, in other words, better kept at arm's length.
Trench has a way of melting into one's core, though. Human contact, relationships and gentle kindness have warmed him through, bit by bit, and with those he would call friends, one he would call nemesis, and even one he might call a crush, in spite of the darkness L has perhaps more legitimate hope than he ever has before.
The result is that he guards it jealously. When you happen upon him in Gaze, he is filling a third container with orbs. He's no killer, but his fevered greed has resulted in a dearth of them in this area.
Maybe you're in dire need of hope, yourself.]
II. Wonderkind (NETWORK in Crenshaw, CW: Monster attack, tongue eggs, amputation by hand-melting]
[L is crouched in his latest deserted hovel, scouted for a week prior before he moved in for a mere two days. He has one day left before he'll move to his next location; it's important to him that foes and friends alike never have an easy time finding him, that his exact residence is never easily or readily known, because then it can be shared, sold, purchased, exploited.
As a result of his approach, he has to travel light. His sleeper backpack contains all his worldly goods, a compact bedroll in the form of a single tatty blanket, and a set of clothes in addition to the ones on his back to allow for occasional laundry. His lamp friend remains, as he's never set it down in a place he can call home permanently. Bits of food, bloodstones, and a carefully-wrapped journal also reside in the bag, and tonight, this final item is what he stoops over to study, careful to only handle it with a glove on his right hand, and only then turning the pages with his fingertips.
He's read it twice, now, a piece of necromantic literature purloined from The Emperor's study, but he is going over it again for missing pieces, anything he perhaps failed to memorize perfectly.
A ball of glowing light glides through the open window. The shift in shadows immediately catches L's attention, but the ball seems to blot and burn a hole into the fabric of the world right before his eyes. It isn't his world he's staring into; it's one that's both very similar and very strange. A battle on a subway platform between a tall muscular man with red skin and sawed-off horns, and a sickening and gruesome monster is occurring...
...and then, the monster is in L's secluded room, all slobber and disconcerted rage. He bolts to his feet, but not before it has lashed out its tongue, wrapping its slimy length around his ungloved left hand. There's a piercing sensation near the delicate bones there, something between sucking and penetration, and when the thing lurches away to propel itself out the window, L's left staring at the slicing wound in his left palm, and the half-dozen gelatinous orbs nestled secure inside.
He steadies his breathing, dissociates to the best of his ability. Using the hook of his right index finger, he tries to pry the eggs loose, but they're snug inside, practically glued. He swallows, starting to shake in spite of his best efforts to remain calm, when his eyes fall on that warded book. He thinks of the promised effect of touching it, the care he's taken so far to avoid doing just that.
Surely just one corner, strategically applied, might yield the result he needs. Hating that he doesn't know the timeline he's working within, or whether seeking medical attention instead would be prudent or folly, he lifts the book in his gloved right hand, turning it so that he can ever-so-carefully apply a little bit of prodding pressure to the embedded eggs in his palm with the tiniest possible portion of its cover.
It works immediately; it works too well. L sets the book hastily aside as the eggs disintegrate, and, with them, his entire left hand, down to sinew, down to bone, and then the bones, too, are puddled and fizzing at his feet.
He steps back, watching the blood that drips from the stump of his wrist drip and pool and follow him. Wherever he goes, there it is, and he is calm but it is a weaker insistence now as his vision starts to blotch around the edges.
His blanket is his compress until it's soaked through and summarily tossed aside. Then his spare clothes; by this point he's had the presence of mind to tear a sleeve off his bloodied shirt and use his fork to create a makeshift tourniquet.
He manages to type a message with fingers jittery from adrenaline, clumsy from blood loss.]
UN: ENPAWNSANT
ATTN sleepwrs in crenahw
rhter is a movstert that has emedged grom a oportAL
watch the tobgue
effectiva devense measures not nknow at tis time
III. From Within and Without (Cellar Door)
[A little later in the month, L is whole and mended once again, but his troubles in April aren't yet done. He knows because he's begun to notice his shadow, perhaps for the very first time.
At first he thinks he's cracking up, maybe in the sort of way that isn't all bad. It's like having a friend, after all, someone who follows him and does what he does and doesn't shun or judge. He even laughs at it sometimes, the absurdity of it all. Gradually, his milky skin starts to take on a silver hue, which is not as alarming as it might be for one who isn't as pale and paleblood as L.
It feels very natural, even. He always knew he'd be devoured. Now that it's happening, how can he truly fault the creature that's bested him?]
Hey...
[The edges of the strange man's eyes and veins seem to be molten silver.]
I wonder if you can give something to a friend of mine. He'll want to have it, and I don't think I'll be able to do it myself. I'll pay you in bloodstones, or... actually, you can just take everything I have, OK?
IV. WILDCARD
[Don't see it? Want it? Have at it! Wedge some slice of life in between these events, offer to get the book back to Jod's study for a price, or anything else your heart desires. I'm easy.]
L Lawliet | Death Note | OTA
[Reliably, L is a pragmatic man without much use for hope. It's a thing that feels deceptively nice, like the bloom of warmth and comfort that sets in right before one begins to freeze to death in earnest. It's a pernicious influence, in other words, better kept at arm's length.
Trench has a way of melting into one's core, though. Human contact, relationships and gentle kindness have warmed him through, bit by bit, and with those he would call friends, one he would call nemesis, and even one he might call a crush, in spite of the darkness L has perhaps more legitimate hope than he ever has before.
The result is that he guards it jealously. When you happen upon him in Gaze, he is filling a third container with orbs. He's no killer, but his fevered greed has resulted in a dearth of them in this area.
Maybe you're in dire need of hope, yourself.]
II. Wonderkind (NETWORK in Crenshaw, CW: Monster attack, tongue eggs, amputation by hand-melting]
[L is crouched in his latest deserted hovel, scouted for a week prior before he moved in for a mere two days. He has one day left before he'll move to his next location; it's important to him that foes and friends alike never have an easy time finding him, that his exact residence is never easily or readily known, because then it can be shared, sold, purchased, exploited.
As a result of his approach, he has to travel light. His sleeper backpack contains all his worldly goods, a compact bedroll in the form of a single tatty blanket, and a set of clothes in addition to the ones on his back to allow for occasional laundry. His lamp friend remains, as he's never set it down in a place he can call home permanently. Bits of food, bloodstones, and a carefully-wrapped journal also reside in the bag, and tonight, this final item is what he stoops over to study, careful to only handle it with a glove on his right hand, and only then turning the pages with his fingertips.
He's read it twice, now, a piece of necromantic literature purloined from The Emperor's study, but he is going over it again for missing pieces, anything he perhaps failed to memorize perfectly.
A ball of glowing light glides through the open window. The shift in shadows immediately catches L's attention, but the ball seems to blot and burn a hole into the fabric of the world right before his eyes. It isn't his world he's staring into; it's one that's both very similar and very strange. A battle on a subway platform between a tall muscular man with red skin and sawed-off horns, and a sickening and gruesome monster is occurring...
...and then, the monster is in L's secluded room, all slobber and disconcerted rage. He bolts to his feet, but not before it has lashed out its tongue, wrapping its slimy length around his ungloved left hand. There's a piercing sensation near the delicate bones there, something between sucking and penetration, and when the thing lurches away to propel itself out the window, L's left staring at the slicing wound in his left palm, and the half-dozen gelatinous orbs nestled secure inside.
He steadies his breathing, dissociates to the best of his ability. Using the hook of his right index finger, he tries to pry the eggs loose, but they're snug inside, practically glued. He swallows, starting to shake in spite of his best efforts to remain calm, when his eyes fall on that warded book. He thinks of the promised effect of touching it, the care he's taken so far to avoid doing just that.
Surely just one corner, strategically applied, might yield the result he needs. Hating that he doesn't know the timeline he's working within, or whether seeking medical attention instead would be prudent or folly, he lifts the book in his gloved right hand, turning it so that he can ever-so-carefully apply a little bit of prodding pressure to the embedded eggs in his palm with the tiniest possible portion of its cover.
It works immediately; it works too well. L sets the book hastily aside as the eggs disintegrate, and, with them, his entire left hand, down to sinew, down to bone, and then the bones, too, are puddled and fizzing at his feet.
He steps back, watching the blood that drips from the stump of his wrist drip and pool and follow him. Wherever he goes, there it is, and he is calm but it is a weaker insistence now as his vision starts to blotch around the edges.
His blanket is his compress until it's soaked through and summarily tossed aside. Then his spare clothes; by this point he's had the presence of mind to tear a sleeve off his bloodied shirt and use his fork to create a makeshift tourniquet.
He manages to type a message with fingers jittery from adrenaline, clumsy from blood loss.]
UN: ENPAWNSANT
ATTN sleepwrs in crenahw
rhter is a movstert that has emedged grom a oportAL
watch the tobgue
effectiva devense measures not nknow at tis time
III. From Within and Without (Cellar Door)
[A little later in the month, L is whole and mended once again, but his troubles in April aren't yet done. He knows because he's begun to notice his shadow, perhaps for the very first time.
At first he thinks he's cracking up, maybe in the sort of way that isn't all bad. It's like having a friend, after all, someone who follows him and does what he does and doesn't shun or judge. He even laughs at it sometimes, the absurdity of it all. Gradually, his milky skin starts to take on a silver hue, which is not as alarming as it might be for one who isn't as pale and paleblood as L.
It feels very natural, even. He always knew he'd be devoured. Now that it's happening, how can he truly fault the creature that's bested him?]
Hey...
[The edges of the strange man's eyes and veins seem to be molten silver.]
I wonder if you can give something to a friend of mine. He'll want to have it, and I don't think I'll be able to do it myself. I'll pay you in bloodstones, or... actually, you can just take everything I have, OK?
IV. WILDCARD
[Don't see it? Want it? Have at it! Wedge some slice of life in between these events, offer to get the book back to Jod's study for a price, or anything else your heart desires. I'm easy.]