hadriel_logs | Intro Log: Off my chest

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Intro Log: Off my chest

Who: New arrivals and everyone else!
What: The intro log for April.
Where: The colosseum and all around the city.
When: April 10th-13th
Warnings: Newbies, explosions, and things that are definitely treasure chests and not evil monsters out to get you.

Welcome to your first day in Hadriel! Enjoy your surroundings, meet your fellow travelers, and be sure to start exploring so you can collect as much loot as possible!

On the ground around you may notice bang snaps, scattered haphazardly. Try not to step on any of them, or you might burn your feet! Feel free to gather them up and use these baby fireworks however you see fit; there are dozens strewn about on the ground. Popping them will emit clouds of smoke of various colors, and... well, not much else.

Is there anything else lurking around? Glad you asked! If you look around, you may find a few innocent-looking treasure chests. Which you know, normally means free loot- except, in Hadriel, nothing is quite the way it's advertised of course and the chests are actually dangerous mimics. Mimics- often disguised as treasure chests- are monsters with surprisingly quick movements and gaping maws filled with teeth. They exist to try and fool an unlucky traveler into thinking they've gotten something good... only to lunge at them in their moment of triumph and prove that life is actually terrible and nothing comes for free.

Good luck!

Once you've managed your daring escape from the colosseum, feel free to go explore the rest of the city! Find a house, find a new monster, or simply scavenge for supplies. Good luck, and enjoy your stay in Hadriel!

► This log covers April 10th-13th.
► Feel free to make your own logs, as well!
► All characters now arrive with phones that have network communication.
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The sound of the little fireworks going off is enough to catch Firo's attention and bring him meandering into the area. He stops a few paces away to watch the battle with the chest, very nearly moving to jump in when it looks like the thing's about to gobble him up. He holds back when the poor guy manages to free himself--maybe he'll do all right.

"...You know, for a minute there, I thought you almost had that thing."

With his nerves wound up from all the pop pop popping at his feet and the monstrous box that tried (is still trying, albeit it several feet away) to snap him in half, all it takes is a single voice to knock Carlisle over the precipice into complete and utter terror.

"I said st—!"

He did say stop, and while he'd meant it toward anything and everything that was assaulting his sensibilities at that second, he hadn't meant himself. However, he freezes on the spot when his eyes land on Firo Prochainezo. His face is two parts apprehension and one part relief: he's all too aware of how Firo feels about him, of the wrongs he committed against the man only weeks before, and yet, he is admittedly glad to see someone he recognizes. For a second, he'd thought this all might be another mask-induced hallucination or that he'd been spirited away to another plane. He's not alone in this. That's good. That's very good.

"Ah, Mr. Prochainezo,," he starts with an audible sigh, only vaguely aware through the thundering in his head and chest that he's lost all conversational skills he might have had -- at least the name came out right, if a bit guttural -- "I know we're not on the best of terms, but I'll be the first to admit that I'm v—"

And then he's cut off a second time as that monstrous box, having decided that the few feet between itself and its prey is a few feet too many, takes a sudden leap toward Carlisle and latches onto his right arm, its teeth closing on the bend at his elbow with a sickening crunch. There's a new sound in the arena aside from that pop pop popping: a scream of complete and utter agony.

Firo's entirely still at the look--it seems almost like recognition--and even more so at his name. That's not the kind of name people just guess. His eyes harden into wariness, "How do you know--?"

He's too distracted to see the attack until too late, and he takes a defensive step back while Carlisle gets chomped.

"Hey, get off!"

At least the thing's mouth is occupied, for now, so he tries to kick at the side of the box. Whether it distracts the thing or discourages it completely, he doesn't care so long as he does something. He can't stand there and watch this guy get eaten. That's gross.

The toothy box doesn't seem terribly pleased about the part where it's being kicked, but it's not eager to let go of its prey to do something about it, either. It shakes its entire frame in an effort to hop shortly to one side, avoiding another blow and taking its cargo with it. Carlisle's panic ramps into overdrive with the blinding pain in his arm; as the creature opens its maw for another bite, he can see through all the blood and what he assumes is a piece of bone that those are definitely teeth impaling his limb.

All those other times he thought he was going to die? Not his time. This is definitely the end.

It takes all he has not to reach out, to influence others to come to his aid, to compel Firo to do something marginally more helpful than kicking the box monster. He can feel the urge at the back of his mind, his own abilities threatening to turn against him for the sake of survival -- that's how it all starts, though. That's how he got in trouble last time.

So he bites it down, expending his energy in other ways... namely struggling and more yelling. "Do something! Get it off get it off get it off get it off let go let go—!"

Another crunch, and his hand hanging outside the box's gaping maw goes limp. That's not good.

Edited 2016-04-11 21:42 (UTC)

Exasperated, Firo breaks off his kicking with a groan. "What do you think I'm tryin' to do?! Why don't you try and help yourself?"

But it's undeniable that it isn't working--he has to try something else. He reaches back to whip out one of the knives he pilfered from Rage's armory and tries to cram it into any opening in the mimic's mouth. If he can get some leverage, maybe it'll be easier for the guy to escape.

"If this thing opens up, you get back, okay? Don't hesitate!"

Between his curse and the tremendous pain he's in from having his arm gnawed on by a monstrous chest, Carlisle doesn't catch a single word Firo says. What he does manage to note is how his rescuer has changed tactics, trying to use a knife to pry open the creature's mouth. It's working, slowly but surely, but the beastly box fights back, pressing harder and harder on Carlisle's arm as it refuses to give up its meal; its teeth are well through his limb by now, its tongue wrapped around his elbow, trying to leverage the rest of him in. He can't feel his hand, the tendons severed by the creature's fangs, muscles torn and shredded like old, discarded documents; wrenching away from the creature just puts him in more agony. The mimic pulls against him as well as it tries to weasel away from the knife forcing its maw open; it lets out a hiss, blood spraying through its wall of teeth.

Somewhere in the pain and the panic and the utter disgust of having his own blood spit back on him, Carlisle loses it, and helps himself in the only way he knows how.

I said LET GO!

Whether it's the knife, the command, or the fact that Carlisle belts that order at the top of his lungs, the result is the same: the mimic, seconds before so insistent on pulling the cleric into its jaws, releases him with little fanfare, its tongue unraveling from his arm, mouth held open to give him a chance for escape. He does just that, pulling his ruined limb off the row of teeth that had pinned him in place.

The box waits patiently while its prey takes five steps away and collapses, his working hand straying to the other as he turns on his back and does his best not to pass out from the pain. His hand is still there, still attached, if barely. His forearm and elbow took the worst of it, the teeth having skewered through his limb with ease, flesh and bone and muscle all pushed aside to make room for the impaling fangs.

He tries to take a breath, but it catches in his throat. He can't even think of the consequences of his sin -- again, again -- nor can he deal with the fact that the box is still there, still a very real threat. There's one thing he knows he can do, granted he can focus long enough. It's either that, or lose the arm, and he'd rather not do that.

But concentration doesn't come easily, especially when there's still danger around and his mind is so flooded with pain that he can barely breathe -- and without that concentration, he can't maintain control over his influence. The mimic snaps back to itself after only a few seconds, and seeing that its prey has somehow escaped, it goes back on the offensive, lashing out at anyone nearby with its massive tongue.

Edited 2016-04-12 03:48 (UTC)

The forceful shout shocks Firo, and he finds his grip slackening before he even knows what's happening. He nearly drops the knife into the mimic's slavering maw before he grabs at it again.

It's with another shock that he notices that the thing has let go of its victim. He draws back with his weapon, unwilling to stay too close to thing if he doesn't need to.

"Are you kiddin' me? It lets go when you ask nicely?" What the hell.

But there's no time to celebrate or catch their breath--that thing looks ready for round 2.

With little compassion for the extreme pain the almost-former-snack probably feels, Firo reaches for his collar and tries to pull him along. He'll opt for dragging the guy if he has to--it was hard enough getting that thing to let go in the first place, and he doesn't intent to stick around and see if Carlisle can pull off that trick again.

"Let's get you the hell outta here, okay?"

The tug at his collar drags Carlisle both in body and mind: with what little focus he has torn from his arm, he kicks off the ground automatically, following his usual instinct to run despite the fact he can't even recall through the pain why he needs to be doing that. It's something about a box and teeth and oh that felt like he was blacking out just a second and Desth this hurts.

He manages to make it to his feet and stumbles to Firo, his legs barely holding him up as he clutches his injured arm and does his best to concentrate for even a second. He's been severely injured before -- his being twice-cursed is proof enough of that -- and while he's healed his own injuries in the past, he's never had to mend anything so serious on himself. It's a challenge he never wanted to undertake, and, should he survive this, hopes to never undertake again.

He lets out a hiss through his teeth, feeling that white-hot burning stemming from his good hand as he pours energy into his wound. He only manages to repair some of his bones -- the fragments shift back into place with an audible crack -- before his focus is lost again to the excruciating pain. He can see why his fellow healers usually get someone else to do their dirty work when its their own lives on the line.

It all happens in the span of a breath or two; he's unresponsive a moment, then he jolts back to awareness, clenching his teeth as ink starts welling at the sides of his mouth. Don't pass out. Don't pass out. Passing out would be terrible. "I just- I- I need a second! I can- I can fix this, but- but- I—"

He tenses again, and hopes Firo got the gist of that.

Edited 2016-04-12 20:54 (UTC)

This is too weird. Firo realizes that he's in a creepy cave run by "gods," but all this? Is still really weird.

It's not like the immortals Firo knows, but could it be close? Maybe it's a trick from the same book, which could lead to nasty surprises down the line if he's not careful.

As for the blood coming out of his mouth--Firo assumes it's blood, because what else could it be--that, too, is just really weird.

But that can all come later. Firo listens to the words fighting their way out of the man's mouth and thinks that he understands.

"You'd better hurry up."

With no further preamble, he releases his hold on Carlisle and whirls around to see if the mimic is still on their trail. He'll protect--or try to protect--the guy while he does whatever the heck it is that he's doing.

With Firo no longer hanging onto his collar, Carlisle's legs give up and buckle under him. It might be easier to do this without worrying about standing up, he considers miserably. Of course, it might be easier when they're not running for their lives -- boxes, killer boxes, he remembers, suddenly recalling why escape is very important -- but he doesn't have that luxury. Time to get to work so they can continue the escaping part.

He pulls in a breath, trying to ignore the sound of the box monster leaping after them, its gnashing teeth now after the man standing between it and its prey. Healing energy pools beneath his fingers, electric sparks pulsing through his injured limb and to his wounds. There's another sharp crack, a yelp of pain as the rest of the bones snap back together and pull themselves into his arm -- Desth, that really really really hurts -- and as the muscles wrap themselves around the bone, he stops. The wounds are still open, blood spilling from what are now deep gashes and punctures, but it's enough that he can move more readily.

Or he could if his body wasn't revolting against him. He starts to get back to his feet, only for his legs to collapse beneath him. In good news, he isn't passing out, as he'd feared he might; the bad news is that he's hacking up an awful lot of ink.

Edited (TENSES, MAN.) 2016-04-13 01:18 (UTC)

Firo's occupied with the mimic now, first kicking at it to make it keep its distance, then simply dodging its lunges and focusing on leading it away from Carlisle.

"Tell me when you're ready! I can't play with this thing forever!"

But from what he can see out of the corner of his eye... he's not sure if that guy's going to be ready any time soon. He looks in pretty bad shape, regardless of whatever he was fixing just then.

The mimic bounds along after Firo, faster and faster, each hop longer than the last as desperation sets in -- it's deceptively quick for its size and shape, hunger driving it to fight.

As for Carlisle, he's anything but quick: his world has come to a complete standstill, his hands and knees holding him off the ground, his eyes affixed on the pool of ink spreading beneath him, one that grows with each wracking cough that escapes him. His wounded limb still aches, the punctures bleeding profusely, crimson trailing down the tears in his gloves and mingling with the black mass that swallows and stains his exposed fingertips; however, it's his abdomen that's a distraction now, stabbing pain cutting through him like a hundred knives, all aimed at the scars across his middle. Though he'd expected this pain, it's no easier to deal with. It never is.

Another pang hits him, and he squeezes his eyes shut; his bloodied hand, now working again, claws at his old wounds, the other curling into a fist as he forces himself to breathe. It'll pass -- it always does.

And as the seconds tick by, it does dissipate, slowly but surely; the pounding in his head clears, and as he opens his eyes and fights that dizzying moment of vertigo, he becomes fully aware of the clunk clunk clunking of the mimic as it bounds after Firo. They can't stay here.

He pushes himself off the ground with his feet, cradling his wounded arm. "I'm fine!" he calls behind him as he takes off, even if it is a stretch of the truth. "Go!"

Edited 2016-04-13 02:59 (UTC)

Carlisle readies himself just in time--Firo's surprised by how quick the hulking chest is, and he's not sure how long he'd be able to keep up his defense and still have wind to run. Luckily, one of the perks to immortality is that he can run himself to pieces and recover, but he has to break first for that.

So it's with relief that he takes several large steps back from the monster and then turns to run after Carlisle.

"Yell if you start fallin' behind."

He doesn't want to have to slow down and deal with that thing more, but... well, Firo's resigned himself to the fact that he's gotten soft over the years. Leaving a person who hasn't yet offended him to die just doesn't sit right with him.

He aims to run as far out of the colosseum as they can. From there, he'll aim to lead Carlisle down the streets of the city, simply seeking to lose their attacker if they can get that far.

Even with his head start, Firo outstrips Carlisle in a matter of seconds, and it's all the cleric can do to try to keep up. He steps on another bang snap after only a few steps; though he leaps into the air as though dodging a bear trap as the firework pops loudly under his foot, he does not stop, lest the boxes catch up with him and try to finish their meal.

Into the streets they go, and Carlisle can't help by try to look around as they run. There's no sky above them, no trees around them; the air is colder, thinner without the humidity that the jungle had in abundance. There are welcome signs of civilization too, buildings and lights -- it's not home, but it's neither the jungle nor the Tranquility, and for that, he's grateful.

Or he will be once he can stop focusing on the sharp pain still cutting through his arm, each step sending a jolt through it. It seems like they've been running for a lifetime -- it's actually only a couple of minutes, but he's not exactly the pinnacle of good health -- when he slows down. It's another couple of seconds before he finds the breath to actually call out to Firo, and even then, it's more of a wheeze. At least the monsters are out of sight.

It's only when Firo hears that rasping cry that he realizes they may have overdid it with the running. But, hey, the guy's still upright! So then he was fine with the exertion despite being gravely injured. Probably.

He stops, first casing the area as he does so with a quick, sharp look. Can't relax just yet, not until he sees that all the corners appear to be clear.

Only then does he slip his hands in his pockets and turn towards Carlisle, surveying him. "You all right?"

This guy's a trooper, he'll give him that much.

Leaning up against a nearby building, Carlisle's up one second, then down the next, his back sliding against the wall as he falls onto his rear. He hisses through his teeth with every breath, trying to swallow both pain and air simultaneously with varying degrees of success. As for answering Firo, he's not quite as productive.

"Need... a moment," he rasps, his fingers tightening on his wounded arm. Though no longer broken, it's still bleeding profusely, the punctures from the mimic's fangs deep, scarlet caverns in his pale skin. He looks down, his vision blurry as he wonders if all that blood will come out of his tabard.

He shakes his head, forcing himself awake. Focus. Don't pass out. Passing out bad. Don't do that. "Right," he agrees with himself, pressing his back into the wall behind him. "A moment."

Taking in another breath, he closes his eyes, struggling to direct his healing; his energy is as frazzled as the rest of him -- exhausted, unfocused. He has healed far worse injuries than this, bringing the sick back from the brink of death, the wounded away from a grisly end; however, he's never attempted such a feat on himself, and commanding the energy required for his art is far more taxing when he's fighting to stay conscious.

It's by pure determination he manages at all, funneling what magic he can into his arm. It's either that, or he risks bleeding to death, and if there's one thing he won't chance, it's a return trip to the Land Beyond Living. He has amends to make, and the person to whom he needs to make them is within his reach. Now he just needs to survive. He has to do this, lest he let his goddess down.

Carlisle bites his lip as his wounds start closing up, the muscles stitching themselves together bit by bit. The burning sensation that accompanies the healing does him no favors, each second that passes making him grind his teeth harder and harder.

But the wounds do heal -- not entirely, but enough that the bleeding stops. What he's left with are numerous, oozing abrasions, the skin raw and unhealed; it is a far step up from what they looked like only seconds before, though. And better is that he's still awake. He's not sure for how long -- his legs feel ready to fold under him again the moment he's back on his feet, his shoulder still against the wall.

"O- okay," he starts, stifling a cough. "I'm fine. Not, ah... fine fine, but significantly—" The cough escapes him after all. "... More fine than I was. Thanks."

It all comes rushing back to mind--the weird ink, the sudden healing that he saw just a few moments ago. And the name, Firo suddenly recalls--the guy knew his name. He needs to ask about that and make sure he's not some enemy or creep. Now that the danger's passed, they can worry about these things.

Firo looks the man over now that the healing--however the hell he was doing that--seems to be over. "You still look like hell," He offers. He's helpful like that.

He holds out his hand to pull the guy up or steady him, whatever he seems able to accept. After all that, Firo supposes something of a rest has been earned.

A physical one, anyway; he fully intends to start his interrogation now. "So. You know me, but I don't know you. Mind tellin' me how that is?"

Carlisle takes Firo's offered hand and uses it to steady himself as he pushes off the wall and tests out his legs. Fatigue weighs him down; his legs feel wobbly and unreliable, but they're functioning for the time being. Better is that his arm seems to be in working order -- he flexes his fingers a few times and bends his elbow, making sure everything is where it ought to be. It hurts, the muscles and skin still tender, but it's better than it was when it still had some teeth impaled through it.

He greets his repaired arm with a look of weary satisfaction; that look dissipates the moment Firo starts questioning him, quickly replaced by one of earnest disbelief. "W- what?"

Firo lets go only when it seems Carlisle has himself upright.

He frowns. "Don't play dumb." Maybe he's just disoriented from pain, but it doesn't do to be charitable when you're trying to get information from someone. "Prochainezo. You said my name before."

Frustrated by the strangeness of it all, he shakes his head and points his finger. "I've never seen you before in my life, so who are you?"

"I- I..." Carlisle shakes his head before repeating himself, now with more emphasis. "I'm sorry, what?"

His look has gone from confused and pained to absolutely incredulous. "You- you've either bumped your head or lost your mind. You can't possibly have forgotten who I am. What I did! I saw you just a few days ago!"

"I lost my mind?"

That's rich coming from a guy who does strange magic stuff. Clearly you have to be crazy to do such crazy things.

He growls, recognition slowly coming into his eyes. Just probably not the epiphany Carlisle wants. "You've been spyin' on me?"

That is the only logical assumption. Never mind that all the evidence so far had pointed to this guy being a new arrival.

For a moment, Carlisle sees recognition creeping into Firo's eyes, and he's relieved; said relief vanishes one second later as he's accused of spying on the poor fellow.

"What!?" His disbelief is so strong that he winces from the outburst, as his arm is still very sore. He leans into the wall again, trying to hold himself up as he parses out this madness. "No! Why would I even do that?"

He shakes his head, taking in a deep breath. He has amends to make to this man, and his lapse in sanity is not helping. "Okay, stop. Start over. You have no idea who I am. You really don't know?"

"I don't know, you tell me!" He leans forward as he yells, as self-righteous as if he really were the innocent victim of this skulking creep.

Though his mood is hardly improved by the need to repeat himself, he does take a deep breath and a step back. "No, that's what I've been telling you. I'm not just pullin' your leg for fun."

Though Firo says that, Carlisle can't help that feeling that this is some kind of trick the man is playing to get back at him, yet he searches Firo's expression for any hint of recognition, he finds... none. Absolutely none. Perhaps he's lost his touch on reading people, or perhaps Firo is far better at bluffing than he'd have ever expected, but his reply certainly is convincing.

"I'm..." Carlisle starts, visibly disheartened. "I'm Carlisle Longinmouth. We met on a ship called the Tranquility. Though that was over a year ago, now. The ship crashed and we've been living in the jungle at this base camp, though you mostly live outside it with Miss Prochainezo and that one lad who pulled a knife on me once. Can't recall if I ever got his name, though it's probably best I didn't, now that I think of it..."

From the way he's talking, he's probably going to keep prattling on until Firo stops him.

Ah. There it is: the slip Firo's been looking for. "Sorry, there is no 'Miss Prochainezo.' I've never had a sister--actually, I don't have any relatives, so nice try."

He thinks he gets it now--this guy knows a bit about him somehow and wants something from him. So he's going to pretend to buddy up so that he can get it. This could be a dangerous situation, but Firo's mostly curious.

He smirks, triumphant at having figured out this plan. It slips when he suddenly registers how weird the rest of the story is--is this guy some kind of idiot? How does he expect him to believe that?

Unless he's not making it up at all... But that's unsettling--how could he forget all this?

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