Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Iliana, Aug 30, 2012.

  1. Vampires love it. Squeamish people can't stand it. Role plays tend to have a lot of it.


    Some good old fashioned blood in a rp is always an interesting thing to understand. Bleeding can mean that the life of your character, a brave knight, is on the verge of failing him! It could mean that your vampire brother is on a rampant hunt to find the purest blood that fits his specific taste! It could mean that a psychotic mastermind is surprised to find it trickling down his lip! Blood can accurately depict a character's personality depending on how it is used in a post. For example, if your character is surprised to find the liquid running down their leg, it could easily be said that they are not used to pain too much, meaning they are not the strongest person!

    Blood can also change the tide of a situation! If someone bleeds too much, blood loss can effect their mobility, meaning that they are in trouble or need help escaping! Vice versa, if someone out for a blood lust, your character may be instantly afraid that their life is in peril! Anything can be told just by seeing, tasting, feeling, hearing, and smelling blood!

    It doesn't necessarily have to mean death all the time!

    Your Job Is To: Write a post using blood and NO death!

    See where your creativity gets you with the blood! Let's try to stay ALIVE and embrace the plot change blood can give a rp! You may pick the scenery, location, and add any other people in it as you wish! And remember: Length does not matter! Detail does!

    Lastly, and most importantly, Have fun with this! :D
  2. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    "Wonderful" Eris purred when she went down into the bathtub. The rose petals floated in the water elegantly and soon surrounded her completely. She let her long black hair hang outside the bathtub so she wouldn't get any rose petals in it. Nothing could be more relaxing than a warm bath with rose petals and candles lighting up the room. But it wouldn't be complete without a drink. She motioned her hand towards a servant that waited on the other side of the room on an order.

    "Get me a drink, something fresh and not too spicy." She ordered with a gentle voice. The servant bowed and walked out of the room. Eris waited in the bath for only minutes before the servant came back with a cute girl, probably not older than seventeen. The girl seemed a bit confused since she just had been pulled away from her cleaning work and she had been said that it was the only work she had to do. Why was she suddenly in the same room as the master of the house?

    Eris gave the girl a smile and motioned with her fingers towards the girl to come closer. The girl walked a bit closer until Eris could touch her cheek. She looked straight into the girls eyes and said "what is about to happen will be forgotten, you'll only remember that you have been cleaning all day and nothing else." Her voice was hypnotic and her eyes turned bright red as she spoke before turning blue again.

    The girl just nodded and Eris turned the girls hand. "Your skin is so beautiful." Eris complimented her and pulled the girls wrist towards her mouth. She gently laid her lips on the girls wrist as to kiss the delicate skin, then she opened her mouth and started to drink. Eris could feel the girls heart beat and let herself become one with it. For every beat she felt more blood entering her. The pure blood of a virgin always tasted the best. They were so rare this days, but sometimes she found one and then she wanted to keep them as long as possible.

    Eris just wanted to drain the girl but knew that in this new times that would be bad. Now a days vampires had to watch out. She gently let go with her teeth's and then licked the girls wrist so the wounds healed. Then she motioned for the girl to leave. As the girl left Eris felt with a finger on her lips. A bit of blood had run down to her chin. She stroke with her finger over her chin to get off the blood and then licked it off her finger. Even if it was a bit cold and not as delicious as it were when inside a human it still was very delicate. Maybe next time she would go for a male, they had a bit stronger taste. A smirk appeared on her face before she closed her eyes and relaxed, then letting herself fall asleep in the wonderful warm bath.
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  3. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    Blood.... Blood.... BLOOD!! Everywhere!!
    It was so bright and beautiful and so so very warm.

    Nero giggled maniacally as he stared at his bleeding fingers.
    He looked to the knife in his other hand and pressed the blade back to his fingers, slicing just under the previous cut and just deep enough to draw more of the lovely blood.
    He held his hand up to his face, watching it pool in his palm.
    He leaned close, giving it a gently but long lick. It tasted so sweet to him. So tangy and delicious. He couldn't get enough.

    Before him was a small mirror, looking as old and dusty as the room around him. He cocked his head at it in confusion before bringing his injured hand to his face, smearing a long streak of red across his features.
    He grinned, pearly white teeth visible under the red.
    This look suited him best.
    With another giggle, he dug the fingers into his white colored hair, staining it the same color as his face.
    "B... Blood.." he snickered, "My best friend.... I love you so much.."

    His smiled soon turned to a glare at the mirror and he slammed his uninjured hand into the glass as hard as he could, shattering the image to pieces.
    When he pulled his fist back, his knuckles were sliced almost as badly as if the blade had been put to them.
    He looked from this hand, then to the other, then threw his head back and let out the loudest of laughs, truly enjoying being covered by his very best of friends.
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  4. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    Sunny gulped. She looked at the blade in her hand, then at the figure on the floor. He moaned and twisted around, flipping onto his back.
    "God Sunny." He said, holding his shoulder with is right hand. "What was that for?" He growled.
    Sunny dropped the knife to the floor and rushed over to see if she could help Ray stop the blood flow. Sunny ran and got the closest towel which happened to be white.
    "Ray, get your shirt off. It's in the way." Sunny's nursing skills kicked in and she gathered the things she needed to stitch Ray back together. She pushed Ray into a kitchen chair and stood across from him. She looked at the towel, which was soaked with red blood, inhaling she smelt the iron in the blood. She knew she had to stitch fast and get him cleaned up, before she realized she was working with blood.
    "This might hurt." She said, as she threaded the needle after burning it to clean it. He looked up at her listlessly. "Actually. It's gonna really hurt." She amended and make quick work of the nine inch gash she had created.
    After she had cleaned the wound with peroxide she placed a large gauze pad over it and taped it there.
    "No if you don't mind, I'm going to go take a hot shower and get the smell of your blood out of my head." She said, pressing a hand to her head, before realizing she had yet to wash it. Cussing, she ran off to the bathroom and took a quick shower, washing the iron filled blood off her hands before it had time to burn her skin.
    She hopped out and toweled off. There was a knock at the door. "You okay, Sunny?" Ray asked.
    "Am now. I just find your blood hard to take." She said. "Your rich Iron filled blood."
  5. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    It was extremely loud and crowded with the stench of sweat and everyone's body odor. All at once the fumes would rise and fall. They shouted and cursed her name. Well, it wasn't really her name. It was a name the white folk gave her. It was nothing new. All her life she was threatened and abused. However, the hatred that seeped from their lips and spit from their tongues always left her heart falling into her stomach.

    "NIGGER! NIGGER! YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!" They pushed and shoved. The sweet blue on her dress was now soiled from the earth.

    "Let her alone!" A young voice called amoung all of the yelling and screaming. He struggled, shallow breaths escaped him as he continued to try and make it through the crowd. His brow furrowed with worry, but his eyes spoke differently.

    Tears begged for an escape. Her heart now pounded with fear; her lips quivered.
    Come get me. She plead inside. Please come
    get me.

    He stood in front of her now. He held out his hand that trembled and she took it without a second thought. Before he could pull her to her feet, someone hit him across the face from the side. Red met the dirt and her pale dress.

    She didn't ask for this white man to be couragous. She wouldn't risk it. He had a good heart, why couldn't he just be a coward and protect that beautiful part of his?

    He picked himself up quickly, spitting blood to the ground as though the pain didn't mean a thing. He stood now as a warrior, fist ready to pack another punch. He socked the stranger hard, a crackling noise followed. The man fell with a jaw broken and tight eyes. He kicked him over and over in the ribs, making her wince with every hit. The man now lay there unconscious.

    She doesn't know what to say or think. Her midnight complexion always made her feel inferior in this world. Now here is this strange white man wearing the crimson color of strength and courage across his face and knuckles. She wore the same color on her dress, meaning more than words could ever try to explain.

    He breathed heavily as everyone quietly fled, secretly grumbling behind their hands and shoulders. He held out his hand once again, this time steadily. She took it, not daring to look him in the face. Nevertheless, a hand gently lifted her chin upward.
    "You are a lady. Walk tall, no matter the cost. You remember that."
  6. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    For days and days he had walked through the same grey, rigid and stony terrain. He had seen nothing but rocks, rocks and rocks. Big rocks up to the size of at least two men, and small rocks more about the size of his fist. But alas, no signs of green. No moss on the stones, no grass meeting his naked feet, and if he ever saw a tree again he could swear it was a dream. Everything was so dead, but everything moved. Every other step he made turned out to be a ill judged stone, forcing him to jump to the side, not to have a rolling stone land on his toes. They had said that the mountain was hardly that: it had no solid ground. It was all a massive pile of rocks, and nobody knew why they were here.

    He didn't know who 'they' were. Just like he had forgotten his own name, nor could he recall theirs. They did not matter anymore though. He needed his name and his identity, and they had said that he would find it here, when he found the stone throne. But his legs were getting weaker, and his mind duller. He was starting to have second thoughts- did he really need to know? Did he want to know? He had been told this was the afterlife, and that it was the place where people went after they had died in another realm. But in this new world, what good did it do him to know who he used to be? He had died, after all. What if he had died a difficult death? Or worse, lived an unjust life?

    These thoughts tormented him as he walked, from stone to stone. Eventually he had to give in, as overusing both his brains and his legs was breaking him down faster than the long journey up here had done to him. Since he could not simply stop thinking, he sat down on the flattest rock around and took a breather. Sweat was running down his bare chest, and he watched it closely. He had seen no other water around here. It never rained up here, the clouds were below. Mmm... he could really use some fresh water now. Cold, fresh water running down his throat. And through his hair... This wasn't worth it. He had been putting himself through something he no longer desired, but now it was time to turn.

    Just when he was about to rise, a sound reached his ear. Cracking, creaking, gnashing and crunching, from right behind his head.
    "You are filled with passion, human," A voice said with alerting loudness and clarity. He jumped forwards and turned on his heel to look at the source of the voice. Where he had been sitting was a human-like figure covered in rocks, with only three holes: two tiny eyes, and a wide open mouth that moved when the creature spoke. "But your mind is cluttered, a mess of deceit. Poisoned by lies. Come, wet this cup of mine. Wet it with the goo inside your body, with the red inside your blue, with the mess that comes from wars. With your own blood, wet the cup." The rock held out a cup seemingly from nowhere, holding it in an arm which also seemed to come from nowhere. This was when he realized this had to be the stone throne, and that he would have what he came for.

    He picked up a rock that looked sharp enough, and took a deep breath. Cleared his throat, looked at the stone again. He was already in the afterlife. He'd died once. He wouldn't die from this. Just wet the cup. Don't question what the grey man will do with it afterwards, he didn't need to look. He let out a long and powerful roar, and stabbed the rock into his palm. Blood spilled out, drops of it rolling down the rock and through his fingers. Still with a remainder of his manly roar between his clenched teeth, he led the hand rest over the cup. Then, after calming down a bit-realizing this wasn't half as painful as he'd thought- he looked up at the figure. It's eyes had turned red, and when he met them he was met with the memories of a man, the man who used to be him. Memories of an evil band of wizards tormenting a whole country, driving them into insanity, memories of what they did to him. But no memory of dying, of going to a place beyond his world.

    "I'm alive?" He asked. The man with the stone face nodded. "Your world is at the fingertips of powerful manipulators of the mind. They have everyone believing this is the land of the dead, and then telling them to come up here knowing that only a few will make it. Those few can be made forget again; nobody has the strength to make it twice. Run the opposite direction, and never look back. This kingdom is doomed, and so are you if you try to save it." He looked at the stone man, and considered this. For a good minute he stood there, knowing the rock's words to be true. Then he turned about, and walked back the way he had come from.
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  7. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    'So much blood... howcould a woman spill so much blood and still survive?' That was what Howard, the new nurse at the Martha Lemming Birthing Center could not help but think at his first night on the job. The night was a rough wake up call, showing him in quite graphic details how much farther will he have to go before becoming a seasoned nurse.

    Red everywhere on the whiteness of the bed, screaming and threat from the woman that seemed to be giving her life away for her yet to be born child. The metallic scent, along with detergent and disinfectant mixing into the air, a truly nauseous scent for a truly nauseous sight. So many shades of red... so many textures... he was going to be sick.... but he couldn't, the doctor and the future parents were counting on him to do his job in a professional manner, and that is what he would do!

    “One more push, Mrs. Fernandez! You can do it!” said the good doctor, as indeed, inside the red and gore between the woman tights, a small head could be seen, the head of a newborn. That was why he was here, to make sure both mother and child would be healthy and happy during their sojourn in the institute. He had to remember that... but still... ergh... no, no... he had to be strong!

    A scream... then a cry, full of confusion and life, put him back on track, his training coming back to him as he was handed the screaming, bloodied babe to bathe in warm water. As he did so and the water turned red, he though that blood could mean life as well, after all...

    The exhausted but radiant smile on the mother's face as she took her bundled babe shortly after confirmed it.
  8. Poison

    I was on my knees hunched over in agony, gripping at my stomach. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest. I tried to make my mouth form words. Tried to call for help.

    No sound would come out.

    My lungs were on fire. Choking, I started to cough into my hand. It was a hacking that came painfully, wetly, from the back of my throat. Modest Mouse's "Rat King" played somewhere in the house; it's melodies almost seeming to mock my misfortune. Moving my hand away from my face, my blurred vision was able to make out a blob of something on my palm. Everything turned to black and white except for the stark red blood splattered angrily and dripping through my fingers. I stared at it. My mind couldn't process anything else. There was nothing else. Nothing but the pain. Nothing but the all-consuming knowledge that these were most certainly going to be my last painful breaths before my heart stopped.

    Time started to slow. My mind started to take on a drug-induced, euphoric bliss. A poison-induced knowledge of impending doom. Objects started to spawn ghostly doubles that danced around in a sporadic unawareness. I started to lose the feeling in all of my limbs and fell forward in an agonizingly slow descent. The apparitions called my name. Beckoning. Enticing me to come with them.
    My mind reached out to them. Maybe they could save me from this. Maybe there was some sort of solace I could look forward to. I kept thinking this but no matter how hard I tried to get them to come closer, they mockingly swayed farther away in a tantric frenzy.
    Finally, one of them approached. It called my name in a panicked whisper. The voice sounded familiar. Maybe I still had a chance. I couldn't help but feel a small glimmer of hope even as I felt my heartbeat start to slow and my body and mind melted into a numb shell of a being.

  9. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    It is dull, the world we live in. One moment we are at our peak and the next, our neighbors are spitting on our graves. That is how I always saw our world, a dull grey color. That was until I met him...

    He was a college student, making him almost unattainable to a high school sophomore such as myself, but most importantly, he was different. In my world surrounded in grey, he was my only source of color, or in this case, lack thereof. He was my black; a darker shade, a secret place, and the best thing to ever happen to me. He wrote poetry and played the guitar, writing lyrics expressing his deep seeded emotion and pent up aggression. He was everything I wanted, everything I thought I needed, but all that changed that day...

    “I do not know about this, Seth,” I say nervously, glancing from the window to my hands that lay passively in my lap.

    “Come on Eden, stop being a chicken,” he said, condescendingly while speeding up.

    Reckless, that is what my dear love has been lately, and it isn’t just with his action. He hasn’t been the same lately; he hasn’t written poetry or sang me heartfelt songs. But most importantly, he started to see this man. He hasn’t told me much about this omniescent man, other than he is “the ultimate source for an abundance of wisdom”. My Seth has changed and I am unsure if it is for the better.

    “We are here,” he grinned at me before jumping out of the car. I was nervous to meet this mysterious man to say the least, and as I walked further into the woods, holding Seth’s hand, I couldn’t stop the quickening of my breath. “You okay, Eden?”

    I simply nodded, not trusting my words. Once the trees broke and a clearing came into sight, I felt Seth squeeze my hand reassuringly. I refused to look at him, afraid I would admit I was losing my confidence. In the small clearing, a fire was crackling and a small group of people surrounded an altar of some sort. As I got closer to the group, Seth released my hand and quickly stepped forward to greet a gangly looking fellow. Could this be the man Seth has been obsessed with?

    However, before introduction could be properly made, a shriek filled the night air. My attention snapped to the direction to the makeshift altar, both alarmed and frighten. There, lying on the platform was a lamb crying out its final breath. Immediately, tears sprung to my eyes as I watched the crimson liquid pour out of a knife wound. What the hell was Seth apart of? My mind frantically raced to explain the scene before me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the blood, red and glistening in this grey world. I wanted it back, my innocence, my grey, but it was too late for that. The blood, the rosy liquid of life itself, had gotten into my system, and there was no going back. I hardly even noticed the sharp teeth breaking the threshold of my skin as my life fell further into the darkness.
  10. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    Scathach looked up into her sisters stone-grey eyes, her hands bound behind her back, bound completely. She could feel the blood trickling down her face, down her hands, down her legs. "I will never tell you anything Aoife. You monster." She worked up a mouthful of spit and blood and spat it at her Aoife, who lashed out again, slicing a quartet of claw marks into Scathach's forehead. The cold steel tip of a knife traced the old scar on her back, before slashing across it, ripping it open. It took a moment for the pain to register then the redhead tied to the chair screamed as thick, steaming red blood rushed down her back in a river. Aoife's hands struck a flurry of blows along with the short bladed knife, and a few minutes later Scathach mumbled something through bloodied lips. One of her eyes had swollen shut and a hematoma was rising on her cheekbone, along with multiple other gashes, bruises and wounds. She was soaked in blood, form her shirt of her pants and all down her arms and legs. Her hair and face were coated with the red liquid as well. Scatty slumped back into unconciousness. Her mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood, and she was pretty sure 3 ribs were broken, and the same number cracked. One arm hung limp and useless, and she was even more saturated in blood them before, scratches and gashes covering most of the skin on her arms, and legs, a long slash running just under her jaw, curving up to follow the bone. Her tanktop was a tattered ruin, along with her pants and her boots were totally missing. She was covered in sticky red blood, from her head, down her face and everywhere else. Every time she moved, more dripped off. The sticky warmth coated her, like she had been dipped in it. The guards had dragged her back to her cell and now She laid flat out on the floor, spitting a mouthful of blood out onto the floor and watching the tiny red rivers of her blood as they ran in the slight dips between the stones. She hadn't felt this bad well... ever, actually. The gashes on her forehead were still open and bleeding along with everything else, multiple broken and cracked bones, some rips in that total, one eye had swollen shut, and multiple other injuries, along with some severe burns.
  11. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    Red. It filled his life. From the time he was a child he had been surrounded by it. He hated it. Even when his beloved grandmother had given him the cloak of that color he loathed, he could not bring himself to wear it unless she asked him to. Those brief times he was wandering through the village with it on had given him a nickname, Red.

    Gods how he hated it. It was what had attracted the wolf, his red cloak was the reason his grandmother was dead, the reason she'd been devoured by the wolf and the reason he'd almost been eaten as well. When the woodsman had saved him he had offered the boy a place by his side, he had called him Red. Now he was lost to the very color he despised.

    Who had he been? Sometimes he couldn't remember. He didn't like to remember the amount of creatures he had killed, the blood that had been shed on the red cloak. They had gotten him good though, when he threw himself into bringing about their demise he had lost himself in his swirl of hate. Who had he been? Why was it so difficult to remember his name? Mordecai, he was Mordecai.

    Now he was dying, or at least it seemed that way. The bite on his shoulder ached and he could feel the blood pooling about him, he knew it was soaking into his light blond hair and turning it that awful hue. He heard voices, they were approaching where he lay in a pool of his own blood.
    "Red!" He heard the cry but couldn't bring himself to look over. Mordecai. He called back mentally, too weak to actually correct the man.
    "Get him back to the cabin!" A voice growled, that was the woodsman, "Stay alive Red!" He ordered. I'll try he replied again mentally. Who knew that blood was so important? Who could even guess that the very color he despised was the thing that kept him alive. Red, so much red.
  12. Re: Writing Exercise: Blood

    "Uh, yea...Goodbye, out!"

    Issac, perhaps too nerved after what she'd put him through on his first day on campus, just turned around and ran smack-dab into the wall behind him. Ambriel covered her shocked gasp when he did, hearing his skull pop loud enough to echo down the filling hallway.

    "Oh no, Issac. Are you okay?" She was about to check on him, but before he turned back around - she could smell it. It was a succulent scent, a lingering bouquet of life found in the saccharine crimson juices of a human being.

    Issac turned, with a bloody smile.

    "~oh...your bleeding~," she whispered, seeming to have lost herself at that moment. Her eyes held a soft glow, like silver ecstasy, as she moved forward. Ignorant of all around her, except for that alluring scent and the deep cherry fountain of youth.

    "~here...let me get that for you~."

    She moved towards Issac, placing her hands delicately on his shoulders, pushing his rigid form back against the wall. She tippy toed closer and closer until they were nose to nose...eye to eye. She closed her eyes longingly, and with the tip of her tongue tenderly traced the path of blood that dripped from his chin. She traced it gingerly to his busted lip and continued her outlining until she found the source of the wound within his mouth.

    Their lips met just slightly, brushing against each other for just a moment before she woke from her dream and quickly pulled away. Ambriel took a deep breath, licking a drop of his blood from her own lips, before she bit down on it. She saw what she done; his lip was completely healed. How in the world was she going to explain that? But, the worse thing what what she felt... what she tasted...

    She couldn't take her eyes off of him, Issac, the human who just wandered onto this abomination of a college campus... who ran into her... all alone having no idea what he'd gotten himself into. And now, this... He doesn't even know how close he was to becoming...

    "Oh... I'm sorry. Really." She grabbed her books out of his hand, now feeling guilty as well as embarrassed. The surrounding student body were whistling... whispering... taking cell phone pics. This was not good at all.

    But, he tasted so heavenly....what is he?"

    "I've got to...get to class..." She rushed out of the building without turning back.
  13. Cameo's gaze was trained onto his attacker for a long, long moment before his gaze slipped slowly down to the brand new wound in his side. It was inches away from the scar marking his death wound, ironically also a knife stab. The blood did not slowly leak out, but rather it poured, running quickly down his shirt and then his pants before beginning to pool on the floor. The pain was like fire, but pain like that was all too familiar. His expression was carefully calm, even as he placed a hand over the wound and watched his hand turn slowly red. His attacker, just your typical high school bully, took a staggering step backwards, and the sound of footsteps on the floor combined with the deep crimson of his skin ignited a blistering fury within him, and his cold silver eyes flicked up to lock onto the bully. There was only a split-second warning before he was on top of the bully, hands coming together onto the boy's throat, staining red the skin around his chest and neck.

    "You think you can kill me?" Cameo snarled, "with a kitchen knife?" The boy sputtered and choked, his hands tremblingly trying to push Cameo off. He intensified his grip until the boy's flailings grew weak, and then he let go, settling instead for punching the kid in the face, over and over, until blood from his mouth began to mingle with the blood Cameo had left on his neck. After a few more solid hits, the rage had subsided, and Cameo stopped, getting off the kid and standing up. The bully was a sight, his face almost unrecognizable, covered in blood from his head down to his waist. Cameo, meanwhile, checked himself over. His hands were still red, and his clothes were blood-stained beyond repair, but the knife wound was gone, leaving just a jagged hole in his shirt. Scowling, he picked up the bloody kitchen knife that the bully had dropped at some point in the struggle.

    "I'll just return this, shall I?" he asked coolly, walking out of the room.
  14. ((I'm not sure if the no death applies here, but I couldn't resist...))

    The hollow thud of a hand striking his back startled a gasped protest out of Peter, but the girl beside him only grinned at his wheezing. "Got it." She said, "And made a mess." The grin changed into a grimace as she turned her palm up, giving Peter a glimpse of red smeared across it, along with the black, unformed speck of spindly legs and bent wings that had once been a mosquito. She wiped it on the grass, but he was almost certain he could feel the itch starting up now he knew about it. Bugger must have been sucking on him for an age before she noticed it.
    #14 Nemaisare, Dec 12, 2014
    Last edited: Dec 13, 2014
  15. "Oh crud, oh crud, oh crud! This was not how I pictured it going. Maybe I was supposed to, um, stitch it the other way? Alright let me start over!" Ty's palm hit her forehead and she walked away from the catastrophic event. Who thought it was a good idea to teach Ace how to stitch- oh right, Nani thought it would be funny. Ace pulled the thread from the stitch she was attempting and blood splattered onto her hands. "Ah, man. I think I might've killed him..."

    Nani watched, laughing away. "Trust me girly. He's more alcohol than feelin' right now. He's not gonna get up no time soon. And he'll only feel a pain on his chest in the mornin'." The two...the two were stitching up an unconscious, drunk male Nani found who had collapsed after a bar visit. The idea to make Ace stitch him up- after she gave him a nice gash- was an idea she had...while she too had been buzzed on rum. Oh, the pirate life was fun. "Okay, go the opposite way this time. Don't pull so hard. Oh, and don't accidentally burn him." She watched as every attempt Ace made, another blood splatter colored her white shirt. The girl looked as if she had been in a murder scene with how bad she was doing.

    "I'm not going to burn him. I can control my powers thank you. I can't control this stupid needle!" The unconscious form was riddled with puncture wounds from Ace poking holes in the guy's chest and stomach. She was terrible at Operation too... "This guy is gonna get a helluva surprise when he wakes." She watched as the blood started to bead from the wounds and trickle down his sides. It was a dull red color that reminded Ace of paint. Why paint? Well, when she wiped the blood with a napkin it smeared a bit, giving her the idea to use it to trace her name on him.

    "Heh, funny lass. He'll freak out. Too bad we won't be here when he-"

    A grunt sounded from the log they were toying with and Nani jumped up. "Ha, alright move over. I'll do it. Since I can do this with one hand." She smirked and stitched the male up quickly and grabbed Ace, pulling her away as their patient moved again.

    He was going to have quite the surprise when he woke.

    (Ha, I kind of went off subject and made it more about their shenanigans than the actual blood....whoops.)
  16. ((Cripes - mine is so much longer then everyone else. I'm sorry if that's some kind of thing. Prompts do things to my brain -_- If you want to skip down to the second half, that's where the action is. The first part is character, scene, exposition...also, I dunno how to do spoilers))

    It had been some time since the last snow. Since the trees were washed white, and all the blemishes of the year were washed away. Like a second chance. It seemed almost as though the world could forget itself, in times like these.

    Wouldn't that be something.

    Though he faced forward, listening studiously to the briefing, Micah's mind was a hundred miles away. And he reckoned that he wasn't the only one. The men were starting to wear thin - that was clear - and no one, no matter how patriotic they claimed to be, wanted to be sitting in this cold weather, listening to battle plans that only wore on and on, for the umpteenth time that week. But of course, no one dared speak up. Not when the enemy lines seemed to crawl closer every day; not when another man was lost every patrol. No sir did anyone speak aloud - they didn't have to.

    "...suggests they contained explosives. It is likely that the ground we walk on will soon be in there hands, as well. Make sure all patrols know to step carefully from now on. Speaking of transports; there is news that this week's food will be a little late, so meals will be rationed accordingly..."

    Transports? Explosives? Micah suppressed a guilty sigh. Some of this was undoubtedly important, or else the Commander wouldn't be wasting their time with it. He glanced silently to his side, where his co-captain, Luke, studiously took note of their leader's every word. Were it not for him, their rank would probably fall apart. Micah was pretty sure he had some purpose in leadership; though what it was exactly, eluded him. Ah, well. He shifted his eyes back to the softly falling snow. If ever a time the world needed to lie down and forget, this was it. If only everyone would just step back and many could be save. If only everything could just be quiet, if only for a moment, then maybe--

    ''--Captain Lyre?" Immediately, Micah's head snapped back from where it had been drifting down, and he inwardly winced at the Commander's questioning look. To his side, he could feel Luke's eyes on him, silently trying to tell him the info he needed. Apparently, his look was clear, because a moment later, the question was repeated.

    "The provisions? I seems wise that we send a group to them, if they can't make it to us. The storm may not let up in awhile. Do you want to lead it, Captain?"

    "Oh. Yes Sir, I can do that." Micah returned, lamely. The Commander nodded, and Micah had to wonder how the man put up with it; one of his supposedly top men, zoning like a school child. There was a moment of silence, before he rose an eyebrow. Behind him, a few other officers smirked.

    "Maybe you should get to it." Micah mouthed a sheepish 'oh', before hurrying to his feet, offering a sloppy salute that was probably entirely out of place, and kind of stumbled outside. Maybe a good ol' enemy soldier coming along and blowing his brains out wouldn't be such a bad thing. He sighed, this time not even trying to hold it back.


    "Remember; we don't know exactly what the other side has to its disposal. Keep every step light, and don't let your guard down for a second." Micah let his words stand in the silence that followed. He had five men with him, and most of them were seasoned enough to know this enough. One man, young and fresh in, regarded him with wide, fearful eyes. Micah made a mental to note to keep an eye on that one.

    After a moment, he allowed, "'Course, we're only getting food for the fickle. The worse thing to attack us will probably be hungry birds." The newb relaxed a bit, and Micah turned, and started. The truth was, it wasn't the enemy or pests they had to worry about, but the weather itself. He cast a stony look up at the gathering clouds. The wind had picked up a little, but the snow wasn't falling too hard. Hopefully, they'd be able to beat out the storm.

    Micah chose a rather fast pace, if nothing else then to warm up a bit. He considered drilling the group, but the idea seemed cruel and rather useless. One eye on the five figures huddled against the cold; the other taking in the path before them, Micah let his mind wander once again. This time, it went out to the men somewhere on the other side of this godless land form. Were they huddled up in tents, skipping out on exercises and wondering what they were doing here, too? Or could they be working tirelessly, focused only on destroying their enemy? Micah found it unlikely. As easy as it was to paint the enemy a monster, they were still human, and no one would happily be out in this...

    He quickly glanced to the side as a flash of darkness registered on the side of his vision. He stopped, and for a moment, studied the stark white field beside them.

    "Somethin' there?" That was Adam, a seasoned member of the rank. He peered after Micah's gaze, gun twitching for the gun on his back.

    "...No, I don't think so. Let's keep going."

    Even so, after that, he kept a much closer eye on the sides, looking for any sign of color that would betray a man amidst the frozen white. He saw nothing. But he idea of someone creeping after them, a near clear shot on the open land scape, when no one would be around in quite possibly days, kept his on his toes. Soon, he was drifting to the back, so that he could glance over his shoulder and finger the blade he held in his pocket without creating fear amongst his men. Nothing good could come of that.


    Micah stiffened. That was no snow fall. And that was no bunny, either. From behind him, somewhere, was a man. And that man, doubtlessly, held a weapon. That weapon aimed to kill. He kept walking, as though he had heard nothing.

    His mind switched to combat mode quicker than a rat from its hole. Adam glanced back, casual, and said something about the weather. His eyes, however, asked a question. He knew, too. Micah gave a short nod, slowly down, if only by a fraction, as he did. Adam gave him one last look - possibly of regret - before turning. He snapped, "Come on, we haven't all afternoon! I wanna get to bed." Micah smiled, despite himself. Adam wouldn't let anything happen to them. He stopped, and for a moment, only heard the sound of the storm around him and the blood pounding in his ears. He turned, slowly.


    He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. Could he have made a mistake? What if the man had gone sfter them, after all? Micah turned again, but his men had already disappeared. Or what if there was no--


    That was a gunshot. That was definitely...

    That was Micah's first thought. Then he was on the ground - on his knees - now his hands. Now - crap crap crap crap! - there was blood burning his frozen fingers. His own breath, materialized in the cold, fogged his already flashing vision, and for a moment, he sat there, waiting for the next shot that would end it. It never came. Ribs...probably seventh or eighth. Not actually a bad injury - how far off were they shooting from? Or are they really using such weak weaponry? Never mind that. In a moment, he was back on his feet, stumbling toward a naturally occurring berm. The few meters felt much further, and he gratefully stumbled down behind it, straining to hear past his own breathing.

    He held a hand over the wound, while the rest of him struggled to contain his breathing. A moment later, the figure appeared from the storm, cursing in a thick accent as he tried to locate his target. Apparently, he wasn't very learned in tracking through snow - that, or he wasn't very learned at all. It took him far too long to locate the tracks in the snow. By then, Micah was crouching, knife in hand (for he didn't trust a gun in his shaking hands), ready to spring out and retaliate. He counted the seconds in his head, as the enemy drew closer.


    Micah was swift, even with a gun shot to the side, and the enemies eyes visibly widened a second before his arm was slashed into, the gun dropping into the snow with a soft thud. He nursed his arm - two seconds - struggled for a weapon - a few more. Micah flew forward again, and though he stumbled, the other guy was even more clumsy. A part of his mind pitied the guy. He was probably pretty new, and already thrown into some crazy combat mission. Micah thought of his own new kid, stumbling somewhere ahead through the snow.

    War was unfair.

    He slashed his weapon now over his leg, his face. He didn't dare try any stabbing, lest the blade get stuck, but he didn't have to. With every swipe, the poor kid got more and more confused; more and more sluggish. He blocked one with his hand. It went through his ring finger. Blood spurted out, and he near screamed.

    Finally, Micah faked a blow to the right, but instead used his bare arm to topple his opponent, who plodded unceremoniously into the ground. He struggled to get back up, but Micah put his foot firmly over his chest, He could see it more clearly now; the proportions, the fuzz barely decorating the guy's chin. Nothing but a child. He held his hand to stop the blood, and stared up at Micah, terrified. Micah shook hos head.

    "Go home, kid. You don't belong here." No of us do.

    He hoped that this enemy could understand his words. If not literally, than his meaning was surely clear. It was wrong, he knew, to leave an enemy that might come back later. But he was pretty sure that this guy wanted to run. And Micah was willing to give that to him. Just that, if no one else would.

    The Captain stepped back, and stumbled into the storm. It was picking up, now. Faster then before. It got caught in his eye lashes, and several times he lost the road. And then then was a cold thickness below him. On the ground, again. His mind told him to stand, run to safety. His limbs shrugged it off. And despite himself, his eyes were drawn downward, to were his own blood dripped down. On the surface 9f the injury it was frozen over, but he still bled. And it dropped, melting the snow where it fell. Soon enough, it had established a random pattern of bright red, blinding on its stark white canvas.

    He blinked. It was sluggish. He reached down, to paint the color around. No. His hand stopped. Behind him, a trail of red followed him. Stop. Get up! An odd, animal-like sound momentarily took his attention, and after a moment, he realized that it had come from him. He had been shot. Now his whole right side seemed to be dyed crimson. Micah glanced up. Snow met his lazy eyes. Then his head was on the ground, enveloped in numbing cold. It burnt the wound on his side. He shut his eyes.

    "! Captain Lyre! Micah!"

    It was cold.


    His body ached.

    "Wait a he is!"

    He was pretty sure there was something...

    "Dammit Micah!"

    ...something he should be doing...

    "Freakin'...grab 'is other side. You, too."

    Mostly, though, he wanted sleep.


    It had been awhile since it had snowed. Now he remembered why he didn't like it very much. It coated everything in a hopeless layer of cold, and made everything painfully. It almost seemed like the world was dead, in times like these.

    "Heyya, Capt'n. Rise and shine."

    Micah opened his eyes to the image of shaky faces above his own.

    "I hurt."

    Adam - he was there - snorted. "Yeah? That's what you get, trying to get hypothermia. You aren't light you know." Luke breathed out a sigh of relief. Apparently his comment cleared his health. He rolled his eyes, "We send you out to get of lunch, and you can't do even that right. I swear, Micah...getting yourself shot like that...alone!"

    To the side was the young soldier - Micah still still know his name - dancing from foot to foot in nervous energy. That made him remember,
    "What about the other guy?"

    "Other guy? Like, the one who shot you? We didn't see anyone else...should we have?"

    "No, I guess not."


  17. Two figures stood watching a screen. One was slightly smaller than the other but they both had the same broad shoulders. The taller of the two had hardened facial features like nothing could phase him. The smaller one, on the other hand, had a look of disbelief that turned into one of horror as the scene unfolded in front of him.

    "Da, you have to do something."

    The man did not look at his son. He was too engrossed in what was happening on the screen.

    "Da! You have to stop it. He's killing him."

    "Shut up, Drustan. We are no' to interfere. If the boy dies then he was a failed experiment." This time he looked at his son, eyes like ice. "Doona interfere."

    Drustan bowed his head. "He is just a kid." As he continued to speak his voice turned to venom and he lifted his head. "That does not matter to him though, does it? He would even allow someone he knows to die!"

    A slight smile crossed the man's face. "You will get your revenge. All in due time." His eyes wandered back to the screen. "The boy is alive. For now."

    Following his father's gaze Drustan noticed the guy had finished the brutal assault. Golden eyes were filled with hate as the guy dropped the unconscious boy in a crumpled heap. The tree closest to them was covered in blood and Drustan was afraid to examine the boy. Taking a breath his eyes moved down slightly. The sight left him sick. The boy was cloaked in bruises, but that was the least of the concerns. The man must have had a knife because blood was leaking out of multiple lacerations up the left arm and down one cheek. Scrapes from being beaten against the tree coated the boy's face and Drustan could not imagine the internal damage the boy had suffered. It would be a miracle for anyone to survive.


    ooc: And so I follow the instructions I have to tell that he does not die. I don't think I could kill him to be honest.