02 | Action/Voice | Beds aren't doing their jobs of making me restful.

[fuckthemission]

[Doyle wakes up often in the middle of a dead sleep with his heart pounding and a swear word on standby, masked in a thin veil of sweat. It's times of the night like these that he slips up out of bed and paces around his room, working his arms and shoulders and leaning against his window until he's too cold to remain there. But if he travels back to his bed and lays back down, he feels smothered. Growls a 'shit', slips on his shoes and jacket, and goes outside to walk.

He's got a bandaged arm from a vampire trying to kill him two days beforehand—stitches and everything—but the thought of being hurt again is illogically pushed aside by the need for the dewy cool outdoors. Whatever. He could deal with vampires over persistent night terrors. It's why he slaps his hand against the windowsill in frustration and goes out for yet another night in a long string of nights.

It's his morning trip, right before the sun rises up over the distant canopy, that he finds something familiar in the shop: it's a sniper rifle scope, without the actual rifle. He rolls it in his hand, humming a sound of contentment. Just a harmless little spyglass as-is, but he appreciates having it. Doyle sits on the bench he'd appeared on two weeks ago and lazily stares through the scope at the people passing. Sorry, man, he feels like snooping on y'all.

When noon is creeping up on him he's out in the forest wandering. Can't do much until his arm's back in full commission, but he can at least go to the lake closest by and practice bouncing some stones across it, or perhaps use that little rifle scope to spy on the nature beyond the lake itself, or even go fishing like he's been working on these last few days (though it's a little less fun when you're working around said arm injury.

It's all slow and quiet and in a way meticulous, but he was alright with it. He simply needed something to occupy his hands with while he thought about things.]

[Voice]

This book is pretty damn good for asking a lot of pointless and not-so-pointless questions, ain't it? Good way to keep your mind focused. I'm sure some of you probably agree by now, especially the old-timers who've been here for a while... but see, the problem is, I'm complete shit at picking out decent questions. Why is the sky blue, what's the numbers for pi, why did the chicken cross the road, etc., etc.

So... how about... [he rubs his chin]

You ask me a question instead, and I'll try to get a good one to throw back at you; don't care what it is, as long as it keeps me occupied. A little company goes a long way. Besides, you guys probably got your own topics you'd rather shoot the breeze with, not my crappy attempts, huh?

[And then after this voice entry, more exploring of course, because Luceti's forests are pretty spacious.

After a while of boyscouting traveling he gets hungry and goes to eat at the restaurant, but sooner or later he'll get to the bar, because that's just a place he's been finding himself at lately. Sometimes he drinks a little, sometimes he drinks enough to get drunk, and other times he sits in the back and reads a book. Today it's a sensible glass of whiskey next to an old copy of First Blood, and he's thumbing quietly through it in no time while he's at the bar.

He'll shuffle on home, but no doubt end up on one of his nightly or morning walks yet again, with no real destination in mind.]

((ooc: it's dated for the 29th unless you wanna tinker with the date; lemme know.))

Comments

[action]

[herd_effect]

[Willock's on his way to his self-imposed nine-to-six clinic shift when he spots Doyle there on the bench. Or, well, spots the way he's resting his arm, because he seriously has some kind of radar when it comes to injuries. He approaches Doyle curiously.]

What happened to your arm?

[action]

[fuckthemission]

[He turns with the scope still raised, leaving just an inky black blob when Willock steps into his sight. He could tell he was injured and he came over specifically to investigate a stranger's wound?]

You're a doctor, huh?

[He finally brings the scope down, shrugging.]

Got attacked by a vampire the other day. Bad luck, and all that.

[action]

[herd_effect]

[So obvious, Willock. He nods.]

Dr. Everett Willock. I work up at the village clinic.

[And at the mention of a vampire, a brief look of horror passes across his features in the moment before he can gather himself. God, he must mean--]

...Drusilla?

[action]

[fuckthemission]

Good guess, but I'm betting it's not much of one. You ran into her?

[Good to see you weren't mauled, brah.]

[action]

[stillplaying]

[She's been watching him for a while now, safely tucked up on a tree branch near the edge of the lake. Most people probably wouldn't notice her. She's good at being quiet. Sitting, watching and waiting. And even though the man was nice to her before, she's still hesitant to approach.

But his actions have caught her attention, the way he's peering out of a tube in his hand. A scope of some sort? She can't help but wonder. And watch.]

[action] 1/2

[fuckthemission]

[The life of a Doyle isn't much to watch typically, but when he seeks comfort in being alone he hardly expects an audience to begin with. He peers through the scope for a while, smiling every so often at something far, far off that he could see clearly--after a while the smile fades off and he lowers the scope.

He's tired as hell, but he's not ready to attempt sleep again. His arm's starting to feel hot under his sleeve until the pain seeps into his bone and he draws the jacket arm back, inspecting the wrappings and grimacing when he tests the limb.]

Ffffuck-

[Sigh. He pats around his jacket for the pills he'd taken for them, but it's a fruitless effort when he realizes they weren't in his jacket. Must've left them on the counter back home.

He makes a frustrated noise and plops backward into the grass, head thrown back--]

[action] 2/2

[fuckthemission]

[-and sees someone watching him from the tree, to which he flinches like he's about to be jumped and chewed on; once he realizes who it is he throws his arm over his eyes in relief and lets out a crackly half-laugh.]

Haaaa, shit--you scared me.

[Big tough Delta guy scared by young lady in tree? It happens.]

Turning into a squirrel up there?

[action]

[stillplaying]

[She's surprised at first that he's noticed. Most people don't see her. Not unless she wants them to. And then she grins, even waves, before she climbs down.

She saw the wound. While she's no healer, not like her mother and Prim, she knows a few things about first aid. Had to, in order to survive the arena. But if he's wounded, that means he's less of a threat. It's okay to approach.]

Just watching. [She gestures to his arm.] What happened?

[action]

[fuckthemission]

[He looks up at the canopy, making an annoyed puttering noise and leaning on his good arm with scope in hand. Beyond the lighter skin tone and creeping gray half-moons under his eyes, he's at least in the best of spirits. All things considered.]

Tricked by a person who was really a vampire and ended up her personal scratching post. Isn't that just the craziest shit?

Catching Doyle on a nighly walk?

[relictusdeus]

[Like old times, the Forgemaster tends to lurk about Luceti most often between the early evening and dawn, possessed and plagued by a restlessness of his own ever since waking in what he often believes is some manifestation of Hell. Several weeks had passed since his arrival and he was still coming to terms with the fact that he was no longer crushed under the ruins of the crumbling castle and bleeding out, as he should have been. And now... now he had all the time in the world to think. Too much time to contemplate this life unasked for; too much time to contemplate what he had lost and what little there was for him here.

It was the unwillingness to abandon Abel, Abel and his Devils that had kept him from taking his own life after a fierce internal struggle. If he were to die here and return to Wallachia, dead, what would become of them, his children? They were all he had left, in the end; he could not willingly abandon them.

It's an uneventful night tonight, peace being something foreign to him and difficult to accept. His nerves itch and his body aches hollowly while he sits perched upon a rock in the woods, sharpening his trident thoughtfully with a stone, scrape scrape scrape. Slow, mindful work that offers him little respite from his thoughts.

He glances up at the rustling crunch of grass marking Doyle's approach, his white eyes flashing as they catch the moonlight. Recognition dawns and a knowing, almost tired smile curls his lips.]

Would you really want me to ask something of you? [He asks in a low, wry voice, lowering his head and resuming his work. Scrape scrape scrape.]

Word, dawg.

[fuckthemission]

[Oh. Of course he'd run into someone else who looks entirely dangerous; Doyle figured he was, when he'd first seen him in the bar--he didn't exactly sound like a hippie--but at least he hadn't attempted to threaten or kill him then. He tiredly puts his hands up, furrowing his brow.

More importantly, a vital question.]

You're not going to impale me or try to gnaw my arms off, are you?

[relictusdeus]

[The Forgemaster raises his eyes and fixes him a look through a curtain of hair. He notices his bandaged arm.]

'twould not be very entertaining... well, without reason. Nor do I have a taste for human flesh.

[Nor does he bite and drain blood or steal livestock or spread diseases, as superstitious villagers back home were inclined to believe.]

But, man... will believe what suits him. 'tis no concern of mine what you think of me.

[Pursing his lips, he tries to find his rhythm again while sharpening the spear.]

'twould seem you have already been wounded.

[fuckthemission]

Hey man, as long as you're not killing me, I couldn't give a shit what you are.

[Yeah, he got the hint that you're not normal either. Luceti is slowly proving to him that there are a lot of things straight out of the books.]

And yeah. I nearly got myself mauled by some vampire named Drusilla. Maybe I should stop trying to help people in the dead of the night.

[Action]

[fleurdesel]

[Early morning and Adele is taking a walk, rather than a jog, around the village. It's more of a random wandering that guided path that she follows, and once she hits the plaza she can't help but notice Doyle peeking through...a scope? She chuffs a soft laugh and makes her way over, sitting next to him.]

How is your arm, Sergent?

[Action]

[fuckthemission]

[He shrugs, smiling faintly as he totally snoops on the rest of the town from his spot here.]

It's been better. But it's getting there. Now that I'm pumped up on meds, anyway.

[Action]

[fleurdesel]

Pumped up would not be the appropriate words. I do not recall prescribing any steroids for your cuts, Doyle.

[Out of habit she reaches over to rest her hand against his neck, feeling out his pulse.]

[fierybluebird]

If you could have a single superpower, but had to have restrictions, ergo "god" doesn't count without qualifying and quantifying it; what would it be and how would you use it? Alternately, what would you use it for?

[fuckthemission]

Oh, invulnerability, like Superman. Then I could get tossed into a building and come out unscathed; since I'm not much of a superhero, it'd be a nice power to have for day-to-day life, right? For normal people it's always good to know you have less things out there that'll get you killed.

[Which is more personal than he'll let on, of course, but still.]

[fierybluebird]

So you just don't want to get hurt? I guess that's something most people might want.

So what would be your weakness?

[thelittlemacthatcould]

[There is the hurried, rhythmic sound of grass rustling and snapping twigs underfoot - and then someone in a pink hoodie emerges from a dense patch of trees, head turning in Doyle's direction. The Bronxite just so happens to have adjusted his jogging routine as of late for a refreshing change in scenery and cannot resist slowing to a stop when he spots a stranger skipping stones over the lake. Why? Well, why not? He could never figure out how to get them to bounce off the surface and no one had ever showed him the proper technique. Swiping sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist, he makes his approach, panting slightly and offering a goodnatured grin.]

Hey. [He flips off his hood, the air cooling his sweat-dampened hair.] Y'don' mind me watchin' a bit, do ya? ...Could never figure this out, heh.

[fuckthemission]

[Oh hey, shorty, how's it going?

He double-takes at the figure breaking through the trees, before returning to his stone-throwing; and when he asks the question? He turns back with his own goodnatured smile. Well, well. An athletic-type. Judging by the build alone, it's not entirely obvious, but there's something about Mac that flings him right into 'you're a fighter' category.]

No problem. Never got around to proper skipping methods?

[thelittlemacthatcould]

Nah. [He stuffs his hands into his pockets, sniffing stuffily.] Every time I tried throwin' somethin', it jus' sinks like bowlin' ball. [A sheepish little smile.] Ain't really practiced much, though.

[Voice]

[shadedsunlight]

You're being sent off to live on an island for two weeks, knowing you'll be rescued at the end. Food and water will be based off whatever you can find on the island, and there are fruit trees and animals around. What three items do you bring with you?

[Voice]

[fuckthemission]

... How big are these items allowed to be, specifically?

[Voice]

[shadedsunlight]

Three things that could fit into a duffel bag.