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3ofswordsWHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Sunset, January 17th
OPEN TO: All, come help him with his hand and drag his drunk ass back inside.
WARNINGS: Drinking, general disregard for not freezing to death.
STATUS: Open
They say people find themselves in adversity: Flor's tia would intone that God never gave a person more than they could handle, and he had aunts of his own who believed in karma. Hell was just a place to build it toward the next life, and you tried to earn a lesser sentence in the go around.
Kira has never been religious. There are times he wonders if his gifts are just inherited hysteria, if lithium would serve him as well as the wards his mother drew on the backs of his cards. There was a time when he'd hoped it was the case, that his dreams were just dreams, that there was a chemical to turn up or shut off and he could just--go to school, date a boy, see what kind of person he was without the gifts, the shop, the ugly destiny. At the low points, when the jaws of the world start to close in, and the fires of whatever lies behind or beneath the world start to lick his heels: he hopes he is just crazy.
A month in, he's back at the fountain, wondering what he can toss in to make that wish.
Stood at the edge, his left hand is stuffed in a glove, snow packed around the flesh. He'd been cooking when he quake hit--hadn't known to question why the cat had been growling under his bed in the morning, hadn't understood the ghosts of tremors his failing power had tried to grasp--and in his panic, he'd burned his hand. It was worse than most injuries he'd suffered in New York, and it had hurt for every moment that he'd held it useless to his chest, caught in the wave of fear and action from those around him; being shoved into the safety of a heavy table; waiting for the tremors to cease and the doorway to clear before he could wander out on shaking legs to shove his hand deep in the snow.
There were other things to deal with, and the fountain springs eternal. In his other hand swings the bottle of Grey Goose from Thor, found at the back of a cabinet and hidden away in his room, waiting for the right time. He'd started drinking it to numb the pain while waiting out the aftershocks, and he hasn't found a reason to stop.
A month in, no Ty crawled out of the fountain, healed and whole. He lifts the bottle on an arc and tilts his head on the hit.
A month in, no way out. Lift, tilt, sip.
A month in: a wendigo escaped to the trees, lights buzzing louder and brighter every day, and chatter calling this a second quake.
He tilts the bottle back, knowing the warmth in his chest is artificial, that he can't do this much longer in the freezing cold. He should chuck it into the depths and let that be his protest, and go warm his sorry ass by the fire, grateful that it's intact. Hand blistered and numb at his side, he watches the aurora-torn sunset reflect on the water, as picturesque a hell as anyone could create. "How bad did I fuck up to deserve this," he murmurs, bottle paused at his lips.
Inn option: characters may also find him warming up in the kitchen with the rest of his bottle, having found out that the water in the fountain doesn't do jack shit for wounds. It's a second degree burn from a hot food or water spill, over the side and back of his left hand, and he'll be alright if he keeps it cold and keeps it clean after it blisters off.
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: Sunset, January 17th
OPEN TO: All, come help him with his hand and drag his drunk ass back inside.
WARNINGS: Drinking, general disregard for not freezing to death.
STATUS: Open
They say people find themselves in adversity: Flor's tia would intone that God never gave a person more than they could handle, and he had aunts of his own who believed in karma. Hell was just a place to build it toward the next life, and you tried to earn a lesser sentence in the go around.
Kira has never been religious. There are times he wonders if his gifts are just inherited hysteria, if lithium would serve him as well as the wards his mother drew on the backs of his cards. There was a time when he'd hoped it was the case, that his dreams were just dreams, that there was a chemical to turn up or shut off and he could just--go to school, date a boy, see what kind of person he was without the gifts, the shop, the ugly destiny. At the low points, when the jaws of the world start to close in, and the fires of whatever lies behind or beneath the world start to lick his heels: he hopes he is just crazy.
A month in, he's back at the fountain, wondering what he can toss in to make that wish.
Stood at the edge, his left hand is stuffed in a glove, snow packed around the flesh. He'd been cooking when he quake hit--hadn't known to question why the cat had been growling under his bed in the morning, hadn't understood the ghosts of tremors his failing power had tried to grasp--and in his panic, he'd burned his hand. It was worse than most injuries he'd suffered in New York, and it had hurt for every moment that he'd held it useless to his chest, caught in the wave of fear and action from those around him; being shoved into the safety of a heavy table; waiting for the tremors to cease and the doorway to clear before he could wander out on shaking legs to shove his hand deep in the snow.
There were other things to deal with, and the fountain springs eternal. In his other hand swings the bottle of Grey Goose from Thor, found at the back of a cabinet and hidden away in his room, waiting for the right time. He'd started drinking it to numb the pain while waiting out the aftershocks, and he hasn't found a reason to stop.
A month in, no Ty crawled out of the fountain, healed and whole. He lifts the bottle on an arc and tilts his head on the hit.
A month in, no way out. Lift, tilt, sip.
A month in: a wendigo escaped to the trees, lights buzzing louder and brighter every day, and chatter calling this a second quake.
He tilts the bottle back, knowing the warmth in his chest is artificial, that he can't do this much longer in the freezing cold. He should chuck it into the depths and let that be his protest, and go warm his sorry ass by the fire, grateful that it's intact. Hand blistered and numb at his side, he watches the aurora-torn sunset reflect on the water, as picturesque a hell as anyone could create. "How bad did I fuck up to deserve this," he murmurs, bottle paused at his lips.
Inn option: characters may also find him warming up in the kitchen with the rest of his bottle, having found out that the water in the fountain doesn't do jack shit for wounds. It's a second degree burn from a hot food or water spill, over the side and back of his left hand, and he'll be alright if he keeps it cold and keeps it clean after it blisters off.
