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fightsinheelsWHO: Isabelle Lightwood
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Backdated to May 1st
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Drug withdrawal
STATUS: Open
For awhile, she'd been fine. She'd thought that, maybe, something about landing here in the village had done something to her system, saving her from the nasty effects that the yin-fen left behind. Something about portal travel, or ending up in some alternate time or dimension or wherever the hell they are. Whatever the case, she was pleased to not have to worry about it, to not have to face the facts of her mistakes. But perhaps it had simply been delayed, adrenaline from a series of chaotic events (arriving, the feast and the sicknesses, that thing that she's so sure was a demon attack) keeping her going.
It's caught up with her now. She spends the night tossing and turning in her room at the Inn, unable to fall asleep, unable to bat away the anxiety gnawing at her mind. This place is hard to adjust to, she reasons, and she's used to falling asleep to the sounds of the city outside, and waking up in her beautiful bedroom in the Institute. But the sleeplessness continues, as does the anxiety and agitation, leaving her tired and cranky. The pain begins to set in, and that's when she can't deny it any longer.
This isn't homesickness, and she hasn't caught a cold, either. This is withdrawal from the yin-fen, finally sneaking up on her and making its attack.
For awhile, she stays holed up in her room, buried beneath a pile of blankets. Every part of her burns and aches; her bones feel bruised and brittle, her skin like there's been a fire ignited beneath its surface. Still, she shivers like she can't seem to get warm, like there's ice in her very core. The worst part is, she knows if the drug was in reach, she'd take it in an instance.
There's nothing worse than growing up strong, becoming a force to reckon with, a resilient force of nature, just to have one mistake give reminder of how weak you really are. Dependent on something that anyone could hold over her head.
After awhile, she emerges from her room, looking a lot like she's come down with something — color drained from her face, dark circles beneath her eyes, appearing ragged and worn. Bringing one of her blankets with her, she builds a fire in the fireplace downstairs, pulling a chair right up in front of it and curling up in a cocoon of fabric. It might be the very beginning of May, too warm out to warrant a fire, but all she wants is to warm up, to feel a little bit better.
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Backdated to May 1st
OPEN TO: OTA
WARNINGS: Drug withdrawal
STATUS: Open
For awhile, she'd been fine. She'd thought that, maybe, something about landing here in the village had done something to her system, saving her from the nasty effects that the yin-fen left behind. Something about portal travel, or ending up in some alternate time or dimension or wherever the hell they are. Whatever the case, she was pleased to not have to worry about it, to not have to face the facts of her mistakes. But perhaps it had simply been delayed, adrenaline from a series of chaotic events (arriving, the feast and the sicknesses, that thing that she's so sure was a demon attack) keeping her going.
It's caught up with her now. She spends the night tossing and turning in her room at the Inn, unable to fall asleep, unable to bat away the anxiety gnawing at her mind. This place is hard to adjust to, she reasons, and she's used to falling asleep to the sounds of the city outside, and waking up in her beautiful bedroom in the Institute. But the sleeplessness continues, as does the anxiety and agitation, leaving her tired and cranky. The pain begins to set in, and that's when she can't deny it any longer.
This isn't homesickness, and she hasn't caught a cold, either. This is withdrawal from the yin-fen, finally sneaking up on her and making its attack.
For awhile, she stays holed up in her room, buried beneath a pile of blankets. Every part of her burns and aches; her bones feel bruised and brittle, her skin like there's been a fire ignited beneath its surface. Still, she shivers like she can't seem to get warm, like there's ice in her very core. The worst part is, she knows if the drug was in reach, she'd take it in an instance.
There's nothing worse than growing up strong, becoming a force to reckon with, a resilient force of nature, just to have one mistake give reminder of how weak you really are. Dependent on something that anyone could hold over her head.
After awhile, she emerges from her room, looking a lot like she's come down with something — color drained from her face, dark circles beneath her eyes, appearing ragged and worn. Bringing one of her blankets with her, she builds a fire in the fireplace downstairs, pulling a chair right up in front of it and curling up in a cocoon of fabric. It might be the very beginning of May, too warm out to warrant a fire, but all she wants is to warm up, to feel a little bit better.
