|
Post by The First Inhabitant on Dec 15, 2012 23:30:18 GMT -6
The Inhabitants waited ever so patiently for the unconscious nations to stir. They were almost identical in shape, voice and form, so it would be impossible for the nations to distinguish them apart. That wasn't of importance though. The least thing the countries could be worrying about right now was whether they were in the presence of the First or the Second Inhabitant. Eventually, they grew impatient and with a wave of a skeletal hand, the so called immortals were plucked from the depths of unconsciousness. At this time, the Inhabitant slowly waited a few moments for the confusion to set in. The Inhabitants had in fact gone out and knocked the nations out before bringing them to this room, which they nicknamed 'The Gallows' for this very occasion. It was a plain, broadly sized space with no windows, furniture, or any source of weaponry. No, the nations were dragged in as they had been previously, meaning the only thing they had for combat was what they had on hand. Unfortunate for some, but incredibly in favour for others. Though, weapons wouldn't be the deciding factor in these games. “Awaken,” the Inhabitant boomed as the nations were sluggish to stir. It probably didn't help that they were bound by twine and had ragged gags stuffed in their mouths. The Inhabitant could detect the struggle, the possible panic that ailed them before the Death Reaper was certain that it had the nation's attention. The darkness hid the Dead Man from sight, but it's hollow, icy presence was enough to guide the country's eyes and ears in its general direction. “Congratulations...” the Inhabitant began, its voice chilled with venom, malice and the slightest touch of childish amusement. “You have been chosen to partake in a little game. Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions,” explained the levitating skeleton. It did not wait for any signs of response, because it was more than aware of the gag that stopped the nations from human speech. “It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. You have been chosen to partake in a delightful little game of ours. The rules are simple, little nation. You must either kill, or be killed.” The Inhabitant paused simply for dramatic effect. On the other side of the room, the other nation would be receiving the same speech from the other Reaper. “There is a catch though. You will not be facing a monster...” the skeleton said softly, its face pulling into a hidden sneer. With a snap of its bony fingers, the rope that held the nations in check disappeared, as did the gag. “...You will be fighting another nation.”The words hung in the air as the Manor's Servant watched the individual move. It grinned wickedly, eager to continue pressing the grave news down the nation's throat. “There's more. Someone must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the other and they mirror your choice... well, look downward.”Below their feet, what seemed like solid floor was in fact a mere wire grating. Base the iron mesh were eyes. Yellow, red, white, but they all shared something in common. Hunger, thirst, desire. A low moaning sounded on cue from one of the vile creatures while another clawed anxiously at the grates that held it in check. The Inhabitant wasn't sure, but it swore it could feel a touch of anxiety from the 'immortal' that stood before it. The Inhabitant let the nation have a moment to process what it was implying before it finally continued, ignoring if it had actually said anything. “In case I was not clear, if neither of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, Kosovo/Prussia.” And with those parting words, both Inhabitants disappeared into the air as the light above flickered onto full power. Light blasted the darkness from every inch of the room, save for the cages below that grumbled and growled in response to the stimulus. Brown, stained wood-panels covered all four walls while the ceiling held what looked like a crystal chandelier that dangled a good 15 feet from the floor. Below, the creatures could be seen churned about as they stalked the shadows that the nations created. And now, let the games begin. ___________________________ (In case this was not clear, each nation received the exact same speech [there are two inhabitants]. Someone must die in this game; this is not an option. The posting order is Kosovo ---> Prussia. You have 2[/u] weeks to make the starting post or we will assume you have no intentions of fighting, hence you will be killed off. This is to ensure people will not feign inactivity in order to not complete this event. After the first post, we expect you to post at least every two weeks UNLESS your posting partner will agree to wait longer. Good luck)
|
|
Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
|
Post by Kosovo on Dec 16, 2012 13:41:01 GMT -6
Astrit found himself waking on a cold floor. At first, this didn't seem particularly unusual; he thought for a moment that he was back home, perhaps in the basement sheltering from war, or merely staying with someone who was too poor to afford so much as a rug. Then he opened his eyes to blackness. He instinctively tried to sit up and ask the time, but to his alarm he found that he was tied up and something hard was stuffed into his mouth to stop him talking. Had he been taken captive? --By whom? --What had happened to him, anyway? He didn't remember anything since Alfred's--
Since Alfred's party. That thrice-forsaken mansion full of terrors. The one that they had been trapped in, and could not leave. Astrit tried to spit a curse around the gag, but to his irritation his sleep-dry throat barely even produced a sound.
"Awaken," boomed a voice, issuing from a source that obviously had not heard Astrit's attempt at venting his opinion of the place. Despite the automatic fear that gripped him in response, a part of the Kosovan boy's mind spared the energy to be piqued that he hadn't even been loud enough to prove he was already awake. Instead of struggling further, he froze in place, moving only his eyes, seeking out the speaker in the darkness. Then he caught sight of its outline, a menacing thing of ice and shadow and malice, and not even the knowledge that it was a futile effort could keep him from trying to scramble backwards.
It had definitely seen him now, and if it wasn't his imagination, the way it looked at him, it was laughing at him.
"Congratulations..." the thing began, in a tone evil and mocking enough that Astrit's fears were confirmed. "You have been chosen to partake in a little game. Now I beseech you to listen well because I will not repeat myself nor will I answer questions."
Astrit's impotent rage mushroomed, growing more intense the more he listened. It clearly knew he was bound and gagged; the reference to "questions" was certainly a joke at his expense. Still, he listened, straining his eyes and ears in search of any bit of knowledge that could be useful to him if he got free, as the monster bulled on.
"It is noteworthy that you have survived this long, but it is likely that your luck will end here. You have been chosen to partake in a delightful little game of ours."
Didn't he just say that? Astrit fumed to himself, In exactly the same words, less a few unnecessary adjectives? Why am I listening to him repeat himself?
"The rules are simple, little nation--"--Astrit gritted his teeth at the diminution--"--you must either kill or be killed." The thing paused, letting it sink in.
Good, the boy thought snidely. Just the same rules as always. Is anything here going to be new, beyond the waking-up-tied-up part?
"There is a catch, though. You will not be facing a monster..." It raised its hand, causing Astrit to gulp a little as he realized that the shadowy hand far too closely resembled that of a human skeleton, and snapped its fingers. Astrit flinched, expecting something terrible to happen, but instead his bonds melted away and he could move freely again. Automatically, even as he listened, he scrabbled to his feet and checked his pocket to be sure he had his beloved knife with him. The knife was fine, and its handle rested comfortably in his hand, making him feel much stronger.
But the skeletal monster was still talking, and it finished its sentence, "You will be fighting another nation."
From the way it sounded, Astrit guessed he didn't have any say in whom he would be fighting. He swallowed to steady himself, working out the remaining effects of his involuntary nap, looking around in hopes of catching a glimpse of whomever it was he would be up against. Even a little bit of advance warning would give him an advantage, time to think and plan and figure out what he needed to do to keep himself alive.
Meanwhile, the monster kept speaking, the malicious glee in its voice rising. "There's more. Someone must die here. It is not negotiable. If you refuse to kill the other and they mirror your choice... well, look downward."
Astrit looked downwards, what little hope he had of any mercy dying as a lump in his throat as he realized that the floor was--or had become; whether due to the thickness of his coat or a change in its substance, he had not felt it when he had woken--a grating through which shone eyes. Hungry, inhuman eyes glowing in evil colors. Something among those eyes made a strange, fearsome sound. "What are they?" the boy asked, but in his shock it came out in Albanian. Whether the monster did not hear him, or did not understand the language, or merely did not care, it pressed on as if he had not spoken at all.
"In case I was not clear--" --yeah, like that was a possibility, the Kosovan boy thought sarcastically-- "--if neither of you will fight, you will be torn apart by these beasts. Don't think you can survive them, either; there are more savage creatures below than you could possibly count, even in your extended lifetime. So I will emphasize one last time, kill or be killed. Good luck, Kosovo."
Somehow, Astrit didn't think that the good wishes were entirely sincere, but he had very little time to think it, because in that instant the evil thing vanished and the lights blazed forth at last. The monsters were clearly unhappy about this, and Astrit hoped the grate keeping them below was sturdy enough that he wouldn't have to worry about any breaking out and complicating things. Fighting another nation would be hard enough without also having to shelter from some fell beast out for both their blood, especially as he couldn't see any shelter to be had.
The room was enormous and empty, with brown wood panels that did not make the light any brighter. The light itself issued from a crystal-drop chandelier that broke it apart into hundreds of tiny beams and flooded the room with it. The two in combination could prove a bit of a distraction, though at least it was highly unlikely that that would provide more than a momentary disadvantage. Unnervingly, it seemed that the unhappy monsters were doing their best to get as close to him as they could, though whether it was because he smelled edible or because he was a solid object between them and the light, he could not tell.
At the far end of the room was a white-haired, red-eyed, young-faced man whom Astrit recognized from previous gatherings as Gilbert Beilschmidt. Prussia. Astrit had scarcely ever interacted with the man, and knew very little about him other than that he was Germany's ex-soldier brother and the obvious fact of his standing right now, on the other side of the soon-to-be-battlefield, holding a big sword which obviously dwarfed Astrit's trusty knife. This was not a good sign.
Astrit cut off that thought where it was and forbade himself to panic. He had some advantages, like a thick parka that would serve him as some protection at least, his quickness, and the fact that he was a small target. That would have to make up for his dangerous thinness and the obvious disadvantage of his shorter weapon. If he could get inside Prussia's guard, he could win; the hard part would be getting over, under, or around that sword.
Having sketched out his thoughts, the boy stepped forward a few paces, bowed to Prussia in a parody of the formal dueling rules the older nation doubtless knew intimately, and raised his knife. Best to proceed slowly at first; it couldn't end well if he wasted too much energy just getting close enough to his opponent to fight.
|
|
Survivor
22.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by Prussia on Dec 18, 2012 4:56:31 GMT -6
"Awaken."
Gilbert's eyes had flared open with that single declaration, burning red and as yet blind to his surroundings. The albino had been spending his last few days wandering in the thick, dense fog that pervaded the grounds of the Manor's outdoor dangers. That crimson gaze was sparked, roaming about his surroundings with a feral light; a wild creature dragged in from its carefully constructed nest in the cold, damp dark. If he had awareness concerning his current environment, the albino gave no sign. His head remained suspended, twisted to an odd angle, as that restless gaze continued to scan around him.
He bore the appearance of one fallen victim to the cruelties of the Manor. White mop of hair in a wild, tangled mess streaked with blood, dirt, and debris from prowling around outside. Gilbert had the haggard look of someone that had come to the end of their rope. Dangling from a last tether of rational thought with a grip turning ever more slackened. On his last legs; starved, weakened -- dangerous. Because a wounded creature, no matter how docile, could easily turn violent when cornered. His devil's costume was nearly unrecognizable, yet it suited him perfectly, for the Prussian very much resembled a creature that might have been spit out of hell to be upon this stage.
There was no mistaking the broadsword gripped tightly in his hand. The weapon was bared, its point directed towards the metal grating beneath his feet. His fingers twitched around the hilt convulsively whenever his mind tried to get through the buzz in his head to inform Gilbert that someone was speaking. Ja. Ja. All of it very important, surely, and here he was operating on an entirely different wavelength. Ludwig would be furious with him. Furious. "Furious... Kesese.." The words, along with that signature laugh, rasped out of him in a sub-soundtrack beneath the speech of the Inhabitant.
Suddenly, freedom. Those bindings that had held the Prussian in place abruptly dissolved. Gilbert sank to a knee right away, his palm slapping upon the metal grate to stop his fall. His lowered face kept its downward focus upon the beasts milling beneath that grid of steel. He could feel their hot breath panting up at him in gusts, smell the waft of dead, rotting meat in their open maws. The sight of them might have been a terrifying sight to others. Gilbert's reaction was completely the opposite. Seeing them only made him laugh. Not his trademark one that crowed out of him, but a hissing that poured out of his lungs in stuttered breaths. One of you? He thought in his fractured mind. One of you am I, I am one of you, am I?
New words reached through the fog in his head. The Inhabitant's speech piercing through at the most vital moment. "Kill or be killed."
What more was there to tell him than that? Gilbert pressed himself upright, that lean figure slowly uncurling itself. Kill or be killed. Being killed would do him no good. He had a promise to keep. Ludwig would be disappointed in him if he did not live up to his vow to tear through the Manor in vengeance. Kill or be killed, that was an obstacle. And only one of those options suited his interests. The Prussian looked across the width of the pit to see his opponent, his face smoothing grim. He watched the boy across the way bow to him with a formality lost to modern combat.
Gilbert returned it automatically, the motion stiff. Crimson eyes blazed darker as they narrowed to the smaller one. What did this boy mean to him? This stranger that now stood in the way of him securing his promise to his dead brother? This little punk kid with his knife and his bowing and his fear. Nothing. This nation meant nothing. For the first time since he'd woken up in here, the albino's white face split from ear to ear, teeth flashing in a wild predatory grin. "I am not going to be killed today. Make your peace."
The Prussian began to stalk forward, steps prowling. He kept his torso twisted to turn his shoulder at Astrit to provide a less advantageous target for that knife. Gilbert's broadsword was dragged with him. Every step that the steel slid over the metal, sparks flew, creating a trail behind him to mark his path as he closed in towards the other person with the air of a predator prepared to strike out at most desirable prey. "This is how I love to fight. No bombs. No guns. Just my steel and your guts. <3"
|
|
Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
|
Post by Kosovo on Dec 18, 2012 20:59:56 GMT -6
As he had a moment to study his opponent, Astrit realized that Gilbert was far less composed than he had originally thought. In fact, the former nation looked less like the confident soldier the boy had glimpsed on previous occasions, and more like some monster himself. That impression came not so much from the filth splattered and smeared across the habitually neat man's self and clothing as it did from his stance, his attitude, the strange way he moved even as he returned Astrit's bow. And when Gilbert rose, his face was twisted into the grin of a wild thing. Even across the distance of the empty room, his voice echoed intelligibly: "I am not going to be killed today. Make your peace."
"I cannot do that without my sister, and so I shall see her again in this life," Astrit retorted, keeping his voice quiet so as to conserve his breath. He was acutely aware that he needed every advantage he could get. Air would be one, and presence of mind another. If he did everything right, he would live, a goal he was accustomed to. And if he lived, then he would have the chance to make peace with his sister and anyone else he might need to reconcile with.
In that case, he would just have to do everything right. Failure was not an option.
And now Gilbert was walking forward, turned at an odd angle that would--probably by design--make him a harder target to hit, and Astrit winced despite himself at the horrible screeching of the Prussian's metal blade against the metal floor. The monsters below didn't seem to like the noise any better than the boy did, and they were probably even less happy about the sparks it also produced. The noise was miserable for his ears, but it occurred to Astrit that dragging the sword thus could not be good for it. Another thing, however slight, that could be in his favor.
"This is how I love to fight," Gilbert was saying, a disturbing enthusiasm oozing from his words. "No bombs. No guns. Just my steel and your guts."
Astrit forced himself to stay where he was, waiting. He swallowed the fear that the Prussian's obvious bloodlust inspired in him, and shot back, "It's a pity that you have so much interest in pairing up two things that are destined never to meet." Wait, he instructed himself silently. Wait for it, wait for it...
Gilbert was getting closer now, and Astrit was painfully aware that his timing had to be perfect and his reflexes quick in order to survive. If he could pull it off, maybe he would be able to win with one strike.
As the older man drew closer, Astrit leaped, striking out with his knife towards the side that was turned towards him. He tried to force his knife between the man's ribs if he could. Deliberately, his momentum would carry him to the opposite side from Prussia's sword hand, in hopes of making it that much harder for his opponent to retaliate.
The boy landed awkwardly and stumbled a short ways before righting himself, and spun back around to face Prussia. He felt strength burning in his body as his heart sped up, and if he wasn't careful he knew that strong feeling would make him push himself too far. Even now, he still had to conserve his energies, because there would be a fight ahead of him and he needed all he could get.
|
|
Survivor
22.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by Prussia on Jan 3, 2013 15:59:22 GMT -6
"I cannot do that without my sister, and so I shall see her again in this life."
Those words crossed the distance that caused Gilbert to fluctuate in and out of the reality of his surroundings. It struck a chord; a deep, painful, stomach-knotting ache that caused the Prussian's heart to alter its beat to a fluttering panic of rhythm. His memory -- always ready to supply the worst while conveniently forgetting the best -- let him flash back upon his last encounter with Ludwig. The pallid, lifeless skin. Glassy blue eyes. How the rope sounded as it creaked under the hanging weight of his brother's bulk from the branches of the massive tree outside. These details were more vivid to him than the environment of this pit or the nation standing before him prepared to fight to the death.
He shook it off with a shudder that was so subtle it was nearly internalized. Red eyes narrowed as the albino's pale lips twitched another sneer. "Your sister is likely already dead. That's what happens in this place. It takes from you everything that it can. And now it wishes for me to take your life. Allow me to reunite you with your sibling in death."
The sassy retort that the boy gave in answer to his words, Gilbert took no notice of. That gleam in his eyes gave no sign of registering them. His only intent was to seek his victory or at the very least to take them both down in the process. If this was the block that kept him from his aims, the Prussian would smash it to pieces. Or just chop it to pieces. With the weight of a sword in his hands, the latter did seem more likely. Crimson eyes tracked the prowling movements of the smaller figure as its muscles tightened, coiling to spring.
He anticipated that the boy would attack him low. The difference in their sizes made a higher assault too risky. Gilbert's mind was calculating out scenarios now, divining out the possible tactics that his opponent might use. When the lights overhead reflected down on that flash of silver charging for his ribs, the albino twisted hurriedly to bring his weapon with him. It wasn't an aim to strike -- the kid had wisely placed himself at an angle where that would have been difficult for Gilbert. The Prussian could only move to deflect the sharp probe of that blade.
His sword slid sideways to clink the flat of the blade against that knife to block it. He heard the discordant ring of metal scraping metal and knew that he'd been successful. This was better anyway. No sense in ending the game so soon. They still had time to play, after all. And with a lack of any other toys, this kid would suffice. Gilbert's grin stretched as the boy went stumbling past him to fall. He spun around, wondering if the impact had managed to jar the kid's wrist with that clash. All in all, the little brat was lucky that the Prussian hadn't twisted his blade and cut into that limb.
They had all the time in the world. Why rush, when this was the most fun he'd had in weeks? A chuckle bubbled out of him, darkly amused. "That wasn't such a bad try, kiddo. You're going to have to do much better than that if you want to defeat me. I'm playing to win. But since my dance card is empty tonight, we can dance a while longer if you want."
|
|
Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
|
Post by Kosovo on Jan 4, 2013 23:57:59 GMT -6
"Your sister is likely already dead."
Astrit's first instinct, on hearing those words, was to laugh. He had been with Snezana right before the point where his memories cut away to waking up on the ground. What were the chances of her dying while he had been asleep?
When he really thought about his own question, he was sobered by the realization that it was possible. She might have been eaten by a monster while he wasn't looking--though that was the possibility that he had found so laughable in the first place. It didn't really make sense, even by the sadistic logic of the new rules they were living by now. But what if she had been rendered unconscious the same way he had, and thrown into a match something like this? That did seem to fit the twisted sense of humor that the... things that had arranged all this exhibited. What if Snezana were forced to fight this way, too? What if... what if she lost?
But what if she had already won and was even now looking for him? Astrit loved his sister, even if she couldn't always understand his changing ways of showing it. The little voice in his heart that wanted so badly to impress her whispered that if he won here, he would prove that he was good enough to stand up next to her rather than hiding behind her, and a part of his mind that was much younger brought up images of his tall, strong, able sister appearing from somewhere to protect him if things went badly. This, he realized in some surprise, could be an advantage for him. Gilbert was like a fatalistic, well-trained, armed animal. From what he was saying now, Astrit was guessing that someone important to the Prussian had died in the manor--or at least, that Gilbert was certain there was no hope of a happy reunion with whomever it was in life.
Astrit, on the other hand, could hope. He had just about as much reason as he possibly could have now to believe that Snezana was alive, that they could see each other again, and talk, and probably argue some more, and in the end reach some better understanding. And he wouldn't know for sure--unless he survived to see for himself. So when Gilbert finished his short speech with the words, "Allow me to reunite you with your sibling in death," Astrit simply ignored them as meaningless, and kept his focus on the battle about to begin.
When he leaped, the sword swung around just a little more quickly than he had anticipated, blocking his knife. Maybe it had been wishful thinking, to think he could cause a major injury with his first attack, but he had expected to at least cause a little damage, even if it was only a glancing blow. Prussia was faster than he had planned on, and the shock of the impact ran up his wrist at a strange angle, making it go partly numb. That part wasn't going to be any good for him either.
Once more, the boy schooled himself not to panic. He would still be okay if he could get inside Gilbert's guard--though he had no doubt the ancient soldier knew that. But his opponent didn't appear to be thinking about such serious matters; in fact, he was laughing.
"That wasn't such a bad try, kiddo. You're going to have to do much better than that if you want to defeat me. I'm playing to win. But since my dance card is empty tonight, we can dance a while longer if you want."
Those words struck a nerve but also hit something inside Astrit that he doubted Gilbert wanted tapped. The man was laughing at him. Fury bubbled up from his stomach in response, along with memories. Old memories, some of his oldest, from battles fought with weapons like these. He had been so young that he had only watched, and sometimes he had hidden his eyes with tiny hands to avoid seeing the worst of it, but he remembered some important things.
Most important was that he was going to prove that this barely-human stranger was wrong. Maybe he was still a child, at least by appearance, but he was determined to survive, because that was what he always did, because his death would end his dreams.
"I want to live," the boy growled, staring at that sword. Decision time. How would he get past it?
There was always the unconventional route, the one you would never think to take if you had a sword of your own. It would be risky, and strange, but there was no risk-free option available and maybe--maybe it would catch his opponent by surprise.
Astrit lunged forward, reaching out with his left arm, the one that wasn't holding the knife and still had all the feeling in it, and used his thickly wrapped forearm to push the sword away from his body, off to Gilbert's right. Hoping he had bought himself enough time, he rammed his hand down the blade to grab the crossguard, doing his best to gain partial control of his enemy's weapon. He could have grabbed the blade itself, but it looked sharp enough that he thought that might do him more harm than good; he wanted to come out of this with as much of his body intact as possible. At the same time, he struck with his knife, aiming for the man's throat. Even if Gilbert's reflexes were fast enough to get his hand in the way, Astrit thought he might do some real damage. The boy was determined to live, and if this was what it took--taking insane risks, even killing another nation--then so be it.
|
|
Survivor
22.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by Prussia on Jan 17, 2013 15:17:21 GMT -6
Gilbert admired the kid, in his own way. Here was this little punk, tenacious and bold enough to attack someone of the Prussian's known prowess. The tiny mongrel was pretty good, too. The will to survive the odds always made for an impressive display. His mocking praise even had a ring of truth to it. In fact, when the kid's face tensed up into some super serious expression again, it tickled Gilbert pink inside, right up until the words left the boy's mouth.
"I want to live."
The kid's words reverberated in Gilbert's mind. Spoken with such somber confidence. And desperation, yes. Everything in his head settled to stillness as the kid lunged at him. Gone were the incessant whispers that the Prussian could not determine were of his own making or of outside influences. He'd passed the threshold of caring about it. He'd passed the threshold of caring about anything. I want to live, the other had said. And Gilbert wanted . . . to live? To win? The Prussian looked at Astrit's face -- really looked -- and saw him for the first time.
What would such a victory mean here? To kill this little punk and leave him to bleed out a meal for the monstrosities below. That didn't give the Prussian any sense of satisfaction. No trace of desire for the old pride of vanquishing another in battle. The Manor had stolen that from him. It had taken his pride, his sanity. With a sudden revelation that froze the albino in place, he realized that the Manor had claimed him. What difference had he from the beasts prowling below? Was he not merely a phantom himself, having wasted away under the branches of the Hanging Tree? A ghost clinging to its fleshy shell out of a tenacious desire to avoid the inarguable reality:
Why is it that I should demand to live when I am already dead?
Gilbert's grip on his sword slackened. Red eyes pulsed wider high above where Astrit's knife went stabbing into his throat. He didn't evade nor press into the blade. The albino stood motionless to let the damage transpire. It was his error. Being so preoccupied with the interior of his head that he'd lost focus on the exterior of his body. Gilbert barely felt the pain that came when skin and tendon were cut into. That painful fire felt one million meters away. This indifference to his mortal injury affirmed his earlier suspicion.
He was already dead. He had already perished in the Manor. He'd succumbed, and not managed to survive its decrepit shadowed halls and misty marshes. But that's not entirely true, came the insidious inner voice again out of the silence of his mind, because you were already dead before you set foot inside. You died all those years ago. Just were too stubborn to admit defeat. Only stuck around for West's sake. Needed to give that big brat a little hope in a hopeless time. That's what brothers are supposed to do, right?
But Ludwig was dead. A strong nation like his Deutschland would have had no trouble coming back. Gilbert had waited. Waited dutifully with a patience that he rarely used. Sat in the dark, in the cold southern rain, staring at the noose that had held his brother's body. Just to see if Ludwig would return. Expecting that at any moment his brother might appear, alive and healthy and all muscled out. He'd lecture Gilbert sternly for getting his costume so muddy, for not eating properly, for sleeping outside in the cold, and for being stupid enough to think that such a place could kill him for good. Maybe West would have shouted at him. Gilbert would have welcomed it. Or maybe Ludwig might have just seen how broken he'd become and just given him an embrace in comfort.
Gilbert had waited. And waited. Ludwig had never come back. At some point, in the silence and the shadows, he must have died too. Left without purpose to wither away. He lifted a hand up to feel the gush of blood spill over his fingers. What was this, then? Surely just part of the grand magician's trick. An illusion of life in the reality of death. He made no motion to block any additional attack. In fact, all that Gilbert could do was articulate a bubbling, choked wheeze in place of his customary laugh.
His sword clattered to the ground. The Prussian sank to a knee moments later, that horrible whisper of laughter still coming free out of him with an occasional spray of blood. It quieted down as he sagged, head bowed forward, to watch the rush of his life's essence cascading to the creature's beneath them. He heard their shrieks of delight, saw their tongues lap greedily against the bottom of the grid for a taste. Really, this felt like the right conclusion. It was time to just let go.
Hey, Fritz?, he asked with that internal voice again, where do failed nations like me even get to go when we die? Am I going to get a chance to even come back? Or is this where Prussia finally falls? For that had been his greatest, secret fear inside of this place. That for him, there was no second chance. That when death came for him, it would be permanent. What land was there left for him to chain his spirit to? He'd just been living on borrowed time. And here, at last, would be the decisive moment. Was he really going to fade now, without another chance to tease Roderich or pester Elizabeta or eat more of Matthew's pancakes?
That was okay. Really, it was okay. I'm a little tired anyway, Old Man. It's been a long time since I could rest easily. Do you think it might be all right if I lie down here and take a nap for a little bit? Maybe I'll even get to see you when I wake up, ja? He was pretty tired, and the world was turning grey. His head lifted up, eyes calm and free of pain, containing more clarity to them than he'd had in weeks of being in this hellish Manor. They sought out Astrit's face, to form a serene smile below, as he silently appealed for the boy to finish him off.
It was time to let go.
|
|
Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
|
Post by Kosovo on Jan 17, 2013 23:52:12 GMT -6
Gilbert wasn't fighting.
Astrit didn't notice at first; his focus had shrunk to finishing what he had begun, and there was nothing more he could do to protect himself anyway. But, when his senses caught up a half-second later, he realized that his knife was deep in Gilbert's throat, blood flooding quickly down his hand, and the soldier had made no move to stop him. Quickly, in case it was some kind of a trap (though what kind of trap could possibly be sprung now, by one so badly wounded? There would be no point, though it did not pay to expect logic from a madman), Astrit sprung back, tugging his knife free of the man's throat. In the process, he released his grip on the sword, but it drooped down a moment later anyway.
Warily, the boy eyed his erstwhile enemy, but there was no sign that Gilbert meant to attack, nor even that he could. Instead, the man who had just moments before been a monstrous caricature--someone Astrit had no compunctions fighting to the death, for there was little humanity in him to pity--seemed to be softening. Maybe it was his imagination, but Astrit thought he saw something real and human in Gilbert, as the Prussian made a horrible wheezing noise through a spray of blood.
With a tremendous clatter, the sword fell to the grated floor. Gilbert made no move to pick it up, not even when he collapsed to one knee. Not knowing what else to do, Astrit merely stared at the man, trying to make sense of what was happening.
There was no way he was faking it, not with a wound like that. The proof was on Astrit's hand, soaking into his sleeve; it was running down Gilbert's front and dripping through the grate to the jubilation of the monsters below. Somehow, impossibly, it seemed that the smaller, weaker, worse-armed combatant had won.
Kicking the sword aside for an extra measure of safety--though if he could use it for his own purposes, he might try--the boy slowly walked towards his dying opponent. "Who did you lose?" he asked quietly, almost to himself. He hoped that whomever this man so clearly missed would be there waiting for him on the other side.
Gilbert looked up then, with a shockingly peaceful and lucid expression on his face. The alien, insane aspect from earlier was gone entirely, and what had replaced it seemed to be the contentment of an old man who had simply finished life and was ready to go on. Astrit had seen such a manner only rarely, and never before so close; youthful as he was, he could not even imagine what it might feel like, but he finally began to understand a bit of the rest of what had just transpired.
The humanity that had been hidden in Gilbert must have overridden the insanity that had been driving him, though what had sparked the change the Kosovan boy could not fathom, and he had chosen to let the younger live. Perhaps he had seen something of what Astrit had understood shortly before, that the boy had something to hope for and the man did not, or perhaps it had been the compassion of an old nation who had lost his identity for a young one still trying to create his. It was hard to tell, and ultimately the specifics probably didn't matter. Gilbert was making a sacrifice, but he seemed not to be bothered by it. Whatever his reasons, it would mean that Astrit would live, despite being the weaker fighter that he now understood for certain that he was, because of an act of mercy.
And then Gilbert smiled, perfectly tranquil, as his eyes locked with Astrit's. The man was clearly too far gone to speak, but he seemed to be asking a question with his eyes that by some instinct Astrit was able to interpret. It was a request that the boy had trouble making sense of, but that was because it was of a piece with everything else about Gilbert's strange but utterly human mood. It said that eternity was waiting for him, and asked for a little help getting there faster. Able to identify it and to name it, but not to comprehend it, Astrit hesitated. It was different, now that they were no longer enemies. He didn't hate the man in front of him, and he didn't really want to kill him anymore. There was something terrible and impossible about the thought.
But, of course, Astrit realized, his turn would come--a very long way into the future, he hoped, but if he lived that long there would come a time when he would understand this. He was just too young for it now, too full of life and fire and hope and possibility. And in that far-distant future, perhaps he would want someone to do for him what Gilbert wanted now. Or perhaps he wouldn't, perhaps he would still want to live as long as he could, but that was a thing he could not know just yet. All he knew for the time being was what he was being asked.
The boy looked at his knife. The blade was smeared and beaded with blood--he would need to clean it after this, if he wanted to keep it from rusting--but it seemed it would serve. It seemed wrong to just act, without some kind of acknowledgment of what was going on.
He had an idea.
Awkwardly and a little bit oddly--for no one had ever taught him to do it properly--Astrit lifted his knife in his best impression of a salute. Then he lowered the blade and with some effort drove it into Gilbert's back, right where his heart must be.
Then he yanked his knife out and stumbled away a few steps, not sure how to cope with what he had just done.
|
|
Survivor
22.
Played by Hat.
Offline.
|
Post by Prussia on Jan 26, 2013 19:20:26 GMT -6
Whatever question it was that the boy put to him, he didn't hear it. The only sound in Gilbert's ears right now was the thundering drum of his heart where it pulsed loudly, to send a heavy thrum of blood through his system. Every beat delivered a fresh gush of red from the wound in his throat, and if the kid didn't finish him fast then he'd bleed out in time all on his own. He watched the other's lips move, sound muted, unable to pinpoint what was said and lacking any true desire to define them for himself. The Prussian had resigned himself to his fate; the last words before his death meant nothing to him, because they weren't spoken by a face that he knew.
Gilbert wasn't so naive as to think he'd deserve a heavenly choir when he finally expired. His actions throughout his time weren't always noble. As often as people praised great leaders of nations and warriors, assigning them an almost guaranteed place in Heaven, the Prussian lacked confidence in that line of reasoning. More likely than not, those who survived with their memory took comfort in the idea that their fallen hero might find peace beyond. Gilbert didn't think he qualified as anyone's hero. He did, though, believe that he at least deserved a death worth a little more than bleeding out over a pit of monsters.
Dying here like this, if he didn't return, would anyone weep for him? The albino's body was slumping further, losing his hazy contact with Astrit's face as the other moved around him. He tried to picture the faces of those closest to him; those he considered friends and family, even if it were only in his one-sided perception. If Ludwig were here, would he shed any tears to watch his brother fall? What of Elizabeta, or even Roderich? For all the wrongs that they'd done to one another over the centuries, would that spoiled aristocrat work up enough grief to spare him a tear? Probably not. That guy was stingy with everything. Gilbert would laugh at the idea if he could.
No tears. Not in this place. Not from some stranger that he had no knowledge of aside from a name on a map or a clip in a book. He felt bitter to consider that his end might be so clinical. Such a cold removal from the world he'd survived in for so long, despite the odds. What would his death mean here in these circumstances? Nothing. The kid probably wouldn't even give him the blog entry that he deserved. Or make it sound remotely awesome. Maybe it was for the best after all.
There was a sudden flare of agony that came striking through his back. Gilbert had a moment for his muscles to be rendered taut in reaction. Then the knife pierced that vital organ that was pumping blood through his body, and allowing this stream of thoughts to continue. He had a moment of utter clarity, when his mind once again swept clear. All those people that talked about seeing their life flash before their eyes, or a tunnel with light, had probably been spouting nonsense. There were no loved ones standing there to greet him. No West, no Fritz.
In the last moments, Prussia didn't see a damned thing.
And the remnants of the albino went slumping down to the grates of the pit. A victory to the one left standing.
[And that's the end of Prussia. o/`]
|
|
Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
|
Post by Kosovo on Jan 30, 2013 10:13:09 GMT -6
Distantly, Astrit was aware of wanting to cry, but his eyes were even more dry than usual. The boy was numb with shock over what he had just done, something far worse than anything he had ever done before. Yes, he had fought, and he had wounded others, but he had never killed. It seemed like such a small distinction, until you did it. He was just doing what it took to live, just like always, but was his life really worth any more than the life he had just... cut? Old Greek stories that he had heard long ago danced in his head, about three women named Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos who spun lives like thread and cut them at the proper length. Those stories had scared him back then, but now he thought the idea was almost comforting--if only because it meant that someone else had to deal with the responsibility of deciding how long humans or nations should live. But now it wasn't Atropos the Fate cutting off a life... he himself had just done that, literally. Clotho, Lachesis, and... Astrit? He recoiled from the thought. It sickened him in a way that he didn't dare find words for.
Only a second had passed. The boy glanced over at the Prussian's body, from which still seeped scarlet liquid even though there could not be enough left to sustain even the most basic semblance of life for more than a few seconds longer. Astrit was the only living thing left in that room, with the possible (but, given the manor's nature, hardly certain) exception of the beasts beneath the floor that vied for a taste of spilled blood.
But what was that happening on the wall beyond?
The boy could not have known the exact moment that Gilbert died, but the Manor knew--and in that moment, before his astonished eyes, a door faded into being in the wall. A way out, for the remorseful victor. It was the way out that he had been fighting for, and yet...
In those last few moments, Astrit had realized that he had a great deal of respect for this man who had been all but unknown to him at the beginning of their fight, who could have and maybe should have killed him. Even in his numb state he remained aware of why he had wanted to live, but it shocked him that he had managed it... and at what a cost, to the point that he wasn't convinced he wanted to go anywhere. All the energy that had sustained him during the fight had drained away, and what was left was an empty need to... to apologize, or something. Like the salute he had made, he wanted to do something to appease this dreadful debt he found himself owing.
His thoughts were confused now. Marshalling them into something that seemed like a straighter line, he asked himself what he was staying here to do. Say goodbye; demonstrate respect for his life, a part of his mind that kept its sanity in the comfort of denial replied clinically. Astrit could do that. It would prove that he still had something redeemable about him, if he could make some sign of mourning.
He approached the corpse of the man he had killed, which lay facedown in an unnatural position on the grate from having died crouching. That wasn't right. Astrit took hold of Gilbert's arm--with a right hand that was covered in the man's own blood, but it didn't really make a mark; whatever the man had come wearing appeared to have initially been red anyway--and with some effort turned him over. Carefully, as respectfully as he could, he arranged the body of his former enemy in a more dignified position. That was better.
If he could have cried, this would have been the time. He supposed that this was the closest thing that Gilbert would get to a funeral, and nobody even knew to mourn except for a little boy who until the Prussian had started trying to kill him had barely been aware of his existence. Still, he would have to do the best he could... because what else could he do?
All he could do was stammer out an old blessing that his sister had taught him, and wish he could cry.
Long moments of silence passed, and Astrit started to think aloud, addressing the corpse.
"I never really knew much about you, but I think maybe I would have liked you," he mused, shifting rapidly among the several languages he knew as he spoke. "And maybe you would have liked me, if we had met somewhere where we weren't introduced by being told to kill each other. Or did you like me anyway? I'm only alive because you let me win--but why?"
There was no answer, of course. Even the monsters were quiet, as if they were listening, or more cruelly denying Astrit anything that might even sound like an answer. Like they wanted to make him feel alone and afraid--and, given the place, they might indeed have had that very design.
"I don't understand," the boy concluded disconsolately. "If we meet in heaven--"--that condition, he left unspoken, required that they could get to heaven from here, and that they were not already in hell, and he was now frighteningly uncertain that those assumptions held true--"--I hope you'll explain it to me then."
The broadsword still lay on the metal grate where Gilbert had dropped it. The idea had already entered Astrit's mind that maybe he could use it if he survived. Now he thought of just leaving it there, as something like a grave ornament. The weapon would be a nice symbol of how the Prussian soldier had lived...
He couldn't, though. There were monsters here. There wasn't really anything he could do about Gilbert's body--if the monsters left it alone it would rest like this, and if not there was nothing he could do to stop what they might do--but the idea of some thing getting ahold of a sword and perhaps using it to harm the survivors did not sit well with him. It would be just like the things that inhabited this place to make use of the weapon if he did not, and probably to attack him with it specifically just to mock him. Disgusting thoughts.
Dropping his bloodied knife into his pocket, Astrit tried to lift the sword with both hands. He could pick it up, though it was much heavier than he had thought. Gilbert must have been very strong to carry it so easily. But it was moveable.
It was time to leave, now. There was nothing left for the living here, and somehow Astrit was indeed alive. Even if it was impossible... he had to go, through the door that had not been there during the fight. He had to keep surviving the way he always did. He had to go find his sister, if he could, to speak with her. As abrasive as she could be, she would be stronger and wiser than he was, and she was the closest family he had. She was probably still alive, he had already persuaded himself of that, and wherever she was, she was not here.
Having thus persuaded himself, the boy took one last backward glance at the corpse lying peacefully on the floor, then crossed to the door and pushed it open.
(Finis)
|
|