Things You See In A Graveyard -- [Open]

[Triffid]

Vibrations… There were stirrings in the earth and it was rousing the hibernating foliage. Sluggish movements were hidden from view, for within a massive tomb, one of a hundred within the Manor’s limitless graveyard, but even through stone and earth, it could feel movement, feel disturbances, and feel food. The thing had no actual brain but it was stimulated by instinct, but primal survival, and currently it felt nothing but a burning sensation which meant it needed nourishment, and there was a…. pair or so it seemed of morsels meters away, unknowing within range of the humongous creature. While the thing had no real sense, it did have strategy behind its will and its plan, was surprise. It was the norm in the animal world for a predator to sneak up in order to gain the upper hand and take down a victim.

Leaves rustled in silence as the mass of plant matter extended its already huge roots deeper into the ground, growing outwards, quiet, unknown, and several feet beneath the surface. If any of the humans had the vision of x-radiation, they would have been astonished to see an entire network, a web, of roots surrounding them. Inch by inch, thicker root began to extend outward, reacting to the vibrations cast off by the humans: by their voices, the shuffling of their clothing, and even their pulses. The prey were…. Slightly moving off but the roots were quickly encircling them still; hidden beneath the ground, giving the men no indication the danger they were truly in.

While the monster could have simply broken through the stone door of the tomb and pursued the men itself, easily chasing either of them down even with the tombstone-ridden terrain, this was in a manner of words more enjoyable. The creature waited, forever patient, until it was sure that both figures were static, motionless, before it dared to stretch its roots even further upwards still. Now, only a thin layer of ground kept the tips of the roots from view. A minute went by, then another, and when everything seemed quiet and dandy…


The earth around Prussia and Italy’s feet exploded. Everywhere around them, roots shot up into the air, entangling around the men’s legs, their arms, their necks. It would have been impossible for either of them to react, to try and save themselves and slowly, like an anaconda with a monkey, the roots began to tighten, to strangle. Meters away, another crash sounded throughout the graveyard at the main body of the creature finally broke free form its resting place and the Triffid, a plant of ten feet, emerged into the dim light of the graveyard and upon it stubby three legs, advanced towards its trapped prey.

Time to eat.

[Prussia]

The Prussian geared up to refute the Italian's claims, frown growing while Feliciano pressed that weapon into his hands. It was true that he was in a better condition for their defense. He just didn't like the idea of the Italian sacrificing his own weapon and leaving himself vulnerable. Gilbert would need to make sure he took good care of the gun. Then he could return it as soon as the atmosphere wasn't so tense. Once they were safely inside. Even if he had to shoot through a window to shatter it.

Then the ground beneath his feet exploded.

"Italia!" Gilbert bellowed just before the air in his lungs expelled from the sudden violent pressure around his chest. He winced, face contorting into a grimace. The Prussian's ribs burnt like someone had put a white hot flame to their surface. His injuries were of minor consequence. Feliciano's could only result in agony from this.

He searched for the Italian in the mass of undulating vegetation. They'd been wrenched apart so quickly that Gilbert couldn't estimate how far away the other man was dragged. Squinting through the chaos of movement, a glimpse of auburn hair was fleetingly visible. There was no chance that he'd be able to reach Feliciano with all the shuddering roots twisting wildly between them.

The more immediate concern was the plant-like thing that came bursting out nearby. It was divine luck that he'd received the Beretta from Feliciano before this attack. Gilbert's arms were pinned to his sides so that he couldn't shoot directly at the monstrosity. He managed to wedge the gun at his hip and used it for suppoert to balance the barrel of the weapon. Shooting from this angle, in a manner where accuracy would be impossible, wasn't ideal. The Beretta's recoil alone was going to send his shots whizzing uncontrolled.

Gilbert didn't need accuracy. This situation required firepower. Feliciano's loaned weapon gave him that in abundance. He took stock of the creature closing upon them. Shooting into it directly could have ended up a waste of bullets. If he fired at the thing's thick body or even where the 'head' was, this monster might still have kept coming after them. This creature had immobilized him; Gilbert's tactic was to return the favor.

The Beretta thundered out a few scattered shots. Some of them bit into the ground along the creature's path, before the Prussian found true aim at his target. Bursts from the barrel tore into the trio of leafy parts the monster was using to approach them. Gilbert didn't want the thing getting any closer. Shooting the legs out from under it seemed like their best chance.

He anticipated that inflicting this damage could result in those roots tightening around him. Gilbert tensed out his shoulders and arms to prepare for a retaliating squeeze. This way, if the bindings that held him did tighten, he'd be left with enough wiggle room to keep fighting for their lives. The albino also viced his grip on the gun with all the strength he had to avoid losing it to the roots. If anything sought to disarm him, Gilbert kept a pale finger on the trigger to fill that offending bit with more bullets.

Quieting the sound of his gunfire, he listened for some noise from Feliciano. Any sign that the Italian was still alive. The Prussian kept his eyes on the leafy monster to see if shooting at the trio of legs had succeeded in leaving the creature just as stuck as they were.

[Italia Veneziano]

A small, relieved smile game to Feliciano's face once Gilbert wrapped his fingers around the weapon in acceptance. Granted, he knew that the Prussian wasn't happy with the gift, if his frown was anything to go by, but he still took it. It might be a good thing because that meant his friend and half-cousin was willing to defend himself and them both. It might be a bad thing because he was that worried about something dangerous being nearby, and felt it was best to not argue. Feliciano didn't particularly care which it was--after all, the reasoning behind that frown could be a million things. The most important fact was that Gilbert took the Beretta and its holster. With that smile lighting up his pale, dirty face, he opened his mouth to speak--

Only for his words to turn into a sharp shriek of shock as the ground beneath them crumbled into a mass of roiling roots. The loud shout quickly warped into a harsh, pained sound as he felt something large wrap around his ribs and squeeze the air from his already-battered lungs. After that, there wasn't even enough breath in him to croak out a warning to Gilbert as the red-eyed nation was yanked and shoved away by the mass of undulating roots and vines rising up between them. His limited sight tried grasping hold of that pale visage as long as possible, but soon even that white head of hair was lost in a forest of lashing roots and coiling vines. Or maybe his good slid shut as those plants shot up from the ground.

The cold Smith&Wesson dug into his skin and strained the ribs beneath. Its steel stabbed flesh, virtually unhampered by the impromptu-holster the Italian had made out of one of his shirtsleeves. Slim, bloodstained arms were trapped in front of him, still stretched out in offering. He hadn't the time to lower even his hands after Gilbert received the Beretta, and now his arms were clasped together from palm to upper arm by living roopes. Sharp waves of agony tore through his frame as those roots coiled around every inch they could restrain, stressing fractured bones and torn skin until blood was once more seeping from previously closed injuries. Short, breathy gasps shuddered over pale lips. The Italian's chest heaved with the effort to breathe in enough oxygen to keep his heart from racing so. He squirmed against that grip, trying to jerk his arms free and reach for the gun at his side.

"G-Gilbe--A-AAh!!" A yelp, reminiscent to a garbled call for the Prussian, passed his lips. The cry was cut short as those roots tightened around the Italian once more. In its wake a bolt of liquid, fiery torment scalded his veins. It was then Feliciano felt his left humerus finally snap under the strain with a sickening sound not quite drowned out by the rustle and creak of the plants surrounding him. That sudden pain drew another pained cry, louder than the last simply because he didn't waste time attempting to articulate any words. His flesh of his upper arm visibly warped as the bone gave. Had the Italian been standing once a teary golden eye caught that sight, he would've collapsed to his knees in an instant, the arm rendered useless. The vines continued to tighten, not giving the boy time to process the burning as his weakened ribs groaned and subtly began to give under the pressure.

It seemed there was no escape, his world reduced to dirty brown roots and bright, angry pain. He felt like a mouse caught by an anaconda, about to be crushed and devoured--
[But the cornered rat bites the cat. You're better than this, no? Don't just let yourself be crushed like a brittle toy soldier in the hands of a boy! Struggle, fight! You can't leave Prussia to fight this monster, whatever it is, alone! You can't leave him another debt to repay--you already owe him far too much. You can't die in disgrace, owing a nation so much younger than yourself the debt of protecting your life! Dishonor on you--]

The voice suddenly crackled, trying to speak through the static in his mind. When had his brain become a radio, he wondered deliriously, fingers still working at the thin vine crushing his hands together. Still he breathed, and still he struggled--The pain was already fading to nothing, though be it his mind fracturing further under the stress of the situation or simple shock settling in he did not know.
["And what's this you're thinking about honor? Honor has no meaning in this. You need to struggle to survive because you are needed, you useless excuse of an Italian. You can't just lay here and die when all you have to do is squirm free of these meager tentacles and run for the Manor doors. Already your adrenaline is kicking in, the pain is receding--you don't have to worry. Soon you'll be able to break free, ignore the Prussian. It's survival--even if you're the weaker one, if you're able to escape the monster will just focus on the nation still in its grasp, and you're home free! So fight, yes, but fight for your life, not some silly debt you owe or because dying is a disgrace."]

His heart hardened against those whispers caressing his frontal lobe.That slim body stilled, save for a healthy spasm here and there. He would not leave Gilbert, who's presence was reaffirmed by the sharp echo of fired bullets cracking the air around them. This was not the time to lose control--he needed a plan if he was going to get out of this mess and help the Prussian.

The fear, the shock, the chill pervading his body, everything that proved too distracting to the Italian found itself shoved to the darkest corners of his mind, to stew where it wouldn't be a hindrance. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was a relief, the greying of his vision sharpened once more in vivid color. It gave him strength he knew he would need, but also clarity of mind to actually focus. The more obviously he struggled, the tighter these roots would become, that much was already certain from the injuries his body was taking.

Feliciano inhaled as best he could against those roots and the fracturing ribs screaming protest, steeling himself. After a short moment, he jerked his arms up towards his face, a hard task with the uselessness of one arm. So long as he didn't fight to pull apart his arms or to dislodge the roots trapping them, the plant didn't seem keen on keeping him still.

This fact the brunette exploited immediately. Dragging the bend of his elbow up to his lips, the boy leaned forward and sank strong, sharp teeth into the pulpy matter of the root keeping his arms trapped. The movement sent the jagged edge of that compound fracture scraping at his skin from the inside, but he did not notice nor care. Hard, focused amber eyes betrayed his intent on tearing the vine apart by the strength of his jaw alone. If he could only get his right arm free, he could grab his second weapon. Feliciano could help once he was armed. But he had to hurry--the more he fought, the more likely the plant would retaliate. The promise of more pain was strong, and he didn't think he could take it. Sweat already beaded along the many expanses of rapidly-paling skin. While the brunette's strength was still there, even more powerful than usual with the overwhelming roar of adrenaline in his ears and the shock numbing his body, it wouldn't last forever. He needed that gun now. So he focused on trying to bite through the vine he'd sunk his teeth into, hoping to rip it, weaken it until he could tear it apart.

Once free, he would reach for his Smith&Wesson model 29 revolver. He could shoot at the oscillating mass of vegetation keeping him captive, erase the roots separating himself from Gilbert. He had to work to free them both before it was too late.

He refused to let Gilbert die here.

[Triffid]

The prey struggled.

That was all the Triffid knew.

Since the horrid monster of a plant possessed no brain, it had no thought process to call its own. It operated on neither logic nor emotion; every single jerk of its roots was controlled by nothing but instinct alone. It knew not what went on in the mind of its meal, nor did it understand the words they uttered in desperation. Speech was not something it knew the meaning of. Even the blood that now seeped from between the roots wrapped around the shorter prey’s body didn’t carry the same meaning to it as it did to humans. To humans, spilled blood meant injury and death, both concepts not in the grasp of the Triffid. To it, blood just meant food. Nourishment. Life. The more blood, the more life. Still prey did not fight to keep their blood as struggling ones did. The prey had to stay still.

This prey didn’t.

That had to be fixed.

And so, the more the two humans fought to set themselves free from the binds that bound them, the harder the plant squeezed, the more bones it broke and the more flesh it tore with the jagged edges of its roots. It did not care for the sounds they made, all it cared about was movement and making it stop so it could finally feast. It knew that its stinger could paralyze and that it had worked in stopping prey in their tracks before. And with that in mind, it continued its advance towards the duo, mouth open and sting outstretched, seeking to sink it into the preys’ flesh.

But before the monster could quite reach the two, something tore through one of its three, stubby legs. The plant wasn’t aware of what happened, or quite what had caused it. It felt no pain as it stumbled, falling on the ground as one of its legs couldn’t support its massive frame any longer. It tossed on the ground, swinging its roots and destroying ground where it stood. Its instincts told it to move, yet it was not able to. It had to do something else. The prey was still moving.

It raised the roots holding the white haired prey in place, squeezing harder and raising the man as high up as it was able with the roots wrapped around the prey's body. And then, with immense speed, it brought the root holding the prey back down, smashing its victim onto the uneven ground below. It heard no sounds if there were any, but it realized what it had done had worked in making the prey stay stiller. It was about to continue, to keep smashing until the other moved no more, when the other prey started to act bad as well. Using its mouth, the human was breaking his roots and, as the prey’s binds grew loose, moving more and more. It was more alive than the other. It had to be stopped first.

So, forgetting about the other prey for now, the plant raised its roots and slammed the white haired one against the side of nearby gravestone, unwrapping its roots upon impact. It let the taller of the two fall on the ground and lay there, focusing its sights on the other instead. Roots and wines flew towards the brunette, one of them smashing against its nose and upper jaw in an attempt to make it stop biting. There was a crunching sound and blood dripped to stain the roots red, but the prey still struggled. Those sharp, white things in its mouth were dangerous. Its face was dangerous.

The Triffid wanted it gone.

Root after root started to crawl over the boy’s body, scratching cloth and skin alike. They slithered like snakes, hungry and seeking to strike the spot that, when crushed, would kill any animal, big or small, bird or mammal; it aimed for the throat, the neck, the thing that held in place that dangerous head with those sharp, hazardous teeth. The Triffid tightened its grip, roots pulling at the prey's every limb to make sure it could not move a muscle.

The roots tensed as they reached their goal, drawing the last drips of blood from the boy’s skin as they suddenly jerked the prey’s head in an angle nature had never intended to be possible.

The prey stopped struggling.

SPOILER: Click to show

Yes, that does imply exactly what you think it does; Veneziano died.

Prussia also suffered some serious injuries (broken bones at the very least) but he is still alive. Unless, of course, you wish to say he died as well. The Triffid has no objections to two tasty meals.

Veneziano, you're now a ghost.

[Prussia]

Pain.

Pain was white hot as fire. Gilbert felt the agony of the roots that tightened around his body. The oxygen he had tried to conserve was seared out of his lungs. The Prussian's system became overcome by the natural defense mechanism in his body, faced with the inability to draw breath and left reeling in panic. Gilbert didn't want to sink into that when the danger was so intense.

He heard the shots from nearby. Feliciano was valiantly putting up a fight. This spiked Gilbert's fear for the Italian. He had failed to stop the monster's advance. And now Feliciano was distracting the creature away to a direction that Gilbert did not want it to go. He managed a half voiced cry of warning. "Felic--!!"

Gravity abruptly tilted. The albino's wiry body was hefted upwards in momentary freefall. He could not fight loose. These roots were treating him like a rag doll. He didn't register any pain after the initial impact of being slammed on solid ground. His limbs were limp, even when the creature discarded him in a negligent fling, and Gilbert was unable to recover to avoid colliding with a gravestone. He went tumbling through the shattered piece of ancient granite, rolling into the dank darkness of the tomb's inner chamber.

Old bones broke under his fall, sent up into a scattering cloud of dust. Whatever unfortunate had been placed inside this final cradle was crushed under the weight of the Prussian. Its peaceful (?) rest disturbed by unexpected destruction. Gilbert finally settled, sprawled awkwardly inside the shadowy interior of the tomb, unable to move any further. He couldn't catch his breath. Whatever pressure the monster's roots had inflicted on his ribs left his lungs sore. At best, all Gilbert could get was a few shallow inhales. There was blood at the back of his throat. He wanted to roll over to rid himself of it -- but couldn't. His body didn't obey his brain's commands to move. Something inside was broken.

Gilbert had a view, though. Oh, did he have a view. The way he had landed -- as if it had been done deliberately -- had positioned the Prussian in a way that he could still see an unobstructed line of sight all the way to where Feliciano was getting swarmed by the monster. Gilbert saw how the Italian's body writhed. Glimpsed the horrible moment when Feliciano's head was twisted completely around on his neck, snapped effortlessly. At least it was quick; a fast death that would be too instantaneous to feel any pain. That was merciful for the Italian, since the plant monster immediately began to tear at Feliciano's motionless flesh.

He couldn't watch any more. Gilbert shut his eyes, closing off the image, to lie motionless in this dark space. It wasn't his grave. It very well could have been. Even with his eyes shut, the noises of the creature's feeding still snaked into his ears, unavoidable. Crunch. Sluuurp. His oxygen supply was too shallow for him to vomit like he wanted to. Maybe it would come for him next. Maybe it had decided he wasn't satisfactory enough for a meal. All Gilbert could do was wait for the beast to finish its course.

I failed spectacularly, West. He thought bitterly as he dwelled in that dark place. I couldn't even protect him. What use is there for a washed-up Nation that can't even kill a plant? And to think that I kill yours all the time. It would be better if you were here instead. You should have been the one to find him. You'd have saved him. Schiesse! What am I going to tell Wes...

The thought went unfulfilled in its completion as Gilbert's brain finally shut his body down. The darkness that enfolded him was a deep, welcome comfort.

---

[And this is my last post for Prussia. So completed on my end. o/]

[Italia Veneziano]

It was working.

It was working.

Feliciano's struggles were proving fruitful--the grip on his arm was slackening, despite the blood and flesh being torn from his tongue by the raggedly sharp edges of the root's bark. There were bits of wood and pulp stabbing the roof of his mouth and his gums, but only when he managed to rip away that first mouthful could he spit the entire bloody mess aside. That copper tang continued to fill his mouth from the deep, abrasive cuts in his tongue, and again he spat the liquid out, staining his chin and the front of his costume with rich crimson. His mind was numb to that pain, filled only with a sense of single-minded resolve to get his arm free. He sank his teeth into that pulp one more, bloody gums stripped further from his teeth at the action.There was so little left of the first root, it tore easily under the combined effort of his jaw and his straining right arm.

Immediately that broken arm dropped down to hang his side like a limp piece of meat at the butcher's. The sharp, razor-quick jolt of agony raced through him, which normally would have had the boy screaming, but his body was doped on adrenaline and shock. Those combined efforts muted the pain to a warm tingle of warning niggling the back of his mind. That was a distraction easily taken care of, though, smothered into nothing. All of his attention was on his free arm, sharply batting away at the new, smaller roots trying to wind around the appendage. Its journey was a short one--what fabric of his shirt he hadn't torn to make into makeshift bandages, the monster had ripped up for him. The tatters barely clung to his bruised and bloody body as he bypassed them to reach the grip of the Smith&Wessen. He could hardly tell the sensation of taking that weapon in hand, but that wasn't something worth worrying about--he simply told his fingers to cling to that weapon and keep that cold weapon in his hand, no matter what. If the Italian were to slacken his grip, or even drop the weapon, the narrow chance he had for helping Gilbert would be gone.

Aiming with his weak-eye was difficult on an average day, but under these conditions it was almost impossible. There were so many roots to try seeing through, too many distractions trying to attract his attention. Not to mention the difficulty he had on a normal day remembering to aim a few inches to the right for perception--task-difficulty was now tripled. But any thoughts of actually shooting the creature in question were thrown out the window were thrown out the window. Before he could even fire off his first shot, his aim was ruined by a large, sturdier root slamming into his face with all the force of a wood fist. The blow rattled his teeth in his head. The rough, bark-like surface covering the lashing appendage drew bright wells of blood, as if his skin had been scraped over a razor-bladed cheese grater. The sharp sting made it hard to focus, the throb of his cheek and jaw echoing the growing pain in his arm as more and more of those roots began to enter his field of vision. Panic slowly eroded the sense of purpose earlier fueling his actions.

That fear drove his first shot. As that first crack stabbed into the Italian's ears, two of the roots intertwining before him exploded before his eyes. His frantic mind calmed once that immediate threat was gone. Realization had him turning his weapon from the main body before him to aim and shoot at the roots undulating around him in a mass of pulsating vegetation.

Had he been thinking long-term results, he would have known that this was a futile exercise. His weapon only held so much ammunition, far less than the mass of plants lashing at him like a barrage of whips and claws. He could only see so much. His entire left side was one huge blind spot, if the second root exploiting that injury and cracking his left cheekbone in another teeth-rattling "punch" was any indication. He was losing too much blood, for his clothes no longer provided protection from the abrasive bark slicing his skin. And if this creature, this man-eating plant was able to break several of Feliciano's ribs with a single squeeze, who knows what sort of internal damage there could be.

Even if he and Gilbert were able to get away now, there was no way the Italian nation, robbed of his superhuman ability to heal, would survive. This partically self-inflicted damage was too great in his mad struggle for freedom.

But still he fired at the plants, even when a swarm of vegetation slithered forward to wrap around his right arm like a mass of angry snakes, trapping it in place. Shot after shot broke the atmosphere around him, raining down pulp and bark stained with his own blood. The roots only stabilized his shooting, giving him support to not reel with the recoil of his weapon and drop the black metal. His aim was thrown off, though, as he was jerked this way and that for every twist and turn he made to shrug the slithering appendages from him.

From the corner of his eye, some of the attacking plants receded as if seeking a brief respite to find a better angle of attack. They left a gap in their wake, and he caught a flash of white amidst the darkness of a mausoleum. The moment he took to turn his head, Gilbert's name upon the tip of his torn, bloody tongue, was the moment those savage plants struck. Feliciano hadn't realized that the monster had left his friend be to focus its attention upon himself, so he was caught off-guard by the newest wave of roots shooting up and slamming against him. More bones creaked under this assault, and any control the Italian had over his body was lost. White-hot agony overwhelmed his mind. Only the cramped muscles in his over-stressed fingers kept him from losing his Smith&Wessen to the pseudo-snake pit he was trapped in the midst of. His struggles for freedom were weak now, instinctual efforts to avoid pain the only thing fueling his worn body into movement.

His uninjuried eye strained against the pain and the darkness to see if any of this fighting had been worth something. Eyes dilated so fully his iris was only a bright gold band surrounding a black pit, his sight tried to cut through the darkness using only the bare hints of light from the windows and the waning crescent moon in the sky. He couldn't tell, though, whether the Prussian was alive--the distance too great and the graying of his vision too difficult to discern the subtle movement of breathing. "G-Gilbert--" He tried to croak, but blood had coated his throat too fully for the word to slip out loud enough for the Prussian to hear. He opened his mouth to try again, blood sluggishly sliding down his crimson-caked chin to trickle against the pale expanse of his throat, but those roots would have none of it. They continued to slither from the ground, until three were wrapped about his throat and creeping up to bury into clumpy strands of greasy auburn hair. One of those roots slithered over his eyes, and then every single root wrapped around his body tensed up, tightening their grip on the the boy in preparation for something.

The fight left him. His mind quieted down until that remained was the fluttering white flag he carried so loyally. Red bled into the white, a soft reminder of the other nation the young Italian had lead to his death. [What if I had raised this sooner? Would we still be okay?]

That image snapped to black.

---

[and finished on my end as well \o]