Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
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Post by Kosovo on Oct 18, 2013 17:13:31 GMT -6
Astrit pushed open the door and discovered a room he hadn't seen before. Not that he was surprised; for all he had been lost in this manor for what felt like ages, there was no way he had found everything yet. Especially when new rooms seemed to sprout out of nowhere and then disappear at random.
This one was rather comfortable-looking overall, a sort of family room more closed than the one downstairs. It seemed to be arranged around a large fireplace on one wall, with a small half-ring of sofas placed to take advantage of the warmth, a table surrounded by chairs nearby, and a small bar in the corner. All very cozy, aside from the single painting on the wall.
The painting was taller than Astrit himself was, featuring a very stern-looking butler on an ornate wallpaper-like background. There was something unnerving about it, something that made the boy want to run away just looking at it. He quickly averted his eyes and walked at a fast clip over to a sofa that was angled perpendicular to the painting, so that he didn't have to either look directly at it or leave his back turned in its direction.
He was on the third floor now, rather than the first two floors where he had spent most of his time, for a very odd reason. It had abruptly started raining indoors (how, he could not figure out, but he suspected yet another cruel trick of the Manor's) and the house had filled with so much water that he had been forced to retreat up two flights of stairs. He had been separated from Alfred in the process, too, leaving him alone yet again.
He hoped Alfred was all right, and that he had gotten up high enough to avoid drowning too. Too many nations had died here already, and he hated the idea that his friend might be added to that number. Whatever it was; Astrit was painfully aware that he had no way of knowing if anyone was alive. His sister was dead, if Ana Maria was to be believed (and there was no reason to assume she had lied), and he had killed Prussia with his own hands. For some reason, he was still carrying Gilbert's sword, which he had taken from him at the end of the death match all those long wanderings ago. Beyond those whose deaths he knew for certain, though, there was no way to tell if anyone was still alive or not... save of course for seeing them for himself.
He thought he heard the sound of the door creaking open behind him and began to turn to look to see who it was, but his attention was immediately diverted by the sudden, inexplicable sensation that his blood was on fire. He found his muscles contracting to pull him into a hedgehog-like ball on the couch, while he desperately stripped off his coat in the hopes of feeling just a little bit cooler. It didn't have that effect, but he kept pulling off the rest of his clothes anyway out of a feeling of compulsion. (Why? he wondered, in as much of his mind as wasn't consumed with fright, but found he couldn't figure it out.)
It got weirder then, as if his fiery blood were melting his body and turning it malleable. Reddish fur sprouted from his skin. He lifted his hands to try to feel if that was fur on his face, and saw that they too were furry and his fingernails were growing into sharp claws. "What's happening?" he shouted aloud, not even caring if there was anyone to hear or not. The incoherent shout of panic that followed changed its tone as the shape of his face changed, from a human "AAAAH!" to a canine howl.
The fire subsided, and Astrit was left shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He tried to get up, only to find himself falling off the sofa to land on all fours on the floor in front of the fireplace. Disoriented, he pushed himself back up to his feet. If nothing else, his body was shaped a lot differently than he was used to; his arms seemed to be longer, and he felt strong but couldn't quite figure out how to make use of that strength.
He caught a glimpse of a long, furry tail swishing around behind him. Shaken, he blinked and looked again. It was a tail, all right. He tried to move it, and found that it did what he wanted it to.
A whining noise escaped his throat, as his mind pleaded with nothing, "What am I?"
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Post by Deleted on Oct 23, 2013 15:58:36 GMT -6
Shivering and soaked to the bone, Romano's footsteps sounded with a soggy squish in every step. This wouldn't be the first time the rain caught him completely by surprise. He never saw it coming. But then, who would if it was freaking raining indoors?! What kind of haunted mansion rained indoors? Maybe if it was missing a roof, it would be acceptable. Even a leaky ceiling would have sufficed. But no – it was very literally an indoor rain, with clouds and thunder and everything. Or, at least, there had been thunder as Romano dashed up the stairs to avoid the rising waters. The storm slowed to a stop as he reached the top of the second floor. Very fortunate, as he had to pass through the clouds themselves to reach the third floor where the weather was more favorable. If weather could be more favorable indoors, anyhow. It was dry and cloudless, and that qualified as good weather in Romano's book.
I wonder if it was raining outside too, or only indoors, he thought idly to himself as he flopped on the floor, leaning against the wall as he removed his shoes and socks. Walking around with feet sloshing in one's boots was not a very comfortable situation. He wanted to wring the water out of his shirt as well, but decided doing so wouldn't help much. Still, wet clothes stuck to him and felt overall unpleasant. It made him feel colder too, as even the slightest breeze was amplified. At least he didn't have a wet jacket to lug around. Where did he leave it last? He couldn't remember, and it was even harder to find it when the floorplan of the manor shifted as it did. Probably sunk to the bottom down there, he concluded.
Down there…
Nearly every encounter he had was down there. How many people were still down there when the waters rose? He was lucky to have been right by the stairs when it happened. How many nations weren't that lucky? He shuddered at the thought of so many bodies floating in the water, all of them with faces he recognized, most of them belonging to people he cared about. They say drowning is the most painful way to die… He quickly brushed the thought from his mind. He wouldn't allow himself to dwell on it; survivor's guilt was just one more kind of guilt to pile on everything else. I still have my life; I still have my – He lifted his gun, checking to make sure it was still intact – my weapon. If someone with my luck can make it out alive, they'll be fine too. With this thought on his mind, he made his way down the hall once again. He needed to find a bedroom or bathroom or closet or someplace that would have anything he could dry himself with. Being wet was not very fun for Romano, and the chills (Not my concern for the others, he assured himself) were starting to make his nose runny.
With his shoes in one hand, and his gun in the other, he pushed a door that was already open a crack with his shoulder. He squeezed his way inside, the door slamming shut behind him of its own accord (this was expected from a house like this, but it still surprised him every time). It was actually a cozy looking room, and if he could just rip that creepy painting off the wall and perhaps shred it to pieces before burning it and burying the ashes under cement (It's fucking creepy!), he wouldn't mind lounging about here for some down time.
…Well, except there was something shrieking on one of the couches. The sound was vaguely like that of a human cry of pain, only it was muddled by something beast-like. It was so sharp and loud, that Romano dropped his shoes on the ground and tried to leave the room. The door, however, was shut tight. He couldn't get it open!
"DAMMIT!" he wailed, banging on the door as though someone outside would hear him and come to his rescue. He glanced back to where he heard the howling – because now it sounded just like a wolf's howl – and held his gun level, backing away to the other side of the room. Eyes wide, he watched as whatever it was rolled off the couch. It looked like… Dio mio, it's a fucking werewolf! He pressed his back to the wall, eyes wide and knees clacking together. It was a little smaller than the kind of werewolf he would expect. In fact, those too-big paws, giant eyes, and that ridiculously fluffy fur suggested the lycanthrope was merely a child. Nevertheless, Romano kept his weapon raised.
"Nice puppy!" he said slowly with much suspicion. He never liked animals that much.
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Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
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Post by Kosovo on Oct 28, 2013 13:33:31 GMT -6
So he had a tail, and there was somebody else in the room with him, but he didn't seem to be capable of producing words in human languages just now.
Panicking sounded kind of tempting, but the sound of a voice served as a distraction.
Astrit looked up to see a shocked-looking young man pointing a gun at him. Probably another nation, if experience was anything to go by; he didn't think there were any ordinary humans around here. As for who it was... well, Astrit couldn't recall a name, but he was pretty sure he had seen this guy's face somewhere before. Or at least a face that looked a lot like it.
"Nice puppy," the man said slowly.
Oh, this was just splendid. Apparently Astrit was a dog now. He growled with frustration, but quickly cut himself off upon realizing that that would probably be taken as a threat by the man whose gun was pointed in his direction. Instead, he lay down on his stomach in a pose that would have felt weird in his normal shape but hopefully looked suitably nonthreatening now that he seemed to have turned into an animal.
If he didn't look nonthreatening enough, at least he could expect that he wouldn't have to be a dog for very long. He had never, ever wanted to be an animal, but his survival instincts were still well intact and he was plenty aware of how quickly he could be dead because of that gun. (At least it would be quick and probably painless--not that he would know that for sure, seeing as he had never been killed with a gun, and being merely injured with one was definitely painful.)
He looked up and whined, wishing he could communicate with whoever this was. It was unnerving, not being able to talk or even gesture to get an idea across. What he didn't realize was that his tail had started wagging, more or less by itself.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 17, 2013 21:19:03 GMT -6
The werewolf growled, prompting Romano to tighten his grip on the trigger. Fuck. The little bastard is gonna eat me. He'll rip out my throat and gnaw on my bones. The two seconds that followed seemed to stretch on endlessly, as Romano saw his life flash before his eyes… or at least the past few days, as strange and unpleasant as they were. And it all comes down to this, he thought bitterly, hands shaking so hard he feared they were too weak to defend himself. I'm going to be killed and eaten by a baby werewolf! It could always be worse. He could lose his life in an embarrassing accident caused by clumsiness.
Don't just stand there, you idiot! he scolded himself as he let his mind wander. Fucking shoot! He aimed, forcing his hands to be stable long enough to point the barrel square between the creature's eyes. Before he fire, the sad creature lay down on the ground, chin on the floor and gazing up at him with sad eyes. Was it Romano's imagination, or did a whimper escape the werewolf's throat? And the tail had started wagging. Romano was definitely not an expert on animal behavior, but he knew that this animal was not a threat. That is, of course, if this act was to be believed.
I wouldn't trust him for a minute, Romano thought to himself. Who's to say this isn't all just a trick? The manor loves tricks. They want me to feel sympathetic enough to let this threat go past my defenses. The minute my back is turned…
It was a monster. Plain and simple. No different from the other creatures that stalked the manor, and definitely no less dangerous. If Romano wanted out of this alive, he would have to kill this creature here and now. But as he stared into those soulful eyes, he could swear he saw something human underneath that furry exterior. It made him falter. This creature was intelligent. It knew Romano could kill it with the pull of a trigger, and it was trying to appeal to his humanity to convince him otherwise. What if, just maybe, it could be…
No.
I don't trust it!
He pulled the trigger.
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Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
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Post by Kosovo on Dec 18, 2013 1:05:35 GMT -6
The sound of a gunshot rang out through the room, startling Astrit into scrambling backwards with a loud yelp. No pain accompanied it, and he was still conscious afterwards, so when he was next able to think he surmised that the bullet must have missed him. His senses seemed to have been enhanced to wolf level, but his ability to process the information he got out of it had not; the smell of burning gunpowder and flash-heated metal, the sound of the explosion and the bullet whistling through the air and his own quick breathing and the other nation's, the abrupt blur of motion too fast to see details, all seemed to smack him upside the head, leaving him stunned considerably worse than he would normally have been.
When his mind began to clear, what was happening began to make a horrible kind of sense. Astrit had been transformed into one of the monsters of the Manor, and the other was simply reacting in the only way that made sense. He had no idea why he was changed, what he might have done to invite this transformation, but it was clear to his mind that he must have opened himself somehow to the corrupting influence. He thought that he was still in control of his own thoughts, but if his body was changed how long could it stay that way?
The young werewolf looked away from the other, unchanged nation. His eyes landed on the painting, which looked intolerably frightening to him now. A safe place to direct his rage and brute strength (probably).
With a snarl, he launched himself towards the back of the room, desiring to rip the painting apart just to get it to stop--staring! It tore loudly under his sharpened claws, satisfyingly so. In moments, it was little more than shreds drifting down to the floor. That was better.
It would be difficult to overstate the magnitude of what Astrit was trying to distract himself from. He was no longer even remotely human. Could he keep his human mind much longer? Would he end up, as the other nation in the room obviously feared, killing someone in a rage or simply because he couldn't remember why not? Might he even kill someone he knew? Someone he cared about? Was he going to become the kind of monster he dreaded?
No. He would accept anything before that. A memory flashed through his mind: Australia telling him that he could be great. He had thought, at the time, that if he was really capable of being a good person then he might be less likely to survive in the Manor, that those who could be redeemed were in fact more likely doomed here because the Manor wanted to destroy them. And he had resolved, in a slow way that had coalesced in the time since then, that he would choose death over becoming the evil he hated.
His face felt a little odd, like he was sweating into his eyes. He put one clawed hand to his head carefully to wipe the liquid off, and when he brought it back down he saw blood soaking into his fur. Puzzled, he began to feel at his head even more carefully, and found that he had one pointy wolf ear, and one torn remnant of one. The bullet must not have missed him entirely after all, and he had simply not felt it because his shock was too great. How strange.
He turned back to look at the other nation, knowing that he must be a fearful sight--a werewolf pup with one torn-up ear, blood on his head and paw, who had just torn a painting apart--and bent down to the floor again in a wolf's submission pose with throat exposed. It was up to the man he still didn't quite recognize to decide what to do about that.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 18, 2013 4:34:23 GMT -6
Marcello Scordato-Vargas -- Principato di Seborga Costume: Templar Knight Weapon: Sword Flower: Yellow Mimosa Deaths: 0
| “Just a bit further…reach...REACH, SEBORGA!” he mentally cheered himself on as he strained to take hold of the edge of the windowsill. “Just a bit more…” Marcello clenched his teeth as he tried to pull himself up, but his fingers slipped on the rotten wood which in turn caused him to flail and close his eyes with a sharp hiss-like gasp. He pressed his body firmly to the side of the house, hugging it as best he could and adjusting his foot and hand-holds. With the darkness of his eyelids shutting out all else, he could feel just how heavy his body was. It felt as if he was being dragged down, and the Seborgan desperately tried to avoid that sinking feeling by standing on his tiptoes (not that it had much effect). Why had he opted for the full outfit, why? Chain mail was kinda heavy, and while the cloak was warm, it only added more weight, but he dared not cast it off for fear of needing it later. After all, it was growing colder with each passing hour and he would rather not freeze to death. Heh. Can’t you just imagine that epitaph nestled between the others who had met more glorious and epic causes of death?
Here lies Marcello R. Vargas: Taken by the chill of the cold.
It was only moments ago that he was inspecting the grounds to find an escape, and disheartened, found that something bloodthirsty was lurking nearby. Naturally, he returned to the main house. Nevertheless, he was sick of the beasts lurking around. Sick of running… sick of having his heart nearly leaping out of his chest each time he heard a loud sound. But what choice did he have here? He felt trapped. Almost as trapped as he had those centuries ago. The Seborgan shook the memory from his mind with a frown. At least he could see the sky here. At least there was that—a small glimpse of hope in this insane estate. It was at least a nice thought.
However, what Marco wanted to know now was HOW the devil did it flood indoors? After all, that’s why he was hanging to the side of the building three stories up. He couldn’t get one of the doors below open and had peered inside a window to find that the first floor had been flooded. He found the same to be true of the second floor, but the third…the third was dry still from what he could tell. Rather, he hoped that it was still dry. He had yet to catch an actual glimpse of the interior.
Grunting, the principality reached for the middle part of the windowsill this time after making sure he had a foothold in a socket where a brick had fallen out. Pulling himself up, he rested one arm on the windowsill as gently as he could and pulled his sword from its sheath. Gripping it three quarters down near the tip, he used the leverage and let the hilt and pommel strike against the glass to break it. Along with the crack of glass, he heard a howl and some swearing. It was muffled, but he could have sworn he recognized that deep, angry voice. Lifting himself, he caught a glimpse of Lovi in the room but the other occupant was not in his field of vision. His heart dropped, however, when he heard a gunshot. Whatever was in there, it apparently had been enough of a threat for his brother to shoot at. Exhaling, Seborga clenched his jaw and decided to join the fray—it was his brother in there after all, and family stuck together and helped one another.
Drawing back the sword again, and gripping it closer to the hilt, he struck the pane until it shattered completely and he was able to pull himself inside after tossing his sword into the window. Hissing and wincing, he bit back what would have been a louder cry as some of the glass that remained in the window tore his tunic and sliced through some flesh—namely on his face since he was donning thick gloves and chain mail. After dropping into the room, he looked around for Lovi and the other being. Taking up his sword, he gripped it tightly in his hand as his gaze fell on his brother. He was relieved to find Lovi relatively unharmed, albeit he was soaking wet.
“Fratellone!” Marco called out, partially in relief and partially to inform his half-sibling that he was there to help and not to shoot at him…again... Instantly regretted the decision once his green-amber eyes fell on the bending…that was a werewolf! His grip only tightened on his weapon and his brows furrowed slightly. He trembled a bit, but this was the first monster he had seen face to face, so he was allowed that right.
“Lovi, are-a you hurt?” he kept his eyes on the furry bloodied beast. His gaze narrowed slightly as he continued to observe the creature. Something about it just seemed off... Why was the beast exposing its neck? Why was he acting submissive? Why was it not attacking Lovi or himself? His grip faltered for a split second as he considered the possibilities, but when he noticed that his blade had fallen a few inches, the Seborgan lifted it back up into a defensive position and widened his stance.
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OoC: About time I was able to get to this orz made by FLOU of OTE. Severely edited by Iso/Ducky
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Post by Deleted on Feb 8, 2014 14:35:46 GMT -6
The gunshot resounded loud and clear. The sting from the recoil pounding into his shoulder assured Romano that the bullet had been successfully fired, his ears now ringing from the loud noise. It should have killed it, he knew it should have. But in that last moment, a sudden bang against the glass of the window in the room had distracted him, his skittish mind half-expecting to find a second monster had shown up. Of course, he had to turn his head to see it. He couldn't have just focused on the matter at hand, could he? Not when the place was crawling with things that would have his head on a silver platter– and the rest of him, too!
A passing glance had revealed the sound had come from something with a human form. A more careful inspection revealed a familiar face. The glass shattered, the intruder having broken his way in. Romano growled and returned his attention to the werewolf in the room.
"Goddammit, Marcello!" was all he could say as his brother came to his side. Of course, his first reaction upon this new addition was one of intense relief. Seborga was here. The last time Romano had seen the micronation was downstairs, right before the torrent had flooded everything. Of the faces he had envisioned lifeless under the surface, Seborga's was one of the first. But he was here! He hadn't drowned; he was all right! The second feeling that welled up in Romano's heart was anger. Seborga was alive, but he had come in at the wrong time. Sure, he had a weapon, and could no doubt defend himself if need be. The nations now outnumbered the werewolf two to one. That didn't change the fact that it was too late to call back the bullet that had fired.
It should have killed it! But there was the creature, obviously alive and exhibiting a display of utmost violence, drawing a soft but noticeable "Oh, shit!" from the Italian's lips. Flashing teeth and sharp claws tore at canvas, the unsettling painting he had noticed earlier now nothing but ribbons fluttering from the snarling maw of the beast. Romano watched with wide eyes, flinching back from the destruction, all too easily imagining the fabric was his own skin– or now that Seborga was here, the flesh of his brother. The creature could deal damage. It was dangerous, deadly. Child or not, that little show it put on proved that those teeth could shred, those jaws could crush bone. Until it was dead, neither Seborga nor Romano could be counted as safe.
And I'm already one bullet less… It was a submachine gun. How easy would it be to fire multiple shots, one after another to take down this beast? But his ammo was now underwater along with his coat. About how long could the rounds be submerged before they were ruined? It didn't matter right now. The fact of the matter was that his ammunition was limited. He couldn't risk wasting bullets when it was unclear how many he would need in this accursed manor, and when next he could get his hands on more. Every shot had to be fatal – or at the very least, crippling – and because of Seborga's little distraction, this bullet had barely grazed the werewolf's ear!
Yes, that's right. It was his ear. He could see it now, the injury dripping blood from the tattered injury into the monster's face. It had been blown practically clean off, but it obviously hadn't bothered the animal none if it was still well enough to completely destroy that painting.
Romano was vaguely aware that Seborga had asked him a question, but he ignored it when he noted the tip of his brother's sword dropped just barely. "Don't let your guard down, dammit!" he scolded just as the micronation fixed his stance. "Did you not see what it just did to that painting? Fuck, Marcello, we're screwed if we let it live!" He was sick of running, sick of shaking and quivering in fear. No longer would Romano be on the defensive. If he was going to survive these trials, he would have to change his position, even if it meant killing every thing that threatened his life.
However, the werewolf was at it again, bent over the ground and unmoving. Is it fucking bipolar? Romano thought to himself. It seemed the only logical explanation for it to go from a calm position to an unbridled rage and back again. The first time, it had taken it's ferocity out on the painting. Next time the brothers might not be so lucky. I'm thinking for both of us right now, he thought to himself, and everyone this thing might harm in the future. If he was going to act, now was the time to do it before the creature's anger flared up again.
"I'm gonna kill it." His words were icy cold and devoid of emotion. What should he care if one godforsaken beast dies within these walls? Better them than potential victims. With a shift of his weapon, he aimed the barrel square at the werewolf's neck as he took a step back. This time, he thought to himself as his finger tightened around the trigger, I won't miss.
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Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
Offline.
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Post by Kosovo on Feb 10, 2014 1:44:34 GMT -6
The shattering of glass alarmed Astrit, and he definitely didn't recognize the Knight Templar who burst into the room through the broken window. Of course, even if he had it almost wouldn't matter: no one would ever recognize him so changed.
The other nation in the room clearly recognized the new arrival, though. The one who had just arrived greeted the other as "Fratellone" and "Lovi," names that didn't mean much to Astrit but made it clear that they were very well acquainted--probably close friends or even family. In response, the one who had already been there called their new companion "Marcello," and swore at him... swore at Astrit, too.
Astrit hadn't meant to scare the Italian by attacking the painting. On some level, he had almost hoped that it would be taken as a sign of friendliness: he had not attacked either of the young men in the room, just the creepy thing that was making him so incredibly uncomfortable. And he had wanted to distract himself from the idea that he had become a monster.
There was nothing in the imaginable universe that Astrit feared more than becoming evil, and he had more than well enough gotten the impression that the Manor could make that happen. The frightened nation--the one whom the other had called Lovi--seemed to believe that Astrit was about to go insane at any moment and hurt them. Given that he was already in the form of a monster... it could be, he had already hashed this out with himself. It was completely possible that the monstrosity of the Manor would go for his mind next.
"I'm gonna kill it."
Something deep inside Astrit rebelled at those flat, cold words, though he did not move. After all he had been through, all his desperation to live and be worth keeping alive, was he going to die this way? After he had been forced to--allowed to--kill another nation, after he had outlived his sister and survived all that the Manor had thrown at him so far? After all he had survived even before coming here, too, all those wars over things like whether or not he even existed... was he going to give up his life now? Just die, on the ground, at the hands of a stranger who had no idea who he was?
Yes.
He was going to do exactly that, if that was what it took. Because Astrit refused to become a monster. Because if he was going to die one way or another, he would choose to die with his mind still human, rather than the highly possible alternative of succumbing to the Manor's influence and being shot by another nation anyway when he tried to kill them for real. Because it seemed that this time, the best way to go down fighting was to pick... whatever this was, and hopefully escape the fate that it obviously had in mind for him.
He wished he could communicate this to the brothers who looked at him with such suspicion, though. It would have been nice to get a chance for... last words, or to set forth his own reasoning, or at least to tell them his name, but he could conceive of no practical way.
Memories of Prussia's death flitted briefly through his head, particularly the look on the former nation's face in those wordless final moments, when his eyes had asked for death. Astrit had then had no comprehension of what that could possibly be like, but now--however many hours or days or years it had been since then, he had long since lost track--he had, at least, one clue. The idea that something might supersede his will to live... was no longer quite so unfathomable.
The only thing that Astrit could hope for now, really, was that it would be quick enough that he wouldn't hurt.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 1, 2014 0:03:39 GMT -6
Marcello Scordato-Vargas -- Principato di Seborga Costume: Templar Knight Weapon: Sword Flower: Yellow Mimosa Deaths: 0
| Immediately, Marcello gave a nervous grin at his brother’s recognition and recoiled slightly at his scolding. “S-sci.” he mumbled, adjusting his grip on the antique sword and exhaling deeply. “B-but-a he attacked the painting, not us…” he uttered before he could bite back the observation. How easy would it have been for the beast to lunge toward Romano and strike him had he the desire? If he was that bloodthirsty, he would have done it—especially if the bullet injury hadn’t phased him in the slightest. Even so, it could have been him, but the werewolf had chosen to go for the painting—something harmless albeit creepy.
The Seborgan swallowed hard as he watched Romano lift the gun and aim to the creature again and his heart sank as his gaze moved back to the stilled creature. ”It’s someone. It’s SOMEONE,” something cried to him in the back of his mind. Of course it was someone; who, he didn’t know, but at their core, these monsters were beasts of transformation—meaning that even this deadly creature with its sharp claws and pointed fangs…was once human. “Was.” Another thought occurred to him. Was human. Now it was likely that any humanistic thought had been thoroughly buried by animalistic desires and instinct. Still, Marcello couldn’t entirely convince himself to lash out. Not yet.
“What if it had been me, what if it had been Lovino? Or Feliciano? Or Peter or…” the thoughts continued building in his head, swirling around like a whirlwind. “What if this place…is this our ultimate end? Do we become monsters here?” The mere thought caused the hair on the back of Marco’s neck to stand up and a shiver to run down his spine. He didn’t want to become like that…he didn’t want to have to worry about turning into something that would hurt the people he loved and cared for— and in truth, who would ever want to become something like that? He himself would rather die than live with the agony of knowing he had or could possibly turn on any of his loved ones…
What about a remedy? Marcello’s face contorted as he tried to remember any remedy for lycanthropy, but all he thought of would require things that were not readily available at this moment—or would need to be done while the wolf was a human. An overwhelming sense of helplessness fell over him as his eyes fell on the barrel of Lovino’s gun. Was this the only way to solve the issue and ensure his brother’s and his own safety as well as the safety of others that may come across the werewolf? Why was violence and death the only way?
“Aim for the head…” the words were sorrowful but firm as they left the Seborgan’s lips and he partially hated himself for uttering them. “...un-a-less you are-a using silver bullets.” He didn’t know how this form of lycanthrope operated, but if he was anything like the traditional kind, a mere bullet to the neck would do nothing but prolong its agony and possibly piss it off. Additionally, without the silver, he would have to have been filled with holes and left to bleed out, and Marco doubted that Lovi wanted to waste so much of his ammo on one creature and still risk it being able to move. “It’ll be quicker,” Marcello added, twisting his sword in his grasp as he gave the creature a sincerely apologetic look. Should the headshot not do the trick completely, he would have little choice but to behead it to prevent it from lunging and to prevent the wound from simply causing it to suffer more.
“Dio sopra, vi preghiamo di perdonarci per questo…”
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OoC: --- made by FLOU of OTE. Severely edited by Iso/Ducky
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Post by Deleted on Nov 3, 2014 14:03:48 GMT -6
Romano didn't think as he pulled the trigger. He didn't want to think. To dwell on his thoughts would lead to second-guessing his actions, which was something he couldn't afford. A distant part of his mind heeded Seborga's suggestion, and he subconsciously re-aimed the barrel of his gun to the beast's skull, but he hardly acknowledged the movement, however slight. For the second time in that room, the gunshot resounded. Romano was numb to it, chasing away all emotion from what he convinced himself was a necessary action.
"Dio sopra, vi preghiamo di perdonarci per questo…"
The words were barely comprehended by the blank-faced Italian. Did they need God's forgiveness? What for?
It was just a kid, he thought to himself, eyes trained on the blood spilling across the floor– a dark red puddle that he regarded with about as much shock and remorse as he would have if it were milk pouring from an overturned carton. I've killed a child. The thoughts were formed clearly in his mind, but they weren't fully processing. He couldn't see the severity in what he had just done, not just yet. It was making the logical connection without fully extending to his emotions. He knew what he had done in pulling that trigger, but he felt nothing. There was no regret, no pity, not even an inkling of accomplishment for having done what he set himself to do. He stood there, staring at the corpse in silence for what felt like ages. Then slowly, he turned to face his brother, face as blank and impenetrable as his soul.
"…It had to be done," he coldly rationalized. "It was either him, or us. You understand that, right?" Stepping over to the fallen animal, he nudged the poor monster with his foot. He wanted to make sure it was really dead– no. He wanted to make sure it was really real. Had he killed a sentient creature? Now that he thought about it, it did exhibit some level of intelligence. "…It probably wanted to die anyway," he went on, still as apathetic as before. "If it didn't, it would have fought harder to stay alive. Don't you think?" He fixed his brother with his icy gaze once more. "It was a mercy killing." He stepped over to Seborga, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze, assuring him that it was all over. They had nothing to fear now.
You've killed a child. Monster! The words rang in the back of his mind. Was he the monster here? Was he really? The fallen beast was the one with fangs and covered in hair, and Romano was the monster? He didn't think so. He just saved his brother's life. He saved his own life. It was a kill or be killed situation. Who knew what could have happened if he had allowed the thing to live? Not you! You never gave it a fucking chance! It was too late to now, wasn't it? Whoever it was, they were gone now. What was done was done. There was no use crying over spilled milk.
Buried beneath his unsympathetic exterior, he was well aware of the gravity of his actions. If he allowed himself to reflect too much, he might actually be disgusted with himself. That was why he couldn't let that happen. In a place like this, he couldn't let moral dilemmas hinder him from his own survival. It was him and his family first. If something threatened one or the other, he had to be swift to take it out of the picture. This wasn't your first time killing, he reminded himself, cursing himself silently as his hand shook before it slipped from Seborga's shoulder. It was nothing. The next time you do this, you won't feel anything. Stepping past his younger brother, he stared at the wall with a gaze as lifeless as the wolf-boy on the floor.
"Ehi, Marcello! Let's get out of here, hm?" With a brief gesture towards the hairy creature, he said with a perfectly level voice: "I don't wanna stay in the same room as that creepy-as-fuck bastard, do you?"
The sooner he left, the sooner he could forget everything that happened in that room. Besides, there were more pressing matters to worry about. The entirety of the downstairs was blocked off, submerged from the freak storm. That meant Romano would have to be looking for an escape from the manor from a little higher up. Glancing towards the window where Marcello had come in, he closed the heavier topic with a casual inquiry: "What are the odds of getting out that way?"
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Astrit Zupan
Survivor
Pansexual.
Single.
13.
Played by Koso.
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Post by Kosovo on Nov 3, 2014 21:57:50 GMT -6
It was the hardest thing that Astrit had ever done.
He had made his decision, and now there was nothing to do but remain where he was, waiting and listening. He knew full well why he was doing this, but deep-seated instincts had his heart hammering and his muscles aching to run or to try to defend himself. But that, of course, was an idea past its expiration date. Animal instincts, that was what such reactions were called, and he didn't want to be an animal.
The one called Marcello seemed to be sympathetic. He had pointed out that Astrit had attacked the painting rather than the--brothers? They looked and behaved like brothers. He seemed less frightened than the other, and unless Astrit was mistaken, that in his eyes was an apology, even as he advised the other that it would be best to kill the werewolf with a shot to the head.
Astrit didn't want to be mistaken. Perhaps it was some kind of weakness on his part. But he was facing death now, and who could blame him for wanting some human kindness at such a time as long as he did not falter? He longed to be recognized. To hear his own name one more time would have been better, the kind of recognition he really wanted, but this... this was the best he could hope for, and probably better than he deserved. He wanted desperately to be seeing what he thought he was seeing, a recognition of his humanity. At the least, it would make him feel like he had a little bit of dignity.
He wanted them to know who he was. He wished, so much, that he could tell them his name, or that they would somehow know it themselves. If he could have spoken, he knew exactly what he would have said: My human name is Astrit Zupan. My nation name is Kosovo. I don't want to be a monster. It was impossible, of course, for him to say that. Even such a meager thing as a chance to give last words was too much to ask of his fate, as was even the opportunity to be recognized in his last moments. There was nothing for it, nothing at all, but to remain still and wait to die.
My name is Astrit Zupan.
The nation who had answered to Lovi, sighted down the barrel at him. Aiming for the head, the little werewolf noticed with a strange, detached clarity. He, the Italian, must have trusted his brother. The lighter-haired brother had suggested the more merciful way to kill him (for which Astrit, insofar as he could comprehend this through the impossible terror of it all, was grateful), and now the other was carrying it out.
I am Kos--
Astrit never heard the sound of the gunshot. By the time it reached him, he had already crumpled, sprawling out on the floor, because there was no life left in him. Even his thoughts were cut off mid-word. He was no threat to the brothers now, but then he never had been in the first place.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 17, 2014 21:52:08 GMT -6
Costume: Templar Knight Weapon: Sword Flower: Yellow Mimosa Deaths: 0
| The eyes were the window’s to one’s soul--to one’s inner thoughts and desires. That was what Marco had always heard, at the very least. As he kept a tight grip on his sword, poised for attack or defense, he couldn’t help but exchange a look with the ‘victim’ here. Their eyes locked for a moment, sharing a brief connection and an unheard conversation.
“I’m sorry that you’ve become this… and that we’re doing this,” Marcello thought, searching the other’s gaze for a reply. Through the dark lupine eyes, he could see little but some sense of desperation, pain…fear? To what extent those emotions reached, Marcello didn’t completely know. He just knew he felt like a bit of a bully cornering this creature, but he knew it was necessary…or it had seemed necessary at the very least. Regardless, the unspoken thoughts in the small werewolf’s eyes drew a chill up Marcello’s spine. While he couldn’t read the lycanthrope’s thoughts nor could he entirely realize that there was indeed a spark of humanity left in him, he could still see a glimmer of life in its eyes and it made the hair on Marco’s arms stand up.
Life. It was one thing every sentient being would beg or fight tooth and nail for—the one thing of theirs they would always seek to maintain (unless of course they were suicidal or had no sense of worth, that is).
It was something so precious, yet something the other nations, and unfortunately he himself, sometimes took for granted. One might say that they had lived numerous live. It was true, was it not? Their lifetime(s) were rife with falling and rising back up to rebuild and better themselves, but humans (and perhaps this beast) only got one shot at it. And now Lovino and Marcello were taking life into their own hands and deeming this one fit to be stamped out.
As the hammer fell, the Seborgan flinched, closing his eyes and turning his head away from werewolf. He hadn’t pulled the trigger himself, but it nevertheless felt as if he had. He did, after all, suggest the killing shot. His stomach twisted into a knot as more blood began to pool around the corpse. The eyes Marcello had once been inspecting and trying to read were now clouded and lifeless—it was that notion that caused Marco to bite the inside of his cheek to stave off the pain of guilt.
"…It had to be done. It was either him, or us. You understand that, right?…It probably wanted to die anyway. If it didn't, it would have fought harder to stay alive. Don't you think. It was a mercy killing."
The Micronation timidly met his half-brother’s gaze and gave a slight nod. He bit back the urge to shout at Lovi for going and nudging it with his foot—partially because if it WAS still alive, it could have ripped the man’s leg right off. However, the whole fact that Lovi had stepped over and nudged it like one may do to a disgusting or inferior piece of garbage to get it out of the way irritated the brunette. That may not have been the intention, but it just didn’t sit well with Marco. At the very least, he offered the apathetic Southern Italian a frown of disapproval.
“Sci…”he mumbled out, still keeping his sword out as his eyes fell back on the creature. It certainly wasn’t moving anymore nor was it pleading silently with those huge eyes. “…Maybe, but--..” The hand on his shoulder silenced him for a moment. The assurance Lovi was trying to give him was relatively lost. The only thing he was assured of, really, was that he had just helped take a life—which may or may not have actually proved to be dangerous. Regardless Lovi’s next choice of words caused Marco to twist about, sheathing his sword as he stepped toward his brother with a saddened frown.
“That-a ‘creepy-as-fuck bastard’ was-a once human, Lovino—“ he inclined his head to the other without turning away from Lovi. He wasn’t about to give his older brother an explanation of the origin of werewolves; he’d hoped that Lovi knew enough about that himself to realize it wasn’t just some dumb creature that had popped out of the earth to torment them. It was being tormented itself in a way.
Marcello let it rest at that and opted to answer the other’s second inquiry. “You-a can get out of the room, sci, but we’re still trapped here. I-a checked the perimeters before I came here e…” He shook his head. “There was-a something out there too...“ Marcello didn’t voice it, but he’d honestly PREFER to stay here with the corpse than go back out into the cold and face whatever the hell it was lurking the grounds below. Hell, at least in this room, they were relatively safe for now (unless the werewolf suddenly reanimated itself, but that was highly unlikely).
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OoC: Close it up or Continue?? Also sorry for the freaking long wait--hope it's suitable orz Template by Iso
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