Who: members of camp BASE What: catchall for flower hell in and around camp When: throughout the event Where: elf camp Warnings: uhh disease, body horror, death, just cw ur individual threads fam
i. [stage one; late night or midday] i will take the light through the time / and the blades that break my soul
[He pushes it off, at first. ARUM mentioned 'organics and inorganic', but he can't find it in himself to believe it's actually going to be an issue. When you spend so many years dead, the thought of getting sick and the threat of death still doesn't register as something that's even possible, at first.
So he doesn't quite put it together why he starts feeling so dizzy when he stands, and he needs a moment to lean against a tree or a pole in the tent before he can keep going. It doesn't register to him why he feels hotter than normal, nauseousness that renders him up at odd hours again where he can be found folded up near the camp's north edge looking towards the ocean and breathing heavier than he'd like. This can't be-- this can't be happening. It shouldn't be happening.
But the real culmination is a few days later, digging fingers into his arm in a moment of nervousness that punctures in a way he forgets happens, and there's more than red blood underneath.
He presses his hand to it, roughly.]
Fucking hell.
ii. [stage two; around camp] i will take the front to the line / and bring back the night before CW: body horror
[Kravitz isn't really an admit defeat kind of guy, but this is getting excessive.
He tried to hide the blooms, at first. Where they sprouted from his bandaged left arm, near the crook of his neck, tearing through skin like he should already be the ground. But it's more difficult when they're popping up places he can't reach, across his back in speckled patterns down his shoulder blades and behind his ears where he doesn't catch them until they're too noticeable. There's no way to hide any condition, but he still doesn't really know what to do about it, other than spill his guts somehow and try to figure something out about this at the moment. But the worst part is he's starting to get utterly scared. This is happening. This is actually, truly happening to him, and more than that it's happening to Taako and he can't do a damn thing about it except for try to remove them by any means necessary.
His hands are already shaking as he's trying to reach over his shoulder, take out some of the red petals, but it's hard to reach as they're spreading underneath and he knows this. He knows every movement is harder by design, and he's starting to listen for his heartbeat to see if he can still feel it every time he tries to move. This body isn't his, per se, been given to him to survive in this place, but it feels so real. Too real.
It's so hard not to be afraid. But he's trying not to let it show.]
iii. [the 17th] breathe again, beneath the flames / i'm a man that can't be saved CW: even more body horror, eventual death
[It's difficult to breathe.
He's still not used to breathing, when he concentrates on it. It's so strange the involuntary things this body does to keep him alive; the way he can sometimes hear the rush of blood in his ears, his heartbeat in quiet nights, the rise and fall of his own chest that he watches when he can't sleep. He never had to do any of this, and it baffles him sometimes. It's been so long since he's been alive. It's been so long since he had to think about these items.
But he's back to forcing himself to do it, even though every movement of his chest feels labored and his throat feels tight.
It's as bad as it looks externally; his left arm is already overtaken, red strings of flowers trailing up him like a stalk, wrapped in his hair and around his head before travelling back down in strings like long gashes across his chest, his legs, his back. He knows he was moving at some point before, but he's lost track of it now, back against a tree and his head swimming as he just tries to remember how to keep living.
Somebody trying to pluck out their own flowers has become a painfully common sight in the last couple days. It just, it's gone so fast? Over a month they spent just reading about it, about the progression and horrors and the desperate leaps in technology those people made and like, sure, you were a fool to not kinda lowkey expect the other shoe to drop, but also? It had seemed so ancient, a long time ago. A relic.
And now it's here. Within a week, Enso has become a second plague island. It's not like the week of eternal night, the shadows attacking - there's no safe haven anywhere, no warm temple to retreat to or monsters to blast sky high. It's not even like the eerily glowing caves far beneath them, foreign and contained, a whole different world they'd been stolen to in the night. This is-- it's in their homes. It has infected and replaced normal island life. As shitty as island life usually is, she's damn well wishing them all back to it right about now.
For example, usually she'd be setting Kravitz on fire for the hell of it, and not as a genuine act of care.
Lup doesn't watch his plight for long before she comes over, reaching out to, to offer something, even just a pat on the shoulder. Has to stop when she catches sight of her own hand, frozen in an aching, claw-like shape, elegant long petals sprouting from every joint, filling the spaces between her fingers. Fuck. She's not as badly off as a lot of the others but this, her hands? It fucking sucks.
And there's the constant pressure and tickle at the back of her throat, like she's swallowed a pin cushion, but she's not gonna worry about that yet.
She pulls her hand back pointlessly, cradles it against her chest with the other one and just sits down next to him instead.
"Here, I'll-- I can get that for you." She's been burning flowers off people ever since they started growing, but at this point it's become kind of impossible to keep up with.
The fact of the matter is, he never thought it would happen to him. Logically, he knows he's alive- in fact, it's been incredibly obvious he is over these last few months as he struggles to remember even simple things like sleeping and eating. But dying? That's the apex of mortality, of course. That every living thing must die.
He hasn't thought of himself as something that could die in a very, very long time.
Lup approaches, and he lets her sit down wordless. He could say they've been getting along lately, but that wouldn't be the explanation. There's precious little that bonds people more than the threat of death. He knows this more than most. But Kravitz drops his hand, lets it fall maybe too heavy to his side, tilting his head to look at her.
"If-- if that's all right with you." He almost feels guilty to ask, but who would he be if he didn't have some fight? "I can-- I still have use of my hands, mostly. If you need me to assist, as well." His left is, obviously, still taken down, but his right arm is functional enough.
[It had been easy to predict what might happen, the moment she heard coughing from those that passed by her in the forest and the lethargic way they moved. There are many things she doesn't understand, but watching an unknown disease ravage the population isn't one. She knew from the second her own fevers started, from the nauseated way her stomach felt after the meager bits of food she'd shove down, from the way she felt exhausted and yet still couldn't sleep-
She knew she had to watch Kravitz.
Because he doesn't know what to look out for. It's one thing to read diary entries and old notes in lab. It's another to come to the realization that you're one of them. She had accepted this sort of life long ago, back when the doctors told her three pills a night might keep her alive a little longer. Back when she would wander around the decaying homes of people who died from the same illness.
This is a new lesson on what it means to be alive and she watches him. Notes the way he moves, leaning against whatever solid surface he can find, how he strays away from camp to be alone, because he wants to hide, because he's-
She doesn't want to think about it and, in an effort to Make It Better, she slowly ambles over to him with her Solgaleo plush, which she drops into his lap as soon as she gets close enough. It's not like her fingers went numb and she dropped it on accident!! No, this was totally intentional.]
You should hug this cat. It'll make your heart happy if you hold it very close.
[He's desensitized, by now, to death. There were shocks when he began this job, people who could do horrible things to children, to animals, to each other in the name of things they wanted. There was desperation, there were parents clutching corpses and begging him, tiny hands in his of souls that needed to depart more times than he cares to remember. He has to not take it personally. It's the only way he survives.
Seeing Ren like this hurts, in a way he has not felt in centuries.
He's taken by surprise when she drops this-- thing that he certainly doesn't recognize into his lap, looking at it puzzled before his eyes drift up to her.]
I... ah, thank you.
[That's just sort of the default response when Ren gives him something at this point. It's a gift, just take it. He looks down at what he thinks is it's face, studying it a moment as he speaks.]
I wouldn't want to take it from you, though. Do you have something else to hug? Or are we sharing?
His own flowers shrivelled and retreated a few days ago, just a couple of scabs on his hands and arms to show where they had been. It's all healing slowly, but naturally. Hell, if he's lucky he won't even scar.
But any sense of relief from that is obliterated by Lup's ashen skin and tight expression as she alternates between the bedside of her dying brother and the sweet little kid she's grown to love, as Magnus shoots significant, grave looks at him, and he? He just-
He's been mentally calculating how much wood they'll need. For the pyres.]
...So, the Raven Queen. Did you ever actually die, or does she uh. Employ her reapers living?
[Part of him's a little spiteful that Barry's handling this so well. Logically, it's way better that less people are going to die here- less people die, less get revived, less destruction to the natural order. But considering he chewed the man out a few months ago for handling his very existence poorly and Kravitz is absolutely a man to hold a grudge, he knows how this looks, even if he's unsure Barry's paying that kind of attention.
Of course, he at least breaks the ice with a slightly weird question, but it's something. Anything to distract from the tick he's developed of ripping off petals, even though it's basically self-flagellation at this point.]
No, I was... quite dead before I arrived here. And had been for a long time. Something about this world brought me back. Trust me, I'm not very happy about it.
[Especially with his current condition, red flowers stark against dark skin and having almost entirely claimed his left arm.]
This... shouldn't be happening. Not to anyone, of course, but especially not to me.
[ It's really hard to focus on the paper laid out in front of him, on the table. You know, the one that he built? And he's trying to work out how to best divide the future rooms, where they'll be warmer and who's going next to who, and how to work out the foundation and whether or not to--to-
He's catching himself wiping the sweat off his brow too often. He knows it's not the sun, as well as he notices the varying waves of nausea swaying from a pit in his chest and up his throat. It's keeping him out of focus, unable to do something useful to distract himself from what's happening all around camp, and, ironically, the increasingly shitty feeling in his own body.
He exhales in frustration, balling up the paper and throwing it somewhere. He pushes himself off his seat, the momentary vague feeling of unbalance hitting him for just a couple of seconds. He steps around the tent, trying to think of some new way to distract himself - until the spots the reaper, and the way he's holding his arm.]
[There's a lot of new sensations happening, here. There's a bit of panic, a lack of understanding, the way it makes his heart speed up at realization. It's pain, fresh from where his skin was sliced and the continued disconnect that brings from what is his body and what isn't. And there's the knowledge, the forcible thought, that he is infected and he is in danger and he could die, for the first time since his own natural death that he barely even remembers he could die--
He's squeezing too hard when Magnus speaks up, nails now digging into the other side in half-moon imprints, his eyes a little too wild for a moment until he reigns in control of himself.]
I-- I'm sorry, I just-- had an accident. A bit of blood.
[Does he tell him? Are they all sick is it okay what's he going to do here? Does he even trust Magnus enough with this?
It doesn't take very long for Taako to sense something is amiss. Something new, anyway-- pretty amazing that there's even room for that. Ren took off for the jungle, and it doesn't take any of the various rocket scientists at camp's disposal to figure out what that means, no matter what Lup promised. He hates it but more than anyone else he understands why, though he still hopes they find her in time that she doesn't have to be alone. She probably doesn't really want that.
It's not exactly the kind of admission that would buy him much time, but he doesn't actually want to be alone either. Kravitz has bailed too now, and unlike Ren, may not even know what he's doing, if he's as bad at dying as he is living. He doesn’t have room to find that as uncharitable and tragic as it deserves, like he hasn’t got room to be afraid of being alone. He’d blame the flowers, taking up all of everything, if he hadn’t felt this before in spades; too full of emptiness.
At least Kravitz is easy to track, even with woefully weakened sight-- bright red petals, which Taako adds to more deliberately, more profusely, with delicate pink trumpets, clever to the last.
He didn’t make it particularly far, anyway, so that's probably a pointless effort. Taako would fear the worst, but that’s a reflex that’s been worn down by all this, too; he just observes with hollow eyes, swaying on his feet. He’s going, either way, but he still wants to know. False hope is the last thing he can stand.
But he can see enough shallow movement to know this is a vigil and not a wake, and he closes the distance at a stumble, more vertigo than urgency. He feels an absurd urge to ask permission, which he refuses to indulge, propping himself up at Kravitz's side with what he is choosing to think of as stubbornness rather than fear.
He didn't even know where he was going by the time he hauled himself up, or where he fell. As Lup, Magnus and Barry were running off, he was barely cognizant of where he was or where he should be heading. But Ren is gone. Ren is gone and they're gone and he doesn't see Taako so what is he doing here? He has to move.
As much as everyone else is spending a lot of time finding a place to die alone, Kravitz is actually terrified by the prospect. Which means hearing Taako's voice is exactly what he wants, even if he can barely hear through the pain of feeling like his head is going to split open. Which... may not be so far off base, if someone were to look at him. Buds have already burst through his hairline, the ones between the rows towards the back of his head already flowering like a halo. It hurts, but also it doesn't. It hurts, but everything is canceling itself out in the haze of how much it all is.
At least Taako is here now. That's better. He reaches towards the sound, towards the feeling of him, even though he's only got one arm with any ability to do that. His breathing is ragged, and eventually he leans on Taako like a crutch, already in the process of sinking to the floor.
"'Mm not sure what... you're getting." It's hard to speak, vines in his throat and through his chest and in fucking everything, relentless. "Didn't see you. Had to. Everyone was... fuck."
He hates this, is what he's getting at here. Everyone disappeared and he hates this a Lot.
[The symptoms set in fast, spurred on by her own denial to anyone that would ask. It’s too hard to look them in the eyes and admit it, knowing full well there’s another disease lurking in her body. Confessing to being sick means admitting she’s sick and that thought makes her hands shake, only part of those tremors coming from the illness itself.
The tasks and games she would play in the woods are mostly done in the camp because moving around is making her nauseous, tired, hot-it’s too much to worry about. So she doesn’t. Instead of focusing on any of That, she spends the early days of stage one digging rocks out of the ground and finding whatever small bits of treasure she can in the multiple holes she digs around the tent.
That's all well and good, except there are points where her fingers go numb and the little treasures drop to the ground. Sometimes she can’t breathe, the world spins, and she lays on the ground to wait for it all to pass, making little cat designs in the dirt with her finger.
Anyway, she’s doing great.]
Stage 2
[False hope is painful-she learned that a long time ago. When the buttercups start sprouting from her skin, she knows it’s too late. Definitely for her, hopefully not for the rest of them. It hurts to walk, breathe, move, and there’s a point where she almost gives up on doing any of it, spending most of her time resting in the shade, huddled up with her cat jacket wrapped around her to hide the blooms on her body. She can pretend. It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s two thousand degrees and she’s hotter than she’s ever felt, but if she can’t hide herself, then she can hide the problem and that works for her.
At various points during this stage, she’s ambling around to her resting fam, holding their hand while they rest, bringing them cups of water that sometimes drop to the ground before she can reach them, so she has to go back to try again, or by simply asking, her own voice hoarse-]
I’ll find things that make you happy-I can do that for you.
To be honest it's getting to be some kind of weird urchin parkour, to not just straight up break your ankles in these holes Ren's been digging. Seems to be the newest game, and Lup can't say she minds that she's been sticking much closer to camp than usual? Ren has probably picked up on the increasing tension in the voices broadcasting on the Stones, and in the, let's be real, not super great instances of people coughing suspiciously, ever since they had to dig the newbies out of a fucking mass grave. She's just staying where it's safe, because she's a smart little survivalist goblin.
Lup's been feeling gross and hot all afternoon herself, but she'd been over on Umui in the sun and ran out of water like a dumbass, it happens.
Finding Ren just laying on the ground, though, that's-- That stops Lup in her tracks. She's usually way more energetic than this, unless it's cuddle or bed time. Maybe this is like a cuddle trap? Well, if it is, Lup's gonna fall for it hook, line and sinker, and just kind of lay her aching head down right next to hers.
[She's exactly like the cats she adores, isn't she? The first sign of personal distress and off she goes, ready to die alone. It's a comfort thing, as in- if no one knows where she is, no one will stress about her.
It doesn't really work like that, especially when her new hiding spot is behind the tent, under the bush beside a rock with a chalky cat face smiling up at passersby, but that's a child's mentality. It doesn't really work when you start being exposed to older people.]
Nya. [Says Barry, as cheerfully and convincingly as he's able. Because that's how cat rocks tell their secret treasures he's a friend.] Garfield, I'm looking for Ren- have you seen her?
[He can see her leg sticking out from under the bush, but he'd better ask the cat rock first.
Talking to rocks used to be a lot less commonplace.]
[ This sucks!! This sucks a lot. He's not supposed to be knocked out by weird magic fevers. Look at him! He's huge and strong and mostly takes great care of his body!
He's taking a break from working on the house - something he's been forcing himself to do maybe out of straight stubbornness and spite against the shitty feeling permeating his body: the heat, the shaking, the sweating. The weakness, which is not in any way, shape or form welcome. Not to him.
Sat on the ground with his arms resting over his knees, headache killing him more than the heat, he raises his head when he hears her voice, squinting at the sunlight.]
Taako was looking for symptoms the instant he knew it was a possibility, and he certainly hasn't been disappointed. His chest aches, and it's all too easy to remember relentless crystal growth. Or imagine his bones weakening like a vine choked wall, crumbling and ancient. He only catches it occasionally, but there's something familiar on his own breath, hanging nauseating and sweet in his nose and throat. Seems a little cliche, after his brush with nostalgia, but that's just where they're at. Actually it's cruel, is what it is. That's dumb too but he can't unthink it; what a shame it is, that he'll never appreciate the smell of summer again. Weirdly enough, pessimism doesn't seem to be helping.
And that's pretty much the extent of what his parboiled brain will engage with, splayed out in the hammock like Nothing Is Wrong, only belied by his fast, shallow breathing, like every animal that was ever trying and failing to play dead. It would work better if he didn't keep coughing, but at least that's still pretty sparse. He can pretend.
[stage two] OTA but mostly for Lup
As stupid as it sounds, Taako can no longer argue with the aetiology or vectors of this particular disease. Who ever heard of an emotional contagion? Those are like, two of his least favorite things, which really just seals the deal. But it's been too easy to chart in himself since that revelation, every time he turned a blind eye on the people he's closest to, ignoring coughs and tremors much more out of quiet desperation than politeness.
Taako is stubborn, though, willfully ripping off handfuls of pink trumpet blossoms even knowing how ultimately pointless it is. He can feel every delicate connection of bloom to hidden stem give way, audible, wet, too organic. It makes him want to gag as much as the overgrowth in his throat. Honeysuckle should be white or yellow, not this red-tinged pink; he'd always been convinced the red ones were poison, with childish unfounded certainty, even if they had the same sweet smell.
He just doesn't have the fortitude to rip out entire vines, is the thing; not only are the flowers the wrong color, the vines are sturdier than he remembers from way back when, too. This is the second? third? He's lost track, weaving in and out of fatigue, but coming to with his arms a tangle of flowering tendrils is becoming unremarkable. Joke's on them; he wasn't gonna reach out anyway.
She'd been fucking patient with Taako, something that doesn't come easy to her at the best of times, let alone when there's actual stakes. Like, sure, this government assigned game of Truth or Die is horseshit, it's uncool and frankly a bit degrading? And maybe it was hard to feel the urgency of it, while they weren't dealing with anything worse than coughing up some flower petals and a gross fucking rash. Of course he was gonna be stubborn about the whole thing, and she knows he wasn't gonna become an open book overnight. But he's not an idiot, she'd told herself. He doesn't want to hurt like this. He's not going to just. Just lie down and let this take him.
Turns out that's exactly what it looks like he's doing, when she finds him squirreled away in the shade somewhere for like the third time. Vibrant vines snaking up his arms to his shoulders, his neck, dotted all over with pink blossoms like bloodstains. Every time she burns them, and every time they come back stronger, faster, hungrier. What if-- if one of these times, they'll rope him to a tree or, or root him to the ground? What if he sits down somewhere with the inarguable understanding that he won't get up again--
That's not an option. There's still time, they know exactly what to do and nothing's going to take him from her again, least of all his own childish fucking pettiness.
She's pulling out orange petals like splinters from her hands when she approaches him, sharp nails digging them out of bloody wounds compulsively and angrily. Her voice is shaking when she speaks. At least she can blame the inflexible stalks of bullshit in her throat for that, instead of a wild remembered grief in the back of her mind.
It's the second, third, fourth time the thought has crossed her mind, from the moment he woke up to the second he collapsed into his hammock. He's trying to-she gets that. It's a side effect of being that way herself. He goes about his day and she says nothing. Not are you okay or does it hurt-she can see the answer in his movements and by taking cues from her own body.
He's trying to hide too and for once, she hates it. Wishes it were different, but that's not how things are. It's not how he is and she's going to let this charade continue because she knows other people may not be so willing to put up with it. She's going to help no matter how powerless she feels scraping the dirt with her fingernails, her energy drained by the sheer act of waking up after a night of tossing and turning. She can take this. He shouldn't have to. They shouldn't have to. There's nothing-
There's nothing she can do about it. Disease is indiscriminate and she can only hope his strong heart will pull him out. And she can help his success in doing that by making sure that's all he needs to concentrate on.
She pushes herself off the ground and plods over to his hammock where he's trying to sleep maybe. Too bad, because she's chosen this particular moment to make due on a promise she made last year. The only warning he gets something is about to Go Down is a quiet shut your eyes before her fingers go over his ears. There you go. It's hiding time.
There are holes in Kravitz' memory of things required to be alive- he's learned most of them back in his four months here, but there are always times for second-firsts. Like being sick. Like the way his body aches when there's no reason for it to, the temperature feeling boiling warm when there's nothing different about the day, how his mouth always feels dry. It's scaring him. It's scaring him in ways he doesn't want to say and ways he knows Taako won't want to talk about, but being near him is comforting. So he does.
It's too hot to cuddle and they're both obviously uncomfortable, but that isn't going to stop him from coming over and brushing some hair off his face, trying to ignore the way the edges of his vision blurs.
"You always make that hammock look so comfortable, you know." He isn't sure if Taako's actually awake, but even talking to himself has some benefits. Namely, Taako not ridiculing him for how gay he sounds. It'll work out somehow.
There aren't really words he can find to describe how it feels to be around camp right now.
In his usual lackadaisical demeanor, as creepy as the exploration missions were in the last few weeks, he didn't...he couldn't predict anything like this. All of this. The robots thing was kind of cool. Less so the rest. Flowers, really? That's the thing that's going to get them?
Contemplating death is a complicated, weird feeling, for so many, many reasons. His familiarity with it sometimes washes away the more negative feelings associated. But, then, he has his own personal experiences - most partially faded through the distance of years and temporarily removed memories. But there's knowing about a world beyond death, something he's become acquainted, partly by necessity, needing to know he'd see Julia again - and partly simply by chance, having taken looks into the Astral Plane and almost having become a permanent resident that one time.
But it's different, now. They aren't in their world. And if this world follows all the others they know and has its own Astral Plane, it apparently keeps it tightly under wraps. Not that wasting away into a flowery grave sounds exactly like the best way to go. It could almost be funny, how the first part of it feels like a common-ass cold. Maybe the flu. Maybe some soup and bread and comfy clothes could knock out the most of it. But, of course not.
He casts a shadow over the elf when he steps up and leans to take a closer look. He narrows his eyes and watches, not about to admit that he's just looking for signs of life. Not that Taako looks as bad as the, well, terminal cases are described to be, but, sue him.
Just because everyone's suffering from the planar system's most aesthetic flu doesn't mean they can all just drop their usual island survival tasks and call it a day. So Lup is trekking back to camp with a basket full of fish and dead trash birds, even though the hunt took way longer than usual, even though she's boiling like a lobster and she's not getting enough air and the pain in her hands and her chest has been-- it's been rough.
She knows it's not nothing, she's not a damn fool and all those scraps of information from Umui have made it perfectly clear just how fucked shit is going to get. But for now? It's nothing she can't push through. They're gonna need a lot of nice hearty stew in the coming days, until everyone's figured out what to say to get over it.
Taako's already grown his first mocking blossoms. She'd burned them off instantly.
Lup's so close to camp when she stumbles. One moment of the ground feeling like it's going to suck her in and panic flares in her chest, a million tiny roots seizing and constricting and she's helplessly gasping for air like the fish spilling all over the ground. Something's pushing up in her throat, a bitter, wet mass bursting out of her mouth like a gag, silencing her. In blind horror she reaches out but all her sore-ridden hand can grasp is the line of a windchime trap, getting ensnared in it and tearing the whole thing down with a cacophonous crash as she collapses.
It's a powerful, nameless emotion that overtakes her the moment she sees Lup being overrun by the same symptoms plaguing the rest of camp and she's terrified, more than she's ever been, because she doesn't know how to deal with her. She pushes on, refuses to let it slow her down, fights back against every attempt to shove her into the ground and-
There's nothing she can do for her. The don't go and come back and numerous other things she wants to say to her receding back dying on her lips. Instead, she's taken to watching the entrance to camp, like some kind of sad dog because it's taking longer than usual. It's been too long. For someone that strong, it's-
Loud, suddenly. Very loud. And the real terror that overtakes her at the possibility of there being an actual intruder is pushed back by the realization it could be someone that belongs here, who can't walk, who got dizzy, who-
The only part of her racing is her heart, now that she's unable to run without stumbling on her own two feet, but she makes it and-
That nameless emotion surges to life again, when she sees the strongest member of their family on the ground. She moves to her side, reaching for her hand to untangle the windchime from it and gently rub the few places that are sore free. Her voice is frantic, as she quickly whispers some reassurance to someone that may not even be awake. It might be a little for her too, anyway. "It's okay, it's okay. You can-I'll help you stand. It's okay."
There's always things to be done. Living here doesn't afford them the luxury of sitting back when they feel bad, so he has to keep going, even if he knows what's happening now. His left arm is hastily bandaged, a bit of red showing on the top where he ripped open his arm and pulled out the first petals, and the thought remains at the back of his mind that there's more, has to be more. But they can't stop. He-- he can't stop. So he pushes it down, keeps going, tries harder. He doesn't die. No one's going to die.
The quiet is broken by a crash, and Kravitz jumps despite himself, heading over quickly to find her in a heap and kneeling, hands tender on her shoulders like he's afraid what kind of condition she's in. How does-- dying for them work, here? He's in no condition to fight a lich. And with everything Taako's been going through, the last thing he needs is Kravitz carrying his dead twin in there.
Instead, he'll just flip her over, look to see if she's breathing, try to wake her up. "Lup? Can you hear me?"
So, he feels like shit. Everyone feels like shit, which is understandable. Not every day you can stare absently down at the backs of your hands and abruptly realize that, damn, that sure is a flower, growing right beneath the paper-thin layer of your skin. This is fine, said no one ever. Real awesome.
He can still get out of bed, though. For now. Which is all the more reason to get things done before the impending worst happens, his life on a time limit that he doesn't and doesn't care to know. Neaten up the camp, put all the sharper objects-- away. Higher up. Take a hike and collect a few spare first-aid kits from the temple. Ordinary things.
They all feel incredibly abnormal.
It's during one such slow (very slow. Exhausting, really) chore that the clatter occurs. And Barry's up like a shot, whatever band's been holding back the little adrenalin he has left in reserve snapping entirely. Loud footsteps can be heard before Barry first-aid kit in his hands-
"Lup?!" A useless item that drops to the ground, because every thought drops past going to her side, striken by the sight of her fallen down. And the sound, that horrible, choking wheezing of an attempted breath-
"Oh fu-shit, I got you baby, you're alright, up we go--" Hands pull her into a kneeling position, despite how her body is reflexively attempting to curl, pulling her hair away from her mouth, over her shoulder. It's a stupid waste of time but she'll appreciate it later, fixate on a small kindness after she's- "Concentrate on coughing, I got you, just cough."
And his hand comes down between her shoulder blades. He's giving this two shots before he tries shoving his fingers down her throat and- pulling it out.
The sound of the crash sends Johann jumping right onto his feet, barking loudly towards the entrance of the camp before the dog races right toward it. And Magnus, lying uncomfortably on top of his sleeping bag, is quickly pulled from his fever-fueled nap. A quiet 'what the fuck' mumbled while he listens to the dog run off, though the sound makes it clear that the animal didn't go far.
Johann, finding the help, is caught between barks and whining, walking circles around her before approaching to sniff her. The smell of the flowers, wrong and out of place, make him whimper louder as he steps back with unsure glances towards the camp.
And then Magnus, just a few seconds after, rushing out toward the path, axe in hand, staggering when he spots the downed elf. One more curse, a "Shit!" for good measure and he runs, now faster, dropping to his knees and dropping the axe by her side, checking on his friend.
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kravitz | ota, will match format | it's all body horror from here on out folks
[He pushes it off, at first. ARUM mentioned 'organics and inorganic', but he can't find it in himself to believe it's actually going to be an issue. When you spend so many years dead, the thought of getting sick and the threat of death still doesn't register as something that's even possible, at first.
So he doesn't quite put it together why he starts feeling so dizzy when he stands, and he needs a moment to lean against a tree or a pole in the tent before he can keep going. It doesn't register to him why he feels hotter than normal, nauseousness that renders him up at odd hours again where he can be found folded up near the camp's north edge looking towards the ocean and breathing heavier than he'd like. This can't be-- this can't be happening. It shouldn't be happening.
But the real culmination is a few days later, digging fingers into his arm in a moment of nervousness that punctures in a way he forgets happens, and there's more than red blood underneath.
He presses his hand to it, roughly.]
Fucking hell.
ii. [stage two; around camp] i will take the front to the line / and bring back the night before CW: body horror
[Kravitz isn't really an admit defeat kind of guy, but this is getting excessive.
He tried to hide the blooms, at first. Where they sprouted from his bandaged left arm, near the crook of his neck, tearing through skin like he should already be the ground. But it's more difficult when they're popping up places he can't reach, across his back in speckled patterns down his shoulder blades and behind his ears where he doesn't catch them until they're too noticeable. There's no way to hide any condition, but he still doesn't really know what to do about it, other than spill his guts somehow and try to figure something out about this at the moment. But the worst part is he's starting to get utterly scared. This is happening. This is actually, truly happening to him, and more than that it's happening to Taako and he can't do a damn thing about it except for try to remove them by any means necessary.
His hands are already shaking as he's trying to reach over his shoulder, take out some of the red petals, but it's hard to reach as they're spreading underneath and he knows this. He knows every movement is harder by design, and he's starting to listen for his heartbeat to see if he can still feel it every time he tries to move. This body isn't his, per se, been given to him to survive in this place, but it feels so real. Too real.
It's so hard not to be afraid. But he's trying not to let it show.]
iii. [the 17th] breathe again, beneath the flames / i'm a man that can't be saved CW: even more body horror, eventual death
[It's difficult to breathe.
He's still not used to breathing, when he concentrates on it. It's so strange the involuntary things this body does to keep him alive; the way he can sometimes hear the rush of blood in his ears, his heartbeat in quiet nights, the rise and fall of his own chest that he watches when he can't sleep. He never had to do any of this, and it baffles him sometimes. It's been so long since he's been alive. It's been so long since he had to think about these items.
But he's back to forcing himself to do it, even though every movement of his chest feels labored and his throat feels tight.
It's as bad as it looks externally; his left arm is already overtaken, red strings of flowers trailing up him like a stalk, wrapped in his hair and around his head before travelling back down in strings like long gashes across his chest, his legs, his back. He knows he was moving at some point before, but he's lost track of it now, back against a tree and his head swimming as he just tries to remember how to keep living.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It's not enough. And it won't be.]
ii here we go
And now it's here. Within a week, Enso has become a second plague island. It's not like the week of eternal night, the shadows attacking - there's no safe haven anywhere, no warm temple to retreat to or monsters to blast sky high. It's not even like the eerily glowing caves far beneath them, foreign and contained, a whole different world they'd been stolen to in the night. This is-- it's in their homes. It has infected and replaced normal island life. As shitty as island life usually is, she's damn well wishing them all back to it right about now.
For example, usually she'd be setting Kravitz on fire for the hell of it, and not as a genuine act of care.
Lup doesn't watch his plight for long before she comes over, reaching out to, to offer something, even just a pat on the shoulder. Has to stop when she catches sight of her own hand, frozen in an aching, claw-like shape, elegant long petals sprouting from every joint, filling the spaces between her fingers. Fuck. She's not as badly off as a lot of the others but this, her hands? It fucking sucks.
And there's the constant pressure and tickle at the back of her throat, like she's swallowed a pin cushion, but she's not gonna worry about that yet.
She pulls her hand back pointlessly, cradles it against her chest with the other one and just sits down next to him instead.
"Here, I'll-- I can get that for you." She's been burning flowers off people ever since they started growing, but at this point it's become kind of impossible to keep up with.
Doesn't mean she's gonna stop, though.
Y E S
He hasn't thought of himself as something that could die in a very, very long time.
Lup approaches, and he lets her sit down wordless. He could say they've been getting along lately, but that wouldn't be the explanation. There's precious little that bonds people more than the threat of death. He knows this more than most. But Kravitz drops his hand, lets it fall maybe too heavy to his side, tilting his head to look at her.
"If-- if that's all right with you." He almost feels guilty to ask, but who would he be if he didn't have some fight? "I can-- I still have use of my hands, mostly. If you need me to assist, as well." His left is, obviously, still taken down, but his right arm is functional enough.
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cw kind of graphic injuries?? what a mess
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i
She knew she had to watch Kravitz.
Because he doesn't know what to look out for. It's one thing to read diary entries and old notes in lab. It's another to come to the realization that you're one of them. She had accepted this sort of life long ago, back when the doctors told her three pills a night might keep her alive a little longer. Back when she would wander around the decaying homes of people who died from the same illness.
This is a new lesson on what it means to be alive and she watches him. Notes the way he moves, leaning against whatever solid surface he can find, how he strays away from camp to be alone, because he wants to hide, because he's-
She doesn't want to think about it and, in an effort to Make It Better, she slowly ambles over to him with her Solgaleo plush, which she drops into his lap as soon as she gets close enough. It's not like her fingers went numb and she dropped it on accident!! No, this was totally intentional.]
You should hug this cat. It'll make your heart happy if you hold it very close.
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Seeing Ren like this hurts, in a way he has not felt in centuries.
He's taken by surprise when she drops this-- thing that he certainly doesn't recognize into his lap, looking at it puzzled before his eyes drift up to her.]
I... ah, thank you.
[That's just sort of the default response when Ren gives him something at this point. It's a gift, just take it. He looks down at what he thinks is it's face, studying it a moment as he speaks.]
I wouldn't want to take it from you, though. Do you have something else to hug? Or are we sharing?
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watch this bitch charging in at the speed of slow
His own flowers shrivelled and retreated a few days ago, just a couple of scabs on his hands and arms to show where they had been. It's all healing slowly, but naturally. Hell, if he's lucky he won't even scar.
But any sense of relief from that is obliterated by Lup's ashen skin and tight expression as she alternates between the bedside of her dying brother and the sweet little kid she's grown to love, as Magnus shoots significant, grave looks at him, and he? He just-
He's been mentally calculating how much wood they'll need. For the pyres.]
...So, the Raven Queen. Did you ever actually die, or does she uh. Employ her reapers living?
[He's trying, okay.]
bb ur never too slow for me u3u
Of course, he at least breaks the ice with a slightly weird question, but it's something. Anything to distract from the tick he's developed of ripping off petals, even though it's basically self-flagellation at this point.]
No, I was... quite dead before I arrived here. And had been for a long time. Something about this world brought me back. Trust me, I'm not very happy about it.
[Especially with his current condition, red flowers stark against dark skin and having almost entirely claimed his left arm.]
This... shouldn't be happening. Not to anyone, of course, but especially not to me.
oh... u////u
<3 <3 <3
i.
He's catching himself wiping the sweat off his brow too often. He knows it's not the sun, as well as he notices the varying waves of nausea swaying from a pit in his chest and up his throat. It's keeping him out of focus, unable to do something useful to distract himself from what's happening all around camp, and, ironically, the increasingly shitty feeling in his own body.
He exhales in frustration, balling up the paper and throwing it somewhere. He pushes himself off his seat, the momentary vague feeling of unbalance hitting him for just a couple of seconds. He steps around the tent, trying to think of some new way to distract himself - until the spots the reaper, and the way he's holding his arm.]
Yo, Krav. You good?
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He's squeezing too hard when Magnus speaks up, nails now digging into the other side in half-moon imprints, his eyes a little too wild for a moment until he reigns in control of himself.]
I-- I'm sorry, I just-- had an accident. A bit of blood.
[Does he tell him? Are they all sick is it okay what's he going to do here? Does he even trust Magnus enough with this?
Oh, he did not want to deal with this.]
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iii guess i'll die
It's not exactly the kind of admission that would buy him much time, but he doesn't actually want to be alone either. Kravitz has bailed too now, and unlike Ren, may not even know what he's doing, if he's as bad at dying as he is living. He doesn’t have room to find that as uncharitable and tragic as it deserves, like he hasn’t got room to be afraid of being alone. He’d blame the flowers, taking up all of everything, if he hadn’t felt this before in spades; too full of emptiness.
At least Kravitz is easy to track, even with woefully weakened sight-- bright red petals, which Taako adds to more deliberately, more profusely, with delicate pink trumpets, clever to the last.
He didn’t make it particularly far, anyway, so that's probably a pointless effort. Taako would fear the worst, but that’s a reflex that’s been worn down by all this, too; he just observes with hollow eyes, swaying on his feet. He’s going, either way, but he still wants to know. False hope is the last thing he can stand.
But he can see enough shallow movement to know this is a vigil and not a wake, and he closes the distance at a stumble, more vertigo than urgency. He feels an absurd urge to ask permission, which he refuses to indulge, propping himself up at Kravitz's side with what he is choosing to think of as stubbornness rather than fear.
"I get it."
isnt that my line
As much as everyone else is spending a lot of time finding a place to die alone, Kravitz is actually terrified by the prospect. Which means hearing Taako's voice is exactly what he wants, even if he can barely hear through the pain of feeling like his head is going to split open. Which... may not be so far off base, if someone were to look at him. Buds have already burst through his hairline, the ones between the rows towards the back of his head already flowering like a halo. It hurts, but also it doesn't. It hurts, but everything is canceling itself out in the haze of how much it all is.
At least Taako is here now. That's better. He reaches towards the sound, towards the feeling of him, even though he's only got one arm with any ability to do that. His breathing is ragged, and eventually he leans on Taako like a crutch, already in the process of sinking to the floor.
"'Mm not sure what... you're getting." It's hard to speak, vines in his throat and through his chest and in fucking everything, relentless. "Didn't see you. Had to. Everyone was... fuck."
He hates this, is what he's getting at here. Everyone disappeared and he hates this a Lot.
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[The symptoms set in fast, spurred on by her own denial to anyone that would ask. It’s too hard to look them in the eyes and admit it, knowing full well there’s another disease lurking in her body. Confessing to being sick means admitting she’s sick and that thought makes her hands shake, only part of those tremors coming from the illness itself.
The tasks and games she would play in the woods are mostly done in the camp because moving around is making her nauseous, tired, hot-it’s too much to worry about. So she doesn’t. Instead of focusing on any of That, she spends the early days of stage one digging rocks out of the ground and finding whatever small bits of treasure she can in the multiple holes she digs around the tent.
That's all well and good, except there are points where her fingers go numb and the little treasures drop to the ground. Sometimes she can’t breathe, the world spins, and she lays on the ground to wait for it all to pass, making little cat designs in the dirt with her finger.
Anyway, she’s doing great.]
Stage 2
[False hope is painful-she learned that a long time ago. When the buttercups start sprouting from her skin, she knows it’s too late. Definitely for her, hopefully not for the rest of them. It hurts to walk, breathe, move, and there’s a point where she almost gives up on doing any of it, spending most of her time resting in the shade, huddled up with her cat jacket wrapped around her to hide the blooms on her body. She can pretend. It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s two thousand degrees and she’s hotter than she’s ever felt, but if she can’t hide herself, then she can hide the problem and that works for her.
At various points during this stage, she’s ambling around to her resting fam, holding their hand while they rest, bringing them cups of water that sometimes drop to the ground before she can reach them, so she has to go back to try again, or by simply asking, her own voice hoarse-]
I’ll find things that make you happy-I can do that for you.
Stage 1
Lup's been feeling gross and hot all afternoon herself, but she'd been over on Umui in the sun and ran out of water like a dumbass, it happens.
Finding Ren just laying on the ground, though, that's-- That stops Lup in her tracks. She's usually way more energetic than this, unless it's cuddle or bed time. Maybe this is like a cuddle trap? Well, if it is, Lup's gonna fall for it hook, line and sinker, and just kind of lay her aching head down right next to hers.
"Whatcha doing down here, pumpkin?"
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stage 1
It doesn't really work like that, especially when her new hiding spot is behind the tent, under the bush beside a rock with a chalky cat face smiling up at passersby, but that's a child's mentality. It doesn't really work when you start being exposed to older people.]
Nya. [Says Barry, as cheerfully and convincingly as he's able. Because that's how cat rocks tell their secret treasures he's a friend.] Garfield, I'm looking for Ren- have you seen her?
[He can see her leg sticking out from under the bush, but he'd better ask the cat rock first.
Talking to rocks used to be a lot less commonplace.]
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2
mostlytakes great care of his body!He's taking a break from working on the house - something he's been forcing himself to do maybe out of straight stubbornness and spite against the shitty feeling permeating his body: the heat, the shaking, the sweating. The weakness, which is not in any way, shape or form welcome. Not to him.
Sat on the ground with his arms resting over his knees, headache killing him more than the heat, he raises his head when he hears her voice, squinting at the sunlight.]
Oh--hey, Ren.
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BODY HORROR! DO NOT EAT!
Taako was looking for symptoms the instant he knew it was a possibility, and he certainly hasn't been disappointed. His chest aches, and it's all too easy to remember relentless crystal growth. Or imagine his bones weakening like a vine choked wall, crumbling and ancient. He only catches it occasionally, but there's something familiar on his own breath, hanging nauseating and sweet in his nose and throat. Seems a little cliche, after his brush with nostalgia, but that's just where they're at. Actually it's cruel, is what it is. That's dumb too but he can't unthink it; what a shame it is, that he'll never appreciate the smell of summer again. Weirdly enough, pessimism doesn't seem to be helping.
And that's pretty much the extent of what his parboiled brain will engage with, splayed out in the hammock like Nothing Is Wrong, only belied by his fast, shallow breathing, like every animal that was ever trying and failing to play dead. It would work better if he didn't keep coughing, but at least that's still pretty sparse. He can pretend.
[stage two] OTA but mostly for Lup
As stupid as it sounds, Taako can no longer argue with the aetiology or vectors of this particular disease. Who ever heard of an emotional contagion? Those are like, two of his least favorite things, which really just seals the deal. But it's been too easy to chart in himself since that revelation, every time he turned a blind eye on the people he's closest to, ignoring coughs and tremors much more out of quiet desperation than politeness.
Taako is stubborn, though, willfully ripping off handfuls of pink trumpet blossoms even knowing how ultimately pointless it is. He can feel every delicate connection of bloom to hidden stem give way, audible, wet, too organic. It makes him want to gag as much as the overgrowth in his throat. Honeysuckle should be white or yellow, not this red-tinged pink; he'd always been convinced the red ones were poison, with childish unfounded certainty, even if they had the same sweet smell.
He just doesn't have the fortitude to rip out entire vines, is the thing; not only are the flowers the wrong color, the vines are sturdier than he remembers from way back when, too. This is the second? third? He's lost track, weaving in and out of fatigue, but coming to with his arms a tangle of flowering tendrils is becoming unremarkable. Joke's on them; he wasn't gonna reach out anyway.
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Turns out that's exactly what it looks like he's doing, when she finds him squirreled away in the shade somewhere for like the third time. Vibrant vines snaking up his arms to his shoulders, his neck, dotted all over with pink blossoms like bloodstains. Every time she burns them, and every time they come back stronger, faster, hungrier. What if-- if one of these times, they'll rope him to a tree or, or root him to the ground? What if he sits down somewhere with the inarguable understanding that he won't get up again--
That's not an option. There's still time, they know exactly what to do and nothing's going to take him from her again, least of all his own childish fucking pettiness.
She's pulling out orange petals like splinters from her hands when she approaches him, sharp nails digging them out of bloody wounds compulsively and angrily. Her voice is shaking when she speaks. At least she can blame the inflexible stalks of bullshit in her throat for that, instead of a wild remembered grief in the back of her mind.
"Wake up, dingus."
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one
It's the second, third, fourth time the thought has crossed her mind, from the moment he woke up to the second he collapsed into his hammock. He's trying to-she gets that. It's a side effect of being that way herself. He goes about his day and she says nothing. Not are you okay or does it hurt-she can see the answer in his movements and by taking cues from her own body.
He's trying to hide too and for once, she hates it. Wishes it were different, but that's not how things are. It's not how he is and she's going to let this charade continue because she knows other people may not be so willing to put up with it. She's going to help no matter how powerless she feels scraping the dirt with her fingernails, her energy drained by the sheer act of waking up after a night of tossing and turning. She can take this. He shouldn't have to. They shouldn't have to. There's nothing-
There's nothing she can do about it. Disease is indiscriminate and she can only hope his strong heart will pull him out. And she can help his success in doing that by making sure that's all he needs to concentrate on.
She pushes herself off the ground and plods over to his hammock where he's trying to sleep maybe. Too bad, because she's chosen this particular moment to make due on a promise she made last year. The only warning he gets something is about to Go Down is a quiet shut your eyes before her fingers go over his ears. There you go. It's hiding time.
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one :^)
There are holes in Kravitz' memory of things required to be alive- he's learned most of them back in his four months here, but there are always times for second-firsts. Like being sick. Like the way his body aches when there's no reason for it to, the temperature feeling boiling warm when there's nothing different about the day, how his mouth always feels dry. It's scaring him. It's scaring him in ways he doesn't want to say and ways he knows Taako won't want to talk about, but being near him is comforting. So he does.
It's too hot to cuddle and they're both obviously uncomfortable, but that isn't going to stop him from coming over and brushing some hair off his face, trying to ignore the way the edges of his vision blurs.
"You always make that hammock look so comfortable, you know." He isn't sure if Taako's actually awake, but even talking to himself has some benefits. Namely, Taako not ridiculing him for how gay he sounds. It'll work out somehow.
>:^(
>:^)
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one
In his usual lackadaisical demeanor, as creepy as the exploration missions were in the last few weeks, he didn't...he couldn't predict anything like this. All of this. The robots thing was kind of cool. Less so the rest. Flowers, really? That's the thing that's going to get them?
Contemplating death is a complicated, weird feeling, for so many, many reasons. His familiarity with it sometimes washes away the more negative feelings associated. But, then, he has his own personal experiences - most partially faded through the distance of years and temporarily removed memories. But there's knowing about a world beyond death, something he's become acquainted, partly by necessity, needing to know he'd see Julia again - and partly simply by chance, having taken looks into the Astral Plane and almost having become a permanent resident that one time.
But it's different, now. They aren't in their world. And if this world follows all the others they know and has its own Astral Plane, it apparently keeps it tightly under wraps. Not that wasting away into a flowery grave sounds exactly like the best way to go. It could almost be funny, how the first part of it feels like a common-ass cold. Maybe the flu. Maybe some soup and bread and comfy clothes could knock out the most of it. But, of course not.
He casts a shadow over the elf when he steps up and leans to take a closer look. He narrows his eyes and watches, not about to admit that he's just looking for signs of life. Not that Taako looks as bad as the, well, terminal cases are described to be, but, sue him.
emetodingdong, body horror hoobajoob
Just because everyone's suffering from the planar system's most aesthetic flu doesn't mean they can all just drop their usual island survival tasks and call it a day. So Lup is trekking back to camp with a basket full of fish and dead trash birds, even though the hunt took way longer than usual, even though she's boiling like a lobster and she's not getting enough air and the pain in her hands and her chest has been-- it's been rough.
She knows it's not nothing, she's not a damn fool and all those scraps of information from Umui have made it perfectly clear just how fucked shit is going to get. But for now? It's nothing she can't push through. They're gonna need a lot of nice hearty stew in the coming days, until everyone's figured out what to say to get over it.
Taako's already grown his first mocking blossoms. She'd burned them off instantly.
Lup's so close to camp when she stumbles. One moment of the ground feeling like it's going to suck her in and panic flares in her chest, a million tiny roots seizing and constricting and she's helplessly gasping for air like the fish spilling all over the ground. Something's pushing up in her throat, a bitter, wet mass bursting out of her mouth like a gag, silencing her. In blind horror she reaches out but all her sore-ridden hand can grasp is the line of a windchime trap, getting ensnared in it and tearing the whole thing down with a cacophonous crash as she collapses.
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There's nothing she can do for her. The don't go and come back and numerous other things she wants to say to her receding back dying on her lips. Instead, she's taken to watching the entrance to camp, like some kind of sad dog because it's taking longer than usual. It's been too long. For someone that strong, it's-
Loud, suddenly. Very loud. And the real terror that overtakes her at the possibility of there being an actual intruder is pushed back by the realization it could be someone that belongs here, who can't walk, who got dizzy, who-
The only part of her racing is her heart, now that she's unable to run without stumbling on her own two feet, but she makes it and-
That nameless emotion surges to life again, when she sees the strongest member of their family on the ground. She moves to her side, reaching for her hand to untangle the windchime from it and gently rub the few places that are sore free. Her voice is frantic, as she quickly whispers some reassurance to someone that may not even be awake. It might be a little for her too, anyway. "It's okay, it's okay. You can-I'll help you stand. It's okay."
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/o/ \o\
The quiet is broken by a crash, and Kravitz jumps despite himself, heading over quickly to find her in a heap and kneeling, hands tender on her shoulders like he's afraid what kind of condition she's in. How does-- dying for them work, here? He's in no condition to fight a lich. And with everything Taako's been going through, the last thing he needs is Kravitz carrying his dead twin in there.
Instead, he'll just flip her over, look to see if she's breathing, try to wake her up. "Lup? Can you hear me?"
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He can still get out of bed, though. For now. Which is all the more reason to get things done before the impending worst happens, his life on a time limit that he doesn't and doesn't care to know. Neaten up the camp, put all the sharper objects-- away. Higher up. Take a hike and collect a few spare first-aid kits from the temple. Ordinary things.
They all feel incredibly abnormal.
It's during one such slow (very slow. Exhausting, really) chore that the clatter occurs. And Barry's up like a shot, whatever band's been holding back the little adrenalin he has left in reserve snapping entirely. Loud footsteps can be heard before Barry first-aid kit in his hands-
"Lup?!" A useless item that drops to the ground, because every thought drops past going to her side, striken by the sight of her fallen down. And the sound, that horrible, choking wheezing of an attempted breath-
"Oh fu-shit, I got you baby, you're alright, up we go--" Hands pull her into a kneeling position, despite how her body is reflexively attempting to curl, pulling her hair away from her mouth, over her shoulder. It's a stupid waste of time but she'll appreciate it later, fixate on a small kindness after she's- "Concentrate on coughing, I got you, just cough."
And his hand comes down between her shoulder blades. He's giving this two shots before he tries shoving his fingers down her throat and- pulling it out.
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thought the phrasing was butterflies in your stomach
Johann, finding the help, is caught between barks and whining, walking circles around her before approaching to sniff her. The smell of the flowers, wrong and out of place, make him whimper louder as he steps back with unsure glances towards the camp.
And then Magnus, just a few seconds after, rushing out toward the path, axe in hand, staggering when he spots the downed elf. One more curse, a "Shit!" for good measure and he runs, now faster, dropping to his knees and dropping the axe by her side, checking on his friend.
"Lup?"
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