lifeaftr | I’ll take my throne, lay it on a mountain

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I’ll take my throne, lay it on a mountain

Who: Our volunteer mountaineers
What: Two parties split up to scale the mountain from two sides, planning to meet at it’s peak. Shenanigans occur along the way.
When: September 13th to 16th
Where: Group 1: G3, H2, G2 || Group 2: F3, F2, G2
Warnings: Please note any warnings in your subject headers!

Word spreads quickly in a small community such as this. What was originally intended to be a small party turned into something much larger- and on the day Chara planned to leave for the mountain, it’s not one, but two parties that make off for it’s peak.

Group 1, led by Chara, moves off during the early hours of the morning, seeking to search the furthest part of the mountain by following the river upwards. The path is longer and more winding- however, they are unhampered in when they can travel.

Group 2, led by Ardyn, takes off after the sun has set- due to the needs of multiple members to avoid the sun’s harsh glare. Their route takes them up the closest side of the mountain, which provides an easier path- however, they may only travel whilst the sun is set.

OOC: Welcome to the mountaineering open post! Keep in mind the following;

♆ RNG was happily done blind by our wonderful Guzma mun, with our animals RNG'd by Wade Wilson's! Thank them both for all your misfortune.

♆ Prompts have been provided for each group below! Simply toplevel wherever you wish and treat this like a normal open post!

♆ Since each group will generally be in close contact with one another, consider asking others if you can threadjack here and there; nothing says team-building like being a nosy parker.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

They did not anticipate his willingness to strike out at the thing. It seems, now, that their question as to whether Newt could truly defend himself or not was poorly founded, because the pterax folds over easily once the knife buries itself into its feathered breast.

The Drifter drags the corpse back, picking around the feathers to tear the knife free where they can offer it out to Newt, handle first.

...only he does not look precisely as though he is in the position to accept it. His chest is heaving, his pallor waxy in the way that one would look when an illness weighs heavily atop their shoulders.

?

Yeah, Newt doesn't look great. He's sweating pretty profusely, which might not be too much of an indicator because it's hot out, but when it's accompanied by the panted breaths he's taking and the way his chest feels tight, something is definitely wrong. The way his brain keeps wanting to bring up the glint of light off that sharp, clean surgical saw is really not helping and Newt swallows hard, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment, his fingers trembling as he tries to banish the phantom feeling of his own jaw falling into his lap. Of Kite's wide eyed insanity; of his fingers pushing into the ruin of Newt's face--

--yeah, nope, there go his knees right out from under him without any warning at all, and Newt jerks with a gasp as he drops, hands falling to his sides as he crumples, the greenery swimming around him as he leans back unsteadily against the rock, his breath a strangled, desperate sound through his throat, and Newt's hands are pressing to his face, feeling the curve of his own jaw because it's there, it's there, it's not real, Kite's dead, he's not here, he's fine, he's fine, he's fine--

He's definitely not all right.

Afflictions of the psychological nature somewhat escape them, but the physical signs of distress are easy enough to determine. He drops against the rock, hands running over the contours of his own face.

The Drifter lets the corpse fall where it is and flips the knife back away, tucking it in the folds of their cloak for the time being. The sight of the blade made slick and shiny with pterax blood, they should think, will not help for the time being.

They will not pretend to be better at easing this than others might be. The Drifter's hands hover uncertainly before they move forward to place one gently against his shoulder, tightening their grip in what they hope will be a sufficiently reassuring manner.

Perhaps at any other time with another person, the Drifter's gesture would've absolutely been taken as comfort. Hell, at any other time with Newt himself the gesture would've been taken as comfort. At this specific moment, though, with this specific issue rearing its ugly head, the pressure does nothing but bring Newt back to that perfectly white room and the pressure of the restraints that held him strapped to a chair, unable to run or defend himself when Newt finally provoked Kite into losing the tenuous hold he had on sanity and took a surgical saw to Newt's face.

At the pressure on his shoulder, Newt jerks away, making a choked distressed noise as his hands flail, warding off the touch, head jolting up to stare at them with abject terror. "Don't--!" The sound is more a wheeze than a word, and he's shaking pretty badly as he stares at the Drifter. Their face swims a bit before him, and Newt feels dizzy and sick and it's not Kite, it's just them, Kite is dead, it's just them, Newt's alive, he's alive and Kite is dead and it's just his friend that's near him, it's not Kite--and Newt sucks in another breath, rattling and whistling still, but trying to make this one slower. "Just--one sec, just--" He can't articulate and he feels like he can't breathe but he's not dead. He's alive and Kite is dead and Newt dissected his heart just to prove it to himself Kite is dead.

One hand keeps up, shaking, to ward off any help as the other clutches at the rock, trying to ground himself, to slow his breathing. He needs to get himself under control. Breathe. He needs to focus on that. He starts making an attempt, though it feels like breathing is already impossible, but just...slower. Slow it down. Counting. Kite is dead.

Newt is alive.

Kite is dead.

He just needs to tell himself that twenty more times and maybe he can calm down.

Edited 2017-10-01 19:22 (UTC)

Wrong choice.

Newt flinches away powerfully enough to leave a pang in their chest - quickly smoothed over, as they take a silent, internal moment to scold themself for believing that he would welcome such a thing, from a creature such as they. Even if he does not have the same sorts of standards that anyone from Central did, he is still quite obviously far from a moment where he can feel as though he might welcome this manner of touch.

There's nothing else they can do. When a demon arises in the center of your head, all you can do is fight it off on your own. There is no saving anyone from the hallucinations that plague their own minds.

The Drifter kneels slowly.

Their HUD flickers up once more.

1

The number ticks away. A beat or so passes before another takes its place.

2

Again, it fades. Again, another takes its place.

3

Slow, metronomic, and regular, the Drifter begins to count.

Newt jolts a bit as the Drifter kneels in front of them, and he blinks, breath still coming way too fast as numbers start to flash across their HUD slowly, ticking upwards. It's easier to focus on than anything else, and Newt struggles to match his breathing to the slow regularity of the numbers. It feels like a brick sitting on his chest, and he wants to gasp and claw at it as if that would lessen the weight he feels--but the slow, steady count in front of his eyes provides much needed focus, and Newt does his best to zero in on it, at first just trying to match his breathing, but then starting to count along with them under his breath--in, out, in, out, slow and regular. It's thirty seconds--a minute--honestly Newt doesn't know how long before he starts to feel that tightness in his chest loosen, his counting slowly becoming more regular and less strained and wheezing. By eighty, the world has mostly stopped swimming. By 90, he feels a lot less like he's going to be sick. By 110, his breathing is regular, and Newt slumps back against the stone, feeling absolutely exhausted and drained, like he's just run a marathon.

Finally, feeling the tension in his shoulders and his fingers and his legs start to ease, he moves his attention from the HUD to the Drifter's face. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "U-um--" His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "...I'm...I'm good now."

...that might be a bit of an overestimation, but he is, at least, better.

It takes time. They are not necessarily the most patient of people, but...with the way things have gone here, and the people they have known, patience has come to be a skill that they must assimilate into their mindset. They reach the low hundreds before Newt starts to speak once more.

I'm good now is an inaccuracy, but they will not contest it. He would know better than they.

ok?

...that's a loaded question. "Ok" is entirely relative, and hardly anyone is really okay here--so the question makes him laugh once, mostly just a high-pitched giggle, edging a little bit thin. "Yeah. I'm okay." Yep, okay, slowly going to try to push to his feet now, with legs that are still like jello. "Nothing like a panic attack mid-day to get you going, right?" The corner of his mouth quirks slightly--look, he's hilarious! Or, at least, he's trying.

He is not precisely okay, but he is reasonably functional, and that is the most they can ask for. They make that mental note for later times, though it's difficult to say for certain what may have sparked this. In some cases, it is nothing at all. That is how it is, with the moments where their illness had grown impossible to bear.

That is simply how it is.

what happened

Newt can't help but wince at the question. "Um, I just, kinda, uh...apparently had a really bad flashback to the last time something sharp came at my face and uhhhhh kind a had a panic attack?" Er. "Nothing major! It happens! Not often, though, this doesn't happen often, really--"

Yep, he's just gonna start to push to his feet but wow his legs are still getting on board, here, so he's reaching out a hand even as his other braces against the wall, expecting the Drifter to help him.

Help him they do, quite readily. He is plainly in a position where he needs it. They are not terribly sturdy, but they nonetheless do their best to keep their support, gently guiding him upright as best as they can. And cautious. So very, very cautious, in case he should flinch away from the contact again.

will be ok?

Will be. Because he clearly isn't now.

He does lean on them a little bit as they help him to stand, but definitely not flinching away this time. But he blinks at the question, before the corner of his mouth quirks, tiredly.

"Yeah, dude, I'll be fine. I've had a hell of a lot worse." But he is forcing himself to straighten and to get himself fully on his own feet, because even though he feels bone tired now, they probably only have limited time before shit goes down again, knowing these sorts of places. "Let's uh...let's take a look at that nest, yeah?"

Privately, they are not so certain that he is being wholly truthful when he says that he'll be okay. It is plain that he very much isn't. But the Drifter is no stranger to fronting when the situation demands it. They cannot afford to be not all right, and so they elect to be.

Perhaps Newt is the same way.

ok

But instead of trotting ahead as is typical for them, they remain at his side in case he requires further support.

Right. Okay. One foot in front of the other, Newt. His fingers feel a little twitchy, but he forces himself to shove his butterfly knife back into the pocket of his coat--he doesn't want to accidentally stab them, after all. But it's barely a couple feet to the nest, fortunately, so not too far of a walk, and once there, Newt's leaning in to get a better look.

"Um...okay, so it looks like we've got...four? Four eggs." He chews on his lip a bit. "Now I just gotta think of the best way to transport them."

The Drifter blinks, once, and then turns to start digging into the contents of their knapsack. They unravel a bolt of cloth - a bit worn, but plainly unused as far as the Drifter is concerned.

make a sling

...for the eggs, though they'd assumed that would be obvious.

The movement is the first to catch his attention, but it's the bolt of cloth that's presented that has his expression brightening. "Dude! That's perfect!" He'll happily reach out to accept it. "It'll work as a great insulator too, so they can keep warm a lot easier. Thanks!" He's outright beaming at them, like they've given him the best present in the world.

That in and of itself seems to have contributed to a marked improvement to his general demeanor, something of which they can be proud in a loose sense. There's the U-shape of their fingers, denoting a pleased smile, before they settle about carefully nestling one of the eggs into the crook of cloth, tying it around and underneath.

It's not as if they're using it for much, after all.

It has definitely caused a sincere uptick in Newt's mood, so he's going to help the Drifter wrap these eggs up, babbling instructions that they probably already know and being sincerely very careful about all this.

"Man, I know we've got a good chunk of the trip left, but I hope these survive."

The heat should not be a problem. It should keep the eggs warm enough for the time being, as well, which bodes nicely for the hope of cooking them. Or, if that is Newt's own proclivity - hatching them?

They do so question the wisdom of that.

will be very warm
bodes well

It's ok, Drifter, most people question the wisdom of Newt's ideas. "True! I just gotta hope we don't run into anything too dangerous so I can carry these extra carefully." He chews on his bottom lip, considering this. "I mean, don't get me wrong, worst come to worst I'll drop them, but I'd definitely rather not, y'know?"

can hard boil them now

It would probably make storage less dangerous in the long-run. They do not think about the implications of it - the egg-breakers of the North who only barely avoided the genocide of a harmless and peaceable people because one of them had enough foresight to smuggle the straggled collection of eggs away, to save the hatchlings the fate of their unborn fellows.

The birds of the North had been sentient. They had thought, and bled, and loved. They were not mere animals.

The difference between those and the pterax here and now is - staggering.

Newt pauses, briefly, arching an eyebrow at them. "Dude, if I hard boil them, they're not going to hatch." Obvs.

hard boil some of them

They didn't say all of them. Did he see them say all?

The glance he sends down at the eggs is contemplative.

"...half of them. I'll hardboil half of them. Two for eating, two for potential hatching." He glances back up at the Drifter, gauging their reaction.

Perhaps not what they would have chosen, but then - this is his idea and his project. And regardless, they doubtless owe him for generating that moment of pure panic, the moment from which he is doubtless still recovering, no matter how well he drapes it over with his more characteristic contrarian, rapidfire speech.

fair division

I’ll take my throne, lay it on a mountain

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tw: facial gore whoops

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