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Collapse // for Yona
Aug. 18th, 2019 07:28 pmHe's tired, and he's been tired for several days now. He can't really pin it down. He's been sleeping fine, his dreams no worse than ordinary; despite his fairly constant exploration, he wouldn't describe himself as feeling physical exhaustion. He's been eating well enough, he doesn't have a fever, and all things considered, his spirits are mostly intact. And yet here he is, again: weak-limbed, shaky-fingered, his vision blurring and his focus perpetually drifting, no matter what he does. It feels like a combination of all possible ailments, symptoms cherry picked to create a frustratingly ambiguous state of being.
Still, he persists. John needs whatever Statements they can find, and he needs to have something to do. And the worst of it isn't even the physical discomfort; it's the lingering ache of existential dread. There's no reason behind it, but it's there nonetheless, an undercurrent of fear, a certainty of danger. He feels it like an itch under his skin, unable to shake it off. Sitting alone in his flat with nothing to distract him, just lying down and waiting for the occasional vertigo to ebb and flow, sounds so much worse than just soldiering stubbornly through.
Martin's wandered into a part of Darrow he hasn't yet visited, which isn't difficult to do; he's only been here a couple weeks. He's been trying to seek out locations where people might be more inclined to talk to him and just... go from there. Getting true Statements is hard enough, but getting people to talk period... well, this'll just have to be a start. So when he sees what appears to be a magic shop of some kind, advertising for fortunes told, he's quick to approach. Even if they are charlatans, they may be able to point him somewhere, even inadvertently.
When he steps inside, the shop seems deserted; it's very small, but there's no customers and he can't even see anyone on duty. Must be in the back. He takes a faltering step forward, already feeling a little overwhelmed by the heady smell of incense, when his footing betrays him and he staggers and falls. He reaches out clumsily to grasp at a shelf of Tarot cards and little books on eastern spirituality, but he only succeeds in making a bit of a mess as he crashes down to his knees.
He lets out a grunt of mingled pain and almost indignant surprise. Who let this happen to him, etc. Surely he's not that bad off.
He tries to get back up so he can reset the shelf before someone comes out and notices, but it's like his body is just shutting down on him now. He sways and pitches forward, hitting the floor face-first and just narrowly avoiding breaking his nose. For no reason at all, a thought worms its way through the general disorientation. Jane Prentiss, he remembers: she worked in a shop like this, didn't she?
And that's when he remembers the last time he felt fear like this, that omnipresent dread and resignation to a danger that he could not escape. For two weeks the entity once called Jane Prentiss had held him prisoner in his own flat. It's the same feeling now: frustrated, afraid, and above all tired.
The relevance of that similarity is beyond him at the moment, but so is everything else. He can't even pull together the strength to try and lift himself up. He lets his eyes fall shut, barely conscious and sprawled out over the shop floor.
Still, he persists. John needs whatever Statements they can find, and he needs to have something to do. And the worst of it isn't even the physical discomfort; it's the lingering ache of existential dread. There's no reason behind it, but it's there nonetheless, an undercurrent of fear, a certainty of danger. He feels it like an itch under his skin, unable to shake it off. Sitting alone in his flat with nothing to distract him, just lying down and waiting for the occasional vertigo to ebb and flow, sounds so much worse than just soldiering stubbornly through.
Martin's wandered into a part of Darrow he hasn't yet visited, which isn't difficult to do; he's only been here a couple weeks. He's been trying to seek out locations where people might be more inclined to talk to him and just... go from there. Getting true Statements is hard enough, but getting people to talk period... well, this'll just have to be a start. So when he sees what appears to be a magic shop of some kind, advertising for fortunes told, he's quick to approach. Even if they are charlatans, they may be able to point him somewhere, even inadvertently.
When he steps inside, the shop seems deserted; it's very small, but there's no customers and he can't even see anyone on duty. Must be in the back. He takes a faltering step forward, already feeling a little overwhelmed by the heady smell of incense, when his footing betrays him and he staggers and falls. He reaches out clumsily to grasp at a shelf of Tarot cards and little books on eastern spirituality, but he only succeeds in making a bit of a mess as he crashes down to his knees.
He lets out a grunt of mingled pain and almost indignant surprise. Who let this happen to him, etc. Surely he's not that bad off.
He tries to get back up so he can reset the shelf before someone comes out and notices, but it's like his body is just shutting down on him now. He sways and pitches forward, hitting the floor face-first and just narrowly avoiding breaking his nose. For no reason at all, a thought worms its way through the general disorientation. Jane Prentiss, he remembers: she worked in a shop like this, didn't she?
And that's when he remembers the last time he felt fear like this, that omnipresent dread and resignation to a danger that he could not escape. For two weeks the entity once called Jane Prentiss had held him prisoner in his own flat. It's the same feeling now: frustrated, afraid, and above all tired.
The relevance of that similarity is beyond him at the moment, but so is everything else. He can't even pull together the strength to try and lift himself up. He lets his eyes fall shut, barely conscious and sprawled out over the shop floor.
