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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 10:06:04 GMT -5
(G'morning!)
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 10:09:22 GMT -5
Soraya: Soraya still clutched the pearl close to her heart, feeling her warmth seeping into it. Her fingers felt cold, maybe she was dying and these were her final moment. She hoped to heaven they weren’t. She did not want to die like this. On a couch bathing in her own blood with Mark Lias calling her not hot and then hot and talking about that doctor. “Water would be priceless, thank you.” Her head turned towards him and took in the sight of him. He looked sleep ruffled and that metal cage that guarded his teeth hadn’t disappeared in the night. Which was a shame considering how the sight was uneasy to her. “Mark Lias," she said his full name as though it were his full name or a clever nickname, "if i was bitten I would not have come back.”
Soraya flinched a bit at the mention of the doctor, she hoped her leg didn’t need stitches she wasn’t a fan of needles unless they were sewed through cloth not skin. “You ramble and I don’t know what you’re saying,” she said narrowing her eyes a little. When he tossed the water bottle to her she raised her hand and snatched it out of the air with ease. Barely even noticing the thing as she caught it. “Do you blabber on so to distract yourself? Because you think I’m dying on this couch? Mark Lias, I promise you that if I were to die in this moment I would not swallow you the meat on your bones looks far too tough to chew. I would eat that doctor, he looks pampered and spoiled and fat. Like a rich cat that ignores you when you try to pet it. He would likely be delicious, unfortunately he is essential to this group and it would be a great disservice to eat him.” Now she seemed to be the one prattling off to keep her mind off the pain in her leg.
She released the cap from the bottle and took a drink. The water could have been life saving in itself. Soraya wanted to down the whole bottle since one sip was not enough to quench her. But she did not, it wasn’t her water bottle and she would not be so rude to drink from it as if it would refill itself with every gulp she took. Still, she did get a little greedy as she tried to make the ache in her head and dryness of her mouth go away. Finally, she took the bottle away from herself and set it on the floor. Sitting up she tried not to show pain as she moved her leg, it pulsed with a life of it’s own and burned like it was on fire. Glancing Mark up and down she noticed he also had a leg injury, an old one at least. Some darker part of her, a base instinct from the survival days of her ancestors, wondered if it made him a liability. If one day he’d be running and his leg would snap and no one could help him so they had to leave him for dead. She cringed a little at her own morbid thoughts and instead met Mark’s gaze. “You’re very rude, Mark Lias, assuming that I am bitten and did not have enough sense to stay away from the living and refusing to acknowledge the service I have done for you.” She pointed to the basket of fish. Tilting her chin up and looking away she added, “Apologize quickly and I will forget the humiliation you’ve brought upon us both.”
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Dec 28, 2016 10:49:28 GMT -5
(hello friends good morning I am on campus today and was yesterday which I am using to explain my absence. I have no laptop. I will probably get intros up sometime? This afternoon?)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 11:54:55 GMT -5
{ draw some names out of a hat Rob! }
{ you're already back at college briar??? that was fast! }
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 12:39:01 GMT -5
[ good morning folks i am Sickened Greatly and Can Barely Breathe but what is a rp without a sick koi anyways ]
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 12:44:55 GMT -5
(The curse is back. as soon as we start the rp koi gets sick and briar goes back to college)
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 12:45:26 GMT -5
{ it's not an rp until koi is sick and dying. what's wrong bud?? maybe you should take a nap. take some medicine and then take a nap }
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 12:48:06 GMT -5
[ i think it's a cold but my lymph nodes are choking me and there's something weird about my stomach so i'm just lying here and letting my cat purr me to death. i'm gonna take medicine but when my throat's kinda closed like this i get freaked out trying to sleep because i can barely breathe ]
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 12:53:46 GMT -5
{ damn you lymph nodes! i've been there koi. it hurts like heck to swallow with swollen lymph nodes. if it suits you better you can just hang out here with us until it passes~ wouldn't want you dying in your sleep }
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Post by mags on Dec 28, 2016 12:55:22 GMT -5
( omg koiiii u poor thing </3 get some rest bby!!
also hon i read that as "it hurts to swallow your lymph nodes" and I WAS SO CONFUSED HAHAHA )
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 12:57:36 GMT -5
{ yes mag, never try to swallow your own lymph nodes. it hurts because you have to cut them out first u-u i learned that the hard way }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 13:12:35 GMT -5
(oh koi you poor thing u-u maybe you should just rest and refresh today)
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 13:29:41 GMT -5
mark lias group 2, library "That’s ironic, because I ramble and I don’t know what I’m saying either,” Mark says, voice barely above a breath, can’t stop himself, is the type of person who can barely let people talk, jumping in and saying his piece in the time people around him take a breath, think about what else they’re going to say.
However, it could be argued Mark barely even thinks before he talks, has a vague plan of what he’ll say before he scratches it out with an off-kilter phrase (or two). He was misdiagnosed with ADHD before someone took a look at him and said, hang on, I think that’s anxiety. And he wants to say sixteen year old Mark shot cleverly sculpted finger guns their way and said, “Sick,” but he more or less just stares his doctor’s way and said, in a most disapproving tone of voice, “Reaaaally.” Because he couldn’t even say to his friends “ha ha I’m hyperactive as hell it’s like a super power,” he just had to say, “Y’know that time you had an anxiety attack over pre-calc 11? Well. Um. Same, apparently.”
Mark didn’t feel anxious when he diagnosed, or maybe he was never in tune with his mind to know the difference, to the point where nowadays it takes him off guard when he does, wants to roll his eyes and say a sarcastic “Thanks, mom,” with as much gusto as one would spit out a “Thanks, Obama.” Which doesn’t make sense. Mark’s Canadian. But “Thanks, Trudeau,” doesn’t have enough cultural significance as the former—anyways. Things are easy to blame on his mom because, like, she’s never been there to defend herself, so.
Thanks, mom.
“Honestly, not saying I’d eat that doctor too, but,” shrugs, lips tilted in a half-smile over gaudy silver braces, lets it fall a little as she says more, raises a dark, well shaped eyebrow (what, is it a crime to keep them shaped in a zombie apocalypse? Is it a crime that Mark’s eyebrows get very unruly very fast? It is? Yeah, well, he knows that.) “Y’know, your assumptions on people seem...pretty accurate.”
Not saying he didn’t like Dr. Dash or whatever he likes to go by! He didn’t mind the dude, he was tall and a pretty face and, I mean, a doctor, so he does have some essential bearings to the group other than being, you know...tall. And a pretty face. But Mark’s never been fond of doctors, has had no reason to (All they do is tell him to get another hobby as if working his ass off on ballet since he was seven has been a hobby this entire time. That’s almost twenty years of it. What a grandiose hobby). Someone once joked that the likelihood of Mark leaving BC to go be a sugar baby for some rich doctor in Seattle was pretty damn high, and Mark said “Dude, you’ve never met an actual doctor, have you,” and then she said “My dad is a doctor.” And Mark said, “What’s his number?” and winked and licked his braces.
And got slapped on the cheek, but.
It was an afterthought.
“Dude,” Mark says, taken aback, “...What? I gave you my water bottle and you’re telling me to apologize? That’s some ass-backwards pageantry, man."
Then, speaking of afterthoughts: “Is it because I’m Canadian? Soraya, I know I ain’t one to talk, but you’re reaching. Pretty far. I don’t put that much thought into my words, bro.”
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 14:28:04 GMT -5
Soraya: Soraya stared at him for a moment and blinked before it hit her and she looked away from him with a groan of frustration. And the whole apology comment wasn’t supposed to be serious but why wouldn’t he have interpreted it as such? Soraya was terrible with words. Simply awful at talking to people. It didn’t help that she had a resting b*tch-face so when she wasn’t smiling people assumed she hated them, but when she did smile it came out as a carnivorous grin. And the apocalypse must have really done a number on her already poor people skills. “I-I didn’t mean it like that!” she tried to say, but it came out in a snappish tone and made her sound like she was yelling at him. “It wasn’t...it’s not because you’re Canadian. I can’t even tell the difference between Americans and Canadians anyway. You all talk like horses, opening your mouths like you're chomping at the bit when you speak.” Her face was starting to burn red. The more she spoke the worse things got. Soraya snapped her mouth shut and just stopped talking altogether.
Knitting her brow together she opened her hand and looked at the shiny pearl that ready in her palm. A teardrop from the ocean. She wished her cousin were there. Sadja al-Jarad was so good with people. Her smile was like the sun, it brought things to life. Her words could calm anyone down, she was a natural born leader and she would have known what to say right then. Soraya stared at the pearl, contemplating it. Sadja had given it to her telling her “Look, My Pearl, an oyster may seem rough and unappealing on the outside but once you crack it’s shell you find the most beautiful things inside. Just like you. Once you open up to people you will find that you are a shimmering star from the deep.”
Closing her eyes she let loose a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Sadja wasn’t here though, she couldn’t speak for her or make people like her. Her solid brown gaze met Mark’s again and she tried to speak slowly this time. “Thank you for the water, Mark Lias. I didn’t mean what I said before I was just..lightening the mood with a joke. I- well- you see-” She started rubbing the pearl so much she might have worn it down. “We...need each other if we’re going to make it and I shouldn’t be making enemies on my deathbed.” Her voice was turning raspy and her throat began to ache for more water.
What a horrible way to die. She couldn’t even make friendly conversation with someone she barely knew without screwing it up and making herself look like a fool. She felt lightheaded again and was panting after all that effort from just talking. Part of her really hoped she fell unconscious so she wouldn’t make herself look worse.
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 14:30:26 GMT -5
[ OH MY GOD I LOVE HER ]
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 14:55:11 GMT -5
(she's a good kid. she really means well. she just needs some unconditional love <3 )
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Post by robopocalypse on Dec 28, 2016 15:02:05 GMT -5
Just wanna give a heads up that I don't think this is really gonna work out for me, so uh... peace out I guess. Have fun my dudes
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 16:23:11 GMT -5
Just wanna give a heads up that I don't think this is really gonna work out for me, so uh... peace out I guess. Have fun my dudes { aww that's unfortunate. oh well, you do you u-u }
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 16:27:45 GMT -5
(we're really sorry to see you go mal and wish you could have stayed with us longer but if this is what you feel is best u-u )
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Dec 28, 2016 17:38:57 GMT -5
(hello friends i am back and to clarify: classes have not started. they start the 9th. i was just on campus to meet with some frands. i will write out things now. also: have we considered making a chat page for this rp? it's not bad rn but i mean, it's kind of tradition at this point)
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Dec 28, 2016 19:31:39 GMT -5
EZRA MACLAURIN
If what people say is true and everything happens for a reason, Ezra is expecting one heck of a payoff after all of this is over. He’s never been a particularly optimistic person, preferring to defer his own unique brand of realism (which is really just blatant pessimism with a smile and a “but everything will either work out in the end or you’ll die” tacked on to the end), but his life has turned into such a sh*tstorm that Ezra can’t see this payoff being anything but a painless death. Something other than being eaten alive. Or shot and left to fester. He’s not sure which one is worse. It’s a question that he contemplates often, in those in between moments where he isn’t actively running away from the walking dead and finds himself in the equally deadly act of monotonous labor. (At this point his personal hell would probably be an endless cycle of setting up and taking down camp.) Ezra doesn’t like thinking about dying because that’s depressing as all heck, or at least would be considered depressing back in ‘society’, when it was a thing, but now that Death is a sort of omnipresent theme in his life, it’s hard to keep his mind wandering from it.
As Ezra laid on the floor of that church, eyes shut as if he were sleeping, he pondered that very subject. The scariest part of both scenarios was that he would be aware of what was going on and completely unable to stop it. Watching the inevitability of his death creep closer, but with more pain, and blood, and the realization that he is only flesh and sinew after all. Ezra Maclaurin did not fear being helpless. He has long known (but perhaps not understood) that death is a certainty; rather, it is the fact that he would be, essentially, trapped in both situations that terrifies him. (As if he is not already trapped by his own mortality.)
Not that the pain accompanying these deaths is not also scary. He is afraid of the pain, too. Ezra is afraid of a lot of things. But then again, so is everyone else.
Anyways, then Emilio comes by and taps him on the shoulder as a sort of “it’s time to wake up” signal, even though he had already heard the chubby boy and his grandmother talking in Spanish, maybe trying to be quiet, maybe not, failing at it either way, and Ezra is forced to actually wake up, or at least open his eyes, because he hasn’t been asleep for hours. Considering it’s the zombie apocalypse Ezra thinks he sleeps quite well. A couple hours is better than nothing. He doesn’t dream anymore, either, which helps. He supposes his dreams should probably be filled with the faces of everyone he knows who has died, but since life is a nightmare maybe the universe is giving him some respite.
Maybe that’s the payoff? Which would suck, because for all the sh*t he’s been through a good night’s sleep ain’t nothing in the way of retribution. He doesn’t consider not seeing his father’s face in his sleep consolation for having to shoot him. Though, the universe is one heck of a cheap b*tch.
Ezra pushes the thought out of his mind (for the time being) and gets to his feet, wipes off his hoodie as if the motion meant something, and turns to face Emilio, who at this point had turned to looking over Ogle Maps (which is what Ezra had dubbed the map of Washington the kid carried around with him, considering that it was both a map and that Emilio tended to ogle at it quite often. Ezra thought it was clever.) The boy seemed to be scouting out their next destination. Ezra did not need to guess what it was.
The safe haven. The promised land. Edgemont.
An effing trap if Ezra had ever seen one.
But Abuela - (she had them all call her by that name; as if she had no other one. As if she had adopted all of them as her grandchildren. Yeah, Ezra looked like her a little bit; he wasn’t spanish in the least, his mother was Indian and his father right off the boat Scottish, but like, dark hair, dark skin, smaller frames… If one wanted to imagine a resemblance they could. The resemblance between the older woman and her actual grandson was much less… poignant.)
(In short: Emilio was fat and helpless and Abuela could probably beat all of their behinds. Not that Ezra had anything against the spanish boy; he had been nothing but nice, sweetest person, all soft golden smiles like flickering sunlight, but he wasn’t the most ideal partner in an apocalypse setting. Ezra would metaphorically jump in front of a train for him, but they would both die, anyways) - wanted to go there so there they would go.
Ezra would never survive out here on his own. Not for long, anyways. He was kind of a toothpick. And didn’t know how to shoot a gun. Or cook, which was something Emilio, apparently, was quite good at. On the subject of that boy, “Hey”, Ezra smiled, small, all teeth behind slightly curled lips, a smile that looked and felt fake but, for good measure, he pulled anyways, “So what’s the plan for today? We finally getting to the Edge of Forever or what?”
He cocked his head slightly, running one hand along his cheek, wincing, slightly, at the stubble. Rough life, buddy, rough life.
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Post by mags on Dec 28, 2016 19:34:41 GMT -5
( BRI OMG UR WRITING ALWAYS KILLS ME. IM DEAD. GONE. ugh i love all these lil nuggets already <3 )
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 19:46:33 GMT -5
mark lias group 2, library
Soraya starts stumbling over her words like that time Mark got his wisdom teeth out and tried to sing Nicki Minaj. Well, not quite like that, because Mark had been in a great mood when he’d been post-op and she just seems like the type of person who would have a general anaesthetic and come out of it speaking another language and cursing the entire lineage of her doctor--anyways. What Mark is trying to get at here is that he can relate to the way she stumbles and snaps and falls over herself like she’s trying to get Mark to understand where she’s coming from, which he really does not get at this present time, but blames his own sleepiness rather than anything she’s doing.
But, I mean, her humour is a little hard to understand.
“No, it’s fine,” Mark says, waving a hand, not exactly getting the whole horse comparison but he’s always found her off-kilter comparisons to be rather fitting, no matter what situation they’re applied to, so he trusts her with that, has danced with enough people whose original language was not English to know that he is an absolute nightmare to talk to if you’re not a native speaker. Even if you are a native speaker, he’s a complete nightmare. He even went through a phase when his spitting problem was so bad with his elastics and palate expander and everything that he’d just talk with his hand right in front of his mouth, and he was illegible, except for the clear ring of his nasally, high pitched laugh. “Seriously. Completely understandable. Stress messes with ya. This one time, I danced with a girl who would completely flip out backstage, criticise the everloving sh*t out of me, and as soon as our performance was done she’d just—go back to normal. And pet my hair a bit.” He shrugs.
He sends a braces-lined-teeth-grin her way, “It’s fine, Soraya. It’s chill. All good in the hood.”
And then his smile drops, pretty fast. Like, really fast, actually, gets his lip caught on a bracket when he does so. “On your deathbed? Dude. Bro. Okay, yeah, you are bleeding, like, a lot but you know what, f*ck that, you’re so not dying in front of me. Not hot on that today. Did not wake up and say to some god, ‘Yo, I want Soraya to die today,’ that is not a thing that happened.”
Except, Mark may or may not have almost-no medical training when it comes to flesh wounds. Joint pains, dislocations, stuff like that? He is a seasoned veteran when it comes to dance injuries. But, “I just sliced my entire leg open on something”? Yeah, that’s a new one.
But Mark has always been fond of trying, at least, so.
“Have some more water?” he suggests, and passes his bottle back to her.
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 19:47:39 GMT -5
{ "Emilio was fat and helpless" leave my son alone ezra! he is soft but so is his heart! }
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 20:28:40 GMT -5
Emilio Zubizarreta & Abuela Zubizarreta Group One
There was a reason Abuela called Emilio skittish as a rabbit, and it was not undeserved. At the sound of a voice close to his ear, Emilio would have jumped straight into the air if his legs let him. Instead, he settled for a startled bounce of sorts and rounded on the source. His heart fluttered in his chest and he summoned a weak smile, “Oh, Ezra. You scared me, friend. Do not be so sneaky around me, my heart will stop completely. Abuelita says I am as fragile as frost.”
The corners of his lips faltered, betraying him. These days, talking about death, even jokingly, was a hard task for the poor boy. He didn’t like the dead, even thinking of them seemed too great a task. Unfortunately, it was a task Emilio was burdened with whether he liked it or not.
“Edge of Forever? No, no, it is Edgemont. Edge. Mont. But yes! You see--” He drew his finger along a thin line on the map. A road. Supposedly a smaller town road. Maybe even a country road. Abuela had insisted vehemently on avoiding the highways. And, while Emilio agreed with her, he still silently anguished over how much faster taking the highway would have been. These back roads were safe in that they were less choked by traffic-stopped-dead, but they made the journey much, much, much longer. “--we keep following this road and it will take us only an hour to reach town. From there…” He trailed off, a frown puckering his lips and knitting his eyebrows.
This is where Emilio’s plan fell to bits and pieces. Once they reached town they could only hope to find directions to the supposed safe haven. The rumors that lead them to Edgemont and done just that. Lead them to Edgemont and only Edgemont. But the safe haven wasn’t the town it was someplace within the town! Or, quite possibly, near it. If nothing else, Emilio reconciled, we can stop for supplies. Maybe they’ll have a Wal-Mart. I would really like some twinkies right about now. Or peanut butter.
“So!” He went on, quickly changing the subject, “How did you sleep last night? Well, I hope. Me? I slept very well, thank you. I find I sleep best when I think of pleasant things. Last night, I thought of icing cupcakes. It’s such a relaxing task. And so pretty when you do it right. I remember one time when I was in New York City I saw this little cupcake shop with all these delicious looking designs. One looked like a little cat!” Emilio stopped, staring up at Ezra with the kind of curious gaze meant to coax conversation from people. Ezra, Emilio had found, was of the difficult sort. Not that he was anti-social, just that he… Well, he wasn’t the most optimistic of sorts. But Emilio would change that, he guaranteed it. Soon, even in the apocalypse, the young man would make sure everyone was as cheerful as himself.
Well, as cheerful as he was when not terrified out of his boots.
The door squeaked open, just then, announcing Abuela’s return. The old woman closed the door gently behind her, knife slick with fresh blood that dripped to her boots. “Abuelita! Cómo estás?” Abuela sighed, likely being crushed under the weight of her grandson’s million watt smile. “Road’s clear, for now,” she reported, adjusting her glasses and glancing to Ezra with a warm smile, “I only found two, but we should get going soon."
She joined them in four quick little strides that seemed to carry her across the room like a scurrying mouse. “Buenos días, Ezra--” she pronounced his name as a distinct eeeh-za-ra “--Has Emilio been bothering you long?”
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Post by servalstrike on Dec 28, 2016 21:05:41 GMT -5
Soraya:(Group 2) Soraya stared at Mark, blinking once then twice. Then she started to laugh. Actually laughing. She didn’t even know why. She was most likely becoming delirious because of her blood loss. He was trying to comfort her and she still didn’t understand a lot of what he was talking about. But it was sweet nonetheless. She was glad that he had forgiven her at the least and his funny looking braces brought a smile to her lips. Mark was a dancer. Soraya would have loved to see him dance she hoped it was more elegant than the way he spoke. Didn’t Sadja know a dancer? She couldn’t remember. A frown tugged at her lips as she tried to bring forth an image of her cousin into her mind. She realized that the edges of her memory of her were becoming fuzzy. “Pet you hair, hm? Are you a cat?” she tried to laugh again, at another one of her stupid jokes.
Her hand found the back of her neck and rubbed her sore muscles awkwardly, she was slicked with sweat soon she would love a bath. Flicking her eyes upward against she offered Mark a strained smile. “You say dude and bro a lot,” she pointed out. With a shake of her head she rested her back against the couch. “Don’t worry, I won’t die so easily. Especially not because of something as pathetic as blood loss or infection. I would prefer to go out in some miraculous blaze of heroism.” That carnivorous grin of hers returned and she tried to tamp it down and make it look like a normal smile, but it just ended up looking like she was baring her teeth at him and about to cry. Not a sweet smile.
Her attention focused itself on her leg now. She reached for his bottle and took it once more, it would have been rude to refuse a gesture of kindness. She took a drink and wiped her lips. “Alright, I’ve done enough waiting for Mr. Doctor Dash. I will take care of this myself.” Carefully, she peeled away the blood soaked cloth and hissed at the nasty looking gash that interrupted the bronze skin of her leg. She grazed her fingers over the wound and flinched at her own touch. “la bas bh. 'annaha tahtaj faqat eadad qalil min algharz.” Soraya tried to reassure herself as she reached for her bag. The rifled through it until she pulled out what she needed. A needle and a spool of fishing line. She spoke softly to herself in her native language as she threaded the needle and tied it off.
She hovered over the cut for a moment and hissed to herself. “Just do it already,” with that she pricked herself and started stitching. The pain was unbearable. She tried to quell the shaking in her hands, she needed to keep them steady. But tears burned her eyes until she almost couldn’t see. Soraya bit her lip and cursed herself for doing something this brash and stupid. “kanat hadhih fikrat sayiya.” She should have waited for the doctor. But she had used up all her patience while fishing and now she was sewing her skin like it was a piece of cloth. Sweat dampened her back and forehead by the time she finished and bit through the fishing line to cut it. Examining her stitched leg she was pleased with her efforts. It was crude and not the kind of stitches used for repairing wounds but it would do the job.
Licking her chapped lips she eyed Mark. “Do you have alcohol?” She should have asked that before she plunged a needle into her own leg. At least it stopped the bleeding.
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Post by koi on Dec 28, 2016 21:14:34 GMT -5
[ a list of things that are important to me:
- soraya and sadja. equally - that is all ]
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Post by 𝓑𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫 ♥ on Dec 28, 2016 21:22:27 GMT -5
Dashiell Shay (i had to rewrite this. twice. you guys post so fast lol. i will add that i also didn't edit this. i just found a v bad spelling error. this is just who i am. )
It is seldom to find Dashiell Shay alone, as he is now, hidden behind a line of book shelves that reach nearly to the ceiling, a literal wall between him and the rest of the group. He has tucked himself against the rack, knees pulled up to his chest and pressing against his collarbone in a way that will probably leave angry red marks when he changes position. He is reading. What the subject of the book is doesn’t matter (it’s Camus) as much as the mental distraction that the text provides.
You see, it is not so much fear from the absence of people that makes Dashiell almost neurotic about never being alone, but the fact that people provide distraction, and distraction prevents his mind from wandering onto subjects that he rather it not. When his mind is not being immediately occupied it tends to default to a place that gives him nothing but the metallic taste of regret. It is always there, anyways (he is always there, anyways, doesn’t think he ever left, really, sees it whenever he closes his eyes). Dash tucks his knees closer to his chest, presses them against the bone in a way that hurts, only slightly, but provides something to focus on, a kind of B plot where, if he gets bored of Sisyphus, he can always focus on the pain. There is a small voice in the corner of his mind that tells him to go rejoin the group, but Soraya is out scouting, and Moira is off doing her own thing, as she always is, which means that he would have to go talk to Mark Lias which is not, in and of itself, a bad thing, because Mark is someone to talk to, and hell, talk might be a bit of an understatement, so this is usually a very good pastime, but Dashiell doesn’t feel much like socializing right now. He wonders if this is what being depressed feels like. Which is a dumb question, for a lot of reasons, so. Maybe?
But this is a very Whatever thing.
A sad doctor is still a doctor nonetheless.
For all he learned about limited resources in school, Dashiell Shay does not know much about how to be one. He has always considered himself valuable (in that fool’s gold fake confidence lathered like on honey kind of way, which is to say, that he may be sh*t but he is also The Sh*t) but now, being a sort-of-doctor in the apocalypse, it is as if he is not only a service but also a good. At least, that is how Moira sees him, which is not, in essence, a bad thing; if Dashiell Shay was not worth something beyond his inherent humanity than he would have been dead back at that refugee camp long before the Walkers overran it.
It’s funny because Dashiell is barely even a real doctor. He was only in his first year of residency when the world ended; he had his degree, yes, but had never practiced without someone looking over his shoulder making sure he didn’t commit any critical mistakes. He neglected to tell people this when they asked. The two letters in front of his name were enough for most everyone; for him, too, he supposes. At least all his fathers’ money was finally paying off. Not that it got him anywhere, after all hell broke loose, as far as Dash is aware, but it is something that he can draw hope from.
It is easy to become disheartened in a world from which life has been removed. Dashiell strives to be the thing that people need; this is where he draws his optimism from. If there is no good left in the world he must create his own, fake his own, if necessary. At this thought he reaches up and touches the pendent that hangs around his neck; the trinket itself is not anything special - a wooden charm looped through a black , leather band - but it is of particular personal importance to him. It acts as a reminder; a connection to which he grounds himself in the worst moments. A metaphorical balloon string keeping him from flying entirely out of his mind.
Which is a depressing thought. Dashiell tosses it around for a moment and then decides that, while he understands that his mental state isn’t really the best right now (but is anyone’s) acting sad isn’t going to help anyone. Then, from the sound of it, Soraya shows up, so mulling around trying to distract himself with only vaguely depressing things rather than giving in to his ever-encroaching PTSD is definitely is out of the question.
“Yo, I heard some commotion, what’s going on?” Another thing: Dashiell Shay may be an educated former prep-boy (thanks, private school education, definitely helped him out in life, yep) but with the apocalypse came a breakdown of how many f*cks Dash has to give. Boy’s been through a lot. He takes in Soraya’s wound with narrowed eyes, shooting Mark a soft glare, not anything particularly pointed but more of a, ‘thanks, you helped a ton’, which would have been accompanied with a sigh were not Dashiell too focused on remembering where he put the first aid kit. “Are you f*cking serious, Soraya?” Dashiell runs a hand through his hair (oily under his fingertips; he hates to think how it looks right now, he always did pride himself in his hair), “You can’t close a wound with a f*cking sewing needle and, f*cking hell, is that fishing line?”
He bends down next to her. “Here, give me the water, I need to check the site”, he pauses, for a second, looks up to meet her eyes (they’re the sort of brown that is all encompassing; warm like black coffee, deep like an ocean chasm), “I apologize for being curt there, but. Soraya. Come on. I’m going to have to pull this all out. You’re all but setting yourself up for infection.”
Dashiell turns his head slightly, faces Mark, looks at the man (eyes catch on the dark hair, jawline, is vaguely reminded of someone he once knew; another reason he isn’t particularly fond of Mark at times; it’s not that they’re bad memories, just painful), says, “make yourself useful, if you would, and go get the first aid kit? I think it’s over by the desk”, before returning his attention to Soraya.
“How did it happen?” He shifts, slightly, looking over her work, which was, granted, good for an amateur with a f*cking sewing needle, but also probably hurt more than it would have had to. Stitches are, done correctly, relatively painless. “Tell me if anything hurts, ok?” he smiles, slightly, closed lipped, “It doesn’t look that bad -” (but it would definitely make traveling difficult for a while) “- but please be more careful next time. I know how strong you are, but don’t push it.”
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Post by 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒𝖻𝖺𝖽𝗀𝖾𝗋 on Dec 28, 2016 21:33:52 GMT -5
{ dashiell shay aka dr. dad }
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