ꀘ꒒ꋬ꒤ꇙ ꂵ꒐ꀘꋬꏂ꒒ꇙꄲꋊ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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snowblindrpg2015-08-16 11:25 am
poppycock) wrote in snowblindrpg2015-08-16 11:25 am
[network] @klausmikaelson; DAY 026: NIGHT [open] [warning: hallucinations, blood, self-injury]
[ he has no intention of dying here again, lost in the cold, every inch of him freezing in submission to this perpetual winter. klaus has not lived for over a thousand years to be bested by whatever has taken him from his home, from his daughter, and stranded him in this nightmare.
he will not relent nor fold, out of the necessity to slaughter his captives, out of necessity to keep himself whole; to keep the one other person he cares about here whole.
if that means he will go mad staying inside this night, caught in a storm the likes of which he hasn't seen in centuries, then so be it. the hallucinations are off-putting, but certainly manageable, and during the day he has the wherewithal to understand that. he experienced over fifty-two years of hallucinations and torture once, courtesy of the fledgling hunters he massacred, and so he will persevere through whatever this place has to deal until he can leave this room, intact.
so he can leave, find cami, and be done with this.
that is until he sees the walls morphing into the mangled wooden crib of his daughter's, constantly at the corner of his eye. the movement of her settled and trapped in it beckons him, but the walls are moving and swallowing her up whenever he turns his head. until he sees the blood dripping from the boards and wallpaper where it eats her up. visions of his treacherous family come next, telling him of their hatred, their disgust and disappointment and abandonment of him; family who should be dead and gone, and others that should have left him long ago. until he hears the screams of his baby girl, the plaintive, frightened cries echoing through the small, desolate home in which he is cooped up.
that beam of light, the increased paranoia, the starvation and dehydration and cold, making him human and helpless -- these are all inconveniences he can weather.
this, however.
he has punched, pried, and torn up a good portion of the walls and bookcase after the first several hours, trapped as he is during the night. he has thrown furniture and attempted to break the windows. if he meant to try to find the disembodied source, leave, or simply to quell and distract himself with the violence and agony, it's hard to tell. his hands are bloodied, knuckles sheared, staining the screen of his tablet as he broadcasts the video.
his face is smeared with red that is nearly black in the shadows. he is on his hands and knees. the ceiling, his tense, shaking shoulders and bowed head fill the screen. his eyes burn with tears and rage, directed off to the side. if he were in any right mind, klaus wouldn't broadcast this at all.
his voice is angry and promising, though strained and thick with tears, and his chest heaves. ]
I will find you, and I will kill you. [ he's lowered his head by the last, weighted down as if too heavy to keep up. the fear and uncertainty entering in his eyes is unmistakeable, for he has little power to protect himself or anyone. ] I swear I will kill all of you.
he will not relent nor fold, out of the necessity to slaughter his captives, out of necessity to keep himself whole; to keep the one other person he cares about here whole.
if that means he will go mad staying inside this night, caught in a storm the likes of which he hasn't seen in centuries, then so be it. the hallucinations are off-putting, but certainly manageable, and during the day he has the wherewithal to understand that. he experienced over fifty-two years of hallucinations and torture once, courtesy of the fledgling hunters he massacred, and so he will persevere through whatever this place has to deal until he can leave this room, intact.
so he can leave, find cami, and be done with this.
that is until he sees the walls morphing into the mangled wooden crib of his daughter's, constantly at the corner of his eye. the movement of her settled and trapped in it beckons him, but the walls are moving and swallowing her up whenever he turns his head. until he sees the blood dripping from the boards and wallpaper where it eats her up. visions of his treacherous family come next, telling him of their hatred, their disgust and disappointment and abandonment of him; family who should be dead and gone, and others that should have left him long ago. until he hears the screams of his baby girl, the plaintive, frightened cries echoing through the small, desolate home in which he is cooped up.
that beam of light, the increased paranoia, the starvation and dehydration and cold, making him human and helpless -- these are all inconveniences he can weather.
this, however.
he has punched, pried, and torn up a good portion of the walls and bookcase after the first several hours, trapped as he is during the night. he has thrown furniture and attempted to break the windows. if he meant to try to find the disembodied source, leave, or simply to quell and distract himself with the violence and agony, it's hard to tell. his hands are bloodied, knuckles sheared, staining the screen of his tablet as he broadcasts the video.
his face is smeared with red that is nearly black in the shadows. he is on his hands and knees. the ceiling, his tense, shaking shoulders and bowed head fill the screen. his eyes burn with tears and rage, directed off to the side. if he were in any right mind, klaus wouldn't broadcast this at all.
his voice is angry and promising, though strained and thick with tears, and his chest heaves. ]
I will find you, and I will kill you. [ he's lowered his head by the last, weighted down as if too heavy to keep up. the fear and uncertainty entering in his eyes is unmistakeable, for he has little power to protect himself or anyone. ] I swear I will kill all of you.
hey, klaus' too
no, he's not short-sighted enough to mistake whatever is going on here for the enemies he faces back home.
he meets her gaze just as steadily, though weary he is. his voice might be a tad insincere. ] What a pleasure it is to meet you.
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Isn't it, though.
[ Her tone is cooly mocking. ]
You've made quite a mess.
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Always due to such thorough lack of control, I assume.
[ Her tone remains impassive. It had been her goal to interrupt his mayhem and perhaps talk him down into a more reasonable state, just because she now suspects he is... unpleasant hasn't changed that much. Such a scene in front of the others was not good for morale. ]
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his father always did say his fatal, tragic flaw was impulse. the reminder brightens the rage in him. ] Funny. I don't remember inviting your criticism. [ there is no trace of humor by the end, merely the cold, promising fury he is so known for. ]
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[ She responds bluntly. It is a war of interest in her, it would be to her benefit to talk him out of this ugly way of being, but she thinks success would be unlikely. He seems far too pleased with himself. ]
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I am certain you will think of something.