[ There is little light, above. The stretch of trees, branches withering with their half-dead leaves, tries to blot out any attempt for life to seep through it's suffocating hold. But it peeks through, here and there, an ominous sickly green shade that brings with it only a sense of profound unease. The touch of the light won't harm you, but neither will it's guidance grant you any form of relief.
In the moments before everything changes, all you can hear is the sound of your own blood rushing to your ears, watching the twisting roots above circle and form their own nooses. They sink lower and lower, as if to offer themselves; the distorted ticking of a clock ruined by the way the hand seems stuck at midnight. It attempts to move, gears turning, but it always clicks right back.
( This is the Dark Hour. The Midnight Hour. The 25h Hour. The hour that ruins you, inside and out. )
Something draws you here, and keeps you. You feel unfamiliar in your own skin, standing outside and staring back in at something that disgusts you. Something writhes in your ribcage, angry and alive and trying to rib it apart to claim it for themselves.
Coward, it seems to hiss. Pathetic wretch. Will your body always be a prison? ]
[ The nooses hang lower. The air smells of rotting flowers and wisps of nicotine, the trees above and the garden below forming a sickly sweet cage. If the whispers bother him, he does not say; there’s a ringing of clockwork in his ears, a sensation of disconnection that makes it hard to hear it.
The flowers and vines twist and spread, forming things in the distance. Buildings wrought of decaying greenery rather than brick. The path beneath their feet is out of place concrete that stinks of cheap liquor. ]
…The last place I wanna be.
[ The ticking grows louder. His head aches, but he still turns to trudge over to her. She doesn’t belong here, and that’s why his gaze is weary, almost distant. ]
Then...we should leave. [ She pushes herself to her feet. There is no sense of physical pain here, only the ever pressing exhaustion and guilt. Who is that? What is that? She doesn't want to look too closely at anything but Shinjiro. She holds out a hand to take his] Together. [ The rotting scent mingles with the scent of a salt flat, crystals ringing gently]
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WEEK 3. MONDAY
Date: 2025-11-26 05:04 am (UTC)In the moments before everything changes, all you can hear is the sound of your own blood rushing to your ears, watching the twisting roots above circle and form their own nooses. They sink lower and lower, as if to offer themselves; the distorted ticking of a clock ruined by the way the hand seems stuck at midnight. It attempts to move, gears turning, but it always clicks right back.
( This is the Dark Hour. The Midnight Hour. The 25h Hour. The hour that ruins you, inside and out. )
Something draws you here, and keeps you. You feel unfamiliar in your own skin, standing outside and staring back in at something that disgusts you. Something writhes in your ribcage, angry and alive and trying to rib it apart to claim it for themselves.
Coward, it seems to hiss. Pathetic wretch. Will your body always be a prison? ]
(no subject)
Date: 2025-11-26 10:49 am (UTC)Nala opens her eyes and finds herself in a half rotting world. She is suffocating , the whispers shaking her to the core.
She is no prisoner. Her body is her own.]
Shinjiro...?
[She murmurs, her voice heavy with exhaustion as she yearns to hold someone. Anyone.]
Where are we...?
(no subject)
Date: 2025-11-28 07:03 am (UTC)The flowers and vines twist and spread, forming things in the distance. Buildings wrought of decaying greenery rather than brick. The path beneath their feet is out of place concrete that stinks of cheap liquor. ]
…The last place I wanna be.
[ The ticking grows louder. His head aches, but he still turns to trudge over to her. She doesn’t belong here, and that’s why his gaze is weary, almost distant. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2025-11-28 07:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2025-12-04 07:45 am (UTC)The smell of rot mingles with the iron tinge of blood. He's heard this all before. ]
I couldn't leave if I tried.
[ Something brushes their ankles, waxy and cold. Finger-like. If they don't look, maybe the hands will disappear. ]
(no subject)
Date: 2025-12-04 10:51 am (UTC)[She shudders, and without waiting, takes Shinjiro's hands in her own]
You'll leave me here to fight on my own?
[if it is guilt Shinjiro is suffering from, she can weaponise an entirely different form if it means she can pull him out of this mire]