(no subject)

[kamehamehaaa]

Three years until everyone dies.

Gohan's in a pensive mood as he comes into the bar. Everyone else is seeing it as a challenge. An adventure. An excuse to train for three years and see if they can prevent it.

But inside, he feels... like he swallowed a bowling ball. Now what does he do? Does he try and bring them in here? Is here the reason why he's going to be the sole survivor? Does the future change now that they know, or is it fixed?

He flies up to the rafters and curls up in the corner, trying not to cry. None of the others would cry. He reckons they'd probably be really cross if they knew.

(outside)

[its_possible]

It's a quiet evening outside by the lake, a perfect evening for a little post-training stroll. Uther Doul likes quiet. It reminds him of his homeland.

And so does the terrain here--oh, it's not nearly as mountainous or as forbidding as the haunting grounds of his youth, but it's much further inland than he's been in a long time, and some of the trees look similar. If he doesn't pay much attention, he can imagine he's there.

But right now he's remembering, not imagining--remembering a snowfall on another night, in the months before he'd left his home. The undead aristocracy prefer to conduct the harvest on the zombie-farms before first frost, to spare them the expense of heating so many cages over the long, cold winter; but that year, winter came early, so they'd had to hire some of the boys from the Liveside ghetto to help wrangle the harvest. He had been one.

They may be raised in cages, but they have some idea of what's about to happen to them, and some of them always try to run. That year, some succeeded, and the livemen had had to track them down. It's very easy, in the snow. Snow just like this.

A man can get used to anything.

Botherable, if you don't mind awkward silences.

[tinytag: uther doul] [open until it scrolls!]

(no subject)

[birdofkirkwall]

[OOM: A Deal With The Devil]

It's been a while since Hawke's found herself in Milliways, but it's well worth it this time. Tonight, she's claimed a table for herself, papers, ledgers and coins scattered across it in a seemingly chaotic mess.

Hawke, for her part, is slumped forward in her seat, head propped up against a bandaged forearm as she scribbles on the parchment in front of her. Occasionally, her eyes drift shut and her head will loll limply forward before she catches herself, grumbling and rubbing at her eyes before setting back to work.