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estdeus_innobis[Sometime in the afternoon, Monday September 21st]
[Between the woods and the Voronin estate]
I woke up with the noon sun beating down on me, in a puddle of blood and dried urine. Managed to drag myself by my forelegs into the brush, shivering and whining, my hind legs twitching in useless, agonizing spasms. I try to turn my head to lick at the wound in my side, A wounded dog has no dignity.
I lie there for the rest of the day, and through the night. At least during the night I can try to heal...but the spine. Spines are always tricky. So many bones and nerves and delicate connections...Fuck it up and you'll never walk again. And where once I had enough power to rebuild my brain pretty much from scratch...now there is nothing. The stab wound in my side makes it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate. The bruise around my throat burns, and it hurts to swallow.
Other gods visit the woods at night. Hunting me, though whether to join or to kill me I cannot say. There's enough strength in me to drag my broken body further into the bushes, to hide in the shadows, but anything further is beyond me. I shiver, I try to heal. and I think about what might happen should I be discovered in this condition. For the first time since I arrived here, I think of going fully Shadfow...fall back into the darkness, leave this chunk of mangled meat behind and not emerge...but the few times I've done that, I haven't enjoyed it. It's hard to get out, once you're in for that long. It's hard to make yourself want to get out. And I would have to rebuild my body from scratch. I am still considering it when the sun rises again, burning the god out of me and leaving just the injured hound.
The injured hound is hurting, and the injured hound cannot think of shadows and bodies and the lack thereof. The injured hound knows only pain and a desperate sense of self-preservation, and the memory of the last place he felt safe.
It takes me past midday to haul myself, hind legs dragging uselessly and blood oozing from my wound, from the woods to the manor. It takes near another half-hour to get up the porch steps. For a moment I think the door is closed...but no, a crack, just enough for me to work my muzzle in and nose it open.
I make it to the dead, ash-strewn hearth before I collapse.
[CLOSED]
[Between the woods and the Voronin estate]
I woke up with the noon sun beating down on me, in a puddle of blood and dried urine. Managed to drag myself by my forelegs into the brush, shivering and whining, my hind legs twitching in useless, agonizing spasms. I try to turn my head to lick at the wound in my side, A wounded dog has no dignity.
I lie there for the rest of the day, and through the night. At least during the night I can try to heal...but the spine. Spines are always tricky. So many bones and nerves and delicate connections...Fuck it up and you'll never walk again. And where once I had enough power to rebuild my brain pretty much from scratch...now there is nothing. The stab wound in my side makes it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate. The bruise around my throat burns, and it hurts to swallow.
Other gods visit the woods at night. Hunting me, though whether to join or to kill me I cannot say. There's enough strength in me to drag my broken body further into the bushes, to hide in the shadows, but anything further is beyond me. I shiver, I try to heal. and I think about what might happen should I be discovered in this condition. For the first time since I arrived here, I think of going fully Shadfow...fall back into the darkness, leave this chunk of mangled meat behind and not emerge...but the few times I've done that, I haven't enjoyed it. It's hard to get out, once you're in for that long. It's hard to make yourself want to get out. And I would have to rebuild my body from scratch. I am still considering it when the sun rises again, burning the god out of me and leaving just the injured hound.
The injured hound is hurting, and the injured hound cannot think of shadows and bodies and the lack thereof. The injured hound knows only pain and a desperate sense of self-preservation, and the memory of the last place he felt safe.
It takes me past midday to haul myself, hind legs dragging uselessly and blood oozing from my wound, from the woods to the manor. It takes near another half-hour to get up the porch steps. For a moment I think the door is closed...but no, a crack, just enough for me to work my muzzle in and nose it open.
I make it to the dead, ash-strewn hearth before I collapse.
[CLOSED]
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