#nahual dispatch

Tagging list(based on those who asked to be tagged in initial post): @ask-hysteria @nahual-bitch @verymoistguy122 @red-ring-robert-robertson-iii @ask-the-intern-sdn @swiftasthenight @pupmech RSVP WITH A REBLOG OR COMMENT(if you’d like)

ANYONE FROM THE 18+ BLOGS MAY JOIN! You may invite ocs + canons + au canons.

PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL BETWEEN EACH OTHER.

REBLOGS APPRECIATED.

2 OPEN RP STARTERS WILL BE POSTED ON THE DAY OF THE EVENT(ONE ON FROSTBITE’S BLOG AND ONE ON @scorching-rose). HOWEVER, YOU MAY MAKE YOUR OWN RP STARTER IF YOU WANT TO INTERACT WITH SPECIFIC PEOPLE WITHOUT IT OVERWHELMING THE INITIAL POST.

His pale green eyes, usually so sharp, were distant as they dropped to his other hand. There, etched into the flesh, were the grotesque souvenirs of his own abilities backfiring: deep, puckered frostbite scars.

They mingled with the jagged bite marks, mementos of an abusive lycan love he yearned to excise from his memory. Further up his arms, angry crimson lines crisscrossed, the claw marks of that same lover, fighting for their life as Richard, in a flash of desperate passion, snuffed it out. It was why he always waited until the locker room was deserted before he dared to shower.

Heroes wore scars, yes, but Richard's were different. They were a festering shame, a visible record of his deepest failures. He’d rather no one ever saw them. He blinked, a slow, heavy beat against the weight of his past.

He moved through the cavernous, empty locker room, each step leaving ephemeral prints of white frost on the damp floor, his inherent chill manifesting as a constant, shimmering snowfall that trailed him like a loyal, silent retinue. He was sure he was alone, drying his skin with frantic speed to stop the pervasive cold that clung to him from freezing the droplets onto him, when a sharp, metallic clang echoed through the silence.

A locker door. Then, a soft thud, as if someone had slumped against the unyielding metal. His first instinct, honed by years of self-preservation and a profound desire for isolation, was to retreat, to ignore the sound. It was none of his business, and his business was certainly not theirs. But… a prickle of unease, a flicker of something he couldn't quite name, held him.

He pulled on the bare minimum – a thin black tank top and shorts – the fabric feeling strange against his perpetually cool skin, he’d never tried allowed anyone to see his body, not even a glimpse. He moved cautiously, drawn by an invisible thread towards the sound. And then he saw it, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes widening with a sudden, sharp concern.

@frosted-hero

Nahual stands there, body pressed against the lockers like they’re the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing’s heavy, still, and, from the back, he looks rough. His ears tick up at the sound of another, though, and he gathers up the strength to turn his head with a groan, still slumped.

He chuckled softly, carefully wrapping bandages around his scarred fingers, shutting his locker promptly.

“Hard dispatch?”

@frosted-hero

Glad to hear it. Was worried I was the picture of health, rubbing fuckin’ IcyHot all over me.