#soultoken

😬 trying to hide a wound, or 🔪 after they were tortured if you want to go harder. >:)

Loud steps, loud noises. Someone intruding the area. Someone as loud as her, and yet way more ready to face the mercenaries who captured her, it seems.

Lara... isn't doing great. The door opening, the noises stopping, made her wince - a noise she hates to make, one that sends shives of pure pain through her whole body, as if she was electrocuted. Her low head is lifted, a bunch of blood and sweat dripping on it as she tries to adjust to the sudden light.

"...John...?"

She calls out for him insecure, tense. Oh, no. No no no, not like this. Don't look at me like this. Not bound and bruised and with one extra hole in my shoulder.

« Hey. I'm over here. » John watches her - no, stares at her - until her gaze seems to find him, his features tense and yet so seemingly relaxed. When he finally gets the certainty that Lady sees him, or whatever other version of him, he can't hold back a large smile. A very false, very tired smile, as he brings the cigarette to the lips. « What? First time lost in the nightmares? ». He huffs a small cloud of smoke, his smile getting wider without really wanting it. « Ah... welcome to the Mirror-Marches, Lady. You lost your head. ». He lowers his voice, a sickly chuckle coming from the lips. « Hope the cat didn't steal it. »

...a new visitor.

Her nightmares are usually filled with the same faces - and creatures. Red, gold, red, gold, a mass of loud noises that echo through her head, something almost welcome after endless nights spent awake. Faces and non-faces, humans and animals alike, all gathered for the party.

At times -- today -- she personally visited that dreaded mirror at the circus to make the cycle end. Accept the nightmare and move on, just like she does with death on occasion.

This one, however, feels different. The smoke feels different. His voice feels different.

"Some nonsense you're spouting, stranger" she smirks in response, stepping towards him with no problem and snatching the cigarette from his lips, putting it between hers. How scandalous.

knock, knock, knock. « guzma? ». silence. « come on, man. you've been hiding in there for three days. you're getting the kids worried sick out here. ». and me. you're getting me worried sick.

No answer comes from the room for a few seconds. None, if not a soft groan.

He knows they're getting worried, but...

"..."

He should at least say something. Anything.

"...Guzma's not here."

« Oh, God, that's ... why am I bleeding..? »

...crap.

"Okay, just--"

Craaap. That's a lot of blood. He-- they must've gotten distracted. One of those damned beasts must've hit him, wh--

"Just sit down."

Okay, breathe. Calm down. Panicking will just make things worse. Especially when he goes around with a goddamn hospital in his backpack.

          he sways like a cattail in the wind. just a little. 

          “  snrrrk mimimimi–  ”

okay okay hear me out. [ threaten ]   your muse threatening mine, perhaps during a very vivid hallucination and actually arriving to hurt him, + reverse [ pin ]   your muse forcibly pinning my muse beneath them? if you want 👀

You know when people tell you not to mess with sleepwalkers? Maybe that’s why.  I mean, the guy wasn’t exactly sleepwalking - hell, Guzma is quite sure he didn’t go to sleep to begin with -, but the point still stands.

Because he doesn’t.

Constantin moved a little too fast for comfort, and the floor hit harder than usual. Incredible what surprise can do. It’s enough to activate his fight-or-flight instinct as well, not to hurt the other, but at least to grab him by the shirt and roll over, taking a second to breathe, before...

Eyes narrow, distrust written into every fiber of her being. Her core tightens, posture remaining stiff and defensive. The holy blade remains unsheathed, its glow only cementing the burn of distrust that filled her.

The scent was also that of the paranormal... Of wrongness, of unholiness. More than often, this was the familiar whisper of the yōkai's influence, a smell like rotting wood or burning. Every hair within her nostrils felt like it might singe off.

However, the smell isn't entirely of malignant magics. There's something "in-between" about his powers. A gray area when her world was black and white. The sword could have been reacting to that bit of darkness in him, but she couldn't be sure.

Robin swallowed, and said nothing. She simply took another step forward, boot hardly making a sound in the grit and grass of the forest floor.