[ he has to kneel down, gripping at his stomach, trying to concentrate on literally anything else but it. it doesn't work. all he can think about how much he wants it to stop, but he can also remember the weight of holding the small child in his arms as they wandered this place. ]
No. Just... no.
[ he focuses his gaze on the others in the room. ]
[ she knows that reality is catching up to all of them, palpably and painfully. the cold, the noise, the hunger—it's all enough to drive her to knee, enough that even the viscera that's clinging to her clothes is less nauseating than before.
they'll die if they do nothing. but even she feels a squeeze in her chest when she remembers how this child has done nothing but save them at every horrible turn. ]
There must be something—think. What have we found so far?
[ it feels desperate and pointless, but on the edges of consciousness they have to try. ]
[Don't eat anything, she said. Don't eat anything, even if it feels like dying - somehow, she still feels strongly that was the right answer. But is it still the right answer if this is the only other option?
The pain brings her to her knees. Mercy, mercy. Is the child asking for mercy, or offering? Does that matter? If it is mercy offered, should she take it, even at this cost, remembering the one rule she is meant to follow at the expense of all others?
Stay alive. You may not end your own life through suicide. You may not end your own life through carelessness.
If it is mercy asked for, should she give it? She promised she would help how she could, and who is she to deny a request? But she's remembering. . . something else. The dour, resigned face of Ortus Nigenad, dutiful to the end, terrified always. Catacombs, below Drearburh, filled with tiny bones.]
I don't want that sort of mercy. Let me first water these walls with my veins. Let me first consume my own tissues, my own muscles, my own bone. The weakness of my body is less than the weakness of my heart, because it cannot bear to give you what you ask.
[A little astonishingly, against her will, tears are spilling down her cheeks, as she expends some of her precious dying, starving energy to give a pretentious little speech like the dramatic goth teen she is. She crawls forward as best she can despite the dizzying hunger, and reaches out to touch the child, and reaches out to touch the bottom of the paper bag, gentle.]
it echoes again, stronger, piercing, like the sound of shattering glass. the child inches closer to them, shivering. they hold out a hand, resting it on the ground, palm flat, in front of the four of them.
you are going to die. you know this hunger is going to kill you, if you do not act, somehow. it hurts, starving to death - and it does a number on your body. the longer you resist, the more you realize your body is shutting down. hair starts to fall out. you feel cold, you can't stand.
harrow speaks, and the child jitters. she can lift the bag.
the child looks like maybe she was a little girl, once. distorted, like the monsters before. her long, tangled black hair is missing in chunks, sticking up at wild angles. there are dark, dark circles around their eyes, black - so black that they almost resemble a raccoon. the child opens their mouth, and tries to speak, but nothing comes out. their sharp animal fangs clack, as they shut their mouth.
this time, there are no tears. just a long, steady look. they offer their hand to harrow, and the urge to eat, to devour, is almost overpowering.]
[If there's one bright side to their bodies slowly shutting down, it's that it zaps them of their strength. And the closer the child gets to the group, the more Sheila forces herself to inch away from them — and the rest of her companions. Something crunches from where she's biting her fingers. Though she drops the hand, obscuring it far too quickly to see what happened there.
Her voice is incredibly strained when she speaks, like it is taking every single ounce of the strength she has left to abstain from doing something she will regret. Her breathing is agitated.]
T-The eye. We still have the eye, right? We can eat the fucking eye.
[Or maybe they can just die. Dying sounds better than eating an eldritch child.]
[ it's so hard to concentrate on whatever it is that sheila's saying. he has to tear his eyes away from the child, and there is such a deep, aching heartbreak as he watches them offer themselves to the group. it isn't an unfamiliar feeling, of wanting to take the place of another, but...
he sucks in a sharp breath, and looks over to where harrow's neat eyeball is. ]
Yeah-- fuck. That.
[ he is team eyeball before they think about eating a child, yes. ]
[ Her mind starts to drift from her—she can scarcely hear what the others are saying as she feels life slowly leave her, staring into this child's dark eyes and feeling a mix of sorrow, pain, confusion, and worst of all, ravenous hunger.
She questions her resolve—she agreed to be here, knowing how capable of cruelty they all are—and yet when it comes this moment, where her life and her precious wish is on the line, she cannot move.Â
She could kill this child painlessly and survive, certainly cold enough to understand that, but she steadfastly considers instead that the eye might not sustain the four of them. Worth a try, but—she draws her knife again, considering, mind swimming and desperate. ]
My arm... it's already— [ She grimaces as she tries to move her fingers. ] If the eye isn't enough.
[ At least they all seem united in their foolishness. ]
[Harrow makes a miserable, whimpering noise, seeing the child's face. A little girl, sickly and scared and monstrous. The hunger wants her to take the offered hand and live, and so does the words of the note rattling in her head, but she can't do anything but push the offered hand away and lie on the ground, curling up, accepting the weakness that washes over her as she half listens to the others. It isn't so bad. It isn't so bad. And then there's a third thought, also rattling around in her brain, like some intrusive thought, going - What. Um. Yuck. Okay, don't just lie down half vored and die, please, you weirdo? Get up and - ugh - snack on that nasty eyeball, I guess.
Tears still rolling down her cheeks against her will, she'll reach for the eye tucked into her corset and take a ravenous bite, letting the juices and jelly of it flow down her chin. She wants to keep going, and her hands are trembling a little, but she'll hold it out to the others to take their bites, too. Immediately once it's gone, if the hunger remains, she's licking at her chin, at the blood and gore on her arms.]
[the child whines, when harrow pushes their hand away. collapses down with them, watches them helplessly.
the eye does nothing - it's delicious, it's the best thing you've ever tasted, but it does nothing for the hunger that overwhelms you. it almost makes it worse, to know you're so close to what you need. you're fading. your breathing slows. it isn't enough.
each of them feel a hand, gripping at theirs, desperate, and that tinny voice warbles, sobs, no, don't leave me too --
the four of them wake, disoriented, in individual cages, side by side. the doors to the cages are unlocked and easily opened. in front of them is a paper bag with eye holes, resting on the ground.
if they can manage to pull themselves to their feet, there is a circle on the floor, fluctuating between eight different colors. they will find if they step into this circle, they will be teleported back to the base.
along with the serious injuries they have sustained during this adventure, the four items they retrieved, and the trauma of having to decide to vore or be vored, they will find that they are missing one important memory for a full week.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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No. Just... no.
[ he focuses his gaze on the others in the room. ]
Something else.
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they'll die if they do nothing. but even she feels a squeeze in her chest when she remembers how this child has done nothing but save them at every horrible turn. ]
There must be something—think. What have we found so far?
[ it feels desperate and pointless, but on the edges of consciousness they have to try. ]
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The pain brings her to her knees. Mercy, mercy. Is the child asking for mercy, or offering? Does that matter? If it is mercy offered, should she take it, even at this cost, remembering the one rule she is meant to follow at the expense of all others?
Stay alive. You may not end your own life through suicide. You may not end your own life through carelessness.
If it is mercy asked for, should she give it? She promised she would help how she could, and who is she to deny a request? But she's remembering. . . something else. The dour, resigned face of Ortus Nigenad, dutiful to the end, terrified always. Catacombs, below Drearburh, filled with tiny bones.]
I don't want that sort of mercy. Let me first water these walls with my veins. Let me first consume my own tissues, my own muscles, my own bone. The weakness of my body is less than the weakness of my heart, because it cannot bear to give you what you ask.
[A little astonishingly, against her will, tears are spilling down her cheeks, as she expends some of her precious dying, starving energy to give a pretentious little speech like the dramatic goth teen she is. She crawls forward as best she can despite the dizzying hunger, and reaches out to touch the child, and reaches out to touch the bottom of the paper bag, gentle.]
May I?
[Can she lift the bag?]
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it echoes again, stronger, piercing, like the sound of shattering glass. the child inches closer to them, shivering. they hold out a hand, resting it on the ground, palm flat, in front of the four of them.
you are going to die. you know this hunger is going to kill you, if you do not act, somehow. it hurts, starving to death - and it does a number on your body. the longer you resist, the more you realize your body is shutting down. hair starts to fall out. you feel cold, you can't stand.
harrow speaks, and the child jitters. she can lift the bag.
the child looks like maybe she was a little girl, once. distorted, like the monsters before. her long, tangled black hair is missing in chunks, sticking up at wild angles. there are dark, dark circles around their eyes, black - so black that they almost resemble a raccoon. the child opens their mouth, and tries to speak, but nothing comes out. their sharp animal fangs clack, as they shut their mouth.
this time, there are no tears. just a long, steady look. they offer their hand to harrow, and the urge to eat, to devour, is almost overpowering.]
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Her voice is incredibly strained when she speaks, like it is taking every single ounce of the strength she has left to abstain from doing something she will regret. Her breathing is agitated.]
T-The eye. We still have the eye, right? We can eat the fucking eye.
[Or maybe they can just die. Dying sounds better than eating an eldritch child.]
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he sucks in a sharp breath, and looks over to where harrow's neat eyeball is. ]
Yeah-- fuck. That.
[ he is team eyeball before they think about eating a child, yes. ]
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She questions her resolve—she agreed to be here, knowing how capable of cruelty they all are—and yet when it comes this moment, where her life and her precious wish is on the line, she cannot move.Â
She could kill this child painlessly and survive, certainly cold enough to understand that, but she steadfastly considers instead that the eye might not sustain the four of them. Worth a try, but—she draws her knife again, considering, mind swimming and desperate. ]
My arm... it's already— [ She grimaces as she tries to move her fingers. ] If the eye isn't enough.
[ At least they all seem united in their foolishness. ]
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Tears still rolling down her cheeks against her will, she'll reach for the eye tucked into her corset and take a ravenous bite, letting the juices and jelly of it flow down her chin. She wants to keep going, and her hands are trembling a little, but she'll hold it out to the others to take their bites, too. Immediately once it's gone, if the hunger remains, she's licking at her chin, at the blood and gore on her arms.]
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the eye does nothing - it's delicious, it's the best thing you've ever tasted, but it does nothing for the hunger that overwhelms you. it almost makes it worse, to know you're so close to what you need. you're fading. your breathing slows. it isn't enough.
each of them feel a hand, gripping at theirs, desperate, and that tinny voice warbles, sobs, no, don't leave me too --
and then everything fades to black.
harrowhark, takeru, vira, and sheila are dead.]
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the four of them wake, disoriented, in individual cages, side by side. the doors to the cages are unlocked and easily opened. in front of them is a paper bag with eye holes, resting on the ground.
if they can manage to pull themselves to their feet, there is a circle on the floor, fluctuating between eight different colors. they will find if they step into this circle, they will be teleported back to the base.
along with the serious injuries they have sustained during this adventure, the four items they retrieved, and the trauma of having to decide to vore or be vored, they will find that they are missing one important memory for a full week.]
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THEIR BABY AHHHH]
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