Asch the Bloody (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dissonates) wrote2012-07-08 10:21 pm
dissonates) wrote2012-07-08 10:21 pm
Entry tags:
[Voice]
[Silence.
There's too much of it. It burns into his mind, the echo of emptiness in the corner of it, that ache he can't seem to brush aside no matter how he tries to distract himself. He's tried going outside, he's tried burying himself in that braille stuff Xion gave him, he's tried striking up conversations with his housemates (even the animals), but he runs out of things to say far too quickly and in the back of his mind it's always there. The silence, the echo. The fact that something is missing.
Dead.
And then he's had enough.
The journal's camera is partially obscured when the feed flickers on, and what it does show is his face - eyes, a flash of red hair, his bangs down - just enough to make it seem like he's not quite himself. His voice, too, is softened; it's not as open and friendly as Luke would have been when greeting the village, but it lacks the usual anger or pent-up frustrations of the socially-awkward soldier. If anything it sounds... hushed, weary, tinged with a bit of desperation. He needs this. Whether or not he wants to do it is irrelevant.
It hurts. The silence hurts, more than last time when Luke had been sent home, and he honestly hadn't thought it would.]
Tell me about your day. Tell me a story. Talk about anything. Today I'm listening.
[He might not care. He might not be nice about it. He might not even remember it later. But he'll listen.
He just needs to hear something, so he can forget about the nothing in his head for a while.]
((Asch is blind, so all tags must be voice/action or he cannot respond to them!))
There's too much of it. It burns into his mind, the echo of emptiness in the corner of it, that ache he can't seem to brush aside no matter how he tries to distract himself. He's tried going outside, he's tried burying himself in that braille stuff Xion gave him, he's tried striking up conversations with his housemates (even the animals), but he runs out of things to say far too quickly and in the back of his mind it's always there. The silence, the echo. The fact that something is missing.
Dead.
And then he's had enough.
The journal's camera is partially obscured when the feed flickers on, and what it does show is his face - eyes, a flash of red hair, his bangs down - just enough to make it seem like he's not quite himself. His voice, too, is softened; it's not as open and friendly as Luke would have been when greeting the village, but it lacks the usual anger or pent-up frustrations of the socially-awkward soldier. If anything it sounds... hushed, weary, tinged with a bit of desperation. He needs this. Whether or not he wants to do it is irrelevant.
It hurts. The silence hurts, more than last time when Luke had been sent home, and he honestly hadn't thought it would.]
Tell me about your day. Tell me a story. Talk about anything. Today I'm listening.
[He might not care. He might not be nice about it. He might not even remember it later. But he'll listen.
He just needs to hear something, so he can forget about the nothing in his head for a while.]
((Asch is blind, so all tags must be voice/action or he cannot respond to them!))
[voice]
[He's very good at reading people although it's not called for here. Michael just wants to help in any way he can.]
[voice]
[It can't hurt, and if he doesn't like it he can just close the journal.]
[voice]
A long time ago there was a little girl who was very sick. She lived with her mother and father in an old house they'd built themselves. Time passed and the girl got sicker. She couldn't have friends visit and she couldn't play. Eventually, she passed away.
The mother and father were so overcome with grief that they too passed away and were all found in the same room together about a month later. The family was buried together in a plot behind the home.
Fast-forward fifty years. A family that's new in town decide they want to spend their money renovating the home and buying the property it's on. They turn the home into a bustling, busy place and soon enough, they and their four children are moved in.
In the middle of the night, the youngest daughter hears something. A slap, tap, slap, slide of something padding down the wooden floorboards outside her room. Like someone dragging their feet. She's a very young girl so naturally she's curious but assumed the worst. She covers her head with her blankets just as her door opens.
The slapping, tapping and sliding sound begins to get closer... and closer... until the little girl swears she can hear ragged breaths. She's terrified, shaking... and then...
The blanket is pulled down!!! . . . by nothing. The little girl sits up in bed and screams as loudly as she can. The family comes running, but other than a chill in the room, there's nothing they can find. They dismiss it as her imagination.
The following night at midnight, the second youngest child, a boy, hears a slap, tap, sliding in the hall on the wooden flooring like someone dragging their feet. He knows the littlest sister's story and because he's second youngest, he's scared. He hides under his blankets just as the door creaks slowly open. He can hear the slap, tap, slide as it grows closer and closer... until...
His blanket is pulled down too!!! . . . but nothing is there. He lets out a cry even louder than the littlest sister's. The family comes running and he tells them his story but aside from a chill in the air, there's nothing they can find. They dismiss it as his imagination.
The third night at midnight, the two eldest children, a brother and a sister, are trying to stay awake. They want to catch whatever is making the slapping, tapping, sliding sound in the hall that their littlest siblings have been talking about. Suddenly, they hear it...
Slap. Tap. Sliiiiide. Slap. Tap. Sliiiiiide.
Someone was very clearly dragging their feet slowly down the hall, making their way toward their room. The siblings were afraid, but they reached out to one another and held hands, promising to protect the other. The door slowly opened... and there was a little girl standing at the door, her face pale, her eyes sunken, her blond hair tied up in a neat little bun. In her hands, she held a red ball. Her leg was in a cast.
"Would you please play with me?" She asked them with a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, soft as down feathers.
The elder siblings agreed to play with her and the little girl smile, overjoyed. They played catch together in silence until finally, one of them laughed, then the other, then all three. The youngest siblings, hearing the laughter, arrived on the scene and, once the situation had been explained that a little injured girl just wanted to play, they happily joined in.
They played for hours until they finally just pushed their beds together and curled up to sleep all together as a happy group of tuckered out little children, the little girl sleeping happily in the middle of the bunch.
When the morning came, the parents called to their children but there was no response. Hurrying up the stairs to their rooms, they found them empty until they came to the shared room of the eldest siblings. They opened the door.
There, in bed, were their four children, dead in their sleep... and in the very middle of them, the mummified remains of a little girl holding a little red ball.
[voice]
Ghost stories are far from his forte, but that ending? Gross.]
Don't tell me that's supposed to be a happy ending.
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[Says the man who flew around the world and climbed into miles-deep ancient temples for a living before arriving here.]
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[Or stress-relieving. Which, for him, is very necessary.]
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Imagine a fence, a dumpster and a building. Most people would walk by thinking nothing of it, right? Well, trained in Parkour, you could scale that fence, leap to the dumpster, and scale the building, all in moments! Free-running means you take the course laid out for you. Obstacles and all.
[voice]
[Sounds like trying to traverse through Oracle Knight Headquarters, actually. Maybe that was the point.]
[voice]
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How I am is none of your business.
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Hey, you're the one who asked us to talk to you. You obviously have a lot on your mind.
So I figure why not work it off? Standing around listening to us talk won't help for long. Expending the energy will help a lot more is all.
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I don't think a blind man would perform well in a natural obstacle course.
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You ever heard of "The Daredevil?"
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