[ Its slimy, and wet. Constraining, like being pressed far too tight, swallowed on all sides, like being pressed together in the shaft of a mine. It's claustrophobic, in it's own way, pressed all together, and he struggles, trying to press against the sides. One eye open -- always open -- it searches for a sign of something, but covered in slime, it might as well be as closed as the other, as he pushes against it.
He'd never been strong, fast maybe, but not strong -- and weak arms flail out, pressing, trying to fight. The more it presses back, the harder it is, the harder he fights, clawing, lips peeled back in fury like an animal as he sifts, and kicks -- trying to break free. Break that too-claustrophobic presence, pressing on all sides. It is a long, and agonizing process, spurts of weakness -- did his stomach hurt? -- before he fought again, and finally, finally it yields to persistence.
His fingers claw through, almost like running through sinew, before he pulls, and twists, slipping free, breathing heavy -- angry somehow. So angry for the indignity of it all, or for the effort it took. It's a moment, before reality really rushes in, like being clapped on the head, a ringing in his ears, a wheeze, trying to suck in enough air from eternally pollution-laden lungs. His head whipped around, glowing eye landing on one detail after another, shivering. It was a deeply unpleasant afterlife he'd found himself in. Not that he expected anything less. ]
β» captivity
[ Clothing in the forms of shoes and blankets -- a paltry offering -- was welcomed, although Silco continued to shiver, his body numb from cold -- or was it pain? That echo of a rip into his entire mass still echoed down to his fingers, made his toes curl in his shoes. One of which, at the ankle, there was a whip. Unpleasant and insulting, Silco tried to resist the orders. Of course he did. He'd grown up in the Undercity, where you fought every scrap of authority, and even his own he would expect any good Zaunite to do the same, until they were culled back into obedience.
Except that is where he found himself now, captive, cowed, cold, and searing with fury, as they led him away. His eyes took stock of the black-covered warriors, and the others, but both were an enemy, if you were going to be ineffective at getting him freed. He seethed in rage, every now and then, tried to step in a different direction, before he was tugged back in line. Sour, his stride sometimes petulantly slowed instead, before he finally found his way back down with the rest of them, the soldiers tugging him along like an untrained animal by the end.
The look on his face said, very clearly, that he was not a happy man right now. Approach only at your own risk. ]
β» waiting
[ Have you ever seen a fucking crime lord wear white?
No? Well now you have.
It would be an insult to his station to call the way he sat petulant, but with the furious look to his face, the tilt of his head, the intensity of that one scarred, glowing eye, he does not look easy to approach. His hands twitch, periodically, as if a tick, whenever it looks like he's about to stand, and cause a problem, his fingers lace through his hair, and it's back in place, neat and orderly, with a single white stripe over his blackened eye -- not soothed, but under control again.
He doesn't talk. Not really. He doesn't bother to say much of anything, unless spoken to. There's the sense that he isn't friendly, whether from the large glowing eye, the sour and angry look on his face, or maybe just his generally hunched demeanor... it's difficult to say what it is about him.
There is one conclusion that can be made. He is not a happy camper right now. ]
β» wildcard [ Want do do a dreaming one? Something else? Go for it! I can follow your lead! ]
Silco | League Arcane | Visionary
[ Its slimy, and wet. Constraining, like being pressed far too tight, swallowed on all sides, like being pressed together in the shaft of a mine. It's claustrophobic, in it's own way, pressed all together, and he struggles, trying to press against the sides. One eye open -- always open -- it searches for a sign of something, but covered in slime, it might as well be as closed as the other, as he pushes against it.
He'd never been strong, fast maybe, but not strong -- and weak arms flail out, pressing, trying to fight. The more it presses back, the harder it is, the harder he fights, clawing, lips peeled back in fury like an animal as he sifts, and kicks -- trying to break free. Break that too-claustrophobic presence, pressing on all sides. It is a long, and agonizing process, spurts of weakness -- did his stomach hurt? -- before he fought again, and finally, finally it yields to persistence.
His fingers claw through, almost like running through sinew, before he pulls, and twists, slipping free, breathing heavy -- angry somehow. So angry for the indignity of it all, or for the effort it took. It's a moment, before reality really rushes in, like being clapped on the head, a ringing in his ears, a wheeze, trying to suck in enough air from eternally pollution-laden lungs. His head whipped around, glowing eye landing on one detail after another, shivering. It was a deeply unpleasant afterlife he'd found himself in. Not that he expected anything less. ]
β» captivity
[ Clothing in the forms of shoes and blankets -- a paltry offering -- was welcomed, although Silco continued to shiver, his body numb from cold -- or was it pain? That echo of a rip into his entire mass still echoed down to his fingers, made his toes curl in his shoes. One of which, at the ankle, there was a whip. Unpleasant and insulting, Silco tried to resist the orders. Of course he did. He'd grown up in the Undercity, where you fought every scrap of authority, and even his own he would expect any good Zaunite to do the same, until they were culled back into obedience.
Except that is where he found himself now, captive, cowed, cold, and searing with fury, as they led him away. His eyes took stock of the black-covered warriors, and the others, but both were an enemy, if you were going to be ineffective at getting him freed. He seethed in rage, every now and then, tried to step in a different direction, before he was tugged back in line. Sour, his stride sometimes petulantly slowed instead, before he finally found his way back down with the rest of them, the soldiers tugging him along like an untrained animal by the end.
The look on his face said, very clearly, that he was not a happy man right now. Approach only at your own risk. ]
β» waiting
[ Have you ever seen a fucking crime lord wear white?
No? Well now you have.
It would be an insult to his station to call the way he sat petulant, but with the furious look to his face, the tilt of his head, the intensity of that one scarred, glowing eye, he does not look easy to approach. His hands twitch, periodically, as if a tick, whenever it looks like he's about to stand, and cause a problem, his fingers lace through his hair, and it's back in place, neat and orderly, with a single white stripe over his blackened eye -- not soothed, but under control again.
He doesn't talk. Not really. He doesn't bother to say much of anything, unless spoken to. There's the sense that he isn't friendly, whether from the large glowing eye, the sour and angry look on his face, or maybe just his generally hunched demeanor... it's difficult to say what it is about him.
There is one conclusion that can be made. He is not a happy camper right now. ]
β» wildcard
[ Want do do a dreaming one? Something else? Go for it! I can follow your lead! ]