11-08-2018, 11:21 PM
She isn’t sure how long she’s been running for, but there is some way down deep part of her mind that has begun to wonder if she remembers how to stop. It feels like an urgent instinct though, a desperation in her chest, an endless surge of adrenaline pushing her faster and further and forever until that tiny dark and autumn body finally succumbs to the sickness that is everywhere.
She tried so hard not to catch it, tried to outrun it and hide from it. There were too many bloated bodies fallen beneath the trees, the tall trunks like monuments to lives ended too soon, so abruptly. Nameless and faceless and nothing. Grey, patchy skin. Blood on their lips and leaking from their eyes. She didn’t need to understand what death was to know she didn’t want to be like them. Empty and ugly and nothing.
But now she coughs like they do, dry and heaving until she feels sickness swell in her tummy because the muscles cannot abide the constant contractions her suffocating lungs send in tremors through her body. She bleeds too, though she pretends she doesn’t notice when she wipes her nose on her knee and the dark skin is glazed with new red. Pretends it’s just a scrape, a cut, because she’s tripped so many times.
It isn’t until the fever builds in her, burns in her, guides her to the edge of delirum, that she finally slows to a staggering walk. She can hear him coming, hear something massive stalking through the trees towards her. Or is it maybe the forest staggering around her, trees thumping down to sleep because they are so, so tired from all this useless, pointless running. Yes, it must be the trees. So she starts staggering forward again, scowling and delirious and smeared red in too many places, because she’s only just realizing she’s always wanted to see a tree sleeping on its side.
“Mmust be sso tiring to sstand all day.” She mumbles up at the nearest tree trunk, squinting and reaching her nose out to give it a push.
(ooc - this is being switched to current after-plague timeline obviously since baby warlow is sick. toli okayed it <3 )
She tried so hard not to catch it, tried to outrun it and hide from it. There were too many bloated bodies fallen beneath the trees, the tall trunks like monuments to lives ended too soon, so abruptly. Nameless and faceless and nothing. Grey, patchy skin. Blood on their lips and leaking from their eyes. She didn’t need to understand what death was to know she didn’t want to be like them. Empty and ugly and nothing.
But now she coughs like they do, dry and heaving until she feels sickness swell in her tummy because the muscles cannot abide the constant contractions her suffocating lungs send in tremors through her body. She bleeds too, though she pretends she doesn’t notice when she wipes her nose on her knee and the dark skin is glazed with new red. Pretends it’s just a scrape, a cut, because she’s tripped so many times.
It isn’t until the fever builds in her, burns in her, guides her to the edge of delirum, that she finally slows to a staggering walk. She can hear him coming, hear something massive stalking through the trees towards her. Or is it maybe the forest staggering around her, trees thumping down to sleep because they are so, so tired from all this useless, pointless running. Yes, it must be the trees. So she starts staggering forward again, scowling and delirious and smeared red in too many places, because she’s only just realizing she’s always wanted to see a tree sleeping on its side.
“Mmust be sso tiring to sstand all day.” She mumbles up at the nearest tree trunk, squinting and reaching her nose out to give it a push.
(ooc - this is being switched to current after-plague timeline obviously since baby warlow is sick. toli okayed it <3 )