deathsdoctor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deathsdoctor) wrote2010-11-08 12:18 am
deathsdoctor) wrote2010-11-08 12:18 am
001
[It is cold. It is so freaking damn cold out up this mountain, even by the standards of a North Blue native…]
[To backtrack a little, sometime between last night and the early morn, some vague ill defined time when the journals were quiet and most were asleep, Trafalgar Law awoke. In a copse of trees, at the bottom of a gorge surrounded by towering cliffs of rock, and completely naked except for a ridiculously thin pair of white cotton pants.
And wings. Small but sleek raven black wings ending with yellow tips. That twitched painfully with every inhalation and exhalation of salt free air.
He can feel them. It’s wrong, on so many levels. He’s been kidnapped, this is obvious (the how escapes him for now, the near impossibility of this act staggering), he’s probably been drugged (no matter how he tries, he can’t clear the fog obscuring his senses), but the mutilation…
Revenge? No. Not a job like this. This is surgery beyond the skill of any he knows are practicing on the Line. He doubts even Vegapunk can knit flesh and bone, nerve and muscle fibre quite like this, and the rumours of what he can do are...
Enough.
Law extends the wings slowly, testing, ignoring the flames flaring. Flex, flare – such fine muscle control, so quickly, so naturally, should be impossible as well. It takes the brain years to refine coordination like this. He delicately prods the base of the wings. There aren’t even scars.
Who did this?
No matter. Not now. The payment for these services rendered would be the same.
Blood.
Head spinning, senses muffled, back a mass of seething fire, Law finds the curious book first. Then his boots and socks next, and only those. Gee, thanks bastards. You mean for him to walk, but where? His frown only grows more pronounced as he finds the pages of the book blank. And wouldn’t you know, he hits upon that rare moment of utter silence. The book is just that, an empty book. He closes it before there is a chance for anyone to make a noise or appear on its pages.
He discovers the rocks after that. They look like flint and they brightly spark when he strikes them. Excellent. The temperature is dropping as the night wears on and he has to do something fast before anything more severe than mild hypothermia sets in. Now there is a solution.
And faced with the choice of losing a still potentially valuable source of answers and getting through the night alive, and without facing the additional ironic joy of losing limbs through frostbite, when he had gained extra already…
… paper makes excellent kindling.]
[Daylight finds Law making his way through the mountains, bookless, armed with a torch (for warmth now – the best he can do) and the rocks tucked securely in his pockets. It’s still cold, but with light the temperature has risen to a point where it’s just irritable and painful in turns to someone of the shounen persuasion.
He’s so grateful for the boots now.
The pirate knows now he’s been drugged. Not because the fog’s still there, because it is. But because he has a guide. If voices in your head constitute a guide.
It doesn’t really talk. Not through words. More like impressions – like the feel of the wind in the sails on a warm summery day – that make their point clear anyway. But it’s chatty and friendly and somehow steering him around the greatest of dangers in these difficult mountain heights. And for a voice in his head, it’s not half bad. It’s certainly helpful.
It – or he – the voice insists on being called he – his name is Kipinn. Law thinks anyway. He chatters back. It’s all he can do besides keep moving and hope to find civilization. And wonder what has happened to his crew, if this is what happened to him.
The day’s so breezy. He waves his hand like Kipinn suggests (suggests, not demands, they had established that early on) and the breeze feels slightly stronger.
These are insane drugs.]
[Nightfall, and the threat of anything more than mild hypothermia returns. He’s almost made it out of the mountains – he can see trees in the darkening gloom and lights pooling beyond that but he won’t go any further tonight. Law knows that the hypothermia promotes poor decision making. And the dark hides dangers better faced in the light.
He’s already bearing the marks of his trip through the mountains, you see.
Time brings him to a cave. It looks to have belonged to a bear. It might still belong to a bear. It certainly will be interesting to find out either way. It’s a cozy thing, for a cave, and one crackling fire makes it even cosier.
And then…
And then he sees it.
That book. In perfectly pristine condition. Lying upon a stone shelf like someone had followed Law in and placed it there. It’s exactly the same book he burned to stave off the cold.
Maybe it’s not drugs. But it’s definitely someone fucking with him. He grabs the book without a second thought and NOW he hears the voices as it falls open.]
[Which brings us back to this: It is cold. It is so freaking damn cold out up on this here mountain, even by the standards of a North Blue native, even with a fire, and the window displaying the feed from the journal occasionally seems to be shivering. There is light flickering in the background, visible as the journal’s pages are flipped, but a face doesn’t come into view, just yet. Whoever’s on the other end is trying to make sense of all this, and right now ‘sense’ means sitting down and listening to you talk on this crazy den den book. Finally though, he’s had enough…]
[VOICE:]
Luceti? …is that what this place is called? But where exactly is it? I’ve never heard of any place like this before.
[It’s mildly said, but… answers. He wants answers. You can hear it vibrating in the inflection of his tone.
Can you really blame him?]
((OOC: Putting this up tonight. Will answer tags tomorrow evening after work.))
[To backtrack a little, sometime between last night and the early morn, some vague ill defined time when the journals were quiet and most were asleep, Trafalgar Law awoke. In a copse of trees, at the bottom of a gorge surrounded by towering cliffs of rock, and completely naked except for a ridiculously thin pair of white cotton pants.
And wings. Small but sleek raven black wings ending with yellow tips. That twitched painfully with every inhalation and exhalation of salt free air.
He can feel them. It’s wrong, on so many levels. He’s been kidnapped, this is obvious (the how escapes him for now, the near impossibility of this act staggering), he’s probably been drugged (no matter how he tries, he can’t clear the fog obscuring his senses), but the mutilation…
Revenge? No. Not a job like this. This is surgery beyond the skill of any he knows are practicing on the Line. He doubts even Vegapunk can knit flesh and bone, nerve and muscle fibre quite like this, and the rumours of what he can do are...
Enough.
Law extends the wings slowly, testing, ignoring the flames flaring. Flex, flare – such fine muscle control, so quickly, so naturally, should be impossible as well. It takes the brain years to refine coordination like this. He delicately prods the base of the wings. There aren’t even scars.
Who did this?
No matter. Not now. The payment for these services rendered would be the same.
Blood.
Head spinning, senses muffled, back a mass of seething fire, Law finds the curious book first. Then his boots and socks next, and only those. Gee, thanks bastards. You mean for him to walk, but where? His frown only grows more pronounced as he finds the pages of the book blank. And wouldn’t you know, he hits upon that rare moment of utter silence. The book is just that, an empty book. He closes it before there is a chance for anyone to make a noise or appear on its pages.
He discovers the rocks after that. They look like flint and they brightly spark when he strikes them. Excellent. The temperature is dropping as the night wears on and he has to do something fast before anything more severe than mild hypothermia sets in. Now there is a solution.
And faced with the choice of losing a still potentially valuable source of answers and getting through the night alive, and without facing the additional ironic joy of losing limbs through frostbite, when he had gained extra already…
… paper makes excellent kindling.]
[Daylight finds Law making his way through the mountains, bookless, armed with a torch (for warmth now – the best he can do) and the rocks tucked securely in his pockets. It’s still cold, but with light the temperature has risen to a point where it’s just irritable and painful in turns to someone of the shounen persuasion.
He’s so grateful for the boots now.
The pirate knows now he’s been drugged. Not because the fog’s still there, because it is. But because he has a guide. If voices in your head constitute a guide.
It doesn’t really talk. Not through words. More like impressions – like the feel of the wind in the sails on a warm summery day – that make their point clear anyway. But it’s chatty and friendly and somehow steering him around the greatest of dangers in these difficult mountain heights. And for a voice in his head, it’s not half bad. It’s certainly helpful.
It – or he – the voice insists on being called he – his name is Kipinn. Law thinks anyway. He chatters back. It’s all he can do besides keep moving and hope to find civilization. And wonder what has happened to his crew, if this is what happened to him.
The day’s so breezy. He waves his hand like Kipinn suggests (suggests, not demands, they had established that early on) and the breeze feels slightly stronger.
These are insane drugs.]
[Nightfall, and the threat of anything more than mild hypothermia returns. He’s almost made it out of the mountains – he can see trees in the darkening gloom and lights pooling beyond that but he won’t go any further tonight. Law knows that the hypothermia promotes poor decision making. And the dark hides dangers better faced in the light.
He’s already bearing the marks of his trip through the mountains, you see.
Time brings him to a cave. It looks to have belonged to a bear. It might still belong to a bear. It certainly will be interesting to find out either way. It’s a cozy thing, for a cave, and one crackling fire makes it even cosier.
And then…
And then he sees it.
That book. In perfectly pristine condition. Lying upon a stone shelf like someone had followed Law in and placed it there. It’s exactly the same book he burned to stave off the cold.
Maybe it’s not drugs. But it’s definitely someone fucking with him. He grabs the book without a second thought and NOW he hears the voices as it falls open.]
[Which brings us back to this: It is cold. It is so freaking damn cold out up on this here mountain, even by the standards of a North Blue native, even with a fire, and the window displaying the feed from the journal occasionally seems to be shivering. There is light flickering in the background, visible as the journal’s pages are flipped, but a face doesn’t come into view, just yet. Whoever’s on the other end is trying to make sense of all this, and right now ‘sense’ means sitting down and listening to you talk on this crazy den den book. Finally though, he’s had enough…]
[VOICE:]
Luceti? …is that what this place is called? But where exactly is it? I’ve never heard of any place like this before.
[It’s mildly said, but… answers. He wants answers. You can hear it vibrating in the inflection of his tone.
Can you really blame him?]
((OOC: Putting this up tonight. Will answer tags tomorrow evening after work.))
no subject
Hell? Hm… yes. [a chuckle with as little humour returned as given] A cold one.
…
[Again a familiar voice. He can’t recall where exactly, though that flash of orange hair teases at memories of not too long ago, but he knows he’s encountered you somewhere in The Line before.]
[Welcome aboard. That gets another one of those soft chuckles.] Well, thank you, Miss...
no subject
1/2
2/2
[The voice is still mild as hell, though there are the edges of wear creeping around the edges. Still. Sounds like he's already been out there for a while. Brrr...]
no subject
no subject
[The journal moves slightly as the man on the other side shifts, and something is thrown on the fire, which snaps and crackles, and where there is no image, suddenly there is one, briefly, outlined in firelight, and thrown into sharp relief, along with a pile of gathered wood.
Then darkness falls again as the flare of fire dies down and masks everything back to outlines, only for things to steadily brighten again as there's blurry movement again. The image of the man, highlighted and heavy shadowed by campfire (as only campfire can), appears once more, and even though it may be hard to make out his features, he's raising an eyebrow at you and your flat tone.
Huh, it appears he was more concerned with the state of that fire (and wood supply), than having his face close by the journal. Appears, anyway.]
I'm flattered. Really. It's nice to know I'm so liked. [The face moves as he glances outside] Hmm... they're northwest.
1/2
It's been a while, but given the events on Sabaody she wouldn't forget that face in a hurry.]
no subject
...that's a shame. [No longer sounding flat, or even wary; just preoccupied as she sorts through her own thoughts-- and starts paying attention to some of the other conversations.] If you were further north along the mountains I could have directed you to the hot springs. It'd make for a warmer place to spend the night.