[Lulzords] COMPLETE
So yeah, completed, though not by my hand. :3 MiniDevil did it - the person behind Ima. Without more ado, here we gooooo~
The road was dusty. Far too dusty. And hot. The white-haired wanderer snarled at the cloud of dust he was kicking up, drawing in a ragged breath.
“You’d better … better fuckin’ thank me for this.” He gasped out, pausing a moment to untangle his hands from his companions clothing, wiping bloodied hands ineffectually on his already soiled clothing to reach up and gently brush fingers over the open wound down the left side of his face, blood covering a good half of the normally porcelain white, eye stuck closed from the congealing fluids. He spared a moment to unhook his near-empty water skin, taking a long swallow of the unsatisfying liquid, hunching over his unconscious companion to repeat the process, albeit with more spluttering and half-hearted choking involved on the brigands part.
Water skin capped and hands once again grasping at frayed clothing the wanderer struggled onwards, heading for the promise of shade and cool water that he just knew was around here somewhere. Accompanied by only the sound of his uneven breathing and the knowledge that his companion was probably going to die whether or not he got to fresh water, he continued to put one foot in front of the other, dragging the larger axe wielder behind him.
“Fuckin’ sssseptic. You get -hff- stabbed by eight guys at -hff- once and you’re probably going - god you need to lose weight- to die of -hff- fucking septicemia. “
At last, a small wallow under a scraggly looking tree provides enough shade and ‘fresh’ - relatively, at least - water for his needs the exhausted wanderer dropped his companion by the side of the small pool of water, falling to his knees beside the large axer, already tearing at the brigand’s dusty clothing. Attempting to clean the strips of cloth seemed to be the most entertaining thing in the world for the wanderer at that point, and his halfhearted giggling interspersed with violent, explosive cursing filled the still, oppressive air as he tended his companions wounds, wiping away the beginnings of infection, white/yellow pus staining the faded blue material along with the brigands dried blood.
The white haired wanderer held an involved one-sided conversation with his companion, absently cleaning the brigands face of dried blood and cleaning the small abrasions along the brown haired axemans neck, returning to the deeper gashes along the others chest and upper thigh. After four hours of mindless cleaning, the wanderer sat back, staring blankly at his companion, keying into the disturbing lack of something so fundamental he’d never thought about it - the brown haired brigand wasn’t breathing, and probably hadn’t been for a couple of hours.
The world just seemed to drift away, crimson eye staring unblinking at the dead body, the fact taking a long while to sink in fully. The white haired young man drew in a deep breath, and opened his mouth to start screaming -
- and he woke up trembling, wild eyed and hands reaching from the snoring figure beside him. Still there. Not dead yet. Get up and move, Rusva! He damn near catapulted out of the makeshift bedding, glaring down at the sleeping brigand, as if it were somehow his fault. Said sleeping axeman made a small sound of discontent and rolled over, neatly nicking all the remaining sheet. Rusva choked back his laughter, one hand clamped over his mouth to stop the sound escaping, shuffling about beside the bedding and filching his companions tobacco (It jus’ reminds me o’ home, Rusva) and the last of the alcohol, retreating to the edge of the clearing to try and erase that dream from conscious memory using bootleg booze and nicotine.
The blue/grey smoke wafted into the air as he uncorked the glass bottle, wryly reminding himself to keep the damn thing once he was done with the last of the amber liquid - glass was rare to find most of the time, and he might be able to acquire something useful out of it.
It was still dark when Rusva woke, practically leaping from the bed. Ima could smell the sweat, hear the choked rushing sound of the albino struggling to hide his heavy breathing, trying to dull his hammering heartbeat. Once he’d vacated (with the booze and tobacco, gawdamnit), the mountainthief sat upright, idly scratching the back of his head as he watched his companion through the tent flap. Quietly, he stared, daring not betray himself. Ima hadn’t really slept for nearly a week now and the panicked lectures he received from his partner early on were easily avoided if he just pretended to sleep. It hurt to lie to Rusva; especially about his own well-being, but it seemed so much better than seeing Rusva tear himself apart with grief.
Unfortunately, his problems just kept feeding on themselves. He’d lost sleep because he’d received a horrid omen regarding Rusva’s health. Staying up all night, watching the night terrors and sickness take their grip had robbed him of more sleep… making it harder to force a smile each day.
Sighing, Ima submitted himself to his weakness. Just this once he allowed himself to stop protecting his love, to stride across the clearing and sink to his knees behind him. He buried his face in Rusva’s neck, wrapping the sheet around his waist and sobbed loudly, kissing at his jaw and neck. He stopped being strong, just wept against Rusva’s chest as he shed his nightclothes, whimpering pathetic confessions of how his life would-
-fall apart. As his eyes slid open, Ima couldn’t muster any decent reason to pry his eyes from the dusty ceiling and climb from the cot. He had guard duties today - so…?
He was on duty every day at this god-forsaken fort. Nothing ever happened and those who resided here knew of his loss, even if they didn’t understand it, so he often got away with doing a one-hour perimeter check each day, leaving the rest of his time devoted to starting forlorning out the window of the tower he slept in or dreaming of Rusva.
You’re not dead yet. Get up and move, Ima.
Sighing, the brigand practically dragged himself from the bedding, gazing emptily at the broach he hung nearby as though it was his fault Rusva had died. The giant leased a yawn, clamping a hand over his mouth out of habit, rummaging through yesterday’s clothes for his tobacco (It reminds me o’ him, Sir) and collected what was left of the bourbon from his rickety desk. Retreating to his window, he began the daily ritual of cleansing the nightmare from his body with bootleg alcohol and nicotine before the patrol.
The blue/grey smoke drifted out the window as he knocked back some of the mahogany liquid, reminding himself to pay the importer on his rounds - friendships are rare in the military business and he had to be careful to keep what little respect he could.
The road was dusty. Far too dusty. And hot. The white-haired wanderer snarled at the cloud of dust he was kicking up, drawing in a ragged breath.
“You’d better … better fuckin’ thank me for this.” He gasped out, pausing a moment to untangle his hands from his companions clothing, wiping bloodied hands ineffectually on his already soiled clothing to reach up and gently brush fingers over the open wound down the left side of his face, blood covering a good half of the normally porcelain white, eye stuck closed from the congealing fluids. He spared a moment to unhook his near-empty water skin, taking a long swallow of the unsatisfying liquid, hunching over his unconscious companion to repeat the process, albeit with more spluttering and half-hearted choking involved on the brigands part.
Water skin capped and hands once again grasping at frayed clothing the wanderer struggled onwards, heading for the promise of shade and cool water that he just knew was around here somewhere. Accompanied by only the sound of his uneven breathing and the knowledge that his companion was probably going to die whether or not he got to fresh water, he continued to put one foot in front of the other, dragging the larger axe wielder behind him.
“Fuckin’ sssseptic. You get -hff- stabbed by eight guys at -hff- once and you’re probably going - god you need to lose weight- to die of -hff- fucking septicemia. “
At last, a small wallow under a scraggly looking tree provides enough shade and ‘fresh’ - relatively, at least - water for his needs the exhausted wanderer dropped his companion by the side of the small pool of water, falling to his knees beside the large axer, already tearing at the brigand’s dusty clothing. Attempting to clean the strips of cloth seemed to be the most entertaining thing in the world for the wanderer at that point, and his halfhearted giggling interspersed with violent, explosive cursing filled the still, oppressive air as he tended his companions wounds, wiping away the beginnings of infection, white/yellow pus staining the faded blue material along with the brigands dried blood.
The white haired wanderer held an involved one-sided conversation with his companion, absently cleaning the brigands face of dried blood and cleaning the small abrasions along the brown haired axemans neck, returning to the deeper gashes along the others chest and upper thigh. After four hours of mindless cleaning, the wanderer sat back, staring blankly at his companion, keying into the disturbing lack of something so fundamental he’d never thought about it - the brown haired brigand wasn’t breathing, and probably hadn’t been for a couple of hours.
The world just seemed to drift away, crimson eye staring unblinking at the dead body, the fact taking a long while to sink in fully. The white haired young man drew in a deep breath, and opened his mouth to start screaming -
- and he woke up trembling, wild eyed and hands reaching from the snoring figure beside him. Still there. Not dead yet. Get up and move, Rusva! He damn near catapulted out of the makeshift bedding, glaring down at the sleeping brigand, as if it were somehow his fault. Said sleeping axeman made a small sound of discontent and rolled over, neatly nicking all the remaining sheet. Rusva choked back his laughter, one hand clamped over his mouth to stop the sound escaping, shuffling about beside the bedding and filching his companions tobacco (It jus’ reminds me o’ home, Rusva) and the last of the alcohol, retreating to the edge of the clearing to try and erase that dream from conscious memory using bootleg booze and nicotine.
The blue/grey smoke wafted into the air as he uncorked the glass bottle, wryly reminding himself to keep the damn thing once he was done with the last of the amber liquid - glass was rare to find most of the time, and he might be able to acquire something useful out of it.
It was still dark when Rusva woke, practically leaping from the bed. Ima could smell the sweat, hear the choked rushing sound of the albino struggling to hide his heavy breathing, trying to dull his hammering heartbeat. Once he’d vacated (with the booze and tobacco, gawdamnit), the mountainthief sat upright, idly scratching the back of his head as he watched his companion through the tent flap. Quietly, he stared, daring not betray himself. Ima hadn’t really slept for nearly a week now and the panicked lectures he received from his partner early on were easily avoided if he just pretended to sleep. It hurt to lie to Rusva; especially about his own well-being, but it seemed so much better than seeing Rusva tear himself apart with grief.
Unfortunately, his problems just kept feeding on themselves. He’d lost sleep because he’d received a horrid omen regarding Rusva’s health. Staying up all night, watching the night terrors and sickness take their grip had robbed him of more sleep… making it harder to force a smile each day.
Sighing, Ima submitted himself to his weakness. Just this once he allowed himself to stop protecting his love, to stride across the clearing and sink to his knees behind him. He buried his face in Rusva’s neck, wrapping the sheet around his waist and sobbed loudly, kissing at his jaw and neck. He stopped being strong, just wept against Rusva’s chest as he shed his nightclothes, whimpering pathetic confessions of how his life would-
-fall apart. As his eyes slid open, Ima couldn’t muster any decent reason to pry his eyes from the dusty ceiling and climb from the cot. He had guard duties today - so…?
He was on duty every day at this god-forsaken fort. Nothing ever happened and those who resided here knew of his loss, even if they didn’t understand it, so he often got away with doing a one-hour perimeter check each day, leaving the rest of his time devoted to starting forlorning out the window of the tower he slept in or dreaming of Rusva.
You’re not dead yet. Get up and move, Ima.
Sighing, the brigand practically dragged himself from the bedding, gazing emptily at the broach he hung nearby as though it was his fault Rusva had died. The giant leased a yawn, clamping a hand over his mouth out of habit, rummaging through yesterday’s clothes for his tobacco (It reminds me o’ him, Sir) and collected what was left of the bourbon from his rickety desk. Retreating to his window, he began the daily ritual of cleansing the nightmare from his body with bootleg alcohol and nicotine before the patrol.
The blue/grey smoke drifted out the window as he knocked back some of the mahogany liquid, reminding himself to pay the importer on his rounds - friendships are rare in the military business and he had to be careful to keep what little respect he could.