001 [Action/Accidental Voice]
[ A green-haired swordsman, clad in loose white pants and bandaged from neck to ankle, is seated on a stump somewhere in the forest. There's a pretty scary scowl on his face-jolted awake who-the-fuck-knows where, again; swords stolen, again; fucking wings that actually goddamn hurt when he tried to rip them off, argh-but after a few frustrated snarls and then a pause for a deep, stilling breath-he doesn't have time for this shit, he's got nakama to find his way back to-he's now calmly pressing and poking at his thoroughly wrapped chest, arms, and abdomen, assessing and muttering under his breath. ]
Ow. Ow. Ow. Okay, fuck. Ow.
[ ...Hn. That's what he'd thought. Mysteriously less heavy-trauma damage than he remembers having, oh, before he woke up here, but he's still in pretty pathetic shape, by his own standards. Though not nearly pathetic enough to keep him from standing and pulling the annoyingly restrictive bandages off his arms, at least. Then he sets off to get even more impossibly, hopelessly lost, glancing around as he starts walking, this time with less of a narrow focus on swords, swords, where the fuck are my swords.
Which is when he spots the journal, which has been tucked inconspicuously in the knothole of a tree opposite him since before he snapped back to consciousness and which has been recording for several minutes. He snags it with a lifted brow as he goes by, then slows and gives it a narrow look when he notices his name etched into the black leather cover. ]
...The hell is this. [ He shoots a hard stare at the forest around him. His voice is low, but it carries. ] Ghost-girl, if you're screwing with me again...
Ow. Ow. Ow. Okay, fuck. Ow.
[ ...Hn. That's what he'd thought. Mysteriously less heavy-trauma damage than he remembers having, oh, before he woke up here, but he's still in pretty pathetic shape, by his own standards. Though not nearly pathetic enough to keep him from standing and pulling the annoyingly restrictive bandages off his arms, at least. Then he sets off to get even more impossibly, hopelessly lost, glancing around as he starts walking, this time with less of a narrow focus on swords, swords, where the fuck are my swords.
Which is when he spots the journal, which has been tucked inconspicuously in the knothole of a tree opposite him since before he snapped back to consciousness and which has been recording for several minutes. He snags it with a lifted brow as he goes by, then slows and gives it a narrow look when he notices his name etched into the black leather cover. ]
...The hell is this. [ He shoots a hard stare at the forest around him. His voice is low, but it carries. ] Ghost-girl, if you're screwing with me again...