[thread] this is what you've done
Who: Malik, Cain
What: Helping Malik after his darker half finally lets him go
Where: Malik's apartment
When: After this.
Rating: PG-13 for blood, illusions to violence
The first thing that filters through and drags Malik towards consciousness is the smell. The air is suffocatingly heavy with incense, and the searing remembrance of burning flesh, and the metallic undercurrent of blood. He can barely breathe it in.
As he awakens, other things return to him. The hiss of liquid dripping on flame and the soft plink of its fall. The stillness of the air around him. The harsh, smooth wood of the table he's lying on.
The altar he's lying on.
He presses his hands down, trying to lift himself up before he opens his eyes, and a cry is torn from him. His arms give out beneath him. It hurts too much.
Malik gives in, and opens his eyes. The images are hazy. A bowl of burning oil on the floor, hissing as blood drips off the table into it. Streaks of crimson on the walls, angry words in Arabic and Egyptian scrawled and oozing. Not his blood, he thinks absently. There's too much, for that. His Sennen item is on the floor as well, the dagger unsheathed and stained red.
Darkness. Shadows. The smell of heated metal. The pain flashing through him like fire.
His back throbs. He knows his mind is blocking most of the pain. That's the only reason he's awake. He reaches for the device in his pocket, knocking his torn and bloody lavender shirt off the table as he does so. He presses a button, hoping the thing is still programmed correctly, and allows unconsciousness to reclaim him.
What: Helping Malik after his darker half finally lets him go
Where: Malik's apartment
When: After this.
Rating: PG-13 for blood, illusions to violence
The first thing that filters through and drags Malik towards consciousness is the smell. The air is suffocatingly heavy with incense, and the searing remembrance of burning flesh, and the metallic undercurrent of blood. He can barely breathe it in.
As he awakens, other things return to him. The hiss of liquid dripping on flame and the soft plink of its fall. The stillness of the air around him. The harsh, smooth wood of the table he's lying on.
The altar he's lying on.
He presses his hands down, trying to lift himself up before he opens his eyes, and a cry is torn from him. His arms give out beneath him. It hurts too much.
Malik gives in, and opens his eyes. The images are hazy. A bowl of burning oil on the floor, hissing as blood drips off the table into it. Streaks of crimson on the walls, angry words in Arabic and Egyptian scrawled and oozing. Not his blood, he thinks absently. There's too much, for that. His Sennen item is on the floor as well, the dagger unsheathed and stained red.
Darkness. Shadows. The smell of heated metal. The pain flashing through him like fire.
His back throbs. He knows his mind is blocking most of the pain. That's the only reason he's awake. He reaches for the device in his pocket, knocking his torn and bloody lavender shirt off the table as he does so. He presses a button, hoping the thing is still programmed correctly, and allows unconsciousness to reclaim him.