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propheretic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxionlogs2015-05-19 04:07 pm
propheretic) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-05-19 04:07 pm
Entry tags:
my body drifts from state to state
CHARACTERS: The Inquisitor; perhaps you
LOCATION: Gardens; one of the lounges
WARNINGS: blood n such
SUMMARY: delicate flower nerd adventures
lounge;
[Dasha stares into the bright blue swirl of the cocktail in front of him, squinting, drumming his fingers on the counter. The thing isn't going to attack him, he knows, but he keeps having flashbacks to certain nights in Skyhold's inn, nights that started with a challenge from Iron Bull or Sera or even, once, very innocently, Cole himself. This wine is sweet, he said. This wine will let you sleep, and you won't have nightmares.
That wine had also made his stomach churn and his throat seize up. Never mind the hellish concoctions Sera dared him to drink, most of which tasted like magma mixed with rotten eggs and left his stomach scorched to ashes.
Dasha picks up the glass. Like so many others, he's been having a rough time of it lately. Strange visions while he slept--more than nightmares, more like intrusions, images and feelings bled from a foreign subconscious--and aches and pains beyond reason. Beyond his usual aches and pains, even, which were no slouches to begin with.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shuts his eyes, and drinks.
An unattractive sputter follows.]
gardens;
[If he just focuses, he can get past everything else. The situation on this ship, the politics he doesn't understand, the angry sting of his scars. The exhaustion. He digs his fingers into the soil, makes space enough for the last few seeds he brought from Thedas. He's already cultivated a couple of elfroot plants here, but he wanted to wait and see if they grew properly. The gardens are temperate and lovely, and seem able to accommodate a wide range of things, but he didn't want to take the chance. The saplings poke up now from the dirt, though, bright green, healthy, smelling faintly of mint.
Dasha tips the last seeds into the hole he's dug, then carefully packs the earth over them. His dark hands are bare and smeared with streaks of soil, but he pays it no mind. He likes the feeling of it, in fact, the density and the heat--however artificial.
An abrupt spike of pain shoots through his temples as he leans back, sharp enough that he gasps aloud. Something wet and warm trickles down the shell of his ear, and as he lifts a hand to his temple, he realizes that it's blood.]
Not this again.
[He mutters, his vision swimming. Ugh.]
LOCATION: Gardens; one of the lounges
WARNINGS: blood n such
SUMMARY: delicate flower nerd adventures
lounge;
[Dasha stares into the bright blue swirl of the cocktail in front of him, squinting, drumming his fingers on the counter. The thing isn't going to attack him, he knows, but he keeps having flashbacks to certain nights in Skyhold's inn, nights that started with a challenge from Iron Bull or Sera or even, once, very innocently, Cole himself. This wine is sweet, he said. This wine will let you sleep, and you won't have nightmares.
That wine had also made his stomach churn and his throat seize up. Never mind the hellish concoctions Sera dared him to drink, most of which tasted like magma mixed with rotten eggs and left his stomach scorched to ashes.
Dasha picks up the glass. Like so many others, he's been having a rough time of it lately. Strange visions while he slept--more than nightmares, more like intrusions, images and feelings bled from a foreign subconscious--and aches and pains beyond reason. Beyond his usual aches and pains, even, which were no slouches to begin with.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, shuts his eyes, and drinks.
An unattractive sputter follows.]
gardens;
[If he just focuses, he can get past everything else. The situation on this ship, the politics he doesn't understand, the angry sting of his scars. The exhaustion. He digs his fingers into the soil, makes space enough for the last few seeds he brought from Thedas. He's already cultivated a couple of elfroot plants here, but he wanted to wait and see if they grew properly. The gardens are temperate and lovely, and seem able to accommodate a wide range of things, but he didn't want to take the chance. The saplings poke up now from the dirt, though, bright green, healthy, smelling faintly of mint.
Dasha tips the last seeds into the hole he's dug, then carefully packs the earth over them. His dark hands are bare and smeared with streaks of soil, but he pays it no mind. He likes the feeling of it, in fact, the density and the heat--however artificial.
An abrupt spike of pain shoots through his temples as he leans back, sharp enough that he gasps aloud. Something wet and warm trickles down the shell of his ear, and as he lifts a hand to his temple, he realizes that it's blood.]
Not this again.
[He mutters, his vision swimming. Ugh.]