Davesprite (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anachronologistics) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-11-11 12:37 pm
anachronologistics) wrote in thecapitol2014-11-11 12:37 pm
Entry tags:
history: lines on my face
Who| Davesprite (anachronologistics) and YOU, with a closed prompt for Nill (reassures)
What| Post mini-arena shenanigans
Where| All around in the Tribute tower; the lounge, rooftop, and D11
When| a day or so after the victors/survivors of the mini-arena emerge.
Warnings/Notes| Strider language and probably existential depression. Will update if necessary? Let me know in the subject line where your character is meeting up with this feathery asshole, or make up something of your own! I am very flexible.
Everything fucking hurts.
Normally, Davesprite wouldn't bitch about it. Honestly, it isn't unlike all those times when he spent hours strifing with Bro on the roof and woke up the next day feeling like every fibre in his muscles had been snapped.
His muscles ache, his wings are caked in slime and feel like they've melted in places where they caught acid from the water guns, and all he really wants to do is sleep.
D11;
The viking kid didn't come back from the arena.
Not that Davesprite really talked with him much, but he had been pretty cool. Nerdy, in a way that kind of reminded him of Egbert if Egbert knew more about turning wild boars over spits and wearing a bunch of fur and leather. A quick check reveals that his room is stripped empty, and there's a sort of violated feeling about that, kinda like walking into your room to find something out of place and knowing your bro has been rifling through it.
To his credit he doesn't outwardly look bothered by it, even as he splays himself on his stomach over a couch in the tribute suite, and rifles through a pile of sketches and doodles (most of them his own) that had been left on a coffee table. The television is on, left to broadcast coverage of post-arena bullshit.
What. He's looking forhis friends himself on television. Wouldn't you?
Should anyone walk in, Davesprite doesn't look up from either one as he offers a casual, "Honey, I'm home."
Lounge;
He had decided very quickly after his arrival that the Avoxes are a little creepy, and that if he needed anything he was just going to handle it himself, masking it as being unable to trust anyone to get a satisfactory glass of apple juice. After a couple of hours of casually watching the post-arena media frenzy, Davesprite decides to saunter vaguely down into the lounge to get something to fill his gut in spite of the fact that he feels like hell. In the back of his mind, he knows that getting something to eat would probably be the best thing for him, besides a nap.
(At least he has the decency to change into some clean clothes, although his wings are still rather rough-looking from where it looks like he had tried to scrub congealed slime from his feathers and wound up just pulling them out.)
He hasn't really ever bothered coming down here before, and he doesn't really want to be down here now -- but if it came between dealing with creepy people in ball-gags (okay they really aren't ball-gags, that's just part of his entire internal dissertation) and dealing with the frenzy of the lounge, he'll take the lounge.
Should anyone make long enough eye-contact with him to where it would be awkward if neither say anything, he'll nod ever-so-slightly and casually ask, "What's good?"
Rooftop; Closed to Nill
Showering is awful. The residual traces of acid had washed away easily enough -- though it leaves him hissing because it feels like the world's worse sunburn under the shower spray -- but the slime actually repels water, so rather than wash clean with just a rinse it gets trapped further in his feathers and requires a god-awful amount of scrubbing with soap. Even then, though, a good amount of it is caught so high up that it's impossible to reach without turning into some sort of feathery contortionist.
He's sure this shit is starting to harden and chafe. He's also too tired to deal with it.
There are still a few hours to go before curfew kicks in, but honestly he doesn't really care about it. Nill will find him sitting on the roof and staring out over the Capitol. It's hard to say if he hears her when she approaches, but he doesn't seem to look surprised when he looks back over his shoulder at her.
"Hey."
anachronologistics) and YOU, with a closed prompt for Nill (reassures)What| Post mini-arena shenanigans
Where| All around in the Tribute tower; the lounge, rooftop, and D11
When| a day or so after the victors/survivors of the mini-arena emerge.
Warnings/Notes| Strider language and probably existential depression. Will update if necessary? Let me know in the subject line where your character is meeting up with this feathery asshole, or make up something of your own! I am very flexible.
Everything fucking hurts.
Normally, Davesprite wouldn't bitch about it. Honestly, it isn't unlike all those times when he spent hours strifing with Bro on the roof and woke up the next day feeling like every fibre in his muscles had been snapped.
His muscles ache, his wings are caked in slime and feel like they've melted in places where they caught acid from the water guns, and all he really wants to do is sleep.
D11;
The viking kid didn't come back from the arena.
Not that Davesprite really talked with him much, but he had been pretty cool. Nerdy, in a way that kind of reminded him of Egbert if Egbert knew more about turning wild boars over spits and wearing a bunch of fur and leather. A quick check reveals that his room is stripped empty, and there's a sort of violated feeling about that, kinda like walking into your room to find something out of place and knowing your bro has been rifling through it.
To his credit he doesn't outwardly look bothered by it, even as he splays himself on his stomach over a couch in the tribute suite, and rifles through a pile of sketches and doodles (most of them his own) that had been left on a coffee table. The television is on, left to broadcast coverage of post-arena bullshit.
What. He's looking for
Should anyone walk in, Davesprite doesn't look up from either one as he offers a casual, "Honey, I'm home."
Lounge;
He had decided very quickly after his arrival that the Avoxes are a little creepy, and that if he needed anything he was just going to handle it himself, masking it as being unable to trust anyone to get a satisfactory glass of apple juice. After a couple of hours of casually watching the post-arena media frenzy, Davesprite decides to saunter vaguely down into the lounge to get something to fill his gut in spite of the fact that he feels like hell. In the back of his mind, he knows that getting something to eat would probably be the best thing for him, besides a nap.
(At least he has the decency to change into some clean clothes, although his wings are still rather rough-looking from where it looks like he had tried to scrub congealed slime from his feathers and wound up just pulling them out.)
He hasn't really ever bothered coming down here before, and he doesn't really want to be down here now -- but if it came between dealing with creepy people in ball-gags (okay they really aren't ball-gags, that's just part of his entire internal dissertation) and dealing with the frenzy of the lounge, he'll take the lounge.
Should anyone make long enough eye-contact with him to where it would be awkward if neither say anything, he'll nod ever-so-slightly and casually ask, "What's good?"
Rooftop; Closed to Nill
Showering is awful. The residual traces of acid had washed away easily enough -- though it leaves him hissing because it feels like the world's worse sunburn under the shower spray -- but the slime actually repels water, so rather than wash clean with just a rinse it gets trapped further in his feathers and requires a god-awful amount of scrubbing with soap. Even then, though, a good amount of it is caught so high up that it's impossible to reach without turning into some sort of feathery contortionist.
He's sure this shit is starting to harden and chafe. He's also too tired to deal with it.
There are still a few hours to go before curfew kicks in, but honestly he doesn't really care about it. Nill will find him sitting on the roof and staring out over the Capitol. It's hard to say if he hears her when she approaches, but he doesn't seem to look surprised when he looks back over his shoulder at her.
"Hey."