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5:21 PM
Who: Blanks!
Where: Arena!
When: Day 239, late morning
What: Game!
Why, who could be calling you to the arena today? The call seems familiar, but a bit strange, too - a little bit warped. When you arrive, there are eight doors, color-coded according to partner teams, and on the throne is someone you might not have seen running a game for quite some time!
It's Waterbearer, and... he looks like absolute shit. As well as featuring the sort of skinniness you'd only see on someone with severe digestive parasites, his normal pose is different- the clay jar, sporting several hairline cracks now, is toppled over at his knees, water gushing everywhere. His hands hang limply (or as limply as a statue can hang) at his sides, dripping with water that seems unusually muddy.
The statue seems to have been damaged in places - as though someone with very strong fingers had gouged out parts of the statue's face, throat and arms. Everywhere one of these gouges can be seen, thick, muddy water drips out and onto the arena floor.
Unsurprisingly, he's crying - it sounds different than his usual sniffling, though. This is the kind of crying that borders on outright hysteria. In fact, forget the borders. It is hysterical psychosobbing.
“W... wh... why? I cuh-cuh-can't- h-he's ... I c-can't get him out, I c-can't-
I can't-
I can't
I-it's not fair, i-it's not right, I can't, I can't, but m-maybe, maybe if...”
And then his crying just dissolves into an anguished wail.
Around you, the color-coded doors unlock with a soft click.
Where: Arena!
When: Day 239, late morning
What: Game!
Why, who could be calling you to the arena today? The call seems familiar, but a bit strange, too - a little bit warped. When you arrive, there are eight doors, color-coded according to partner teams, and on the throne is someone you might not have seen running a game for quite some time!
It's Waterbearer, and... he looks like absolute shit. As well as featuring the sort of skinniness you'd only see on someone with severe digestive parasites, his normal pose is different- the clay jar, sporting several hairline cracks now, is toppled over at his knees, water gushing everywhere. His hands hang limply (or as limply as a statue can hang) at his sides, dripping with water that seems unusually muddy.
The statue seems to have been damaged in places - as though someone with very strong fingers had gouged out parts of the statue's face, throat and arms. Everywhere one of these gouges can be seen, thick, muddy water drips out and onto the arena floor.
Unsurprisingly, he's crying - it sounds different than his usual sniffling, though. This is the kind of crying that borders on outright hysteria. In fact, forget the borders. It is hysterical psychosobbing.
“W... wh... why? I cuh-cuh-can't- h-he's ... I c-can't get him out, I c-can't-
I can't-
I can't
I-it's not fair, i-it's not right, I can't, I can't, but m-maybe, maybe if...”
And then his crying just dissolves into an anguished wail.
Around you, the color-coded doors unlock with a soft click.