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Tweak says, "whobalobadobadooo"

Vas Captio Mods (vas_captio_mod) wrote in vas_captio_rpg,
@ 2009-06-08 15:57:00

Entry tags:

!complete, day 10, jack sparrow, jean tannen, l lawliet, location: cemetery, location: church, open, tinker bell

Day 10: Church/Cemetery - 1:15pm
Who: OTA
What: Seven point five
When: 1:15pm - 5:00pm
Where: Church/Cemetery
Rating: TBA
Status: Active

The sun was shining high in the sky and a gentle breeze stroked the leaves of the trees, making them, along with the severed stub of rope on the clock face from the day previous sway lazily. It was quiet. Perhaps it was too quiet, for the lack of birds chirping or insects buzzing.

All in all, the day was one of the most pleasant as of yet for the bulk of the involuntary residents of Vas Captio, save, of course, the heat. Maybe it was a bit too hot to be entirely comfortable.

It started small, as most things do. The Bibles and hymnals in the holders on the backs of the pews jiggled anxiously in the spot and some of the residents' personal belongings slid off their respective pews and onto the floor. This was brief, although it was only a preview of what was to come less than a moment after everything settled again.

The church, already leaning from age and warped wood, shook with such force when the earthquake hit that the stained glass windows shattered to pieces almost instantaneously. For the lack of stability of the building as it stood, it took no longer than ten seconds for the ceiling to collapse inward completely. Pews split in two, the alter convulsed dangerously in place before toppling into the baptismal, which then fell into a pew, flames still licking the air from the neglected fire built in it as it went.

The walls of the church caved in the direction of the lean, some of the wood splintering and falling in the direction of the cemetery, littering the area even moreso than it already was from the fallen trees and broken headstones. The opposite wall fell into the rubble that was left of the church itself.

As the quake settled, the debris of the building as it had been caught in the fire from the baptismal, crackling angrily and licking at the air of the outdoors for the lack of an actual building remaining there. And then, it was over, save the flames slowly eating away the mess left behind.

Vas Captio was still, again, and silent once more.

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inmyownworld
2009-06-09 09:04 am UTC (link)

L stared in horrified fascination as the man started to laugh. Taking a shuddering, shallow breath, he marveled at the man's apparent confidence, despite his rather beaten appearance. L was no medic, but those looked like burns. Had the man actually been inside the church when it had collapsed?

Of course, L had no clue what religious contexts were present in Jean's reference to a Lady Most Kind, but he was able to deduce that it was another way to refer to dying. Even though he had no logical reason to feel reassured, his spirits lifted slightly. Just hearing that he wasn't going to die was very encouraging.

Of course, being moved was easier said than done. L was mercifully light, but it would be tough going for both of them. L gripped the shovel's short handle at first, but since every jostle or bump would reverberate through the shaft and affect the blade inside of him, he elected to grasp the exposed part of the spade with both hands. He focused entirely on making sure that all of his strength was bent toward the task, even though it felt somewhat counterintuitive to retain what had hurt him to begin with. "R-ready..."

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burythehatchets
2009-06-10 12:27 am UTC (link)

Jean hadn't taken into account how horrific the laughter undoubtedly was, under the circumstances. Those were most assuredly burns, and there was most assuredly a knot rising on the back of his head where he'd been assailed by a falling ceiling construct when the church had caved in. It was probably a miracle he hadn't been completely crushed under all the rubble--but then, the burns had probably saved him, since he'd smelled himself burning and run out in the nick of time. Jean was not a man to stop moving, even when he should. Therefore, he was also not a man to take notice of his injuries, however extensive they might be. So carrying L would hurt his burned arms. So what?

Jean nodded to L, who seemed to have a fairly firm grip on his shovel, and bent down. First he slid his feet carefully under L's body for traction, and so he'd have leverage to lift. He'd have to heave L over his head and onto the ground beside the grave six feet above him. Hopefully his arms would stretch that far. Stooping to slide one arm under L's knees and one bracing his back, Jean noted cheerfully, "no worries, this will all be over in a bit--" and lifted with all his might. That was about the time he realized that L was substantially lighter than anticipated, to his surprise and relief. His arms were screaming at him to stop being a stupid fuck and put the man back down, and he was seeing black spots from the accidental over-exertion, but once he got L to chest-level, the lifting was simpler from there.

"You'll have to tell me when you're at ground level, since I can't see," he continued, attempting the lift as levelly as he could, so as not to jostle the shovel, as L continued to rise incrementally out of the grave.

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inmyownworld
2009-06-10 10:49 am UTC (link)

L marveled at the man's continuing cheerfulness. It was so absurd... he himself couldn't have been this high-spirited to save his life. It appeared that both their lives were in danger, at the moment, and L's somber fear reflected that amply. All things considered, he was a young man who, despite his captivation with death, was not ready to die.

He supposed that, one way or another, it would all be over soon. He braced himself as the man (who seemed to have experience doing this sort of thing) got into a suitable position for lifting, gripping the shovel, trying to ignore the occasional queasy shift of the blade. The endorphin rush was beginning to wear off, and the viceral pain of having a shovel lodged in his side was setting in. It was the kind of pain that a person wanted to run from without being able to. He clenched his teeth, shamed into silence by the other man's endurance through his burns, as he was raised to chest level, and then, more slowly, higher. He nodded, afraid to talk for fear of screaming, as he was instructed to speak up when he was raised above ground.

L is for Lazarus, he thought as he ascended, seeing nothing but rubble and destruction around him. "This... here..." he said in a forced voice. Jean's arms felt strong and steady, but if L was on the verge of passing out (which he was), he could only imagine how it was for someone who was actually working.

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burythehatchets
2009-06-16 03:22 pm UTC (link)

"What's your name?" Jean asked, grunting with the exertion from the awkward position he'd put himself into as he braced his feet against the dirt at the bottom of the grave. The ground kept shifting under him from the small aftershocks that brought fresh dirt and pebbles cascading down on his face as he raised L up. He was trying not to think about how he'd get himself out after this was over without any rope. Still, it was only a six-foot vertical climb--he'd had far worse. It was almost absurd, how many times he'd had to do this sort of thing before, to save one or another of his comrades and himself from "scrapes" they'd gotten themselves into.

When Jean heard the "here", he shuffled himself sideways as much as was possible in the narrow space, fumbling blindly above him until he felt the backs of his hands hit level ground. As gently as he could, he released his burden, depositing L beside the grave, undoubtedly jostling him a bit in the transition. "Sorry," he apologized preemptively, for any more discomfort he had caused. "Feel free to scream at me. I'm used to it," he offered genially, examining his arms as he slumped against the dirt "wall". Well, fuck. Now what?

Eying the dirt, prodding at it with his toe, he wondered if he could just climb straight up if he made use of the protruding roots and rocks he saw around him. It was likely that they wouldn't hold his weight, so that meant he'd have to work fast. Hm. Not for the first time, he longed for the company of his Wicked Sisters.

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inmyownworld
2009-06-16 09:15 pm UTC (link)

L was too far gone to care about revealing his name to a stranger. His morbid mind rationalized that, it was OK, at least they would know what to carve on his grave stone. "It's L..." he whispered, in his strained voice, afraid that the bleeding from his mouth would increase if he spoke too much.

The aftershocks distorted Jean's balance and the steadiness of his already burned arms, and so some jostling was inevitable. L didn't scream AT Jean, per se, but he gladly accepted the invitation to scream. It was a raw sound, colored only by pain and fear of the unknown. It was surprisingly therapeutic; it was a welcome release of the tension that strong pain caused. Lying on his good side, breathing hard, L dimly wondered how they were going to get Jean out of the hole. He glanced around at the rubble surrounding him, and the tombstones that trembled with aftershocks as they shook the earth like dry heaves after violent illness.

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burythehatchets
2009-07-04 09:53 am UTC (link)

"You'll be alright," Jean said vaguely, blocking out the screams L was making almost by reflex. He had to get himself out of this fucking hole. "The worst bit's over." If it wasn't for this sinking feeling he had about Locke...but no. He couldn't let himself think that way. If Locke was---he couldn't even bear to name it to himself. They would find the antidote. They would...they would...no, no, no. If nothing so fucking far had killed Locke Lamora, a bloody stupid EARTHQUAKE wouldn't be the end of him. No. Jean wouldn't accept it. Couldn't. Because if...if the idiot bastard had gone off and gotten himself killed and this death actually stuck, well...Jean would have no choice but to follow. He'd made a vow. He'd made a fucking vow, and he wouldn't abandon Locke. He'd follow him into hell. Very, very literally. So Locke couldn't be dead, because then Jean would have to be dead. It was just...it was just how these things worked.

As he told himself over and over that Locke could not possibly be dead, that he, Jean Tannen, would not allow it, and that nothing this place could throw at them would be any worse than the Bondsmagi or the Gray King or--before he'd realized it, he had hauled himself out of the grave with sheer force of will, by punching and kicking at the muddy ground so hard that his fists just stuck and he grabbed onto the rock sunk into the earth and bits of crumbled grave. There was no time to think or plan or do anything else. Locke was the planner, anyway. Jean scooped up the screaming man in his arms again, and started walking with him. He couldn't leave L there, but he couldn't put off finding Locke any longer, either. L would just have to...tag along.

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inmyownworld
2009-07-06 02:09 am UTC (link)

L was in too much pain at that moment to question whether or not the worst was actually over. If he'd known how terrible it would be later to have the shovel removed from his side, he would probably have rolled back into the hole, but for now, he could cling to hope, even it it sounded suspiciously false.

He watched, breathing shallowly through half-closed, dazed eyes as Jean emerged over the lip of the grave. It barely registered when Jean picked him up; he didn't have the energy anymore to scream. He just wanted to pass out, and for the pain to end. Even holding the shovel was a torment.

"Where... where are we going...?" Where could they go?

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