[ Open to 1-2 responses — first come, first serve. ]

The world tumbles and so does Blake. He comes rolling back into the pit following the ritual, barreling over the terrain and coming to a rough stop on his stomach. He groans and writhes, dirty, bloody, clothes stinking of death, but somehow he's still distantly glad to have put some space between himself and the altar.

He gets his hands under him, lifts up unsteadily onto all-fours, but no further because his vision's graying out. Blake's forcing purposefully shallow breaths; anything more than that and the pain robs the air he's gained. He doesn't make it far before his head's dipped to the putrid ground and he's stilled by an overwhelming wash of anguish.

Visions of what had just happened spread like the thorny vines. He'd endured their bite and so much more — magical torture by all accounts — and in the wake of it, all he wants to do is get as far away as possible.

A few people have gathered and their vague impressions in his periphery have Blake stumbling. "No," he croaks, finding his feet, taking a step, crumbling again. "No, stay away," Blake warns, roughly trying to wave everything away in the process. He wants to run, wants to throw up, wants to lash out like a wounded animal (probably because he is one).

He needs help, but convincing him of that will take work.

[ Open to 1 - 2 responses — first come, first serve. ]

Days later, symptoms have thoroughly set in. Blake feels like a Morlock — a child sacrifice, he mourns bitterly when thinking of The Time Machine and H.G. Wells — and it's not really all that far from the truth.

Burning up, he's shivering steadily and has been for twenty minutes while he waits for rations. He hasn't eaten much, stomach hollow, but it doesn't matter because he's hacking everything up in the night, up to and including blood. Dehydration's a concern, though — his parched lips and cracking skin are proof of that — so he's made this a priority.

He can live weeks without food, but only days without water.

Exhausted, he's watching the structured relief efforts organized by his peers and feels a bitterness creeping into the back of his throat. Blake can't recall who elected these people as representatives, who gave them the access to the middling supplies, and who decided they would dole them out, but every second more he waits, a nipping agitation dogs him.

Bruised and covered in abrasions, pale and drawn, he very much resembles the tweekers back in Gotham desperate for their next high. His nose bleeds frequently — almost freely at times — and wounds on his knees peek through the torn fabric of his filthy pants.

Blake fusses at a deep cut distractedly, still shivering, still waiting. He's scraping a bloody nail against the wound and then picking at it, fishing for the sharp thorn-like protrusions that have started appearing in his skin.

He hasn't pissed in a day, and barely then. Like needles — Christ — but there's no relief in not having to relieving himself, knowing as he does how foreboding dehydration can be. Gnawing his nail, tasting blood and desperation, he waves a hand.

"Look, gimme some of that fuckin' water 'fore I take it." Low, demanding, dry. His fists both clench at his side and the grit of his teeth tightens his jaw. "Just need a little. Don't you— Can't you tell? I'm dyin' here," he says and Blake believes it.

He never asks for anything. He works for everything. And hard. Days earlier, he'd shared all he'd had and now who's left to share with him? No one. They want him to suffer.

They want him to die.