abraxaslogs | [ OPEN ] pre-event (until...)

The room is a forest of swords. Hundreds of them, stuck into every surface like pins in a cushion. The mattresses and pillows are stabbed through as if a rain of swords fell from above, though of course they did not fall. They've embedded themselves there without human hands or gravity to guide them. The bedframes and canopy poles are splintered where broadswords and rapiers have become wedged in the wood. The stone walls and the decor are lost behind a frost of hilts climbing all the way to the ceiling. The floor is overgrown with sharp blades, some of them stabbed into it and some growing out of it.

The dreamer is spared, though he can't lift his head to see if any other sleepers are present or whether his roommates are in the same ruined state as the furniture. Like some kind of carnival trick, Ronan is sprawled out on the bed while sword blades stick out from everything that isn't a part of his body.

He's paralyzed. He always is, when he brings something back with him. In this case, he's brought almost a thousand somethings back with him, and all he can do is contemplate the disaster while he waits to return to his body. No one is screaming and he can't tell whether that's because they're still asleep or they're already dead or they had the good fortune of partying too late to end up at ground zero.

Nadine's taken to visiting the baths late in the night, finding it the easiest way to have her choice of the private rooms. Long baths have always been a particular relaxing pleasure for her, and while she has no Jewel albums or Danielle Steele novels on hand, it's still helpful.

And it was. She's returning to her room, hair wet, looking forward to crawling into bed and passing out for the night.

Fate, it seems, has other plans. The sight that greets her when she opens the door, barefoot and still dripping, stops her in her tracks. What the hell happened?

"What....?" Cautiously, hesitantly, she takes a step inside to get a closer look at the extent of the damage.

Ronan lingers outside of his body for another moment or two, a soul disconnected from the boy frozen on the bed. Then his perspective shifts and he's seeing through his eyes instead of his astral self, staring miserably at the shredded canopy overhead and the blades hanging inches from his face. He sucks in a sharp breath, like he's coming up for air.

"Nadine?" he asks, his voice rough and wary. He could swear he heard her just now. "Are you dying?"

He won't be much help, if she is. His own bed is a death trap. It's impossible to avoid every blade as he sits up. Several of them slice shallow cuts into his forearms. One blade, hanging from above, catches him in the shoulder before he twists free of it.

"No, but I'm not exactly having a great time. Why does our room like sword swinging mobsters were taking their revenge against it?"

She doesn't need a detailed explanation, something general will do fine, but enough to let her know whether or not this is going to be a regular occurrence. These are things roommates need to know about - allergies, frequent visitors, rains of swords...

Then Nadine notices that Ronan, at least, is not unscathed. Sighing, she carefully picks her way to the nearest bed and yanks a section of already-torn sheet off. Between teaching and her cross country trek with Joe and Larry, she's relatively experienced with patching up cuts and lacerations.

"It's a long story."

It's not, really, but it usually gets him a lot of questions, which he won't be in the space to answer until he's at least clear of the present hazard. Foolishly, he hadn't thought, Go to sleep in a suit of armor in case you summon five thousand swords, and went to bed without so much as a shirt. He's got nicks and slices up and down his torso by the time he's pushed away enough swords to reach the edge of his bed, adding to an impressive collection of scars given to him by nightmares in the past.

"Does it happen often?"

Nadine has never tried to imagine how to move through a room full of swords, and is beginning to wish she'd indulged in some less likely thought exercises before now. It's very slow going, and she really wishes she weren't barefoot at the moment.

"Okay, either way, we need to get you cleaned up and then this cleaned up."

Without thinking, she's using her teacher's voice, subconsciously treating this like the worst classroom accident in history.

Ronan doesn't know how to answer that. Does it happen often? No. Yes. No, but it used to. Yes, but only when he feels shitty. No, it's usually worse. Yes, but he'll get it under control if people can just give him a chance instead of trying to cut his head off with his own partner's sword.

Which, thankfully, is not among these swords — even if some of them are engraved with the words FROM CHAOS.

He hisses, "We don't have to do anything. I'll take care of it myself."

Big words for a kid who's bleeding everywhere.

"It'll get done quicker with two sets of hands."

Nadine's tone is firm. She can't get any rest until this is taken care of, she may as well help. And she can't ignore someone just bleeding in front in her, it's not in her nature.

Ronan's words don't deter her and she continues to weave through the mass of sharp metal to approach him.

"And there's no point in wasting time arguing when we can be dealing with this. So are you going to let me get the worst of those wrapped?" She holds up the shredded pieces of sheet.

Ronan may be a hulking six-foot-two beast with nigh omnipotent reality-breaking powers, but he's also a nineteen-year-old boy who just had a bad dream, and he looks a lot more like the latter as he hangs his head and scrubs his hands down his face.

"One of these swords is probably gonna drop from the ceiling right into your skull and then everyone's gonna think I'm an asshole."

But he holds out the arm that's most in dire need of bandaging, resigned to her help.

"I think they're pretty wedged in there, it's not exactly a Damocles situation." If the superflu and the avatar of God hadn't been able to get rid of her, she's pretty sure a ceiling sword isn't going to finish the job.

"Just relax, nobody's dead and it looks like you only hurt yourself." Nadine turns her attention to patching him up, wiping away the blood with a practiced hand and eyeing the cut before bandaging it with a fresh strip of sheet. "And you're lucky, these look like clean, straight cuts. And not deep enough to need stitches - I don't even know who we're supposed to talk to about serious injury."

Maybe that should be fixed. There's got to be healers or something, and likely any random mage or castle staff could point them out. That's something to figure out in the morning.

"They've got wizards for this shit," Ronan confirms. He had them fussing all over him during the fighting tournament, even when he told them he was fine. He can deal with scuffs and bruises and even bloody slices like these. Both of his forearms are covered in scars, the kind that landed him in psychiatric hold.

While she works on him, he surveys the room. Every time he thinks he's got a good idea of the damage, he spots another sword wedged somewhere insanely improbable. There's one impaled through the window, but the glass around it is still intact. Like some kind of weird art piece. Obvious Metaphor by Ronan Lynch. Installation. Steel, glass, and angst.

He mutters, "I'm so fucked."

"No, you're not." Nadine's tone is practical and matter of fact as she works. "Nobody got badly hurt, and I think it's safe to assume you didn't do this on purpose. Accidents happen to everybody. Even the mages here - look at how many people they ended up with that they don't want."

She ties off the bandage and nods to herself, satisfied it'll do the trick.

"And if Thorne is as magically advanced as they seem to be, it won't take much to fix the damage."

[ OPEN ] pre-event (until...)

room 2 | june 19 | open to roommates

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