spirited away — deadlock gang. [day 2]
Mar 6, 2019 12:54:30 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Mar 6, 2019 12:54:30 GMT -5
❛ FRANCISCO BLOOM
Nestled in thickets of sun-dried grass and the occasional butterflies, the deadlock gang rests.
Rest for Francisco Bloom means leaning his spine against a smooth rock, bone kissing stone, and bent over his leather journal. He has been, for the past hour, jotting down details and observations of this flora he’s discovered in a moment of tedium. It stands, ascendant, despite the scorching heat, adorned with red petals that unfurled around it like an expensive dress that is prettier under the candlelight of private soirées.
A flower, prideful and aware of its own beauty and charm, as red as lipstick. It is ruefully reminiscent of Myrcella Hudson, with her sunburnt shoulders and natural grace, her silvery voice teaching Francis to aim higher than where he wants his arrowhead to land.
He closes his journal, writing and observations hindered by the sudden flash of memory,
a stone caught in a brook’s path.
Wind combs through the grassed plains and makes the unkempt threads lean sideways, revealing patches of soil and mud and dirt. But, as the draught fades, the turquoise grass blades rise once more with the fervor of young flowers in spring.
It’s softly metaphorical, of
a certain Francisco Bloom.
There have been so many harsh winds in his hurricane of a life — from his uncaring father to his name thundering from the podium — but he’s always risen back afterwards, with stronger bones, stronger leaf-ends and thicker stem.
Francis breathes out a sigh and leans back on the stone, positioning the sunflower-crown-and-cowboy hat hybrid in an angle that shields his face from the sun. Sleep comes, softly, like the breath he’s exhaled. Exhaustion carries him down under. When he awakens from this siesta, evening has waded in. Slumber leaving his bones makes Francis aware of how parched he is, throat a desert, and he rises back onto his two feet.
It’s time to truly scout for water, he muses.
Gamemakers would not let their tributes die of thirst. Treading through the grass, Francis’s ears register the wet sound of his footfall and he follows the soaked earth, to where water is. The reason for the overgrowth of grass stares at him – he's found water channels, hidden from sight but shown through close inspection. Small brooks flow underfoot, branching out like veins over the grass, and Francis unclasps his canteen, guiding water into its mouth. Then, he makes an inverted dome of fingers and cups water, splashing his face with it. The coolness is immediate and roborant, undoing any exhaustion from before.
“Guys! There’s water here.”
Delicately, Francis slips out of his golden armor, a snail abandoning its shell, and tugs free of the top underneath. The gloves are discarded, along with the vambrace. He has never been ashamed to show skin; he is a wildflower, bare and blooming, petals outstretched and vivid.
Sunbeams cascade
down his naked torso
before the water does.
In between the rivulets of freshwater and sun, Francisco Bloom is iridescent, a trick of the light, adance with luminescence.
He is boy and nymph, flesh and water.
He makes a nonchalant smile at Nico as the other approaches. “I hate the feel of blood on my skin.” Francis says, to him, to Jessica, to the air. “It’s so wrong, so metallic and so repugnant.” But, blood courses beneath his skin, blood is the reason for his heartbeats, the fuel to his words.
He should not hate it.
A noise sends Francis’s heart on a sprint and hands to the floral knives, eyes averting at the source. First, he sees a wall of color, then a mélange of it, and then the horses.
A colorful stud of horses idle over the green meadows – ideal pastures, he muses – and loiter about, nestled in between the grass as Francis and the others are.
He could recognize the difference between the hideous creature before and these stallions; the latter has beautiful manes, fountaining out from their neck in lovely lines or ripples, whilst the former is made of rot and carrion, dark skin over dark ribs over dark blood. Francis tiptoes onward, a part of him wanting to hide even more behind the armor he’s hastily put on and a part of him eager to close the distance between him and a stallion. The lasso glistens with intent and sunglow in his hands.
I am of this land.
I am the flowers.
I am the thickets.
I am of no harm.
Rest for Francisco Bloom means leaning his spine against a smooth rock, bone kissing stone, and bent over his leather journal. He has been, for the past hour, jotting down details and observations of this flora he’s discovered in a moment of tedium. It stands, ascendant, despite the scorching heat, adorned with red petals that unfurled around it like an expensive dress that is prettier under the candlelight of private soirées.
A flower, prideful and aware of its own beauty and charm, as red as lipstick. It is ruefully reminiscent of Myrcella Hudson, with her sunburnt shoulders and natural grace, her silvery voice teaching Francis to aim higher than where he wants his arrowhead to land.
He closes his journal, writing and observations hindered by the sudden flash of memory,
a stone caught in a brook’s path.
Wind combs through the grassed plains and makes the unkempt threads lean sideways, revealing patches of soil and mud and dirt. But, as the draught fades, the turquoise grass blades rise once more with the fervor of young flowers in spring.
It’s softly metaphorical, of
a certain Francisco Bloom.
There have been so many harsh winds in his hurricane of a life — from his uncaring father to his name thundering from the podium — but he’s always risen back afterwards, with stronger bones, stronger leaf-ends and thicker stem.
Francis breathes out a sigh and leans back on the stone, positioning the sunflower-crown-and-cowboy hat hybrid in an angle that shields his face from the sun. Sleep comes, softly, like the breath he’s exhaled. Exhaustion carries him down under. When he awakens from this siesta, evening has waded in. Slumber leaving his bones makes Francis aware of how parched he is, throat a desert, and he rises back onto his two feet.
It’s time to truly scout for water, he muses.
Gamemakers would not let their tributes die of thirst. Treading through the grass, Francis’s ears register the wet sound of his footfall and he follows the soaked earth, to where water is. The reason for the overgrowth of grass stares at him – he's found water channels, hidden from sight but shown through close inspection. Small brooks flow underfoot, branching out like veins over the grass, and Francis unclasps his canteen, guiding water into its mouth. Then, he makes an inverted dome of fingers and cups water, splashing his face with it. The coolness is immediate and roborant, undoing any exhaustion from before.
“Guys! There’s water here.”
Delicately, Francis slips out of his golden armor, a snail abandoning its shell, and tugs free of the top underneath. The gloves are discarded, along with the vambrace. He has never been ashamed to show skin; he is a wildflower, bare and blooming, petals outstretched and vivid.
Sunbeams cascade
down his naked torso
before the water does.
In between the rivulets of freshwater and sun, Francisco Bloom is iridescent, a trick of the light, adance with luminescence.
He is boy and nymph, flesh and water.
He makes a nonchalant smile at Nico as the other approaches. “I hate the feel of blood on my skin.” Francis says, to him, to Jessica, to the air. “It’s so wrong, so metallic and so repugnant.” But, blood courses beneath his skin, blood is the reason for his heartbeats, the fuel to his words.
He should not hate it.
A noise sends Francis’s heart on a sprint and hands to the floral knives, eyes averting at the source. First, he sees a wall of color, then a mélange of it, and then the horses.
A colorful stud of horses idle over the green meadows – ideal pastures, he muses – and loiter about, nestled in between the grass as Francis and the others are.
He could recognize the difference between the hideous creature before and these stallions; the latter has beautiful manes, fountaining out from their neck in lovely lines or ripples, whilst the former is made of rot and carrion, dark skin over dark ribs over dark blood. Francis tiptoes onward, a part of him wanting to hide even more behind the armor he’s hastily put on and a part of him eager to close the distance between him and a stallion. The lasso glistens with intent and sunglow in his hands.
I am of this land.
I am the flowers.
I am the thickets.
I am of no harm.
( Francis gets water, baths shirtless,
is a soft boy, and tries to catch a horse;
important actions in maintenance. )
bMWECr6EcL1-2
( successful )
is a soft boy, and tries to catch a horse;
important actions in maintenance. )
bMWECr6EcL1-2
( successful )
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