jayce's brows crease with dolor and mourning as he's cleaved from the prospect of retrieving viktor's cane, hardly having the energy to kick, to smack— he barely has it in him to keep reaching as he's hoisted by the herald's claw and haphazardly placed on the cargo bed. his labor to breathe is about to get worse when his lungs contract from the extended pooling within it when laid on his back, he sputters— and blood spurts from his mouth and nose like a fountain, foamy and bright red with the stains of colors that were contaminating his flesh as is. he can't even turn over by himself, arching his neck and back as he coughs and violently asphyxiates on his own fluids.
his heart, his wheezing, his garbled cries— it's all too loud. he could barely hear him and make sense of words, his consciousness as bleak as a thread ready to snap. jayce looks to his spasming wrist anyway, as if it were an answer, where the acceleration rune glows, ripples— and the arcane's touch raids the left side of his face.
the guttural sounds that spewed off his wet lips might as well just be frantic nothings twined with his soaked panting. from his usual bronze he's as pale as paper, blood from his back and leg forming an oozing pool of pearly gore at the back of the pick-up. jayce points his eyes up, passenger seat as his organs fail him one by one. he stares in that direction, not the herald, eyes rolling back and fighting to keep craning, to stay awake through the searing that ravaged his chest from the inside. back window. the pretty curve of a personalized golden-red handle. the flip of chestnut curls twirled to one side when he was deep in thought. a mole above his lip, another just under his cheek like stars in the darkness of his vision failing. it might sound like he's squeaking, weeping:
vik, trr. viktr. vik. v. v. v.
how he manages to drag his hand up to brush his bloodied knuckles at the window was the result of a perishing delusion, but at least he . . . didn't feel alone. ]
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jayce's brows crease with dolor and mourning as he's cleaved from the prospect of retrieving viktor's cane, hardly having the energy to kick, to smack— he barely has it in him to keep reaching as he's hoisted by the herald's claw and haphazardly placed on the cargo bed. his labor to breathe is about to get worse when his lungs contract from the extended pooling within it when laid on his back, he sputters— and blood spurts from his mouth and nose like a fountain, foamy and bright red with the stains of colors that were contaminating his flesh as is. he can't even turn over by himself, arching his neck and back as he coughs and violently asphyxiates on his own fluids.
his heart, his wheezing, his garbled cries— it's all too loud. he could barely hear him and make sense of words, his consciousness as bleak as a thread ready to snap. jayce looks to his spasming wrist anyway, as if it were an answer, where the acceleration rune glows, ripples— and the arcane's touch raids the left side of his face.
the guttural sounds that spewed off his wet lips might as well just be frantic nothings twined with his soaked panting. from his usual bronze he's as pale as paper, blood from his back and leg forming an oozing pool of pearly gore at the back of the pick-up. jayce points his eyes up, passenger seat as his organs fail him one by one. he stares in that direction, not the herald, eyes rolling back and fighting to keep craning, to stay awake through the searing that ravaged his chest from the inside. back window. the pretty curve of a personalized golden-red handle. the flip of chestnut curls twirled to one side when he was deep in thought. a mole above his lip, another just under his cheek like stars in the darkness of his vision failing. it might sound like he's squeaking, weeping:
vik, trr. viktr. vik. v. v. v.
how he manages to drag his hand up to brush his bloodied knuckles at the window was the result of a perishing delusion, but at least he . . . didn't feel alone. ]