| University of Colorado, Colorado Springs | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 2 2016, 10:36 PM (276 Views) | |
| Cambrysiel | May 2 2016, 10:36 PM Post #1 |
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![]() Once stood tall and victorious in its numerous scholar awards and football trophies, the school is nothing more now than a place to stop for food and warmth. A group of old students have created a barricade of rubble and furniture around the main building and have a camp set up there. If you approach with your hands up and ask nicely, they may just let you join them. campus map
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| FeelsGoodMan | May 17 2016, 11:02 PM Post #21 |
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It was not Viktor's voice, but feminine—definitely. “Stan.”. Closer. “Stan.” A small, black rod, protruding around the corner. More of the rifle's profile, and then the panic-stricken face of his familiar. She was marked by blood—probably didn't even notice it, but Stanislaw saw his death before him. Would she gun him down, too? She was too unstable to tell—the painstaking infinite second before the gun drops and she rushes to him. "H'ohmygod." Yeah, no shit. Now imagine being the bound one. She didn't know about any of that, what it was like. What made it even worse was that he /knew/ that Viktor was dead now, he couldn't deal with-- Sudden hug. He hadn't expected that. He expected laughter, ridicule. His naked form—the most vulnerable state for a man, though his most natural...And she was warm to the touch. His heat was already being built up by the blood rushing to his skin—Stanislaw's prominently pale personage now marred by a blushing redness. But now the temperature within his fleshy cage was almost unbearable. Uncomfortable. A woman had never been this close to him since high school, and that was only his mother's hugs. He tried his best to reciprocate, managing only to wrap two flustered arms about her back. His arms brush against hers—bare, sensitive skin upon bare, sensitive skin, a sensation Stanislaw had, perhaps, never felt. But a stranger feeling: the scabs, which scraped against his skin as it slid over. It could've been anything, from accidental bruises and the like, but the neat, even lines at near-uniform distance told him otherwise. His stomach churned—a wave of sympathy, but not empathy. Could he feel empathy for this woman, who was so unlike him? “Kahm here, Kazik, mai preshyious child!” Perhaps she didn't notice his stiffness of body (it was too cold for stiffness of his limb). Perhaps she did—it didn't matter. As her muzzle nuzzled in the nape between his jaw and shoulder, sniffling directly upon his neck, muttering nothings, nothing seemed to be in the present—it was all a mixed jumble of recent future and past soon to be. She left Stan there, upon the couch. Still naked, for he did not think to put on his clothes, he was so fired up. Still the red shade of a bell pepper. He was nervous, yes, but not frenetically so—his movements were smooth, slow, controlled. Adjusting, sitting spread-legged, slowly taking in his surroundings. In his earlier panic, he had neglected to look over the room. Perhaps it was because of his ingrained familiarity with the place. It was his dorm, after all. The dorm appeared mostly the same (minus some stacked rations against a wall), save for the one tome upon a nearby table. It was what Viktor had been reading to him. The cursed tome—the cursed diary. Stanislaw's mind kicks into overdrive. He rushes, no longer calm—there is a definite purpose to his movements. *KRRRSCHT.* *Phwoom.* *Thud.* The snow flakes batter his naked breast, entering through the reopened window. The diary now lay some forty feet or so below. Nobody would ever know. She would never know. He stood there, panting. The action was not much, but it took the breath out of him. *KRRRSCHT.* The window, much more quiet on the return trip, rested in its standard position. Stanislaw sauntered to where his clothes had been left. He managed to put on his undergarments, an undershirt and underwear (and two of his mis-matched woolen socks to accompany) before fatigue took over and he landed upon the couch again. He was unsure of what to do—Bethany should be back. She said she would be back. So he waited, almost curled up into a ball, burying the lower half of his head into his knees. A quizzical expression develops over the remainder of his face. |
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| Cambrysiel | May 17 2016, 11:28 PM Post #22 |
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Down, down, down twelve steps to the third floor where her victims corpses lay resting. And resting for good, she hoped - or at least long enough for Beth to pull them both out of the building. Then she could rest. She could collapse into the freshly fallen snow and cleanse herself of the blood - god, there was so much blood. Beth comes to a frozen stance midstride, bringing her hands into view. Oh, god. Her gaze flits across each corpse - bodies of people, real people, people she'd once known and cared about. Her eyes roll back and she has to lean against the wall to keep from falling. These people... they hadn't been the first. Most certainly not. Bethany did anything to protect the people she cared about - first her siblings, then her friends in the school, and later the group once leadership was shoved upon her. But these men - she could name them all without their ID's. They had been her mentors and tutors and shoulders to cry on. Mark Jacobson, age 34: Freshmen Politics. His wife died last spring, and last Bethany heard he was trying to get into dating again. He was the first one down, her single lead shot stuck somewhere in his frontal lobe. BrentValdez, age 50: Junior Health & Relations Studies. Married, with two children. His decaying mass of a body remained slumped against the wall, his mouth still open in perpetual shock that yes, the little mousy girl had murdered him without a second though. Emmett Holland, age 29: Teachers assistant. Beth didn't give that one recognition. She had to buck up and shut down. Emotions had to wait. Sweet, sweet release from her love would come late in the night while the rest of camp slept. That, she assures herself of. Bethany was not known for breaking promises. Head in the clouds, Beth yanks her sweater on and begins the jog back upstairs. ___ For a moment, she panics when she doesn't find Stanislaw in the position she had left him in. But - there he was, curled fetal on the couch. First things first: Beth snatched a dirty blanket from the top bunk - the one the snow was unable to reach, leaving it almost entirely dry. She throws it over Stanislaw and presses the edges underneath his laying body. She, too, was beginning to grow tired with the cold - no, she had to see this through. "I'm sorry." A premature apology for whatever Bethany was about to do, it seemed, because she swiftly climbs onto the couch and under the blanket and wraps around him as best as she's able. Body heat drained from her, into him, then back into her, and her eyelids fluttered with her new-found exhaustion. The blood from her hands rubbed off on his clothes. "I'm sorry." It came again, though smaller. She was staring at the discarded rope, her body rigid against his. Sorry she had killed somebody he cared about? Surely not; she had no idea of the two's relation. Sorry, perhaps, because she felt at fault that this had all happened. "We just - um..." She blinks hard. Tries to clear her head of the sudden veil of fog that'd encumbered her mind. "Rest. Just for a minute, and then we leave..." She trails off. Not seconds later her head slumps forwards - a curtain of hazelnut hair falls between them, a barrier of sorts - and her body goes limp on top of him. Stanislaw could not see - not yet, at least, not until he threw the blanket off of the pair - the blood that had accumulated on her shirt (and had begun to stain her sweater), not far from the telltale scar that sat on her ribs. She had been stabbed - but when? Probably, most likely, duringafterbefore the attempted molestation. She just needed to sleep. Then she'd be better. Then she could get them home. Edited by Cambrysiel, May 17 2016, 11:32 PM.
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| FeelsGoodMan | May 31 2016, 07:49 PM Post #23 |
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Stanislaw had almost fallen asleep by the time she returned--it was cold, not too cold, very cold, all among differing parts of his bare body. His chest was fully covered by the blanket, toesies and face weren't. Small blanket. Judging by the feel it was the one that Viktor was constantly putting in the wash. Blech--but she didn't know, so there was little reason in his mind to scold her (he would if she was present). The frigidity of the situation thawed. The void within Stanislaw's arms--as routine as the dirty, Cosmoline-stained polishing rag--filled with the flesh of another. It was surreal, something that had never happened before. He was rigid from the cold before, but now his body stiffened from another stimulus, one that frightened and confused him. Rest for a minute--how long was a minute? Was that an order? Was it open to interpretation? Stanislaw was grandiose--he knew he shouldn't be taking orders. But the Stanislaw on the outside wasn't so sure--it was his subconscious driving that idea forward. For once, his subconscious was the one bookmarked and sent back to the shelf within his mental library. Something new forced Stanislaw forward. It was not a confident Stanislaw, whatever it was. He did not point out that she peed on him after falling unconscious upon his chest. Moments later, Stanislaw had two arms violently shaking her shoulders, hoping to thrash her into existence. Perhaps she would see his strained face, clenched teeth--perhaps she would see his crimson chest. |
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| Cambrysiel | May 31 2016, 08:28 PM Post #24 |
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It’s a patch of vibrant red color resting between the matriarch and the other, surrounded by the bleakness of life-deserted building— and this quaint contrast is making those creatures decaying necks slowly crane to the side ( so slowly that one can almost hear the rusty creeeeaaaaak of the nonexistent muscle strings ). A human gesture to accompany another incredibly flawed sentiment: SOME MAY CALL IT A GIFT. A gift for a being One hand finally finishes gathering its strength and it lazily emerges from her back ( a withered branch, a fingerless hand, a vine from the darkest of thicket ). The pure tips of her fingers slowly wraps around the skin where the wound lay ( careful, careful, do not GRAZE the immaculate skin, do not CONTAMINATE THE WICKED ONE ). No words follow that outburst of a sharp intake of breath, a gasp; she already let her friend know she acknowledged how injured she was. The girl unlearned fear a long time ago -- she preferred to go peacefully. But this was not her time - no, Bethany had to save her friend. Perhaps thankfully, she was as stubborn as she was headstrong. A hand finds his chest and pushes - oof! The brunette tumbles to the ground, gasping and rolling as the wound is agitated by her movements. crawlcrawlcrawl towards one of the many paper piles in the room. Dig that stupid zippo lighter you confiscated and flick it until it lights, toss it into a pile and hope it ignites. Then she rolls and tugs off her overshirt, her undershirt, leaving her E X P O S E D in the rawest of ways. No words may be uttered— for what words could be used to describe this ANOMALY? What language could express the strangeness and ethereal quietness of this scene? Now on her back, Bethany stares up at the ceiling of the dorm, gasping for breath, a hand wrapped over the would which hot crimson flowed so freely from -- death approached. |
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