[Words appear on the ground before you in glowing green. “Your sacrifice(s) are to die, by quill or by ink. Make your final peace, then meet your fate.”]
[Of course, if you wait for longer than fifteen minutes, the matter will be taken out of your hands. The oddly metallic pattern of roses on the wall, with their unnervingly long thorns, peel off the paper and lash out — they snake themselves around the doomed sacrifice and squeeze, ever so gently and ever so slowly. It’s a long death by exsanguination for you poor lost soul, as the thorns stab deep, like so many tiny knives.
Not to worry, though! They will only hurt the sacrifice, even if the other partner tries to attack them or pull them off. The thorns won’t so much as cut the skin.]
[his breathing is shallow and rapid now, but there's something in her tone of voice that inwardly he responds to. his hands move up to clutch at his hair, but he does as he's commanded]
[there's something in him that wants to grab hold of her, clutch her as tightly as he's currently clutching at his own hair and try to prevent what's about to happen, but mentally he just isn't strong enough for that (not yet, perhaps not ever).
it's what she told him to do. it's what she said she wanted. his eyes are stinging and his breath comes quick but he keeps his face covered]
[ She tries to keep as quiet as possible, as she drives the quill into her own chest and twists and yanks, but it's hard not to panic when your breath goes ragged and wet and there's blood pouring from your body and...
he'll hear something small crumple to the ground after a moment of choked back whining in pain, but if he looks he'll simply find the bloodied and slightly mussed body of a fox. ]
[he hears it. he can't help but hear it, the wet rasping of her breath, the whine that crawls the length of his spine and scrabbled between his ribs like claws. he feels sickened (worthless, useless, scared), but he keeps his eyes closed, keeps his face buried and turned away.
she'd told him not to look, she hadn't wanted him to see and so he won't]
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MINGLE
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... I should have known.
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I almost thought it would be different, this time.
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It wouldn't make a difference. Something like this would have happened eventually anyway.
I'm not hurting you, Cepheus.
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[shakes his head]
I could do it to myself.
[purposefully avoiding the word 'kill']
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I don't want you to die, either.
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If it comes down to it, I'll die. I've done it before, so it's fine.
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No. I don't want that. It's not fine.
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DECISION
Re: DECISION
He'll give up the hat Mira gave him. I'll... give up my human body.
[ OOC: Hat: 6/10, human form: 4/10 ]
FAILURE
[Words appear on the ground before you in glowing green. “Your sacrifice(s) are to die, by quill or by ink. Make your final peace, then meet your fate.”]
[Of course, if you wait for longer than fifteen minutes, the matter will be taken out of your hands. The oddly metallic pattern of roses on the wall, with their unnervingly long thorns, peel off the paper and lash out — they snake themselves around the doomed sacrifice and squeeze, ever so gently and ever so slowly. It’s a long death by exsanguination for you poor lost soul, as the thorns stab deep, like so many tiny knives.
Not to worry, though! They will only hurt the sacrifice, even if the other partner tries to attack them or pull them off. The thorns won’t so much as cut the skin.]
Re: FAILURE
... Hey, close your eyes.
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I don't...can't we...?
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[ said seriously; her voice remarkably steady. ]
Look away, Cepheus.
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Don't worry...! I'll be back soon, okay?
[ And then she lets go, rapidly backing away from him to pick up that quill again. ]
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it's what she told him to do. it's what she said she wanted. his eyes are stinging and his breath comes quick but he keeps his face covered]
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he'll hear something small crumple to the ground after a moment of choked back whining in pain, but if he looks he'll simply find the bloodied and slightly mussed body of a fox. ]
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[he hears it. he can't help but hear it, the wet rasping of her breath, the whine that crawls the length of his spine and scrabbled between his ribs like claws. he feels sickened (worthless, useless, scared), but he keeps his eyes closed, keeps his face buried and turned away.
she'd told him not to look, she hadn't wanted him to see and so he won't]