A little lost Even knowing he can't be sure about anything, Darlington can't shake the feeling he's been somewhere hotter than this.
The sun beats down, relentless enough to make him as glad of the wide brim of his hat as he is of the tough leather of his boots. His feet sink into the sand, but he keeps walking, pushing himself forward towards whatever unknown awaits. It would be better if he could see some progress, some sign of anything at all--beyond cacti and a smattering of rock formations in the far distance, that is. Still, he walks. There has to be something, some shelter, a little further along.
After what feels like another hour, he stops again, face flushed, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with a bandanna he can't remember shoving in a pocket. It's the least of the gaps, though, a thought he doesn't take time to examine too closely yet. Wherever he's heading can't be much further; he can take the question of his presence here up again once he gets there.
For now, there's just the walk, and the heat, and the sand.
Face your fears That there's a small room under his name at the Staywell is another mystery, but a welcome one for right now. Darlington washes the desert grit away and changes; his provided wardrobe is no different from the clothes he'd stumbled through the desert in, their style not quite what he thinks he'd have chosen for himself, but at least they're clean. The long, dark coat he finds on a hook by the door fits well enough, though, and he pulls it on and makes his way downstairs, dropping his room key in a pocket.
He's in the lobby by the time the soft tink of metal on glass registers, and outside when he notices the subtle shift in weight at his side. Slowly, he reaches in, fingertips brushing his keys at first--and then the smoother, cooler surface of something else. At first blush, it doesn't look like much: a glass vial, sealed and stoppered, the liquid within a rich gold. He studies it, turning the vial in his fingers, brow furrowed even as he handles it with a reverence that feels instinctive. Instinctive, too, is the way he smoothly breaks the seal and thumbs the cork out, tipping it back and swallowing the stuff within.
Darlington feels himself brace for something--a spike, a chill, the sudden agony of sidling up to something unknown. Something should happen, but he swallows it like only so much water, only something plain and uninspired, utterly mundane. "That's not..." he murmurs, and reaches for his pocket again.
Another vial, and it's just the same. He doesn't know where they come from, how they keep appearing out of pockets that are only so deep, only so full. He opens each, swallows each, his heart pounding and his hands beginning to shake. Even when the stuff inside changes from gold to thick, tarlike black, the foul smell of it lancing through the growing tension in his gut, he only hesitates briefly before swallowing it down too.
That time, Danny expects it to hurt, expects blood and doesn't know why--but it's the same as all the others. Like nothing. Like a door closing tight, locking itself, an unbreachable barrier with him left standing on the wrong side.
"No," he says, as the empty vial sits in his hand, as more of them scatter the dirt around his feet. "That's not...it's not supposed to be like this."
Wildcard Different idea? Have questions? Find me over on plurk at the (very, embarrassingly) new gripyfish!
Daniel Arlington | Hell Bent
Even knowing he can't be sure about anything, Darlington can't shake the feeling he's been somewhere hotter than this.
The sun beats down, relentless enough to make him as glad of the wide brim of his hat as he is of the tough leather of his boots. His feet sink into the sand, but he keeps walking, pushing himself forward towards whatever unknown awaits. It would be better if he could see some progress, some sign of anything at all--beyond cacti and a smattering of rock formations in the far distance, that is. Still, he walks. There has to be something, some shelter, a little further along.
After what feels like another hour, he stops again, face flushed, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck with a bandanna he can't remember shoving in a pocket. It's the least of the gaps, though, a thought he doesn't take time to examine too closely yet. Wherever he's heading can't be much further; he can take the question of his presence here up again once he gets there.
For now, there's just the walk, and the heat, and the sand.
Face your fears
That there's a small room under his name at the Staywell is another mystery, but a welcome one for right now. Darlington washes the desert grit away and changes; his provided wardrobe is no different from the clothes he'd stumbled through the desert in, their style not quite what he thinks he'd have chosen for himself, but at least they're clean. The long, dark coat he finds on a hook by the door fits well enough, though, and he pulls it on and makes his way downstairs, dropping his room key in a pocket.
He's in the lobby by the time the soft tink of metal on glass registers, and outside when he notices the subtle shift in weight at his side. Slowly, he reaches in, fingertips brushing his keys at first--and then the smoother, cooler surface of something else. At first blush, it doesn't look like much: a glass vial, sealed and stoppered, the liquid within a rich gold. He studies it, turning the vial in his fingers, brow furrowed even as he handles it with a reverence that feels instinctive. Instinctive, too, is the way he smoothly breaks the seal and thumbs the cork out, tipping it back and swallowing the stuff within.
Darlington feels himself brace for something--a spike, a chill, the sudden agony of sidling up to something unknown. Something should happen, but he swallows it like only so much water, only something plain and uninspired, utterly mundane. "That's not..." he murmurs, and reaches for his pocket again.
Another vial, and it's just the same. He doesn't know where they come from, how they keep appearing out of pockets that are only so deep, only so full. He opens each, swallows each, his heart pounding and his hands beginning to shake. Even when the stuff inside changes from gold to thick, tarlike black, the foul smell of it lancing through the growing tension in his gut, he only hesitates briefly before swallowing it down too.
That time, Danny expects it to hurt, expects blood and doesn't know why--but it's the same as all the others. Like nothing. Like a door closing tight, locking itself, an unbreachable barrier with him left standing on the wrong side.
"No," he says, as the empty vial sits in his hand, as more of them scatter the dirt around his feet. "That's not...it's not supposed to be like this."
Wildcard
Different idea? Have questions? Find me over on plurk at the (very, embarrassingly) new