[Whiteness blinds Nyx as he comes to, waking from a darkness that wasn't quite that dark at all. He runs his fingers through his hair, threading out the braids. His tattooed fingers finally reach the tube at the base of his neck. What the hell? He couldn't stay here, attached to whatever that thing is. Smart or stupid, Nyx grips the tube.
The pull is almost nauseating. There's an implication there, something sinister that reminds him too much of the war he's been a part of since he was in his twenties.
It's as if he came back from those memories, fully awake and alive, to those days of old where he could still hear his sister screaming for help, where he could still smell the fire and taste the gasoline of Nif airships.
But it's worse. A riot of words, or were they really words at all? Whatever it is, it swarms his mind like an incessant buzzing, loud and droning. If he squalls, Nyx doesn't notice. He's too busy gripping his hair and head. In the mess of... whatever it is, there's something familiar in the roar. A pull. A feeling of crystal and ash. A sharpness and clarity like electricity.
Nyx finally forces himself to swing his legs.
His legs. The legs that had been shot out by former allies. He glances down and finds his uniform is just the same as it had been: grimy, sweaty, knees caked in blood with two perfect holes. There's no scar or even a wound when he runs his fingers over the holes. Nothing at all.
It's then he realizes just how damn out of place he is in this pristine, perfect white pocket. Black, purple, silver, gray, and admittedly kind of wretched makes him stick out like coal on snow. So, with some effort, he changes, and discovers he feels no better than before. What does it say about him he's too used to the leather and metal of the Kingsglaive uniform?
He moves up and out, clutching his clothing, weapons tucked between the folds of the uniform. Nyx does his damned best to focus beyond the buzz. His wounds might be healed, but there's definitely still some grime on his face, a hardness and roughness to the faint lines on his face. The first person he comes across? Sorry, he's going to pointedly flag you down.]
Hey, you mind telling me what this place is?
[His blue-gray eyes flicker in an effort to just focus. The determination on his own behalf swells, unwilling and unyielding to lose himself in the sea of whatever is going through his mind.
Otherwise, you might want to tell him he should go wash his face. He hasn't seen himself for the better part of 36 hours.]
autopilot // the bridge
[Nyx finds himself on the bridge, or what is said to be the bridge. None of this is at all what he knows. He adapts, though, as he always has, always will, just to survive, to see the next day.
It doesn't mean he won't question it. Adapting is not the same as acceptance. Adapting means changing yourself to find a new way to live. If he had accepted years ago, he would've never joined the Glaive.
The quiet on the bridge is welcome, though the noise of his mind still goes on. Despite having woken up from whatever that was, Nyx can feel the exhaustion of the battles start to settle in.
With no one around, so far as he can see, Nyx leans on the wall and lets his weight slide him down to the floor. His wrists settle on his bent knees.]
Just another day.
[He says to no one, but simply reminds himself. It's another day. No home, no tether. This is just another place to pass through.]
anything goes
[New kid here, he'll be exploring so run into him wherever.]
open
[Whiteness blinds Nyx as he comes to, waking from a darkness that wasn't quite that dark at all. He runs his fingers through his hair, threading out the braids. His tattooed fingers finally reach the tube at the base of his neck. What the hell? He couldn't stay here, attached to whatever that thing is. Smart or stupid, Nyx grips the tube.
The pull is almost nauseating. There's an implication there, something sinister that reminds him too much of the war he's been a part of since he was in his twenties.
It's as if he came back from those memories, fully awake and alive, to those days of old where he could still hear his sister screaming for help, where he could still smell the fire and taste the gasoline of Nif airships.
But it's worse. A riot of words, or were they really words at all? Whatever it is, it swarms his mind like an incessant buzzing, loud and droning. If he squalls, Nyx doesn't notice. He's too busy gripping his hair and head. In the mess of... whatever it is, there's something familiar in the roar. A pull. A feeling of crystal and ash. A sharpness and clarity like electricity.
Nyx finally forces himself to swing his legs.
His legs. The legs that had been shot out by former allies. He glances down and finds his uniform is just the same as it had been: grimy, sweaty, knees caked in blood with two perfect holes. There's no scar or even a wound when he runs his fingers over the holes. Nothing at all.
It's then he realizes just how damn out of place he is in this pristine, perfect white pocket. Black, purple, silver, gray, and admittedly kind of wretched makes him stick out like coal on snow. So, with some effort, he changes, and discovers he feels no better than before. What does it say about him he's too used to the leather and metal of the Kingsglaive uniform?
He moves up and out, clutching his clothing, weapons tucked between the folds of the uniform. Nyx does his damned best to focus beyond the buzz. His wounds might be healed, but there's definitely still some grime on his face, a hardness and roughness to the faint lines on his face. The first person he comes across? Sorry, he's going to pointedly flag you down.]
Hey, you mind telling me what this place is?
[His blue-gray eyes flicker in an effort to just focus. The determination on his own behalf swells, unwilling and unyielding to lose himself in the sea of whatever is going through his mind.
Otherwise, you might want to tell him he should go wash his face. He hasn't seen himself for the better part of 36 hours.]
autopilot // the bridge
[Nyx finds himself on the bridge, or what is said to be the bridge. None of this is at all what he knows. He adapts, though, as he always has, always will, just to survive, to see the next day.
It doesn't mean he won't question it. Adapting is not the same as acceptance. Adapting means changing yourself to find a new way to live. If he had accepted years ago, he would've never joined the Glaive.
The quiet on the bridge is welcome, though the noise of his mind still goes on. Despite having woken up from whatever that was, Nyx can feel the exhaustion of the battles start to settle in.
With no one around, so far as he can see, Nyx leans on the wall and lets his weight slide him down to the floor. His wrists settle on his bent knees.]
Just another day.
[He says to no one, but simply reminds himself. It's another day. No home, no tether. This is just another place to pass through.]
anything goes
[New kid here, he'll be exploring so run into him wherever.]