03-13-2018, 01:48 AM
[align=center][div style="width: 460px; text-align:justify;font-family:arial; font-size:9pt"][uhh?? there's no like graphic depictions of gore or anything but just be warned this is bad but like, it had to happen eventually]
Ottawa hardly makes it a few steps before he collapses. He's so tired. He wants to sleep, and if there weren't a gaping hole in his shoulder then he really would have conked out right then and there. It's hard to keep pressure on the wound when his hands are shaking. Both his shirt and his hand are slick with blood. There's just so much of it. What is he supposed to do with all of it? Ottawa is sure that he's lost quite a bit, although he doesn't remember when he'd gotten shot or where he had been when the bullets hit him. They had been simultaneous and he had stumbled, staggered through thick underbrush and left bloody marks on trees trying to scramble out of there.
For a few feet, he'd tried to crawl, but that didn't prove to be any more useful than just laying flat on his face in the snow. There's a big red mess surrounding him and it makes his head spin. Did all that come from him? Ottawa's sure he got a few good hits in, maybe managed to leave a nasty mark, or the imprint of his knuckles embedded neatly in the side of someone's face. But he'd taken the brunt of it, and it hurts. He feels as if he's gone through a woodchipper twice. His eyes have been bruised black and he still feels each individual groove of the bottom of a boot engraved into his skin.
The snow feels almost refreshing against his skin. Ottawa doesn't try to move anymore, just weakly clutches his shoulder and lets his chest heave. His head is a big jumble of disorganized, cacophonous thoughts, and he can't make anything out of it. It's the audio equivalent of a scribble. Maybe it's all the blood, or maybe it's all the running he's just done, but his body aches something awful and his head feels like that of a helium balloon. He wants to puke. Would it be bad if he just vomited right here? He'll have to clean up eventually, anyway. No point in trying to stay neat. The mess can't possibly get any worse.
That's assuming he'll even make it. Ottawa doesn't know how bad his injuries are. Obviously getting shot is pretty bad, but he can't collect himself enough to assess himself. He'd gotten hit at some point, kicked right in the stomach, and he thinks another bullet grazed his leg... all he can focus on is the dull ache in his chest. It hurts so much. His body feels like it's on fire, and the snow isn't doing anything to quell that. He can't bring himself to move another inch. How long has it been? Is he going to bleed out like this? He's going to bleed out like this. How many minutes have passed? It feels like a year has been compressed into five minutes and it just keeps going on.
Ottawa wheezes. He's exhausted. This hurts and his body hurts and all he wants to do is smoke a cigarette and take a nap, but he thinks he's dropped his lighter somewhere along the way. He groans and tightens his grip on his shoulder, bunching fabric in his hand. Someone will be here soon enough, he supposes.
Ottawa hardly makes it a few steps before he collapses. He's so tired. He wants to sleep, and if there weren't a gaping hole in his shoulder then he really would have conked out right then and there. It's hard to keep pressure on the wound when his hands are shaking. Both his shirt and his hand are slick with blood. There's just so much of it. What is he supposed to do with all of it? Ottawa is sure that he's lost quite a bit, although he doesn't remember when he'd gotten shot or where he had been when the bullets hit him. They had been simultaneous and he had stumbled, staggered through thick underbrush and left bloody marks on trees trying to scramble out of there.
For a few feet, he'd tried to crawl, but that didn't prove to be any more useful than just laying flat on his face in the snow. There's a big red mess surrounding him and it makes his head spin. Did all that come from him? Ottawa's sure he got a few good hits in, maybe managed to leave a nasty mark, or the imprint of his knuckles embedded neatly in the side of someone's face. But he'd taken the brunt of it, and it hurts. He feels as if he's gone through a woodchipper twice. His eyes have been bruised black and he still feels each individual groove of the bottom of a boot engraved into his skin.
The snow feels almost refreshing against his skin. Ottawa doesn't try to move anymore, just weakly clutches his shoulder and lets his chest heave. His head is a big jumble of disorganized, cacophonous thoughts, and he can't make anything out of it. It's the audio equivalent of a scribble. Maybe it's all the blood, or maybe it's all the running he's just done, but his body aches something awful and his head feels like that of a helium balloon. He wants to puke. Would it be bad if he just vomited right here? He'll have to clean up eventually, anyway. No point in trying to stay neat. The mess can't possibly get any worse.
That's assuming he'll even make it. Ottawa doesn't know how bad his injuries are. Obviously getting shot is pretty bad, but he can't collect himself enough to assess himself. He'd gotten hit at some point, kicked right in the stomach, and he thinks another bullet grazed his leg... all he can focus on is the dull ache in his chest. It hurts so much. His body feels like it's on fire, and the snow isn't doing anything to quell that. He can't bring himself to move another inch. How long has it been? Is he going to bleed out like this? He's going to bleed out like this. How many minutes have passed? It feels like a year has been compressed into five minutes and it just keeps going on.
Ottawa wheezes. He's exhausted. This hurts and his body hurts and all he wants to do is smoke a cigarette and take a nap, but he thinks he's dropped his lighter somewhere along the way. He groans and tightens his grip on his shoulder, bunching fabric in his hand. Someone will be here soon enough, he supposes.
[align=center][b][sup][abbr=ottawa everman, the badlands - dantalion, flintlock lodge]CHARACTERS[/abbr]  [abbr=body#0070]DISCORD[/abbr]