A First for Everything [Jersey]
Posted: 16 Mar 2014, 05:01
--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--
<Peter Parkman> It wasn’t that he’d forgotten to feed, per se. No, actually, Peter had completely forgotten. He’d been distracted, what with recent revelations, and his mind wasn’t functioning at full capacity. It was only when he’d started to feel, once again, like an addicted man deprived of his substance that he realised why. He had not fed. He had not visited that man in the shop for two nights. Or was it three? And his body had started to show the effects of deprivation. His throat burned, his gums ached, and his hands shook; his face was paper-white and his eyes rimmed in red. Anyone on the street could have mistaken him for an addict; it was a good excuse to use, anyway.
So when he caught that scent of blood, he couldn’t help himself. Some deeper, baser instinct took control and he followed the scent to its source. If he’d stopped to think he might have fainted. Might have gagged and dry-heaved. Truth was, he didn’t actually see any blood. He could only smell it, and though the smell of it sickened him, it simultaneously aroused in him a vicious hunger that could not be ignored. He wasn’t thinking properly when he pounced his prey; didn’t realise that he’d been duped, and that there was no blood. It was all a game, to lure him so that he could be shot.
And he was shot, in the gut. His prey turned out to be a hunter; and Peter, with wide-eyed fear and shock, lashed out with the self-same instinct that him chasing the scent of blood to begin with. The woman’s skull caved beneath his superior strength and Peter, absolutely terrified, fled the scene. He clutched at his own odd wound, not bleeding so much as steaming, except the steam was black and shadowy, and it dispersed into the atmosphere as soon as it eked from his skin. It still hurt, though. It hurt as much as any bullet wound would hurt an ordinary person.
He found himself stumbling into the cabin, happy to finally be free to peel off his jacket and tug the shirt over his shoulder; he hissed as the movement at the wound, an ugly, jagged hole in his gut. He stood there just inside the door, oblivious to his surroundings, with the jacket and shirt lying at his feet as he stared at the bullet wound in twin horror and fascination.
<Jersey> She hadn’t been about when he’d gone to sleep, or when he’d awoken the past two days with a plan devising in her pretty little head that involved a camera, sunrise and the sunset before she disappeared off to work. After work, as the film developed, the blonde had somehow managed to black out again, arriving in Corvidae once again with something shuffling in her direction. Jersey hadn’t told Peter about the woman’s voice in her head almost luring her there and had considered it before deciding that he worried about her enough – the last thing he needed was to think she was finally going nuts.
Work had been nice, as usual, after she arrived to the mall fifteen minutes late due to her unconscious detour, and afterwards, she had dinner with a man she’d met named Taggart that immediately seemed to back off when it came to hitting on her the moment she mentioned a boyfriend. All in all, she had a pretty nice day, but nothing would be more complete than to see said boyfriend – and with the gifts, overnight clothing and her outfit for the next day tucked away in her bag, Jersey had made her way to the cabin without a second thought.
She had arrived when he was out, the dogs greeting her as they always did as she stepped inside and removed her shoes. She set the bag down on the couch before going to set the other down in the bedroom before returning to her furry friends, sitting down on the floor so there was less chance to have them knock her over. Her arms went around Hunter’s neck, a giggle escaping past her lips as she relaxed and waited, eventually getting up to lounge on the couch with a book in hand.
As the door opened, she looked over the back of the couch with a bright smile that immediately dropped the moment she saw the scene, her brain not quite connecting that the black stuff was blood as it simply registered that Peter was hurt. Dropping her book, she was immediately on her feet and she shooed the dogs away from him as she went to collect a washcloth. “Peter?” Her voice came out shaken, tiny when she moved back to his side.
<Peter Parkman> The dogs, of course, greeted him as if nothing were wrong. Sometimes they were completely oblivious. Peter himself wasn't too sure whether anything was wrong; the wound still felt hot, as if there were still a knife lodged inside of him, but he knew, underneath it all, that it was going to be fine. He wasn't going to die. This wound would heal, just like any other would. The edge of panic was lost as fascination became the prime emotion; he'd never actually been shot before. Gouged and slashed, yes, but not shot. "Huh?" his green eyes raised to meet Jersey's concerned form; it wasn't really a surprise to see her there. His face was paler than it was before, though, his eyes a luminescent green, like gems in their otherworldlyness. "Hey," he said, as if it were a normal night and this were a normal greeting.
<Jersey> "Trying to give me a heart attack?" She looked at his injury, pretending that it was simply ink disappearing out of his stomach than what she actually gathered was blood. Still, it made her pale and she offered him the wet cloth before she leaned up and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. "Hi. Are you alright?" She had every right to be concerned, really. She didn't know if he would heal, or if it'd stay that way forever. As always, the blonde was attempting to remain calm. "Um... bandages are where?" It'd give her enough of a distraction rather than to panic.
<Peter Parkman> "Uuuhm, hmm," Peter responded with very little certainty. He realised, now, that he should have anticipated Jersey being here; that he should have called ahead and told her to make herself scarce. He'd forgotten to feed, and now he supposed he had lost more 'blood'. His body needed blood so that it could heal. And when she leaned up to kiss him on the lips all he could feel was her warmth, and all he could imagine was the blood that pumped through her body. The stuff that made her warm, that probably lent her that delicious scent, hiding there beneath the Vanilla and the sugar. He backed away and shook his head. In that moment he couldn't recall where the bandages were, or whether he even had any. "You shouldn't come near me. Please don't..." he shook his head again, and covered the wound with his fingers, as if by doing so he could make it disappear. Of course it didn't. He backed up against the door and just stood there.
<Jersey> And then it hit her why he was pale and she set the cloth down before backing up as well, a frown playing across her lips as she watched him in concern. "Go feed, honey. A cup... or... some bunny rabbit in the woods?" She suggested, biting down lightly on her bottom lip as she waited. She didn't like it, not being able to help him or be close to him and it showed in her green eyes as she glanced to his shirt, the wound and then back to his features.
<Peter Parkman> It was the bullet in his gut that was disorienting for Peter. The fact that he'd never been shot before, that the bullet was still in there, that he could feel it, every time he moved--he couldn't imagine trying to be stealthy, and couldn't summon the energy to hike all the way back into the city, to find the shop and the man to sell him his blackmarket blood. He felt like pouting like a child, but instead cringed as he glanced down at the wound, tugging at the skin as if he could just pull the wound out and it would all be dandy. He licked his dry lips. "I need to get the bullet out first," he said. He wasn't sure whether that's what he needed to do or not, but it seemed like the right course of action. He cringed again as that dark voice in the back his head told him he didn't really have to go anywhere. There was a meal in his lounge room. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He veered in a wide circle around Jersey as he made his way to the bathroom, where the light was bright and he could at least examine the damage in the mirror. His teeth ground together as he prodded at the wound, trying to find the hardness of the bullet beneath the skin.
<Jersey> She watched after him warily before pinching her eyebrows together, stepping back to the wall to give him the space needed before waiting and eventually followed him at a distance to watch what he was doing. Her hand lightly remained where she kept her knife concealed, not wanting to use it while she pressed her lips together. "I don't see an exit wound." She spoke, admiring his back and the muscle beneath before she looked to where her reflection would be seen in the mirror. Small, blonde and pretty Jersey. He wasn't there. She knew she should be concerned, but alas, nothing. Wetting her lips, Jersey waited for the lecture that she was likely going to bring upon herself. "If you need to, you can feed from me. I trust you and if it were to get too much, I would hit you." She took her bottom lip between her teeth, rolling it and pulling on the flesh in habit to show she was wary.
<Peter Parkman> It wasn't until Peter looked up into the mirror that he remembered, and realised it was futile. A groan passed his lips; he liked to be in control, and in this situation he was not. It stressed him out, and he didn't like to be stressed out. It's why he kept to himself most of the time and didn't go out much. Going out required doing things, and doing too many things inspired stress. Jersey appeared in the mirror and Peter inched away from her. When she suggested he feed from her, those clear, lucid eyes of his flashed angrily. "I don't trust me. You shouldn't," he said. "Only reason I'm in this mess is because I lacked control so you shouldn't trust me," he said. He stumbled backward until he was sitting on the toilet, on top of the closed lid. He steadfastly pretended that Jersey was not there as he leaned over his own torso and began to dig a finger into the flesh - he could feel the bullet there. He just needed to guide it out. The pain shot through his entire body, however; his head spun, and he gasped. But he didn't stop. The 'blood', such as it was, was disconcerting and more than a little off-putting - as he continued to thrust his finger around in the wound, the shadowy, inky blackness continued to gush from him, dispersing into the air, disappearing completely.
<Peter Parkman> It wasn’t that he’d forgotten to feed, per se. No, actually, Peter had completely forgotten. He’d been distracted, what with recent revelations, and his mind wasn’t functioning at full capacity. It was only when he’d started to feel, once again, like an addicted man deprived of his substance that he realised why. He had not fed. He had not visited that man in the shop for two nights. Or was it three? And his body had started to show the effects of deprivation. His throat burned, his gums ached, and his hands shook; his face was paper-white and his eyes rimmed in red. Anyone on the street could have mistaken him for an addict; it was a good excuse to use, anyway.
So when he caught that scent of blood, he couldn’t help himself. Some deeper, baser instinct took control and he followed the scent to its source. If he’d stopped to think he might have fainted. Might have gagged and dry-heaved. Truth was, he didn’t actually see any blood. He could only smell it, and though the smell of it sickened him, it simultaneously aroused in him a vicious hunger that could not be ignored. He wasn’t thinking properly when he pounced his prey; didn’t realise that he’d been duped, and that there was no blood. It was all a game, to lure him so that he could be shot.
And he was shot, in the gut. His prey turned out to be a hunter; and Peter, with wide-eyed fear and shock, lashed out with the self-same instinct that him chasing the scent of blood to begin with. The woman’s skull caved beneath his superior strength and Peter, absolutely terrified, fled the scene. He clutched at his own odd wound, not bleeding so much as steaming, except the steam was black and shadowy, and it dispersed into the atmosphere as soon as it eked from his skin. It still hurt, though. It hurt as much as any bullet wound would hurt an ordinary person.
He found himself stumbling into the cabin, happy to finally be free to peel off his jacket and tug the shirt over his shoulder; he hissed as the movement at the wound, an ugly, jagged hole in his gut. He stood there just inside the door, oblivious to his surroundings, with the jacket and shirt lying at his feet as he stared at the bullet wound in twin horror and fascination.
<Jersey> She hadn’t been about when he’d gone to sleep, or when he’d awoken the past two days with a plan devising in her pretty little head that involved a camera, sunrise and the sunset before she disappeared off to work. After work, as the film developed, the blonde had somehow managed to black out again, arriving in Corvidae once again with something shuffling in her direction. Jersey hadn’t told Peter about the woman’s voice in her head almost luring her there and had considered it before deciding that he worried about her enough – the last thing he needed was to think she was finally going nuts.
Work had been nice, as usual, after she arrived to the mall fifteen minutes late due to her unconscious detour, and afterwards, she had dinner with a man she’d met named Taggart that immediately seemed to back off when it came to hitting on her the moment she mentioned a boyfriend. All in all, she had a pretty nice day, but nothing would be more complete than to see said boyfriend – and with the gifts, overnight clothing and her outfit for the next day tucked away in her bag, Jersey had made her way to the cabin without a second thought.
She had arrived when he was out, the dogs greeting her as they always did as she stepped inside and removed her shoes. She set the bag down on the couch before going to set the other down in the bedroom before returning to her furry friends, sitting down on the floor so there was less chance to have them knock her over. Her arms went around Hunter’s neck, a giggle escaping past her lips as she relaxed and waited, eventually getting up to lounge on the couch with a book in hand.
As the door opened, she looked over the back of the couch with a bright smile that immediately dropped the moment she saw the scene, her brain not quite connecting that the black stuff was blood as it simply registered that Peter was hurt. Dropping her book, she was immediately on her feet and she shooed the dogs away from him as she went to collect a washcloth. “Peter?” Her voice came out shaken, tiny when she moved back to his side.
<Peter Parkman> The dogs, of course, greeted him as if nothing were wrong. Sometimes they were completely oblivious. Peter himself wasn't too sure whether anything was wrong; the wound still felt hot, as if there were still a knife lodged inside of him, but he knew, underneath it all, that it was going to be fine. He wasn't going to die. This wound would heal, just like any other would. The edge of panic was lost as fascination became the prime emotion; he'd never actually been shot before. Gouged and slashed, yes, but not shot. "Huh?" his green eyes raised to meet Jersey's concerned form; it wasn't really a surprise to see her there. His face was paler than it was before, though, his eyes a luminescent green, like gems in their otherworldlyness. "Hey," he said, as if it were a normal night and this were a normal greeting.
<Jersey> "Trying to give me a heart attack?" She looked at his injury, pretending that it was simply ink disappearing out of his stomach than what she actually gathered was blood. Still, it made her pale and she offered him the wet cloth before she leaned up and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. "Hi. Are you alright?" She had every right to be concerned, really. She didn't know if he would heal, or if it'd stay that way forever. As always, the blonde was attempting to remain calm. "Um... bandages are where?" It'd give her enough of a distraction rather than to panic.
<Peter Parkman> "Uuuhm, hmm," Peter responded with very little certainty. He realised, now, that he should have anticipated Jersey being here; that he should have called ahead and told her to make herself scarce. He'd forgotten to feed, and now he supposed he had lost more 'blood'. His body needed blood so that it could heal. And when she leaned up to kiss him on the lips all he could feel was her warmth, and all he could imagine was the blood that pumped through her body. The stuff that made her warm, that probably lent her that delicious scent, hiding there beneath the Vanilla and the sugar. He backed away and shook his head. In that moment he couldn't recall where the bandages were, or whether he even had any. "You shouldn't come near me. Please don't..." he shook his head again, and covered the wound with his fingers, as if by doing so he could make it disappear. Of course it didn't. He backed up against the door and just stood there.
<Jersey> And then it hit her why he was pale and she set the cloth down before backing up as well, a frown playing across her lips as she watched him in concern. "Go feed, honey. A cup... or... some bunny rabbit in the woods?" She suggested, biting down lightly on her bottom lip as she waited. She didn't like it, not being able to help him or be close to him and it showed in her green eyes as she glanced to his shirt, the wound and then back to his features.
<Peter Parkman> It was the bullet in his gut that was disorienting for Peter. The fact that he'd never been shot before, that the bullet was still in there, that he could feel it, every time he moved--he couldn't imagine trying to be stealthy, and couldn't summon the energy to hike all the way back into the city, to find the shop and the man to sell him his blackmarket blood. He felt like pouting like a child, but instead cringed as he glanced down at the wound, tugging at the skin as if he could just pull the wound out and it would all be dandy. He licked his dry lips. "I need to get the bullet out first," he said. He wasn't sure whether that's what he needed to do or not, but it seemed like the right course of action. He cringed again as that dark voice in the back his head told him he didn't really have to go anywhere. There was a meal in his lounge room. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He veered in a wide circle around Jersey as he made his way to the bathroom, where the light was bright and he could at least examine the damage in the mirror. His teeth ground together as he prodded at the wound, trying to find the hardness of the bullet beneath the skin.
<Jersey> She watched after him warily before pinching her eyebrows together, stepping back to the wall to give him the space needed before waiting and eventually followed him at a distance to watch what he was doing. Her hand lightly remained where she kept her knife concealed, not wanting to use it while she pressed her lips together. "I don't see an exit wound." She spoke, admiring his back and the muscle beneath before she looked to where her reflection would be seen in the mirror. Small, blonde and pretty Jersey. He wasn't there. She knew she should be concerned, but alas, nothing. Wetting her lips, Jersey waited for the lecture that she was likely going to bring upon herself. "If you need to, you can feed from me. I trust you and if it were to get too much, I would hit you." She took her bottom lip between her teeth, rolling it and pulling on the flesh in habit to show she was wary.
<Peter Parkman> It wasn't until Peter looked up into the mirror that he remembered, and realised it was futile. A groan passed his lips; he liked to be in control, and in this situation he was not. It stressed him out, and he didn't like to be stressed out. It's why he kept to himself most of the time and didn't go out much. Going out required doing things, and doing too many things inspired stress. Jersey appeared in the mirror and Peter inched away from her. When she suggested he feed from her, those clear, lucid eyes of his flashed angrily. "I don't trust me. You shouldn't," he said. "Only reason I'm in this mess is because I lacked control so you shouldn't trust me," he said. He stumbled backward until he was sitting on the toilet, on top of the closed lid. He steadfastly pretended that Jersey was not there as he leaned over his own torso and began to dig a finger into the flesh - he could feel the bullet there. He just needed to guide it out. The pain shot through his entire body, however; his head spun, and he gasped. But he didn't stop. The 'blood', such as it was, was disconcerting and more than a little off-putting - as he continued to thrust his finger around in the wound, the shadowy, inky blackness continued to gush from him, dispersing into the air, disappearing completely.