Jean Kirstien (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angewiesen) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entranceway2017-01-23 06:54 pm
angewiesen) wrote in entranceway2017-01-23 06:54 pm
first [video / action]
[A new resident can be seen wandering the grounds of the Mansion today. His gait is stumbling, and he holds his right arm at an unnatural angle. He’s wearing some kind of harness that supports a system of weaponry on his body, so strange and specific that its use is unclear. Upon closer inspection, it’s easy to see that there’s something seriously wrong with him. His eyes are unfocused, his clothing is ragged, and he carries a particular stench of blood, death and heat. Despite this, only a few browning spots stain his jacket.]
What in the world…
[His attention is drawn in all different directions. He stares off in the distance over the forest and the hills. The shoreline, too, seems to bewilder him. He’s walking in circles around the Mansion, his neck tilted back as far as it can go to take in its dizzying heights.]
Who the hell built this thing? Titans with wood planes and mortar?
[He takes a few steps back, as if winding back to leap, and reaches up to grab what looks like triggers in holsters under his arms. His left arm makes it, but his right does not. He winces, and cradles it against his chest. Whatever he was about to do, he can’t pull off with a broken arm. He makes a tching noise.]
The fuck am I supposed to do?
[He takes a deep breath, and then plods along his sorry way, his posture drooping. He’s confused, lost, and a little frightened. It’s hard enough to wrap his mind around his own troubles, let alone whatever fever dream his head has conjured up for him now. They say that all soldiers crack eventually, but he never knew the extent of the madness that enveloped those who can no longer comprehend reality.]
[Because we’re all mad here, right?]
What in the world…
[His attention is drawn in all different directions. He stares off in the distance over the forest and the hills. The shoreline, too, seems to bewilder him. He’s walking in circles around the Mansion, his neck tilted back as far as it can go to take in its dizzying heights.]
Who the hell built this thing? Titans with wood planes and mortar?
[He takes a few steps back, as if winding back to leap, and reaches up to grab what looks like triggers in holsters under his arms. His left arm makes it, but his right does not. He winces, and cradles it against his chest. Whatever he was about to do, he can’t pull off with a broken arm. He makes a tching noise.]
The fuck am I supposed to do?
[He takes a deep breath, and then plods along his sorry way, his posture drooping. He’s confused, lost, and a little frightened. It’s hard enough to wrap his mind around his own troubles, let alone whatever fever dream his head has conjured up for him now. They say that all soldiers crack eventually, but he never knew the extent of the madness that enveloped those who can no longer comprehend reality.]
[Because we’re all mad here, right?]