[Voice]

[faterecanted]

[The first thing that appears in the journal is a big, thick ink smudge, sort of like it's been fingerpainted by large, clumsy hands -- because it has.]



[A few moments later, when it becomes clear it just isn't going to happen, Van speaks. His voice is a rough, dry croak. Either he hasn't spoken in weeks... or he's overused it to the point of ruin.]

Tear. ...Tear.

[A bit later still, when he realizes he's drifting off and he does not want to pass out--]

What day is it? [Not that the answer will mean anything to him, thrice-damned nonsense calendar.]


(OOC: Reluctant first aid reserved for Tear, but feel free to answer him. He'll talk, he just won't accept help from anyone else.)

Comments

voice;

[alloys]

[That's it? He goes through all that effort to come up with a witty remark and that's all he get? Sheesh. Next time he won't even make the effort.]

You are. Christmas is the best day of the whole year. A fat man brings you presents and eats your cookies. And the bank is closed. What more could you possibly want in life.

voice;

[faterecanted]

A thirteen month calendar.

[...]

And a coat.

voice;

[alloys]

Be sure to tell Santa, then. As long as you've been a good boy this year he'll bring you anything you want.

...Why a thirteen month calendar? Want to draw out the year that badly?

voice;

[faterecanted]

[That comment about being a good boy? Apparently it's the funniest damn thing Van's heard in a long time. Ooooh, laughing hurts his everything.]

Thirteen months, seven hundred and...something... days. As a proper year should be. How else would you get anything done?

voice;

[alloys]

[...This is not how trolling is supposed to work.]

Oh, I don't know, perhaps just by doing it and adopting a twelve-month Gregorian calendar like every other soul around.

voice;

[faterecanted]

[Did he ever pick the wrong person for trolling.]

If I switch to your ridiculous calendar I'll be fifty. I am not ready to be fifty. [...He looks ready to be fifty. And he sounds ready to be hospitalized.]

voice;

[alloys]

[Worst turn of events ever.]

--Wait, you're saying by your calendar you're only half as old as you look? [INTRIGUING maybe this calendar has promise after all.]

voice;

[faterecanted]

[He made an extreme tactical error, right about when he asked a mass murderer if he'd been a good boy this year.]

I did that on purpose. [Apparently, his criminal activities are funny to him, but his age is a sore spot. Go fig.]

voice;

[alloys]

[He sure can pick 'em.]

Guess they must like to draw things out in your world. Does that mean you kick the bucket at forty, though?

voice;

[faterecanted]

No. [He's really planning on dropping dead quite a lot sooner.]

...Most people live to seventy, don't they? Or do you have sad short lives to match your calendar? [...Look, asking for easily followable logic from a concussed madman may be asking too much.]

voice;

[alloys]

'Sad' isn't really how I would put it. Going to hell in a fast car, and all that.

Seventy, eighty, give or take a few decades. [Not him, though. He'll either die ridiculously soon or when he's ancient. That's the plan.]