[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]

[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.]