Francis "Good but Questionable" Bonnefoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amant) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2012-12-01 08:01 pm
amant) wrote in towerofanimus2012-12-01 08:01 pm
Entry tags:
fear the reaper
Characters: France [ou], OPEN
Setting: Floor 45, observatory
Format: Either is fine, though I'll be faster with action.
Summary: France is not his usual self after the Tower sent him back to his home for a month.
Warnings: Heavy angst, possible mention of gore and despair. Typical nation without a nation reaction.
For over a year now he had craved the comfort of his home’s rolling hills and the simplicity of a routine outside the tower’s walls. He’d craved it like a man without food or water; deserted with no sign of ever finding what was desperately needed. There was no sign he’d ever break free from this place, but the dream continued. He should have known that his wishes would bite him in the ass, but for so long he’d hoped until even hope seemed pathetic to keep.
November came and the nightmare began.
It was strange, how France had woken up in his bed. In Paris. Something was glaringly wrong. His room, what was left of it, appeared to have caved in some time ago and he’d only just managed to crawl through the debris to find his way out of the building and onto the streets.
The rest he’d care to forget but knew would persist for quite some time. Buildings that had withstood the test of time, through wars and bombast, existed only as charred shells. It had been so silent that he had prayed for any sound of life even if it came in hoarse cries for help. He had found no pity for his heartache which had hit him hard.
The Eiffel Tower had loomed in the horizon like an omen but he had the urge to head that way, hoping that he would find anyone alive. Bodies littered the tree-lined streets, France taking note that there had been no discretion involved in who had been mowed down. Men, women, children—all innocent, had been discarded like ragdolls and left to rot, but for some reason hadn’t.
The Tricolor hung proudly on every post. Stark red, white, and blue stood against grays and brown and death as if to mock him. France had wandered, and searched, and had found nobody that could give him any promise that this was just a lie; some game the tower had decided to play. The collar was even missing from his neck. It was disturbing that he’d become so accustomed to it, that he felt naked without.
Nights were cold and spent alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. He mourned like he had never mourned. He couldn’t sleep for fear that what had swept his land would finally claim him as it had his people. For a month he had existed—because this was not living by any means—pushing himself to keep going. He owed it to those that had lost their life. It was his duty.
December came, and France fell. When he woke up his only wish was that he hadn’t.
He drifted through the too familiar halls until he got to the observatory. No rhyme or reason for it, but once he was there he stayed. It was as cold here as it was in his home but he was already numb, losing daylight in his fugue-like state.
The ghoulish creatures crawling over the outside of the glass took more interest in him as he stood there. Before it would have frightened him but now he was a man truly without a home or purpose and his thoughts twisted until the beings became the lost souls of his people, and that was comforting in itself, really.
Setting: Floor 45, observatory
Format: Either is fine, though I'll be faster with action.
Summary: France is not his usual self after the Tower sent him back to his home for a month.
Warnings: Heavy angst, possible mention of gore and despair. Typical nation without a nation reaction.
For over a year now he had craved the comfort of his home’s rolling hills and the simplicity of a routine outside the tower’s walls. He’d craved it like a man without food or water; deserted with no sign of ever finding what was desperately needed. There was no sign he’d ever break free from this place, but the dream continued. He should have known that his wishes would bite him in the ass, but for so long he’d hoped until even hope seemed pathetic to keep.
November came and the nightmare began.
It was strange, how France had woken up in his bed. In Paris. Something was glaringly wrong. His room, what was left of it, appeared to have caved in some time ago and he’d only just managed to crawl through the debris to find his way out of the building and onto the streets.
The rest he’d care to forget but knew would persist for quite some time. Buildings that had withstood the test of time, through wars and bombast, existed only as charred shells. It had been so silent that he had prayed for any sound of life even if it came in hoarse cries for help. He had found no pity for his heartache which had hit him hard.
The Eiffel Tower had loomed in the horizon like an omen but he had the urge to head that way, hoping that he would find anyone alive. Bodies littered the tree-lined streets, France taking note that there had been no discretion involved in who had been mowed down. Men, women, children—all innocent, had been discarded like ragdolls and left to rot, but for some reason hadn’t.
The Tricolor hung proudly on every post. Stark red, white, and blue stood against grays and brown and death as if to mock him. France had wandered, and searched, and had found nobody that could give him any promise that this was just a lie; some game the tower had decided to play. The collar was even missing from his neck. It was disturbing that he’d become so accustomed to it, that he felt naked without.
Nights were cold and spent alone with only his thoughts to keep him company. He mourned like he had never mourned. He couldn’t sleep for fear that what had swept his land would finally claim him as it had his people. For a month he had existed—because this was not living by any means—pushing himself to keep going. He owed it to those that had lost their life. It was his duty.
December came, and France fell. When he woke up his only wish was that he hadn’t.
He drifted through the too familiar halls until he got to the observatory. No rhyme or reason for it, but once he was there he stayed. It was as cold here as it was in his home but he was already numb, losing daylight in his fugue-like state.
The ghoulish creatures crawling over the outside of the glass took more interest in him as he stood there. Before it would have frightened him but now he was a man truly without a home or purpose and his thoughts twisted until the beings became the lost souls of his people, and that was comforting in itself, really.
no subject
Aside from that, activity has been as well as one could expect in this place.