Lovino Vargas || Italy Romano (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
chigi) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
towerofanimus2012-01-19 12:16 am
chigi) wrote in towerofanimus2012-01-19 12:16 am
Entry tags:
The grabbing hands grab all they can.
Characters: Romano, welcoming everyone to come save his ass!
Setting: [F22] Art Gallery - Just turning night.
Format: Brackets & flexible.
Summary: Our mopey little Italian spends far too much time in the ghastly art gallery. By nightfall the monsters are out to play and Romano's in no mental shape to get away.
Warnings: Pain/injury, disembodied ghost hands, emotional trauma, depictions of death in paintings.
[He should've trusted the sinking feeling he felt when he'd first entered this floor. He should have listened to his instincts. But no, he was moody and with no where else to go. Art always called to him and his brother, and apparently being in this stupid piece of crap tower made no difference.
The sad thing? It reminded him of his brother.
He'd only had a brief encounter with Veneziano here, and now he can no longer be found. Romano blames himself, unreasonably, because he blames himself for many things, especially being unable to protect his fratello. The art mocks him more than inspires him.]
This art is shitty. Nothing like even Italy's worst.
[Italy's worst, huh? Can that even be said? Italy is a capital of art and music and beautiful landscapes, how can it produce anything but wonder?
Romano's quickly discovering that this gallery is almost like a maze and the way back seems hard to remember. A turn here, another turn there. What time is it? He hopes the lights don't shut out on him, if they do at all when it becomes night. Another turn and.
His heart stops.]
What...
[His bored expression darkens, fearfully, at what he's stumbled upon. This part of the gallery is dimly lit in comparison to the rest, and the paintings and sculptures stir unpleasant memories. War. Dead leaders. Dead citizens. Horrible things done by his own people to his own people. Burned and dead landscapes... Death. He turns around and dashes the way he came, hoping to put as much distance between him and his nightmares as possible.
In the process of running way too fast, he bumps into a wall pretty hard and hurts his arm. No big deal, he can still make it to the entrance right?
He could, if there weren't hands grabbing onto the back of his shirt, pulling him back towards the wall. The Italian cranes his head to see them, panicking already. Hitting the ...ghost-like hands does nothing. His intelligence quickly soars as he realizes if he sacrifices his shirt he can escape their grasp, and it's painful because he loves that shirt, but he loves not being trapped more.
Ciao, pink shirt.
His heart's beating faster than one of Holland's rabbits by now and he's running as fast as Italian legs can carry him. Which is to say, pretty fucking fast. And then it's dark. Shit, apparently this plays does close down. He didn't know he was in here that long. The lights in the gallery shut off, one by one, and now it's time to panic and scream for help as he runs.]
IS THERE ANYONE ELSE IN HERE? GOD DAMN IT SOMEONE, HELP!
[He runs too close to a wall again, and another hand grabs onto his arm, then another to his other arm, his hair, his torso, waist, legs. His fucking hair, god damn fucking shit! The hands dig their jagged nails into his skin and he knows he's bleeding. They're pulling him back to the wall again, and he knows they're trying to crush him against it.]
FUCKING L-LET GO YOU BASTARDS. [He struggles valliantly, but can only do so much against so many grabbing adversaries.] Help! Someone! ANYONE! I'M BEGHH-- [Hand in his mouth hand in his mouth oh god.]
[ooc: COME SAVE HIM SOMEONE???]
Setting: [F22] Art Gallery - Just turning night.
Format: Brackets & flexible.
Summary: Our mopey little Italian spends far too much time in the ghastly art gallery. By nightfall the monsters are out to play and Romano's in no mental shape to get away.
Warnings: Pain/injury, disembodied ghost hands, emotional trauma, depictions of death in paintings.
[He should've trusted the sinking feeling he felt when he'd first entered this floor. He should have listened to his instincts. But no, he was moody and with no where else to go. Art always called to him and his brother, and apparently being in this stupid piece of crap tower made no difference.
The sad thing? It reminded him of his brother.
He'd only had a brief encounter with Veneziano here, and now he can no longer be found. Romano blames himself, unreasonably, because he blames himself for many things, especially being unable to protect his fratello. The art mocks him more than inspires him.]
This art is shitty. Nothing like even Italy's worst.
[Italy's worst, huh? Can that even be said? Italy is a capital of art and music and beautiful landscapes, how can it produce anything but wonder?
Romano's quickly discovering that this gallery is almost like a maze and the way back seems hard to remember. A turn here, another turn there. What time is it? He hopes the lights don't shut out on him, if they do at all when it becomes night. Another turn and.
His heart stops.]
What...
[His bored expression darkens, fearfully, at what he's stumbled upon. This part of the gallery is dimly lit in comparison to the rest, and the paintings and sculptures stir unpleasant memories. War. Dead leaders. Dead citizens. Horrible things done by his own people to his own people. Burned and dead landscapes... Death. He turns around and dashes the way he came, hoping to put as much distance between him and his nightmares as possible.
In the process of running way too fast, he bumps into a wall pretty hard and hurts his arm. No big deal, he can still make it to the entrance right?
He could, if there weren't hands grabbing onto the back of his shirt, pulling him back towards the wall. The Italian cranes his head to see them, panicking already. Hitting the ...ghost-like hands does nothing. His intelligence quickly soars as he realizes if he sacrifices his shirt he can escape their grasp, and it's painful because he loves that shirt, but he loves not being trapped more.
Ciao, pink shirt.
His heart's beating faster than one of Holland's rabbits by now and he's running as fast as Italian legs can carry him. Which is to say, pretty fucking fast. And then it's dark. Shit, apparently this plays does close down. He didn't know he was in here that long. The lights in the gallery shut off, one by one, and now it's time to panic and scream for help as he runs.]
IS THERE ANYONE ELSE IN HERE? GOD DAMN IT SOMEONE, HELP!
[He runs too close to a wall again, and another hand grabs onto his arm, then another to his other arm, his hair, his torso, waist, legs. His fucking hair, god damn fucking shit! The hands dig their jagged nails into his skin and he knows he's bleeding. They're pulling him back to the wall again, and he knows they're trying to crush him against it.]
FUCKING L-LET GO YOU BASTARDS. [He struggles valliantly, but can only do so much against so many grabbing adversaries.] Help! Someone! ANYONE! I'M BEGHH-- [Hand in his mouth hand in his mouth oh god.]
[ooc: COME SAVE HIM SOMEONE???]
no subject
Mister Romano! Mister Romano!
[He has to do something, he runs up to him and throws himself at the hands, trying to make them let go of his roomate.]