[ Silco doesn't volunteer for the hunt so much as he is shuttled into it, his slight frame afloat within the press of bodies β perfectly capable of getting out, but more interested in seeing exactly what the inhabitants of the house do for fun than abandoning the unfolding festivities. That is, until he realizes that the mask he's holding β covered in shiny black scales that shine green-blue when they catch the light, a glittering red forked tongue extending from between ivory teeth β marks him prey (until he realizes he's gone from just another face in the crowd to a prize).
Bullet-hole scars stretch and contract across the narrow breadth of his chest as he runs, slipping into darkness and pressing his back to a tree as the first wave of the hunt passes by. Lucky, he thinks, his thoughts laced with bitterness, that he knows how to play this kind of game β how to hide, how to use his speed and his size to his advantage.
But he doesn't account for what follows.
He's already seen a few prey claimed β giggling and breathless as they're taken to the forest floor β when he feels the first pang in his gut, as though someone had reached a hand into his stomach and formed a tight fist around everything inside. It flares like pain, like fear, and he can't help the gasp that escapes him, the sound only just barely lost in the sound of another hunt coming to a close (or to a beginning). He realizes that his footing has grown unsteady as he tries to go further into the woods, dread going head to head with a burning frustration as he hobbles further, furtherβ
βand for a moment, he thinks he's back in the water, that his scars have all torn open and his eye is rot rot rotting and that he'd been right when he'd first woken up here, that this is death, that he's just been dying for hours, hours, hoursβ
βbefore his knees buckle and he falls to the ground, his scrabbling hands carrying him just a foot further as dead leaves and torn blades of grass come loose under his fingers. It doesn't occur to him to think about the game, anymore, not when he feels so hollow, not when his very blood seems to be on fire. His frame curls into itself as he continues to gasp, carrying the edges of his voice into the void of the woods. ]
β closed / cupid's arrow struck me (for jinx).
Bullet-hole scars stretch and contract across the narrow breadth of his chest as he runs, slipping into darkness and pressing his back to a tree as the first wave of the hunt passes by. Lucky, he thinks, his thoughts laced with bitterness, that he knows how to play this kind of game β how to hide, how to use his speed and his size to his advantage.
But he doesn't account for what follows.
He's already seen a few prey claimed β giggling and breathless as they're taken to the forest floor β when he feels the first pang in his gut, as though someone had reached a hand into his stomach and formed a tight fist around everything inside. It flares like pain, like fear, and he can't help the gasp that escapes him, the sound only just barely lost in the sound of another hunt coming to a close (or to a beginning). He realizes that his footing has grown unsteady as he tries to go further into the woods, dread going head to head with a burning frustration as he hobbles further, furtherβ
βand for a moment, he thinks he's back in the water, that his scars have all torn open and his eye is rot rot rotting and that he'd been right when he'd first woken up here, that this is death, that he's just been dying for hours, hours, hoursβ
βbefore his knees buckle and he falls to the ground, his scrabbling hands carrying him just a foot further as dead leaves and torn blades of grass come loose under his fingers. It doesn't occur to him to think about the game, anymore, not when he feels so hollow, not when his very blood seems to be on fire. His frame curls into itself as he continues to gasp, carrying the edges of his voice into the void of the woods. ]