At the end of two straight weeks of fighting in the Dark Hour of the Middle East, engaging Wrecks and Umbra, eliminating Yama Kings in all stages of development, Hikaru Shinta is shifting out of the living blood he had been seconds before, and catching the closest side of the doorway with one shaking hand, right before he can tumble to the floor.
He's not too pleased to find himself here; this isn't in the plan at all. His actual destination should have been the Wolf's Ward, or - barring that - Kibo, up north. He is drained, though, tired within the very marrow of his bones. Perhaps that had distracted him long enough to shift the trajectory of his spell and bring him to precisely the place that he did not want to be. Too dangerous. Only too many people that he'd rather not deal with could see him like this.
Thankfully, he's arrived during one of those precious windows of time where no one's out and about because they're either out on the streets or off in their own corners of the estate grounds. There should be more than enough time for him to drag himself to his room and hide away until he's recovered enough to at least look fine even if he isn't fine at all.
It takes Hikaru an agonizing fifteen minutes of limping along, and he is only halfway up the stairs. On a normal night, he would have crossed those steps in less than a minute. This night - with the fever chills, the laughing voices, the wounds that open and close as if they have minds of their own, the graying hair, the ringing in his head - is not a normal night at all.
Waking the Dead 2.0 || I Know You Are But What Am I?
He's not too pleased to find himself here; this isn't in the plan at all. His actual destination should have been the Wolf's Ward, or - barring that - Kibo, up north. He is drained, though, tired within the very marrow of his bones. Perhaps that had distracted him long enough to shift the trajectory of his spell and bring him to precisely the place that he did not want to be. Too dangerous. Only too many people that he'd rather not deal with could see him like this.
Thankfully, he's arrived during one of those precious windows of time where no one's out and about because they're either out on the streets or off in their own corners of the estate grounds. There should be more than enough time for him to drag himself to his room and hide away until he's recovered enough to at least look fine even if he isn't fine at all.
It takes Hikaru an agonizing fifteen minutes of limping along, and he is only halfway up the stairs. On a normal night, he would have crossed those steps in less than a minute. This night - with the fever chills, the laughing voices, the wounds that open and close as if they have minds of their own, the graying hair, the ringing in his head - is not a normal night at all.