[Dixon’s finally sleeping when the dread starts to creep in. It’s like his body has at last decided, after five punishing, brutal days, to give out and surrender to darkness. He hasn’t even been carrying his fair share of supplies (on account of, halfway through day one and eight miles in, puking into a bush and nearly passing out), but the hike alone has beaten him down. He’s spent whatever time he hasn’t been staggering around, desperately and gamely trying to keep up with the group, lying face-up on the ground, shivering from exhaustion, aching, patches of sweat-salt down his temples, stabbing pain in his back and shins and soreness everywhere else, still craving a single fucking cigarette and unable to keep his eyes closed.
But tonight he was finally asleep. When the others were starting the fire and he keeled onto the ground in the makeshift camp he just passed out, and the others kindly didn’t wake him. He was at peace and in sweet oblivion and worrying about nothing.
That happy respite is obliterated entirely as the sense of dread drags him back to consciousness. He’s almost on his feet before he even realizes he’s awake, scrambling for his shield. When he feels it, he can tell there’s a fight coming. The shield’s magic is just beneath the surface, sensing danger. The power is like fish circling beneath a sheen of ice on a lake.
Even without that warning, the fight soon announces itself, between the shrieking of Nazgul and the cackling racket of the Death Eaters. Before there’s a chance for him to get his bearings, the camp seems ripped into chaos, a melee between wizards and wraiths and soul suckers that seems to take place both between and above the squad woken from their camp.
He moves quickly, but it isn’t to save his own skin. He’s kind of ambivalent about his own safety. He rushes to the nearest member of the squad, of his unit, really, to defend them.]
Leave the shit! Get to the woods!
[He continues to stay in the fray well past when it would be advisable to leave, steadily more inebriated on the magic of his shield, looking for the people in the squad locked into the chaos.]
II. Alacruun
[Dixon can now lay claim to having punched the Grim Reaper in the face.
Granted, that’s not exactly what happened, nor are Nazgul actually the Grim Reaper, but they look close enough and given that the one Dixon just squared off with didn’t respond worth shit to the magic shield, so he just clocked it right in its creepy nose. It bought him enough time to scramble back to the temporary reprieve in the shadow of some ruins, where he doesn’t greet but does meet eyes with the weird fucking dragon who was hanging out on the temple steps. He doubles over, catching his breath, legs shaking. Adrenalin can only combat the complete exhaustion of the last five days so much. He’s grateful for the moment to gather his constitution.
Up until some creep with a magic wand comes looking to fucking party, turning the corner right towards them.]
I’ll take care of this, [Dixon spits at Alacruun as he whirls around, with the same tone of voice as if he were about to stomp on a spider in the kitchen or something.]
III. Ronan and later Kal
[Midway through the fight, Dixon’s still looking for members of the group in the fray, trying his best not to keel over or get killed as he shoves his way past Death Eaters and dodges Dementors and Nazguls, fully and painfully aware that at least a few of the teenagers are here in harm’s way. Possibly dead already. Possibly worse, from what he’s seen. That’s about when he runs across Ronan, throwing magic around as if it’s no big thing at Dementors.
He stops. It’s not as if he likes Ronan - at all - but he’s part of the group too. If there’s anything Dixon can lay claim to, it’s the feeling of belonging that comes from being part of a group. There’s a sense of purpose that comes with that, of cohesion and importance and of being needed. Ronan’s part of his unit as much as anyone else, whatever his personal feelings, however much his nose still runs with blood every few hours where it stubbornly refuses to heal.]
You got this? [he yells over the din, watching Ronan dispatch spells.]
IV. Sothe
[He’s bleeding badly from his back, but he doesn’t notice except in between the bursts of invulnerability from the shield. The magic gives him and the weapon a sort of pearly incandescence, but more importantly than that, it removes both pain and vulnerability. Death Eater spells bounce off him, and the Black Breath of the Nazguls doesn’t take nearly as much hold. He’s figured out by now that Nazgul and Dementors both are relatively immune to his shield, but once he has the magic activated he can somewhat mow through the more human evil wizards.
Fuck these guys. Dixon feels a rush of relief and pleasure to be able to get in there and fuck them up.
The flip side is he’s started to get less and less in control of his faculties, and for once he doesn’t want to be blind-drunk. His combat against the Death Eaters gets less precise and elegant, instead turning into a kind of desperate brawl where he flings himself at enemies and throws punches as much as he slices with the razor-sharp shield. He starts making his way towards the woods, figuring most people are in the clear by now. He needs to get safe before his magic wears off and he’s just an exhausted drunk on the verge of collapsing stumbling around the hilltop.
That’s around when he sees that one teenager, one of the ones he hasn’t talked to much and whose name he doesn’t remember, approaching a Nazgul with a blade.]
Jason Dixon | Open & Closed Prompts
[Dixon’s finally sleeping when the dread starts to creep in. It’s like his body has at last decided, after five punishing, brutal days, to give out and surrender to darkness. He hasn’t even been carrying his fair share of supplies (on account of, halfway through day one and eight miles in, puking into a bush and nearly passing out), but the hike alone has beaten him down. He’s spent whatever time he hasn’t been staggering around, desperately and gamely trying to keep up with the group, lying face-up on the ground, shivering from exhaustion, aching, patches of sweat-salt down his temples, stabbing pain in his back and shins and soreness everywhere else, still craving a single fucking cigarette and unable to keep his eyes closed.
But tonight he was finally asleep. When the others were starting the fire and he keeled onto the ground in the makeshift camp he just passed out, and the others kindly didn’t wake him. He was at peace and in sweet oblivion and worrying about nothing.
That happy respite is obliterated entirely as the sense of dread drags him back to consciousness. He’s almost on his feet before he even realizes he’s awake, scrambling for his shield. When he feels it, he can tell there’s a fight coming. The shield’s magic is just beneath the surface, sensing danger. The power is like fish circling beneath a sheen of ice on a lake.
Even without that warning, the fight soon announces itself, between the shrieking of Nazgul and the cackling racket of the Death Eaters. Before there’s a chance for him to get his bearings, the camp seems ripped into chaos, a melee between wizards and wraiths and soul suckers that seems to take place both between and above the squad woken from their camp.
He moves quickly, but it isn’t to save his own skin. He’s kind of ambivalent about his own safety. He rushes to the nearest member of the squad, of his unit, really, to defend them.]
Leave the shit! Get to the woods!
[He continues to stay in the fray well past when it would be advisable to leave, steadily more inebriated on the magic of his shield, looking for the people in the squad locked into the chaos.]
II. Alacruun
[Dixon can now lay claim to having punched the Grim Reaper in the face.
Granted, that’s not exactly what happened, nor are Nazgul actually the Grim Reaper, but they look close enough and given that the one Dixon just squared off with didn’t respond worth shit to the magic shield, so he just clocked it right in its creepy nose. It bought him enough time to scramble back to the temporary reprieve in the shadow of some ruins, where he doesn’t greet but does meet eyes with the weird fucking dragon who was hanging out on the temple steps. He doubles over, catching his breath, legs shaking. Adrenalin can only combat the complete exhaustion of the last five days so much. He’s grateful for the moment to gather his constitution.
Up until some creep with a magic wand comes looking to fucking party, turning the corner right towards them.]
I’ll take care of this, [Dixon spits at Alacruun as he whirls around, with the same tone of voice as if he were about to stomp on a spider in the kitchen or something.]
III. Ronan and later Kal
[Midway through the fight, Dixon’s still looking for members of the group in the fray, trying his best not to keel over or get killed as he shoves his way past Death Eaters and dodges Dementors and Nazguls, fully and painfully aware that at least a few of the teenagers are here in harm’s way. Possibly dead already. Possibly worse, from what he’s seen. That’s about when he runs across Ronan, throwing magic around as if it’s no big thing at Dementors.
He stops. It’s not as if he likes Ronan - at all - but he’s part of the group too. If there’s anything Dixon can lay claim to, it’s the feeling of belonging that comes from being part of a group. There’s a sense of purpose that comes with that, of cohesion and importance and of being needed. Ronan’s part of his unit as much as anyone else, whatever his personal feelings, however much his nose still runs with blood every few hours where it stubbornly refuses to heal.]
You got this? [he yells over the din, watching Ronan dispatch spells.]
IV. Sothe
[He’s bleeding badly from his back, but he doesn’t notice except in between the bursts of invulnerability from the shield. The magic gives him and the weapon a sort of pearly incandescence, but more importantly than that, it removes both pain and vulnerability. Death Eater spells bounce off him, and the Black Breath of the Nazguls doesn’t take nearly as much hold. He’s figured out by now that Nazgul and Dementors both are relatively immune to his shield, but once he has the magic activated he can somewhat mow through the more human evil wizards.
Fuck these guys. Dixon feels a rush of relief and pleasure to be able to get in there and fuck them up.
The flip side is he’s started to get less and less in control of his faculties, and for once he doesn’t want to be blind-drunk. His combat against the Death Eaters gets less precise and elegant, instead turning into a kind of desperate brawl where he flings himself at enemies and throws punches as much as he slices with the razor-sharp shield. He starts making his way towards the woods, figuring most people are in the clear by now. He needs to get safe before his magic wears off and he’s just an exhausted drunk on the verge of collapsing stumbling around the hilltop.
That’s around when he sees that one teenager, one of the ones he hasn’t talked to much and whose name he doesn’t remember, approaching a Nazgul with a blade.]
Just leave it, kid, run!