I. Camp - Lift their spirits (Poi Day 10, Afternoon to Evening) Well, Esteban may have struggled with the mission so far, but maybe that was just a matter of ambition. He'll-- he'll take it easier now. Aim for a smaller group. That the refugees need their own distraction is something he can work with, and if it helps Ryo have fewer cases on his hand of agitation, or violence, then the half-elf is more than happy to help.
He's been an entertainer for the last four years after all; there's bound to be something that he can do to help.
So he brings the nervous refugees out, smiles at them with all the warmth and sunshine he can muster, encourages them to come out and play! Just a little game! Just for a few minutes!
Games turn into dancing-- "It's easy! It's a festival dance, so there's three stages! I'll show you!"-- Dancing turns to stories-- "Wanna hear 'bout how the dragons hatched from the moon?"-- Stories turn to more dancing-- his poi flit around his form, swirling in blooms and bright colours that would be so much more epic if he could only set them on fire-- and dancing back to stories.
He's trying, he really is, but even for someone with boundless energy, the day begins to drag as he bounces from stories, then to games, then to dancing in repeating patterns, one after the other. Festivals have never been so intense, as Esteban had never been a sole entertainer anywhere. Hopefully-- hopefully there are others that can join him in this. He's not too sure how long he can last otherwise.
II. Camp - Get up and run (Poi Day 11, Morning and followup) [Violence and swearing CW] The night dragged on and on and on, endless in the swirl of movement that he never did quite get down from. There's too much pressure-- coils of it tightening like a noose around their throats. It's choking him. Something has been wrong from the moment they have stepped on this world, and Esteban is too tired to keep up with what it might be.
So he sees off some more civilians to their tents, assures them that it'll get better in the morning-- he's not sure it will be, but losing morale may be more dangerous than the relentless sun-- and bids the few late-night owls a good watch. And collapses.
It doesn't last long.
The surge of panic clamps down cold fingers around his throat, and the weight of someone slams his heart back behind his ribs. They're slight and faint and he can't see them well, but there's a slither of a giggle from their lips-- or maybe a whimper-- even as their fingers tighten and tighten.
Heart racing, panic scrambling-- Esteban slams a fist in their face.
Fuck this!
He rushes out the tent, clinging to whatever sense he still has left and glances across the field. Sunlight-- no, not the sun, but light-- blinds him for a moment, too bright for the moon. He edges away, rubs the dark spots from his eyes. His throat burns in fury and panic, and Esteban stares at the chaos of the camp.
Refugees. Refugees are the ones slipping into tents, civilians they've helped and struggled to keep calm and poised now chanting in those lost voices, like children seeking their parents after a nightmare. He wishes he could wake up-- wishes it's just a nightmare, but Esteban knows the phantom caress around his throat is going to bruise.
No time. He rips through the nearest canvas door, voice bubbling up in a crippled and strangled shout. A glance reveals no threat yet, but they only have seconds.
Esteban Drake | Purple Team - Camp, Day 10-11 | OTA
Well, Esteban may have struggled with the mission so far, but maybe that was just a matter of ambition. He'll-- he'll take it easier now. Aim for a smaller group. That the refugees need their own distraction is something he can work with, and if it helps Ryo have fewer cases on his hand of agitation, or violence, then the half-elf is more than happy to help.
He's been an entertainer for the last four years after all; there's bound to be something that he can do to help.
So he brings the nervous refugees out, smiles at them with all the warmth and sunshine he can muster, encourages them to come out and play! Just a little game! Just for a few minutes!
Games turn into dancing-- "It's easy! It's a festival dance, so there's three stages! I'll show you!"-- Dancing turns to stories-- "Wanna hear 'bout how the dragons hatched from the moon?"-- Stories turn to more dancing-- his poi flit around his form, swirling in blooms and bright colours that would be so much more epic if he could only set them on fire-- and dancing back to stories.
He's trying, he really is, but even for someone with boundless energy, the day begins to drag as he bounces from stories, then to games, then to dancing in repeating patterns, one after the other. Festivals have never been so intense, as Esteban had never been a sole entertainer anywhere. Hopefully-- hopefully there are others that can join him in this. He's not too sure how long he can last otherwise.
II. Camp - Get up and run (Poi Day 11, Morning and followup) [Violence and swearing CW]
The night dragged on and on and on, endless in the swirl of movement that he never did quite get down from. There's too much pressure-- coils of it tightening like a noose around their throats. It's choking him. Something has been wrong from the moment they have stepped on this world, and Esteban is too tired to keep up with what it might be.
So he sees off some more civilians to their tents, assures them that it'll get better in the morning-- he's not sure it will be, but losing morale may be more dangerous than the relentless sun-- and bids the few late-night owls a good watch. And collapses.
It doesn't last long.
The surge of panic clamps down cold fingers around his throat, and the weight of someone slams his heart back behind his ribs. They're slight and faint and he can't see them well, but there's a slither of a giggle from their lips-- or maybe a whimper-- even as their fingers tighten and tighten.
Heart racing, panic scrambling-- Esteban slams a fist in their face.
Fuck this!
He rushes out the tent, clinging to whatever sense he still has left and glances across the field. Sunlight-- no, not the sun, but light-- blinds him for a moment, too bright for the moon. He edges away, rubs the dark spots from his eyes. His throat burns in fury and panic, and Esteban stares at the chaos of the camp.
Refugees. Refugees are the ones slipping into tents, civilians they've helped and struggled to keep calm and poised now chanting in those lost voices, like children seeking their parents after a nightmare. He wishes he could wake up-- wishes it's just a nightmare, but Esteban knows the phantom caress around his throat is going to bruise.
No time. He rips through the nearest canvas door, voice bubbling up in a crippled and strangled shout. A glance reveals no threat yet, but they only have seconds.
"GET UP!"