Tim Drake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_hit_list) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thearena2013-04-05 06:09 pm
the_hit_list) wrote in thearena2013-04-05 06:09 pm
Entry tags:
And me without my coon skin cap.
Who| Tim Drake and OPEN
What| Tim derps about, until someone finds him?
Where| The outskirts of Frontierland, where it meets the river
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Previously existing wounds, zombie.
His stomach is starting to gnaw on his gallbladder, Tim's sure of it. He hasn't eaten since in thirty hours, and he wonders if he shouldn't have stayed in Tomorrowland, where there was food. But, aside from that, he doesn't think that he's in bad shape. Dehydration is his biggest fear; he can feel the headache coming on. Water would trick his stomach into feeling full, too, for awhile. Other than that, a couple of bruises, a few scrapes. Not bad for a death match. It's all from doing things that were borderline inadvisable - mainly climbing the rotting facades of New Orleans Square. The only actual cut he's gotten was from trying to break off a rusted pole early this morning. He had thought one of the feral cats was around, but the clanging protests of the metal must have scared it off. He wasn't hungry enough to eat a cat anyway. Not yet.
The cut's on the back of his hand, red and painful, even when he doesn't try to make a fist. He needs to clean it. Sitting on one of the few intact lengths of fence, Tim is looking towards where he knows the Rivers of America are. After Bruce's warning, he'd given the largest body of water a wide berth, but he needs to drink soon, before delusions set in. He'd rather not die of thirst. If he had more oranges, he wouldn't need to go near the river, but it's a trek back to where the trees are. There might not be any fruit left, anyway. He'll have to brave the water here eventually.
A silver parachute drifts down into his field of vision, and Tim instinctively reaches out to snag it. Dangling from its lines is a small flick-knife. He looks up to see where it might have come from, but sees only sky. This place just gets weirder. "Uh, thanks?"
Pulling the knife free from the parachute, he takes opens it up and inspects the blade. Short, but sharp. It may come in handy for all of the vermin running about. The chute, itself, too is a gift. He can cut it into strips to bandage his hand, once he cleans it. With a sigh and knife in hand, Tim gets up and starts heading toward the river.
What| Tim derps about, until someone finds him?
Where| The outskirts of Frontierland, where it meets the river
When| Week 3
Warnings/Notes| Previously existing wounds, zombie.
His stomach is starting to gnaw on his gallbladder, Tim's sure of it. He hasn't eaten since in thirty hours, and he wonders if he shouldn't have stayed in Tomorrowland, where there was food. But, aside from that, he doesn't think that he's in bad shape. Dehydration is his biggest fear; he can feel the headache coming on. Water would trick his stomach into feeling full, too, for awhile. Other than that, a couple of bruises, a few scrapes. Not bad for a death match. It's all from doing things that were borderline inadvisable - mainly climbing the rotting facades of New Orleans Square. The only actual cut he's gotten was from trying to break off a rusted pole early this morning. He had thought one of the feral cats was around, but the clanging protests of the metal must have scared it off. He wasn't hungry enough to eat a cat anyway. Not yet.
The cut's on the back of his hand, red and painful, even when he doesn't try to make a fist. He needs to clean it. Sitting on one of the few intact lengths of fence, Tim is looking towards where he knows the Rivers of America are. After Bruce's warning, he'd given the largest body of water a wide berth, but he needs to drink soon, before delusions set in. He'd rather not die of thirst. If he had more oranges, he wouldn't need to go near the river, but it's a trek back to where the trees are. There might not be any fruit left, anyway. He'll have to brave the water here eventually.
A silver parachute drifts down into his field of vision, and Tim instinctively reaches out to snag it. Dangling from its lines is a small flick-knife. He looks up to see where it might have come from, but sees only sky. This place just gets weirder. "Uh, thanks?"
Pulling the knife free from the parachute, he takes opens it up and inspects the blade. Short, but sharp. It may come in handy for all of the vermin running about. The chute, itself, too is a gift. He can cut it into strips to bandage his hand, once he cleans it. With a sigh and knife in hand, Tim gets up and starts heading toward the river.