[ so this is arguably better than a monster-infested winter fairy tale hellscape or a mold-infested swamp hellscape, but it's still not the sweet embrace of death or whatever, so ethan can't really kick up much enthusiasm for it. he was expecting a lot more nothing out of his afterlife and this? frankly? a big disappointment, because it's still something he has to do when he would much rather fall down on the ground and never move again. it's disrespectful, really. he'd lodge a complaint if there was anyone to complain to.
he wanders around without much intent, still blood-streaked and shell-shocked, one hand held close to his chest as if injured, which is weird because that hand looks totally fine. it's his other hand that's visibly bandaged and bloody and clearly recently missing some fingers.
he comes back again and again to the mist, wandering in and getting spat out and wandering back in. surely one of these times something different will happen. ]
SOUND AND LIGHT.
[ AGAIN WITH THE PUPPETS u g h
ethan isn't crying, because [redacted] can't cry, but he does watch the whole thing blankly and then remark aloud, ]
My wife was a puppet once. Sort of. More like a mannequin.
INTO THE FOG.
[ awesome cool cool cool this is really more fitting to his expectations. rot! rot everywhere! how nostalgic. he's still got his trusty knife, at least, although it's pretty shitty that he's not got his sniper rifle at hand anymore. or that tank. that was a cool tank and he misses it daily.
ah, at hand. he has to make hand jokes now.
still filled with a certain sense of he's already done this, thanks, and shouldn't have to do it again, not that anyone has ever asked his opinion about repetition, he's out in the fog. why? a great fucking question that he would not be able to answer. maybe he's looking for someone in the fog. ]
WILDCARD.
[ hit me if you want one of the other options or something else! ]
ethan winters | resident evil village
[ so this is arguably better than a monster-infested winter fairy tale hellscape or a mold-infested swamp hellscape, but it's still not the sweet embrace of death or whatever, so ethan can't really kick up much enthusiasm for it. he was expecting a lot more nothing out of his afterlife and this? frankly? a big disappointment, because it's still something he has to do when he would much rather fall down on the ground and never move again. it's disrespectful, really. he'd lodge a complaint if there was anyone to complain to.
he wanders around without much intent, still blood-streaked and shell-shocked, one hand held close to his chest as if injured, which is weird because that hand looks totally fine. it's his other hand that's visibly bandaged and bloody and clearly recently missing some fingers.
he comes back again and again to the mist, wandering in and getting spat out and wandering back in. surely one of these times something different will happen. ]
SOUND AND LIGHT.
[ AGAIN WITH THE PUPPETS u g h
ethan isn't crying, because [redacted] can't cry, but he does watch the whole thing blankly and then remark aloud, ]
My wife was a puppet once. Sort of. More like a mannequin.
INTO THE FOG.
[ awesome cool cool cool this is really more fitting to his expectations. rot! rot everywhere! how nostalgic. he's still got his trusty knife, at least, although it's pretty shitty that he's not got his sniper rifle at hand anymore. or that tank. that was a cool tank and he misses it daily.
ah, at hand. he has to make hand jokes now.
still filled with a certain sense of he's already done this, thanks, and shouldn't have to do it again, not that anyone has ever asked his opinion about repetition, he's out in the fog. why? a great fucking question that he would not be able to answer. maybe he's looking for someone in the fog. ]
WILDCARD.
[ hit me if you want one of the other options or something else! ]