[When one finds a closet in one's entirely white hell-prison, the prison one's known for ten thousand years, one's first instinct is usually to look into it. At least, in Qilby's case, his instinct is absolutely to look into it. If there's something to break up the monotony, of course he's going to walk into the wardrobe and... Fall.]
[Instinct tells him to spring up a portal under himself to break his fall, but it doesn't come. Damn it, this is child's play -- why won't it work?]
[He tries a few more times to make a portal, or to sense the wakfu in the area, or anything while he stands there; people around him might notice his right hand twitching. (They might also notice that it's his only hand; his other sleeve hangs empty at his side. Lucky you, your party member's an old amputee. Honestly, he doesn't think the six others look too respectable either.)]
[Who is this kid? What's with the wabbit ears? His eyes... The way the sclera are flooded black reminds him of something. Part of him is chilled by it, the red and black he associates with the end of the world, but part of him finds it... Interesting. Terribly interesting.]
[Nothing else to do but go forward with it, is there? Better than that prison, better than being all alone in a monotonous hell.]
I'd appreciate if you'd tell me what that task is. [The look he pulls forth is impassive, almost bored; it's easy to fake an unimpressed look when you're used to being bored out of your skull.]
no subject
[Instinct tells him to spring up a portal under himself to break his fall, but it doesn't come. Damn it, this is child's play -- why won't it work?]
[He tries a few more times to make a portal, or to sense the wakfu in the area, or anything while he stands there; people around him might notice his right hand twitching. (They might also notice that it's his only hand; his other sleeve hangs empty at his side. Lucky you, your party member's an old amputee. Honestly, he doesn't think the six others look too respectable either.)]
[Who is this kid? What's with the wabbit ears? His eyes... The way the sclera are flooded black reminds him of something. Part of him is chilled by it, the red and black he associates with the end of the world, but part of him finds it... Interesting. Terribly interesting.]
[Nothing else to do but go forward with it, is there? Better than that prison, better than being all alone in a monotonous hell.]
I'd appreciate if you'd tell me what that task is. [The look he pulls forth is impassive, almost bored; it's easy to fake an unimpressed look when you're used to being bored out of your skull.]