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Seventh Jiggy | [Action/Voice] | Backdated to May 15, fff
[Action | Early in the day]
[It was cloudy and overcast when Kazooie was dropped on her face in the dirt the day before. The weather had mirrored her mood, a cruel reminder of the darkness cloaking her the week before, right before the explosion of light, sound and pain had robbed everything from her senses.
She couldn't bring herself to go home. Instead, she wandered through the forest, avoiding everybody, hunkering down in the brush. Some stubborn, angry part of her didn't want to see anybody - didn't want to be reminded of that failure, that irreconcilable fact that she had failed utterly and entirely. She didn't want to go back and see the look in the eyes of her friends...
... Because the signs of her ruination were physical.
But she can't stay away forever. And this is why she walks home today, taking the quickest path to House 45 that she can from the pocket of forest she's been nesting in. She tries not to be seen - but who knows how successful that will be? She is still bright and colourful as ever, after all.
Anybody who gets close enough to her will be able to see the scars of her defeat - her wings have been mercilessly clipped, pinioned to the point she can't use them properly.
That's why, whenever she gets to the door of the house, she's forced to peck it, thudding her beak against it until she gets a response.
And then she waits for the inevitable.]
[Accidental Voice]
[Whenever she can, Kazooie will try to get away from the others long enough to get to her journal. She needs to be sure of what day it is - just to convince herself that what happened did in fact happen.
She has to struggle to get it open, wedging her toe and beak under it and then using her shortened wings to push the pages apart. In the process, she hits the recording button.
Sure enough, it's the fifteenth. A week and a few days. That's longer than she's ever been dead before...
The journal catches her sigh of resignation and the subsequent spoken words.]
... This is crud. How the heck am I gonna do anything now? This never happened when I died at home...!
I can't even Fly - whoever heard of a dumb bird who couldn't fly...?!
[Her voice almost breaks there, from anguish she wouldn't normally admit.]
Stupid Malnosso-guys. Stupid, stupid...!
[Stupid her.
... She doesn't notice the journal's on, and sounds like she could use some comforting. Any volunteers?]
[It was cloudy and overcast when Kazooie was dropped on her face in the dirt the day before. The weather had mirrored her mood, a cruel reminder of the darkness cloaking her the week before, right before the explosion of light, sound and pain had robbed everything from her senses.
She couldn't bring herself to go home. Instead, she wandered through the forest, avoiding everybody, hunkering down in the brush. Some stubborn, angry part of her didn't want to see anybody - didn't want to be reminded of that failure, that irreconcilable fact that she had failed utterly and entirely. She didn't want to go back and see the look in the eyes of her friends...
... Because the signs of her ruination were physical.
But she can't stay away forever. And this is why she walks home today, taking the quickest path to House 45 that she can from the pocket of forest she's been nesting in. She tries not to be seen - but who knows how successful that will be? She is still bright and colourful as ever, after all.
Anybody who gets close enough to her will be able to see the scars of her defeat - her wings have been mercilessly clipped, pinioned to the point she can't use them properly.
That's why, whenever she gets to the door of the house, she's forced to peck it, thudding her beak against it until she gets a response.
And then she waits for the inevitable.]
[Accidental Voice]
[Whenever she can, Kazooie will try to get away from the others long enough to get to her journal. She needs to be sure of what day it is - just to convince herself that what happened did in fact happen.
She has to struggle to get it open, wedging her toe and beak under it and then using her shortened wings to push the pages apart. In the process, she hits the recording button.
Sure enough, it's the fifteenth. A week and a few days. That's longer than she's ever been dead before...
The journal catches her sigh of resignation and the subsequent spoken words.]
... This is crud. How the heck am I gonna do anything now? This never happened when I died at home...!
I can't even Fly - whoever heard of a dumb bird who couldn't fly...?!
[Her voice almost breaks there, from anguish she wouldn't normally admit.]
Stupid Malnosso-guys. Stupid, stupid...!
[Stupid her.
... She doesn't notice the journal's on, and sounds like she could use some comforting. Any volunteers?]