[Eleven's twin blades flash with fire as they sever limbs and take up the acrid smell of burned flesh that will follow him through much of the siege. He fights with a vicious ferocity that may surprise those that have only ever seen him at ease; contrasted to narrowed brows and bared teeth coupled with the dually deadly dance of his swords as they cut down any undead that makes it into the farmhouse.
Occasionally, it's lightning rather than fire, sparking along his blades, then sweeping outward in a spinning arc of electricity to give the emerging undead an altogether unpleasant shock and grant them some pause before continuing their advance.
Eleven skips back a few steps, giving himself a moment to breathe as dredges of tiredness begin to wear on him]
..Do you think we can hold them?
b. medical attention
Hours into battle, a call for medical attention found Eleven retreating from the front lines to apply his energy elsewhere. He only meant to heal the wounded then return to the fight, but had sorely underestimated how much work there was to do. They needed water- or snow- that then required heating. He retrieved the supply packs he and Wei Wuxian hadn't yet distributed to tear through them for bandages, cloth, ointments- and later, hardtack.
Wounds cleaned, disinfected, and unable afford the energy to seal all of them fully, Eleven spared only enough magic to heal them to the point where they were no longer debilitating. Bandaged with a recommendation to eat and rest a short while before returning to the fray if an individual fit enough to, and if the walls of the makeshift ward weren't currently under threat.
Working under a constant worry and pressure, he hardly felt the cold. There was a lot to organize, and not all that many hands. His spare moments were spent disposing of bloody water and cleaning, and switched off with Hendrik in shifts to rest and recover his energy.
Resigned to his position as medic, Eleven took to prodding information about the state of things from those that stopped in for one reason or another while he worked- either as patients, defenders, or new helping hands.
"How is it? Last I'd heard, we were gaining some ground.."
c. aftermath
[He's tired. Everyone is. But he's alive, and he can stand on his own two feet, so that's something. They'd won the battle, even if, in some respects, they'd also lost.
The farmhouse is barely recognizable.
Eleven has made cursory efforts to clean, but the damage is too extensive and the task so overwhelming that he doesn't get far. Instead, his feet carry him to what used to be the garden- a singular place of solace in a land otherwise set upon by undeath. But as with everything else, it's beyond repair. The crops are trampled and scorched beyond salvaging and for some reason it's the sight of them more than his comrade's grim, exhausted faces that drains the last of his energy.
He slumps to the ground and knows that if he had the energy to cry, he would be. The urge wells up in his chest, crawls up his throat and stings his eyes, but doesn't make it any further than a few shuddering breaths before it fades, dormant.
It's morning, though it feels like it shouldn't be. In a little while, there will pressing things they'll all need to worry about, but for now, Eleven draws his knees to his chest as the cold begins to make itself known again and drapes over them, staring listless and unfocused at the ruined earth and scattered debris beyond.]
d. wildcard!
[ooc: action/prose, present/past tense is fine! likewise, feel free to wildcard for anything during this event scenario that might not neatly fit into the above prompts and we'll work it out]
no subject
[Eleven's twin blades flash with fire as they sever limbs and take up the acrid smell of burned flesh that will follow him through much of the siege. He fights with a vicious ferocity that may surprise those that have only ever seen him at ease; contrasted to narrowed brows and bared teeth coupled with the dually deadly dance of his swords as they cut down any undead that makes it into the farmhouse.
Occasionally, it's lightning rather than fire, sparking along his blades, then sweeping outward in a spinning arc of electricity to give the emerging undead an altogether unpleasant shock and grant them some pause before continuing their advance.
Eleven skips back a few steps, giving himself a moment to breathe as dredges of tiredness begin to wear on him]
..Do you think we can hold them?
b. medical attention
Hours into battle, a call for medical attention found Eleven retreating from the front lines to apply his energy elsewhere. He only meant to heal the wounded then return to the fight, but had sorely underestimated how much work there was to do. They needed water- or snow- that then required heating. He retrieved the supply packs he and Wei Wuxian hadn't yet distributed to tear through them for bandages, cloth, ointments- and later, hardtack.
Wounds cleaned, disinfected, and unable afford the energy to seal all of them fully, Eleven spared only enough magic to heal them to the point where they were no longer debilitating. Bandaged with a recommendation to eat and rest a short while before returning to the fray if an individual fit enough to, and if the walls of the makeshift ward weren't currently under threat.
Working under a constant worry and pressure, he hardly felt the cold. There was a lot to organize, and not all that many hands. His spare moments were spent disposing of bloody water and cleaning, and switched off with Hendrik in shifts to rest and recover his energy.
Resigned to his position as medic, Eleven took to prodding information about the state of things from those that stopped in for one reason or another while he worked- either as patients, defenders, or new helping hands.
"How is it? Last I'd heard, we were gaining some ground.."
c. aftermath
[He's tired. Everyone is. But he's alive, and he can stand on his own two feet, so that's something. They'd won the battle, even if, in some respects, they'd also lost.
The farmhouse is barely recognizable.
Eleven has made cursory efforts to clean, but the damage is too extensive and the task so overwhelming that he doesn't get far. Instead, his feet carry him to what used to be the garden- a singular place of solace in a land otherwise set upon by undeath. But as with everything else, it's beyond repair. The crops are trampled and scorched beyond salvaging and for some reason it's the sight of them more than his comrade's grim, exhausted faces that drains the last of his energy.
He slumps to the ground and knows that if he had the energy to cry, he would be. The urge wells up in his chest, crawls up his throat and stings his eyes, but doesn't make it any further than a few shuddering breaths before it fades, dormant.
It's morning, though it feels like it shouldn't be. In a little while, there will pressing things they'll all need to worry about, but for now, Eleven draws his knees to his chest as the cold begins to make itself known again and drapes over them, staring listless and unfocused at the ruined earth and scattered debris beyond.]
d. wildcard!
[ooc: action/prose, present/past tense is fine! likewise, feel free to wildcard for anything during this event scenario that might not neatly fit into the above prompts and we'll work it out]