[BOSS ORP] We do not sow (WRAPUP P18)

[medigel]

"I know Minecraft a little," Sam noted. "In passing." As if that mattered at all given their circumstance. Maybe she just wanted to prove she was a little knowledgeable in that sphere.

"So, shelter...fresh water should be our next concern..." Although that seemed to clear up as well, as when the girls arrived and Sam checked the pool, it contained apparently clean water. "We might still want to purify it somehow," she said as she tied her hair back. "I'm thinking...thinking...We could borrow a torch from someone, find or make some sort of container, boil it to be sure..." Sam wasn't much of a camper, but she used to watch survival shows and reality shows that were similar. Granted, they probably got behind the scenes bonuses.

"Then, food," she continued as she scooped up some water and drank. Safe or not, she was parched. "There were fish off the coast, but I wonder if we can't trap something else here."

poke mattix

Nuxaz

a ping here in case u needed an in somewhere!

 

[medigel]

Dean didn't answer at first, because Dean was still face down in the sand and surf. But he did eventually roll over with a groan, coughing up water and wiping irritably at what got into his eyes. It took him a moment to understand someone was standing over him.

"You'd want that," Dean snarked. His bruises were fading, but the sunburns from the Sahara were already starting to come back on his ears and cheeks. He looked out into the ocean and sighed. "Fuuuuuuuck me. Seriously? Where are we now? 'Cause this doesn't feel like Hawaii."

and be blue

kuropeco

idk where nash at but ya boi's here

 

[and be blue]

He had just prepped to poke a toe into Dean's side when the man moved -- and Vash's expression fell just a little. Instead, he dug bare toes into the sand, his shoes abandoned somewhere along the way or stashed somewhere safe. His eyes, narrowed against the sun, locked onto Dean's face in a thoughtful sort of way.

"There was a wave. Are you sure you're not dead? You don't look so hot." There was a certain glee to the fact that Vash actually looked much better now.

medigel

 

[poke mattix]

"You know minecraft?" Kammy seemed delighted. Even if she hadn't played it she still knew about it. Which meant she could talk to her about it. Maybe later when they weren't stranded.

"Maybe. I know theres coconuts around." She pointed to a tree nearby. "We can get those. And theres the cover over there. And If we can't get a torch we could try using some palm bark...if thats a thing." Truth be told she was no survival person. Even in day zero they still had supplies like matches.

"Does anyone's weapon make fire?"

<...Somewhat >
'You can'??
< I can. But I need FEAR. There is none here however' >
'awww'

medigel

 

[Nuxaz]

At some point, while he was wandering the beach, Zane had decided to peel off his sopping coat and his shirt. He felt better, without a soggy layer of clothing clinging to his body as he looked for someone whom he could bother with questions.

In his head, Lerna was strangely quiet and he thought she was judging him for stripping off some layers.

His pants and boots stayed, despite the discomfort of squishy socks. Later, when he figured out where they were and where to go from there, he would likely hang the rest of his clothing out to dry. For now, he carried them on one arm.

Up ahead, he spotted two figures and opted to make his way over, intreguied as he thought he caught part of their conversation.

Oh, one of them sounded like she knew stuff, perfect! He could mooch off of her!

"Hey ladies," he called, waving a hand above him as he made his way over.

medigel

poke mattix

 

[Zoobey]

Minutes passed.

Hours.

Days, weeks.

Months.










1 year later.

It was still sunny today on the island, and notably, always warm. Fish, food, water, that always existed, but not much of anything else. Eventually, the phones stopped working, eventually, weapons went quiet. At first, it was just one or two people who disappeared, claiming that the cove had called them. It always had something to do with that cove. It was always a few at a time between days or weeks, or sometimes at the same time, and it was always the others chosen, lead to the cove and then disappearing, leaving everyone else behind whether they wanted to or not.

Eventually only they alone were left.

Alone, on the maddening island, waiting to be chosen, waiting to be called. Outside, no matter how much they constructed, or created, the shape of it would always remain the same. It would always have sandy beaches and a cove and palm trees and rocks.

Waiting.

And finally, they heard it. The call.

The words were unforgettable, and haunting. It beckoned them, it stirred something in them, a strange terror at a word long forgotten. It was - it was-

OOC

WRAP UP/ SOLO TIME:
Feel free to write a quick solo on this scenario - once this is done, your character can FINALLY be relinquished from the cave - and wake up on the shorelines of Deus looking like they did when they left Deus. Their watch/phones tell them that only three days have passed since they were washed away -

- The dream they had - that part is a mystery.

BONUS:
+1 rp point for writing a 400 word solo on this!

BONUS 2: FEEL FREE TO CONTINUE ISLAND SCENARIO RPS IN PRPS, or even prp a "1 year on island" sort of thing. Remember that for this solo your character is the "last character" remaining on the island always in their dream AU pov.

 

[lizbot]

She makes up stories in the cave and whispers them into Mimsy's ear as she and Robert work through the lengths of Mimsy's hair with carved wooden combs. There's stories that are real too. or were real. It's hard to think this is real. That they're still there. That in a world where they can get trapped in games and dreams and monsters, that they would stay stranded here. Any day...any day. So America didn't think too much about which day it would be, instead concerning herself with the fact of staying. Tomorrow, next week. Any day now, but maybe not.

There's a weight of absence in each and every person she cares for and it's not a space she can fill. She's not Maebe or Peter. She's not a mystery or a golden ring, a mission or a purpose. She's not even the America that people here cared about in the first place. But she tries. She makes sure there's always fish drying on the side and extra stores of fresh water. She makes sure that both end up with her friends on the bad days. She makes sure she takes care of herself on her own bad days as well.

She makes up Peter Stories sometimes. A magical prince, a hero. If they don't come back, of course they'll come back of course, but if they didn't...he would definitely save his mother one day. That's what princes did, right? She whispers stories in Mimsy's ear and tells her all the impossible things there are still to believe in.

It changes so much, when the faces are suddenly fewer. It's so hard to tell, whether they've escaped or died and if the one might be the other anyway. She tells Dawson she thinks the missing ones just escaped, solved it. That's happened before right? She tells him that he's helped them win the game.

That's a lie, of course. She stops playing the Truth Game. A lot of people do. There's no room for harsh truths when the strings of hope bearing you up begin to fray.

She likes to build things and so she builds things. She likes to fish and so she fishes. She likes people and their stories and so she asks again and again, tell me your stories. She offers in turn, I'll tell you mine.

And then there's even fewer and she whispers stories into Mimsy's ear and assurances into Dawson's and in the spaces between, she listens for others until that, too, becomes a limited resource.

There were so many more of them once. There was a big island once. There was a whole world once.

She likes to build things and so she builds things. She likes to fish and so she fishes. She likes people and their stories and so she asks again and again, tell me your stories. She offers in turn, I'll tell you mine.

Until there's nobody left to answer.

America, in her heart of hearts, has always understood that she is someone meant to be alone. She sits on her island kingdom, and basks in the sight of endless horizon. The vastness of everything around her is so massive and she and her little home so small, so much her everything and of no importance. It's comforting.

She likes to build things and so she builds things. She likes to fish and so she fishes. She likes people and their stories and so she asks again and again, tell me your stories. She offers in turn, I'll tell you mine.

She stands at the shore and calls a shadowy little dog out from his trinket. Settling in the sand beside him, she starts to tell him a story, her voice quiet as the tide nips at her feet.

Eventually, America Jones wakes up.  

[Baneful]

Mikael was built strong. Not physically. Physically he was unremarkable and a little pudgy. Soft at best. But in his head he was strong, he was someone who'd learned to ultimately be on his own and never ever to expect things to be different. Sometimes he thought about his mother, about the overbearing love she'd had for him, stifling like a blanket wrapped too tight, but after so long it no longer felt real, it was like remembering a movie he'd watched a long time ago, the details all faded away, leaving only the shape of a storyline and key moments. It didn't feel like his life. Bad things stood out more sharply, leaving his father clear and his mother a fading echo. Nothing stayed for him, no matter how hard he clung to it. Painting was upsetting, when he woke up the next day a painting would still be there, reminding him of a version of him he no longer recognised. Sandcastles faded and were better.

Some things were better when they were stable. He'd used his father as a purpose, as something to move towards, a reason to keep moving and now even he was gone. Everything was made of sand except him.

The phones didn't last, nothing did except the food and the days rolled into one another relentlessly. He remained. While day after day passed, washing away castle after castle, returning them all to the sand. He wished sometimes he was made of a softer stuff, that the ocean could take him with it to his brother, but he'd been crafted of something leaner and harder, a skeleton which couldn't be eroded and which meant that he'd still be here.

Sometimes he cried, but it felt more like something he felt obliged to do than something cathartic or a thing which came from within him. It was walking a path expected, keeping up appearances. He smiled most of the time.

He fed himself by scrounging from other people and by offering himself where he had to. He'd brought a lot of condoms by incident and he traded these as a commodity. He felt a little better when people were close to him, but never close enough to have a relationship. He preferred it when people were rough, he didn't want to let anyone close to him, he didn't want to be invested.

He knew that Malkam was out there somewhere, looking for him, he knew that with a certainty made of the same stuff that the bones of him were. And time passed.

He wasn't useful, some people could fish, some people could build, some people could soothe the ones who went half mad with the captivity of it all, easing out the wrinkles of paranoia when they got caught up. He wasn't good for anything except stress relief and making endless sculptures which got washed away to nothing at the end of the day.

And yet he stayed.

Even when he found himself alone he had nowhere else to go, even when the quiet at night pressed in around him like a blanket smothering him. He stayed. His dreams were filled with echoing forests and a solitary wolf he couldn't catch, always one step ahead of him and out of reach.

Melvin talked to him sometimes. He knew the man had a lot of hate and he watched it slowly go out and when the months passed he realised it didn't matter any longer, it wouldn't matter, they'd maybe never go home.

He built more sandcastles and never solved the question he'd been trying to tangle all along.

When he woke up he just felt tired.

 

[kuropeco]

October Flynn is used to being alone.

At eighteen years old, his parents decide to go on an adventure. They were never particularly parental as it was, but they were still his parents, as strange and unorthodox as they were. And at eighteen, when October is old enough to take care of his own self, as well as his little brother, his parents take off on a trip around the world.

It's been almost ten years since then. October hasn't seen them since.

At twenty five years old, October Flynn experiences the apocalypse.

Not really. But he remembers it all too well; a month of infection, of being forced into living under conditions where he has to scavenge for food just to stay alive. He lives on the first floor of an apartment complex, secluded away in the small security office that has become his home.

He hasn't seen his brother since then. November is a strong minded kid, even if he's not really a kid anymore. He can take care of himself.

October has failed in his duties as an older brother, and he knows it.

But even with all that he has lost in the month of hell, he had people. He had Brie, and he had the others, regardless of his inability to socialize. He had something to work towards, for the first time in his life, something he wanted to work towards. And being recruited to Deus Ex Machina afterwards seems like a reality that he can accept, because Brie is here, and she is at his side like she always is, both of them looking out for each other.

She's gone now. The support is gone. November is here, but November has also been gone a long time. Their relationship isn't what it used to be, though they've never really been close as it is. They've just sort of known how things are, taken care of each other automatically.

October loves his brother, but he doesn't know if November loves him back.

The beach is warm. October likes the heat much better than he likes the cold, because with warmth comes sleep, and sleep has always been something that October has known all too well. He sleeps to forget, sleeps to remember, sleeps to move time forward again.

He and sleep are old friends.

November disappears first. Bix, next. They've become friends, October likes to think, but he can't remember anymore. November's friends also slowly start to disappear, one by one; the group that October has wanted to, secretly, be a part of, though he has never known how to say this. He doesn't know how to be friends with people. The panic wells in his throat, anxiety throbbing painfully in his chest with each breath at the very thought of rejection, so he takes the choice away from them.

He sleeps.

Tuesday sleeps as well. He doesn't know when he's lost her voice, but eventually he does. Time slips by like a haze inside of his head, a slipstream that tumbles over his messy thoughts and makes it impossible to tell when and where he is. He doesn't - can't - talk to anyone, because there's no one to talk to anymore.

He wanders.

The cove was there. He remembers it, he remembers how they said that it called to them. He remembers November's somber eyes, his intent look, the way he moved forward without hesitation. Or is that just something he's made up in his mind too?

He can't tell anymore.

There's no one left.

Where is he?

Why is he still here?

Everything has blurred together. He can't think straight.

He just wants to sleep.

The cove is right in front of him, right there, ready for him. It's calling to him, lulling him into a state of sleepiness and quiet, and he doesn't want to listen to his own thoughts anymore. He can't form the words that make up what he's feeling, so he goes, because he doesn't know what else to do.

There is nothing to do but go.

The world around him shifts, just a little. The dead phone he carries falls from October's fingers and lands in the sand by his feet as he treads forward, and he doesn't know why he's carried it all this while, either, when it doesn't do anything anymore.

Sort of like himself.

The cove is calling.

The fear rises, twists, curls in his chest, presses outwards -

He wakes on Deus.

For the first time in a long, long time, October Flynn does not want to go to sleep.  

[kuropeco]

He thinks, I can do this.

He thinks, it won't be that long.

He thinks, everything will be okay. I'll be back.

Everything will be fine.

He thinks these things repeatedly, over the course of a long set of days that drag into weeks that drag, eventually, into months. Chance tries to keep himself positive - it's not even that hard, in the beginning. He's always been an extremely mild-mannered person, hardly able to be ruffled, rarely ever worked up past a series of faint indignation or casual annoyance at a situation. He's been through hell already. He's looked into Otto's eyes as Otto's hands were around his neck, threatening to choke the life out of him. He's grown up with a mother whose multiple boyfriends beat him.

He's been through everything, he can get through this.

Except he's not used to having.

For the first time in Chance's life, he has something, something to come home to, something to make him happier than he's ever been before. He's not used to it; he's never been this attached to anything or anyone before in his life, and he's not ready or prepared for the onslaught of emotions that it brings.

It hurts.

The pain starts slowly, as Chance focuses on things to stay busy. He fishes, and gathers things, and makes makeshift places for himself and others to stay in. He takes care of himself and, since he can't draw, uses his hands for other things, like crafting what he can out of the materials he's been given.

It can be tedious, but at least it's something to do.

The pain grows.

I can do this.

He says it again, and again, and again inside of his head. He has Asher, at least, a constant, reassuring thrum of a cool voice wrapping around his thoughts, reminding him that he will get home to Otto, that he is not here forever, that he will be back on his island soon enough. Chance latches onto their words, holds them to himself, tries to remind himself of this on a daily - hourly - basis.

The pain overtakes him, slowly. He can feel it in his chest, expanding outwards, like cold, icy fingers that claw their way across his heart. He misses Otto more than he ever thought possible, more than he's ever known how to miss someone before. It aches; he wants to be back, he doesn't want to be here anymore.

Deus is the first place he's ever had a home to return to, a home he can feel like himself in and he doesn't want to be here anymore.

He doesn't want to be alone again don't make him be alone again not after all this time not after all these years -

He can't do this. He can't do it, he's gotten too used to this life with some semblance of normality to it. Chance knows that Deus is most definitely not normal, but it's where he has felt happy for the first time in his entire life and he is desperate for that to be given back to him, to be able to go back to what he had, to have Otto with him again, to see the faces of those he cares about, to curl up with Otto in his arms and remind himself that he has something precious to hold onto.

Chance's heart feels like it's being crushed with every day that passes that he's not back on the island.

It's a feeling entirely foreign, unknown, alien. He doesn't know how to deal with it, with this sensation of loss and need and an ache of missing that is so deep it feels like a cavern inside of him. Chance's time dwindles into nights spent at the beach, staring into the darkness, wishing that it will wrap itself in constellations and stars and drag him back to where he wants to be.

He can't handle it when they start to disappear.

He's a social creature by nature, even in his worst of days and now, with his desperate, hazy, maddening need to get off of this island, it's become even worse. He needs something to focus on, and now they're all disappearing. They're all going away, they're all leaving - even Asher, their voice fading into nothingness after a while, and he can't hear them anymore.

He can't hear anyone anymore.

It's growing in his throat, this desperation, this sense of unreality, this choking, claustrophobic, twisting frustration that is making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to live. Chance is drowning in his own emotions, out of control and exploding like a supernova through his senses.

Don't leave me.

Don't leave me alone.

He doesn't even remember how he got to the cove, except that he knows it's where he's supposed to be. The fear that rises up mingles with everything else; he's surrounded by it, lost to it, buried in it so that there's nothing left to do except go under.

He remembers, when he wakes up, gasping, why it is he doesn't like to sleep.  

[poke mattix]

It was like he had been thrown onto a mash up of survivor and castaway. Stranded on a remote island with no contact with the outside world. At first he figured it wouldn't be long till they were rescued. But when those long days turned into weeks, Jason suspected something was going on. Considering he'd been thrown into so many strange scenarios this was par for the course. But he never had been stuck in one for so long. Every time he went to sleep he half expected to wake up in his own bed. But when he woke to the sun and the glistening ocean, he just shrugged it off.

He knew others were going crazy, slowing losing their sanity being stuck in the same place for so long. But to him? it wasn't all that bad. It wasn't a dark horrible place, there was always sunshine. And while the nighttime was always that more threatening, the stars shone bright, and there were no signs of horsemen or monsters or anything threatening. It was peaceful, and for once Jason didn't feel like jumping at his own shadow. Even his nightmares went away.

There were drawbacks. He fretted over Solia, if she was alright, what had happened to her, was she being looked after. There were times he held up in the cover and hugged himself, his heart clenched in fear and worry for her safety. He worried that Deus had been destroyed, that everyone else was dead. Including her.

Then Zanthvos would calm his thoughts, laughing softly in his mind. He was almost certain Deus Ex was fine. The leads would have stepped in, kept it safe, kept her safe. It was they who were transported someone else, stuck in another time, reality, or even just somewhere on planet earth. It was just a matter of time until they returned to their home.

It was around the time Zanthvos stopped talking that people started disappearing. The cove was calling them. Jason didn't understand what was going on, but regarding what his weapon said, he figured it'll have something to do with that. Maybe it was a one person at a time rescue. He didn't know why Zanth didn't say anything, but it wasn't like he was injured. Just another strange occurrence, he would be back soon.

Now it was just a waiting day. People slowly disappeared. He just needed to wait for his turn. There were no enemies here, nothing to hurt him, so it was almost relaxing. Time away from his constant duties, time to sleep and eat and amuse himself.

After the months passed he got a little stir crazy. Being in the same place for so long did that to you. But Deus was a island, one he rarely left unless on missions, so the feeling was similar.

Eventually it was only him. He felt lonely, but he clung to hope. Kept himself working, exercising, building sandcastles, on anything to occupy his mind and keep his morale up. Zanth wouldn't be happy if he went and did something stupid again.

When it his time to leave, to wake up in reality, Jason felt relieved, if not refreshed from his 'forced vacation'  

[kuropeco]

Merric is a scientist.

Everything has a reason. Everything has a purpose. There are facts to be considered, and there are things to be researched and there is always a proper explanation for things that have happened in this world. It's what he has always focused on, because that's all he's had.

He's too used to living in a world where he's never right. Not when his little brother is around.

Merric throws himself into his work because of that, because he doesn't know how to show his worth any other way. He's tried, with increasing desperation over the years, to show his parents and the rest of the world that he knows what he's doing, that he is an entirely capable young man, that he is smart, and intelligent, and good at what he does.

No one believes him. His parents don't acknowledge him. They never will.

If only you were more like Barron, they say.

Merric also does not believe in magic, but he's finding it hard to come up with an explanation for the way things are here at Deus Ex Machina. There are things that he can't quite explain all the way through, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much evidence he presents that might make a difference.

At least he has, for the first time in a long time, people who understand him - who think like him. Lysander is quite possibly one of the least active people that Merric has met, he comes to learn, as the months pass. He's an extremely capable person when he wants to be, but the more menial, handiwork tasks are left up to the extraordinarily talented Roswell, whose dedication to providing excellent service seems to be secondary only to his loyalty to Lysander. And then there's Sam - intelligent, sharp, and confident when it comes to business practices, an excellent addition to their little unexpected trio.

It works. Somehow, it works, and somehow it's exactly what Merric needs.

There are a few more nights spent with that infamous truth ring. Merric fastidiously refuses to put it on again, because he remembers only too well what happened the first time he wore the damned thing. He still feels a twisting sense of mingled mortification and outrage at having everything out there so openly, but at least it hasn't made his friendship with Lysander and Roswell feel any different. Strange as it seems, it only seems to have solidified things, which is sort of confusing, when Merric thinks too much about it - but he's rather pleased all the same.

(Even if Lysander and Roswell's continued back and forth about the nonexistence of their relationship makes him privately roll his eyes sometimes.)

Roswell makes him and Sam desks fashioned with coconuts after they form their little trade and barter business. It's nothing like the glossy desks that Merric is used to, but they'll do for the time being. It's so much easier to fall into a routine this way; he can focus on the work, and on providing what he can to the people on the island, because otherwise his mind starts to wander about the state of himself, about where they are, about if they're ever going to leave.

Sometimes, if he thinks too hard about it, if he lets himself think too much about it, he wonders what it would be like to have someone as loyal and as devoted as Roswell is to Lysander. Merric has never felt like a third wheel with them, for which he's eternally grateful, and in fact he feels more comfortable around them than anyone else; but it does make him a little wistful at times. And curious, because he's never really had the time to consider that aspect of his life more so than he does now.

It's a nonsensical thought he doesn't need to have. He moves on.

The voice in his head disappears after a while. Merric isn't sure what he thinks about that; it's not disappointment, really, just bemusement, concern. He tries to throw himself into the work, tries to talk business with Sam and with Lysander and Roswell, but he's having trouble remembering things like he used to. The air seems hazy, eventually.

One by one, they disappear.

One by one, they leave, until Merric is the only one left. Until he's standing in what used to be their little makeshift office, the sand ghosting around his feet, the sun hot against his back, face protected by the overhang of large palm fronds that have protected them for months now. The only sounds are the faint screech of gulls, far off in the distance, the slap and push of the water against the shore.

There is no one else. He is the last one here.

Merric rights everything. He sets the desks where they go, puts the chairs into place. He makes it look as clean and precise as it had been the day they first were put together, and he brushes sand from the tops of the palm fronds so that, when he steps back, everything is neat and tidy.

He takes a breath and it tastes like the scorch of the beach. The sweep of water sounds like a whisper, a voice like a long lost memory.

Alone, alone, alone.

He wakes up, eventually, and doesn't know where to start.  

[kuropeco]

Like his older brother, November Nash Flynn is used to being alone.

At least, at one point in his life. Now he doesn't have to worry about being alone. He doesn't have to wake up remembering that he's got no one, that his brother has disappeared, that his parents are off on some trip of their lives and are likely never to come back.

He is, quite honestly, extremely satisfied with what he has.

Dottie and Dean and Tobin are little shits sometimes, but they are who Nash has chosen to associate himself with. Sonja, too, because she's become a part of things, and of course Alice, who he's long grown to respect and like. He cares more about them than he has ever let on - and that he will ever let on, because like hell will Nash ever let them know something as pathetically maudlin as that. It's bad enough that Dean had to be a complete brat at that truth night, calling him out to yell his deepest, darkest secrets (Nash still hasn't forgiven for that). He's not about to let them know this.

He's snappish and broody and sarcastic, but they know that he cares, anyway. He doesn't - and shouldn't have to - spell it out for them. They can figure it out on their own.

This island is full of people who are just trying to make it by. Nash doesn't want to be here anymore than the rest of them do, but he's stuck here, and he's just going to deal with it, because there's not a whole lot to be done except keep yourself occupied. And he does so, by whatever means necessary, whatever he wants in order to just...pass the time. He tries not to be too obvious about things (sneaking back from Kade's little rendezvous at the early hours of the morning) but sometimes he slips and the resulting jeers and jabs are still worth it.

He likes his makeshift little family. He doesn't want to let them go.

October is here too, and they talk, sometimes. It's been so long since they've spent time together, that at first it's awkward and confusing, because they keep missing each other. But eventually things fall into place, because they've got all the time in the world here just to talk.

October disappearing - again - makes Nash so angry he doesn't know how to deal with it. He comes back from another nighttime escapade with Kade to discover that he's gone and spends the rest of the afternoon in a state of hazy frustration and fury, because he's been through this before.

The others, too. Slowly. One by one.

Nash can feel them all slipping through his fingers, like sand.

He's made friends here. He's talked to people, learned about them, learned how to be around them, learned how to talk to them. He likes that he has this, because it gives him something to do, people that he can relax around and do whatever he wants with.

And now they're slowly, slowly, gone.

He hates this. He wants to scream, but there's no point. The days slip by just like the people, until there's no one left, until there's nothing except himself and the spray of the ocean and his own echoing, furious thoughts that rattle around in his head, and make him start to go crazy with everything that he can't do and can't say and can't be.

When the cove calls to him, he goes willingly, with enough determination and anger to start a war.

When he wakes up, later, he is still angry.