prompts.

He's beginning to grow desperate. Very desperate.

Sacrificing someone, even in the terms of something as small as a little blood, is outside of his own moral code. He couldn't harm anyone, no matter what. Even if the flaming bastard that had burnt down his life around him was in front of him, he wouldn't be able to do it.

Even if it meant he could gain the ability to discern his own future, he wouldn't be able to harm him. It just wasn't coded in Rorschach's mind to bring harm, even in the event of fighting for his life.

The shrine stretches before him, and he knows what he has to do. The task of giving blood seems so grim, but not to him. He would gladly offer his own in an effort to regain some control over his life. As of late, it seems to be spiraling. His visions are becoming erratic. They're powerful, yes, but now he can't seem to pick them up. Generally, someone had to ask him for his gift to activate, but as of late, his sleep has been interrupted with grisly visions and heart-pounding events that aren't a part of his life.

He's woken up more than once, screaming someone's name he did not know. 

It was beginning to become terrifying, and he so wished that he no longer had his magic.

Maybe, though, Fortune would grant him something. Grant him the ability to regain his control, and maybe to finally get his life in order. He's run for so long from the past that it seems to be the only thing in his life anymore. Living in the past wasn't something he wanted to do.

"Please, please --- I just.. I just want to get control again. I want to see my own fortune and future. I want to see what awaits me." Desperate whispers from a desperate man, as he sinks to his knees in front of the shrine, cold gripping his heart. It's a grim feeling, the cold that settles in his belly and the way his heart seems to try to pound out of his chest. The anxiety was practically overwhelming, causing his throat to tighten and his mind to race with thoughts and desperate pleas that ran circles in his head.  "If I do this, will it bring me peace, finally?"

Fortune won't answer him, but he can still utter his plea in an attempt to glean some sort of reply. 

A shaking hand lifts a sharp obsidian dagger, a relic from his life centuries ago. Even now, it holds sharpness and gleams in the light of the many candles and torches. The mask of Fortune just looks at him with a blank stare, and he can only bring his palm up.

The dagger bites with a simple slip, and blood wells, dripping to the ground. It drips, gathering in small pools as his fingers close, and he digs them into his palm even more, pulling the wound open slightly.

"I want peace. I want -- I want hope for my future. I just want to see it," he whispers, his voice hitching. 

Fortune offers no answer, and his fingers lift and spread, and he presses his palm down onto the ground, creating a bloody print. "I'm sorry I cannot offer more."

A murmur, and he swallows, standing up slowly and pulling the cloak over his head.

Maybe tonight, he would dream.