OPTION A: [What the fuck was happening? Going from a warm bath to whatever frozen landscape was in front of him was too jarring to be considered with anything but shock. Stanley is quite literally wrapped up in the blanket from the bed he'd woken up in sitting on a bench in the center of town trying to make sense of it all. He looks like the typical vagrant in any given town that might scream at the wind but instead of screaming, he just shakes. Maybe he should be grateful he wasn't still dripping, but the scars on the inside of his arm make it all too real. He'd succeeded and he can't help but wonder if the other losers were successful or if they were lying somewhere under Neibolt a feast of fears for that fucking monster.]
OPTION B: [Later on, through the guidance of some bizarrely helpful strangers, Stan has found himself in the diner with a warm cup of coffee and a migraine that made him feel like his head was about to collapse inward. The cold hadn't done him any favors, and he'd been purposeful when he made the move to the south to be away from that weather and the state of Maine with its too many trees and not enough actual citizens.
Say what you'd like about southern hospitality at least people weren't constantly killing each other. He's scrolling through the fluid, not interested so much as for something to do. He doesn't have any money and he keeps pushing his palms into the mug not to take a drink but just to bask in the warmth.]
OPTION C: [As naturally skeptical as he is, at first Stan doesn't really care to use the matches but he's halfway to the bar when the chill sets so deeply into his bones that he can't help it. He strikes a match, expecting something to jump out at him or the flame to be immediately doused. Instead, he's greeted with a familiar scene. The losers, standing in a circle in the barrens making the oath, and it feels so real that he can smell the summer sun, the water on their clothes long since dried from the quarry and it's weird to be standing so close to the people he hasn't seen in decades. Maybe, he hoped that his sacrifice wasn't in vain that it had all worked out. When the flame gets blown out, Stan's left against the brick wall behind him rattling out a tired breath. The cold had almost overtaken him while he'd been in the throes of that vision.]
Stan Uris / IT / ota, will match format
[What the fuck was happening? Going from a warm bath to whatever frozen landscape was in front of him was too jarring to be considered with anything but shock. Stanley is quite literally wrapped up in the blanket from the bed he'd woken up in sitting on a bench in the center of town trying to make sense of it all. He looks like the typical vagrant in any given town that might scream at the wind but instead of screaming, he just shakes. Maybe he should be grateful he wasn't still dripping, but the scars on the inside of his arm make it all too real. He'd succeeded and he can't help but wonder if the other losers were successful or if they were lying somewhere under Neibolt a feast of fears for that fucking monster.]
OPTION B:
[Later on, through the guidance of some bizarrely helpful strangers, Stan has found himself in the diner with a warm cup of coffee and a migraine that made him feel like his head was about to collapse inward. The cold hadn't done him any favors, and he'd been purposeful when he made the move to the south to be away from that weather and the state of Maine with its too many trees and not enough actual citizens.
Say what you'd like about southern hospitality at least people weren't constantly killing each other. He's scrolling through the fluid, not interested so much as for something to do. He doesn't have any money and he keeps pushing his palms into the mug not to take a drink but just to bask in the warmth.]
OPTION C:
[As naturally skeptical as he is, at first Stan doesn't really care to use the matches but he's halfway to the bar when the chill sets so deeply into his bones that he can't help it. He strikes a match, expecting something to jump out at him or the flame to be immediately doused. Instead, he's greeted with a familiar scene. The losers, standing in a circle in the barrens making the oath, and it feels so real that he can smell the summer sun, the water on their clothes long since dried from the quarry and it's weird to be standing so close to the people he hasn't seen in decades. Maybe, he hoped that his sacrifice wasn't in vain that it had all worked out. When the flame gets blown out, Stan's left against the brick wall behind him rattling out a tired breath. The cold had almost overtaken him while he'd been in the throes of that vision.]