09-08-2015, 11:46 AM
It felt like he'd been following this damnable compass for hours now. It had held remarkably steady, given its previous love for spinning out of control, and lead him determinedly on a twisting, turning course that would have all too soon left him completely lost if he'd been trying to follow any sort of predetermined path. Weaving and pivoting every now and then, sometimes pulling nearly a complete turnaround to his prior course, sending him careening in a determined zigzag, around what he could only guess at from the many ominous bubbling, burbling sounds of much deeper, more precarious sludge that would probably have been the end of him if he'd blundered into them.
Assuming this whole blasted swamp wasn't the end of him.
He'd hit his proverbial stride again, the prospect of a solid heading and reuniting with the rest of the merry band he'd grown so attached to these past months reinvigorating him for a while. But all too soon it had set in again. His good spirits and hopeful outlook were slowly, but steadily bogged down, the spring in his step rusting and falling away until he was once again trudging through the swamp muck, which made a determined crawl further and further up his boots, slowing his progress ever more steadily.
He was just about on the verge of writing the whole thing off, the despair of the swamp making its finest effort to take ahold of him again, when he stumbled over something or other submerged in the muck. Staggering drunkenly, he let out a startled snarl, his upset balance sending his compass sailing from his hand and into the fog ahead of him. He cursed mentally at losing his only source of guidance, but after a moment of silence, something dawned on him.
There had been no sound of the navigational tool's landing. No wet plop as it was swallowed by filthy swamp sludge. No distinct thunk as it bounced off some miraculously-placed hunk of detritus, fallen from the forest and floating listlessly in the murky waters. There was every chance his sense were failing him, some other strange and awful effect of the swamp...but there was a chance it meant something much more positive.
Steeling himself, Crow forced his way forward with a surge of his remaining strength, pushing through swamp mud and muck already past his knees, sloshing messily and raggedly forward a dozen paces....and then he felt it. Under all the slime and shifting mud, wet and damp from the waters of the swamp, it was there. Reassuring and wonderful, even if it might very well have been just a small island in the middle of this madness.
.....Solid Ground.
Crow doubted if ever a man of the sea had before been so glad to have been back on terra firma in all his days as the old pirate captain was at that precise moment. Several more hurried steps carried him up and out of the water, though it made a valiant effort to not let him go, the mud sucking insistently at his boots, slimy earth slipping and sliding this way and that under his steps, threatening to send him pitching back under the dark, still waters.
But he was finally out.
Dripping wretched-smelling water, covered in mud both dried and fresh, and who knew what other filth, but he was free of the swamp. Exhausted, and looking more than a little deadened to the world, but he was free, and still standing. He trudged up the dirty, damp ground to get well away from the swamp, before turning back to stare out over the misty expanse. When they'd first set out, he had underestimated the swamp...what it might put him through, and just how dangerous it could really be. He counted himself more than a little lucky that he'd survived at all, and looking back on it...how it seemed just like any other swamp, dreary, dank and full of muck, but not threatening, per se... Well, all he could honestly say was that he was bloody well glad to be done with it all!
He took a deep breath, and simply let it out. He had a hundred insults on his mind he could hurl at nothing and everything...but he was just too damn tired to bother. He needed to get a move on, and see if his luck would hold out long enough to reunite with the rest of the crew that had wandered out into that hellhole...
His luck did indeed hold out, and soon enough he was rewarded with the sight of others ahead in the dim light. Unintentionally announcing his presence with the crunching of twigs and old leaves underfoot, he came to a halt, his breathing sounding uncharacteristically deep and heavy in the gloom and quiet of the forest as he turned his eyes this way and that, peering at the other faces as they came crawling out of the shadow and gloom. Not a one of them looked in truly good spirits, but a good many of them certainly seemed to be at least glad to have met back up with the rest of their number.
------
Being that he was in no mood to take part in the reunion, his mood soured as it was, Crow had settled off to the side, with the professed excuse of trying to rest his jangled nerves, but also so that he could keep an eye out toward the swamp, in hopes of seeing more familiar faces come crawling out of the muck. But soon enough it becomes clear....the ones who have already made it here are the only ones coming. He had already waved off Richtoffen's attempt to speak up about it, and that had only made his mood darker, as it reminded him of a particular choice of words on his part.
“It was a necessity. If I am to die in battle, then someone must carry the torch, so to speak. Think nothing of it.”
“Tch! Belay that talk. You’ll not be dying on my watch. No one will.”
"Should'a kept a better watch..." His words were oddly quiet, subdued, and almost....dead. It didn't help his sour mood that there was, quite literally, nothing he could have done, given the circumstances. It didn't give him any hope to ponder the thought that maybe, just maybe....the ones who hadn't wandered out on this side of the swamp had ended up somewhere else. Safely escaped the swamp maybe back the way they'd come from, and were perfectly fine, in a conventional sense.
He had a sickening feeling of assurance in the pit of his stomach that if they hadn't managed to get here and meet up with the rest of the group yet....they hadn't managed to make it out of the swamp at all.
He turned his head about to peer at the rest of the group as some sort of argument raises a disturbance. The lady general, Klaud, was looking all but ready to tear the gentleman hunter's face off. Were his mood not so sour, Crow might have cracked a grin and raised a riotous laugh, probably making the situation even more awkward and probably defusing it through sheer confusion....but as it was he just shut his eyes, letting out a short, dismissive breath.
They could sort that mess out themselves.
He jerks his head back out to the swamp, grumbling under his breath about something or other that couldn't have been very polite about who or whatever it was directed at. He clapped his hands down over his knees in a gesture of finality, shaking his head, and had just made a move to rise to his feet when a gunshot rent its way through the pointless squabbling of the hunter and the green runt-orc, and it brought Crow swiftly whirling about, the loud sound snapping him out of his daze, one hand going instantly to the handle of his saber, his stance dropping wide and ready to spring, eyes wide and alert, darting about for the source of trouble.
When his gaze finally stopped on Christa, gun in hand, the tension slowly drained away, his posture sagging back to its former state of tiredness, but he remained alert, at the least, and didn't regress back into his pointless staring out at nothing.
"Bleedin' hell...." he finally spoke up in what might have been called an audible tone. Turning back around, he fished about in his numerous pockets before finally coming back out with the flask of proverbial gutrot. He tossed it from one hand to the other, before he unstoppered it, letting the potent scent out into the free air. He took one good drink of it, before he drew his arm back and sent it spinning end over end, spilling its contents in a chaotically-splashing circle, out into the mist and fog of the swamp. "Ain't much....but drinks're on me, lads..." he said quietly.
Assuming this whole blasted swamp wasn't the end of him.
He'd hit his proverbial stride again, the prospect of a solid heading and reuniting with the rest of the merry band he'd grown so attached to these past months reinvigorating him for a while. But all too soon it had set in again. His good spirits and hopeful outlook were slowly, but steadily bogged down, the spring in his step rusting and falling away until he was once again trudging through the swamp muck, which made a determined crawl further and further up his boots, slowing his progress ever more steadily.
He was just about on the verge of writing the whole thing off, the despair of the swamp making its finest effort to take ahold of him again, when he stumbled over something or other submerged in the muck. Staggering drunkenly, he let out a startled snarl, his upset balance sending his compass sailing from his hand and into the fog ahead of him. He cursed mentally at losing his only source of guidance, but after a moment of silence, something dawned on him.
There had been no sound of the navigational tool's landing. No wet plop as it was swallowed by filthy swamp sludge. No distinct thunk as it bounced off some miraculously-placed hunk of detritus, fallen from the forest and floating listlessly in the murky waters. There was every chance his sense were failing him, some other strange and awful effect of the swamp...but there was a chance it meant something much more positive.
Steeling himself, Crow forced his way forward with a surge of his remaining strength, pushing through swamp mud and muck already past his knees, sloshing messily and raggedly forward a dozen paces....and then he felt it. Under all the slime and shifting mud, wet and damp from the waters of the swamp, it was there. Reassuring and wonderful, even if it might very well have been just a small island in the middle of this madness.
.....Solid Ground.
Crow doubted if ever a man of the sea had before been so glad to have been back on terra firma in all his days as the old pirate captain was at that precise moment. Several more hurried steps carried him up and out of the water, though it made a valiant effort to not let him go, the mud sucking insistently at his boots, slimy earth slipping and sliding this way and that under his steps, threatening to send him pitching back under the dark, still waters.
But he was finally out.
Dripping wretched-smelling water, covered in mud both dried and fresh, and who knew what other filth, but he was free of the swamp. Exhausted, and looking more than a little deadened to the world, but he was free, and still standing. He trudged up the dirty, damp ground to get well away from the swamp, before turning back to stare out over the misty expanse. When they'd first set out, he had underestimated the swamp...what it might put him through, and just how dangerous it could really be. He counted himself more than a little lucky that he'd survived at all, and looking back on it...how it seemed just like any other swamp, dreary, dank and full of muck, but not threatening, per se... Well, all he could honestly say was that he was bloody well glad to be done with it all!
He took a deep breath, and simply let it out. He had a hundred insults on his mind he could hurl at nothing and everything...but he was just too damn tired to bother. He needed to get a move on, and see if his luck would hold out long enough to reunite with the rest of the crew that had wandered out into that hellhole...
His luck did indeed hold out, and soon enough he was rewarded with the sight of others ahead in the dim light. Unintentionally announcing his presence with the crunching of twigs and old leaves underfoot, he came to a halt, his breathing sounding uncharacteristically deep and heavy in the gloom and quiet of the forest as he turned his eyes this way and that, peering at the other faces as they came crawling out of the shadow and gloom. Not a one of them looked in truly good spirits, but a good many of them certainly seemed to be at least glad to have met back up with the rest of their number.
------
Being that he was in no mood to take part in the reunion, his mood soured as it was, Crow had settled off to the side, with the professed excuse of trying to rest his jangled nerves, but also so that he could keep an eye out toward the swamp, in hopes of seeing more familiar faces come crawling out of the muck. But soon enough it becomes clear....the ones who have already made it here are the only ones coming. He had already waved off Richtoffen's attempt to speak up about it, and that had only made his mood darker, as it reminded him of a particular choice of words on his part.
“It was a necessity. If I am to die in battle, then someone must carry the torch, so to speak. Think nothing of it.”
“Tch! Belay that talk. You’ll not be dying on my watch. No one will.”
"Should'a kept a better watch..." His words were oddly quiet, subdued, and almost....dead. It didn't help his sour mood that there was, quite literally, nothing he could have done, given the circumstances. It didn't give him any hope to ponder the thought that maybe, just maybe....the ones who hadn't wandered out on this side of the swamp had ended up somewhere else. Safely escaped the swamp maybe back the way they'd come from, and were perfectly fine, in a conventional sense.
He had a sickening feeling of assurance in the pit of his stomach that if they hadn't managed to get here and meet up with the rest of the group yet....they hadn't managed to make it out of the swamp at all.
He turned his head about to peer at the rest of the group as some sort of argument raises a disturbance. The lady general, Klaud, was looking all but ready to tear the gentleman hunter's face off. Were his mood not so sour, Crow might have cracked a grin and raised a riotous laugh, probably making the situation even more awkward and probably defusing it through sheer confusion....but as it was he just shut his eyes, letting out a short, dismissive breath.
They could sort that mess out themselves.
He jerks his head back out to the swamp, grumbling under his breath about something or other that couldn't have been very polite about who or whatever it was directed at. He clapped his hands down over his knees in a gesture of finality, shaking his head, and had just made a move to rise to his feet when a gunshot rent its way through the pointless squabbling of the hunter and the green runt-orc, and it brought Crow swiftly whirling about, the loud sound snapping him out of his daze, one hand going instantly to the handle of his saber, his stance dropping wide and ready to spring, eyes wide and alert, darting about for the source of trouble.
When his gaze finally stopped on Christa, gun in hand, the tension slowly drained away, his posture sagging back to its former state of tiredness, but he remained alert, at the least, and didn't regress back into his pointless staring out at nothing.
"Bleedin' hell...." he finally spoke up in what might have been called an audible tone. Turning back around, he fished about in his numerous pockets before finally coming back out with the flask of proverbial gutrot. He tossed it from one hand to the other, before he unstoppered it, letting the potent scent out into the free air. He took one good drink of it, before he drew his arm back and sent it spinning end over end, spilling its contents in a chaotically-splashing circle, out into the mist and fog of the swamp. "Ain't much....but drinks're on me, lads..." he said quietly.
![[Image: kUpgBYg.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/kUpgBYg.gif)