02-27-2017, 10:25 PM
DOOM-BOOM.
Jesmok’s chin lifted from where it had nestled against his chest, head lolling from tiredness and threatening to drown him in the waters of sleep. He narrowed his eyes as the cavern shook, dust falling from the stalactite-strewn roof in a broken curtain as he blinked dazedly at his surroundings. Moss green muscles strained as he gathered his wits and attempted to scramble to his feet, grumbling and hissing around the thick fangs jutting from his gums.
“Shoulda known dis wouldn’t be easy. Greed, greed, greed… jus’ need one more scrap of treasure, he says… never enough…”
The damp stones were cool against his scarred feet. Whatever the creature was that he and Tosh had fought, its blood stung like acid, littering his loincloth and fur coverings with a whole riot of stinkin’ holes. Of course, Jesmok had been the one to finally subdue it with a well-placed explosive— he was a regular demolitions expert, so his da said, and talent like that was bound to go to waste if one didn’t use it wherever possible. It was why he had so many miniature grenades strapped around his neck, the orange gourd-shaped devices thumping against his chest with every step, fine particles inside rattling noisily.
Still, it was a right shame that Tosh had to be halfway into the beast’s mouth when the black powder lit up. The hollows of a cave can be awful lonely, see, ‘specially with bits of a friend littered everywhere, and Tosh’d had most of their vittles in his pouch, the bastard. It just wasn’t fair.
He arrived at the foot of a stairwell, leaning back on his heels as he craned his neck up to check for any signs of life. Dark blocks of grey stone were all that he could see, all stacked one on top of the other and forming a narrow flight of stairs, a frigid hum of death thrumming in every shadowy corner and crevice.
With a determined frown, Jesmok gripped his knife a little tighter, the keen blade gleaming dully as he shuffled up the stairs, legs stinging with every step from where they had been horribly mutilated by the acid. His progress was sluggish, painful. The only sounds in the claustrophobic space were his ragged breaths and the slow, methodical drag of his toenails over the stone.
… Except, there was another sound, besides all that. Barely noticeable and sort of raspy, like a cluster of ghosts whispering their condolences over a grave. Jesmok chose to ignore it, mounting the steps one at a time. His impressive height and trollish shoulders made the shaft a bit cramped, everything smelling like acrid concrete dust and the cool walls making the occasional brush against the tops of his shoulders, but still he continued to climb. The whispering simmered at his heels, soft as a press of lips.
Jesmok fished around in his belt, eventually coming up with a cigar and setting about digging a match out from his pack. The round orange bulbs hanging off from his neck were jostled by the movement, clinking together loudly; a waft of something like clay mixed with burning chlorine and ammonia stung at his nose. Apprehension seared up his spine like a live wire as his knife bit off the cigar’s end, his back muscles stiffening until they were as rigid as granite.
A whip-like arm of pale grey waved at him from out of the corner of his eye, sinuous as smoke. Tilting his head to the side, Jesmok felt his jaw bones grit tightly together as he noticed that the abomination he had killed apparently had quite a few friends, the flush press of tentacles against the rock walls sounding almost like voices.
“Hmph,” he said, the match in his hand flaring up against his cupped hands. The cigar began to burn, old tobacco smoke curling up lazily around his face, the rolled-up paper caught firmly between clenched teeth. It tasted of leather, honeyed fruit and burnt, spicy peppercorns, all of it expelled in a cloud of smoke.
With trembling hands, Jesmok nudged the red-orange glow at the cigar’s end against a wiry string attached to the explosives ringing about his neck. His eyelids clenched tightly shut as the fuse was set alight with a sizzling hiss, thoughts escaping like slippery fish from a net.
Jesmok’s chin lifted from where it had nestled against his chest, head lolling from tiredness and threatening to drown him in the waters of sleep. He narrowed his eyes as the cavern shook, dust falling from the stalactite-strewn roof in a broken curtain as he blinked dazedly at his surroundings. Moss green muscles strained as he gathered his wits and attempted to scramble to his feet, grumbling and hissing around the thick fangs jutting from his gums.
“Shoulda known dis wouldn’t be easy. Greed, greed, greed… jus’ need one more scrap of treasure, he says… never enough…”
The damp stones were cool against his scarred feet. Whatever the creature was that he and Tosh had fought, its blood stung like acid, littering his loincloth and fur coverings with a whole riot of stinkin’ holes. Of course, Jesmok had been the one to finally subdue it with a well-placed explosive— he was a regular demolitions expert, so his da said, and talent like that was bound to go to waste if one didn’t use it wherever possible. It was why he had so many miniature grenades strapped around his neck, the orange gourd-shaped devices thumping against his chest with every step, fine particles inside rattling noisily.
Still, it was a right shame that Tosh had to be halfway into the beast’s mouth when the black powder lit up. The hollows of a cave can be awful lonely, see, ‘specially with bits of a friend littered everywhere, and Tosh’d had most of their vittles in his pouch, the bastard. It just wasn’t fair.
He arrived at the foot of a stairwell, leaning back on his heels as he craned his neck up to check for any signs of life. Dark blocks of grey stone were all that he could see, all stacked one on top of the other and forming a narrow flight of stairs, a frigid hum of death thrumming in every shadowy corner and crevice.
With a determined frown, Jesmok gripped his knife a little tighter, the keen blade gleaming dully as he shuffled up the stairs, legs stinging with every step from where they had been horribly mutilated by the acid. His progress was sluggish, painful. The only sounds in the claustrophobic space were his ragged breaths and the slow, methodical drag of his toenails over the stone.
… Except, there was another sound, besides all that. Barely noticeable and sort of raspy, like a cluster of ghosts whispering their condolences over a grave. Jesmok chose to ignore it, mounting the steps one at a time. His impressive height and trollish shoulders made the shaft a bit cramped, everything smelling like acrid concrete dust and the cool walls making the occasional brush against the tops of his shoulders, but still he continued to climb. The whispering simmered at his heels, soft as a press of lips.
Jesmok fished around in his belt, eventually coming up with a cigar and setting about digging a match out from his pack. The round orange bulbs hanging off from his neck were jostled by the movement, clinking together loudly; a waft of something like clay mixed with burning chlorine and ammonia stung at his nose. Apprehension seared up his spine like a live wire as his knife bit off the cigar’s end, his back muscles stiffening until they were as rigid as granite.
A whip-like arm of pale grey waved at him from out of the corner of his eye, sinuous as smoke. Tilting his head to the side, Jesmok felt his jaw bones grit tightly together as he noticed that the abomination he had killed apparently had quite a few friends, the flush press of tentacles against the rock walls sounding almost like voices.
“Hmph,” he said, the match in his hand flaring up against his cupped hands. The cigar began to burn, old tobacco smoke curling up lazily around his face, the rolled-up paper caught firmly between clenched teeth. It tasted of leather, honeyed fruit and burnt, spicy peppercorns, all of it expelled in a cloud of smoke.
With trembling hands, Jesmok nudged the red-orange glow at the cigar’s end against a wiry string attached to the explosives ringing about his neck. His eyelids clenched tightly shut as the fuse was set alight with a sizzling hiss, thoughts escaping like slippery fish from a net.
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Gamzee Makara Wrote:S’aight. After all, dogs have a tendency to motherfuckin’ bite.