718 Vhalar 56...
What he did know was he wasn’t going to allow a creep covered animal the satisfaction of breaking his neck.
Armoured and prepared, as he fell to the ground, the beast’s paws firmly planted on his back and teeth already tearing at the protective, invisible shielding that surrounded him, Mathias made certain to grip his knife tightly in his hands. He took a trill or two to find himself, the dizziness of his magical exertions paired with the sudden shift from standing to prone a bit more overwhelming that he was accustomed to, but once his vision steadied as much as it seemed to be able to, he rolled over onto his back and shoved both his hand and dagger into the beasts’ mouth.
The creature snarled, the sound garbled by the sudden introduction of a blade that jutted out the back of its head, just below the skull, and bit down upon Mathias’ arm. The air glistened in rejection of the fangs, and he began to saw away at the creature from within, finding that the smooth edge of the dagger’s blade wasn’t exactly ideal for the action but did the job well enough for what he needed.
Dark emerald ichor began to drip from the creature’s jaws as it tried to tear Mathias’ arm away, but the dagger kept cutting and his free hand gouged at the beast’s eyes, smashing into the soft, weak tissue and tearing it apart. The jaws loosened some, and he was able to extricate his arm from within the creature, making certain to slide the blade against the soft flesh of the thing’s insides.
Arm covered in sticky, mossy ooze and frothing saliva, Mathias used both of his hands to grip his dagger before he jabbed it straight down. He felt, through the blade, the crack of bone and the satisfying stick of the dagger as it plunged through the roof of the beast’s mouth. There was a whimpering sputter, then – finally – silence.
It took him several tries, once he’d managed to stumble back onto his feet, to liberate the dagger from the creature’s skull. Eventually, he’d opted to stomp on the thing’s head until it was more raw meat than bone, allowing him to simply pick it out of the dark green gooey mess. The behemoth, though slow, was undoubtedly on its way, and he didn’t have the privilege of leaving behind the only weapon he had. In his haste, already, he’s lost both the kitchen knife and left his abrogant’s shield behind to fade away into nothing when he’d escaped from the behemoth the first time.
A smashed skull was a much easier solution than a potential fight with the massive creepborne in the near future. A future he preferred to avoid if at all possible but understood it was better to prepare for the worst.
Dagger once more in hand, he started down the tunnel again. His stomach twisted and turned, and while his pace was brisk, he found himself unable to fun for fear of tripping over his own feet. His breath came in uneven gasps, and he felt the pricking stitch of a cramp in his side; still, he pressed on, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward, and dagger hand held forward to illuminate the way.
He’d used the beast’s body to wipe away most of the viscous blood, allowing what was left of the bloodlight’s dim glow to radiate through his shields. The tunnel had grown noticeably darker – or the light dimmer – and he could see the creep’s searching tendrils writhing and wriggling hungrily toward him, thwarted by his leather boots and etheric armour – for as long as it might last.
It felt as though he walked for breaks, but whether it was trills or bits or trials, he didn’t know. In the fading light, little more than that of a weak candle, he almost missed the stairway to his left. Almost.
Though he had no idea where the stairs might lead, up was certainly an improvement. Even more fortunate, the stairwell was narrow – narrow enough to deny the behemoth of children’s parts from pursuing him. Up, however, proved to be a far more taxing direction than “straight ahead”, and his pace slowed dramatically, breath ragged and sweat dripping freely from his nose and chin.
Up and up and up he climbed, the darkness around him slowly increasing its influence over him as his light dwindled into near nothingness. There was no sign of an exit, no sign of any change beyond the occasional twist in the stairwell, changing directions but rising ever upwards. He propped himself up between the narrow walls; the creep clutched at his fingers only to be torn away as his hands moved on to the next spot, the next jutting stone, pulling himself along, eyes half closed.
He didn’t even realize the light had gone completely out until he ran into the wall.
Pausing, he blinked several times, finding that he saw as much with them closed as open, and instead used his hands. He felt the stone in front of him and searched for a continuation of the path he was on, but there was only the way he’d come. A dead-end – exceptionally fitting a term, given the situation he was in.
His spark had long since quieted, and his weariness was coupled with the faint weight of despair along with an impossible mix of emotions that had only served to make him feel all the more nauseous. He was tired, he was hungry, he was angry, he was-
Click.
Hands wandering in unfettered frustration, his thumb found a spot in the wall that seemed to indent, and, heralded by the grinding sounds of moving stone, he was met with a rush of familiar scents: dust, must, and garbage. Weary as he was, and with no spark to regulate him, an overwhelming rise of relief and happiness swelled in his chest. He took first one step, then another, the red glow of bloodlights in the distance nearly calling to him.
It started as a small, hoarse chuckle, but he barely had control over his legs let alone the entirely unbalanced and overpowering fallout of his emotional barriers. Soon, as the stone wall slid shut behind him, leaving no signs that it had ever opened at all, all he could do was slump down onto the ground and laugh long and loud.
He laughed out of joy – rapturous and wondrous; he laughed out of pain – the stitches in his sides protested with every heaving breath between the mirth; he laughed out of terror – the empty faces, the patch-worked bodies, the danger of it all; he laughed out of sadness – the loneliness, the despair at his own incompetence; the laughed out of anger – the hatred for those born of the creep, for the man who told him where the woman had gone, for the damned Tower itself.
He didn’t know when the laughter stopped. He didn’t know when his eyes finally fell shut. He didn’t know how long it was he slept.
All he knew was he was, finally, free.
“Hey. Hey hey, boyo!” The familiar voice drew him out of his sleep, raucous and loud and urgent. “Wake up! Come on, thas it…” Warm hands on either side of his face gently shook his head – or, rather, meant to shake gently. The ache that seemed settled in his entire body had not spared his head, and the motion only served to elicit a moan – followed by a prompt ejection of his stomach’s contents. “Oh shit!”
When he finally opened his eyes, blearily blinking in the morning’s light, he was met with the sight of the large and hairy Glauco swearing to himself and covered in vomit. “Glauco?” he croaked out, the sour taste of his bile doing little to ease him into the realm of the waking. “What are you-“
“Didn’t think ye’d just waltz on in here, ya brainless idiot.” The man shook his head, disgusted but relieved all the same. “Ye look like shit.”
Closing his eyes again, this time to shield them from the light, Mathias weakly ran a hand through his hair. “I certainly feel like it.”
“Come on, then.” With a strength that was hardly surprising given the man’s size, Glauco strode over and helped Mathias to his feet, allowing the smaller man to lean on him for support. “Let’s get ye- well, us. Let’s get us cleaned up, hey?”
“…alright.”
H
e didn’t know if there was anything at the end of the tunnel. He didn’t know if escape were even a possibility. No doubt the creatures he’d found beneath Heitor’s Tower had fallen into the trap – for that was what the Tower now was, whatever the purpose of the disappearing floor might have been before. He didn’t know if there were more; he didn’t know if he could continue fighting; he didn’t know, he didn’t know, he didn’t know.What he did know was he wasn’t going to allow a creep covered animal the satisfaction of breaking his neck.
Armoured and prepared, as he fell to the ground, the beast’s paws firmly planted on his back and teeth already tearing at the protective, invisible shielding that surrounded him, Mathias made certain to grip his knife tightly in his hands. He took a trill or two to find himself, the dizziness of his magical exertions paired with the sudden shift from standing to prone a bit more overwhelming that he was accustomed to, but once his vision steadied as much as it seemed to be able to, he rolled over onto his back and shoved both his hand and dagger into the beasts’ mouth.
The creature snarled, the sound garbled by the sudden introduction of a blade that jutted out the back of its head, just below the skull, and bit down upon Mathias’ arm. The air glistened in rejection of the fangs, and he began to saw away at the creature from within, finding that the smooth edge of the dagger’s blade wasn’t exactly ideal for the action but did the job well enough for what he needed.
Dark emerald ichor began to drip from the creature’s jaws as it tried to tear Mathias’ arm away, but the dagger kept cutting and his free hand gouged at the beast’s eyes, smashing into the soft, weak tissue and tearing it apart. The jaws loosened some, and he was able to extricate his arm from within the creature, making certain to slide the blade against the soft flesh of the thing’s insides.
Arm covered in sticky, mossy ooze and frothing saliva, Mathias used both of his hands to grip his dagger before he jabbed it straight down. He felt, through the blade, the crack of bone and the satisfying stick of the dagger as it plunged through the roof of the beast’s mouth. There was a whimpering sputter, then – finally – silence.
It took him several tries, once he’d managed to stumble back onto his feet, to liberate the dagger from the creature’s skull. Eventually, he’d opted to stomp on the thing’s head until it was more raw meat than bone, allowing him to simply pick it out of the dark green gooey mess. The behemoth, though slow, was undoubtedly on its way, and he didn’t have the privilege of leaving behind the only weapon he had. In his haste, already, he’s lost both the kitchen knife and left his abrogant’s shield behind to fade away into nothing when he’d escaped from the behemoth the first time.
A smashed skull was a much easier solution than a potential fight with the massive creepborne in the near future. A future he preferred to avoid if at all possible but understood it was better to prepare for the worst.
Dagger once more in hand, he started down the tunnel again. His stomach twisted and turned, and while his pace was brisk, he found himself unable to fun for fear of tripping over his own feet. His breath came in uneven gasps, and he felt the pricking stitch of a cramp in his side; still, he pressed on, jaw clenched, eyes fixed forward, and dagger hand held forward to illuminate the way.
He’d used the beast’s body to wipe away most of the viscous blood, allowing what was left of the bloodlight’s dim glow to radiate through his shields. The tunnel had grown noticeably darker – or the light dimmer – and he could see the creep’s searching tendrils writhing and wriggling hungrily toward him, thwarted by his leather boots and etheric armour – for as long as it might last.
It felt as though he walked for breaks, but whether it was trills or bits or trials, he didn’t know. In the fading light, little more than that of a weak candle, he almost missed the stairway to his left. Almost.
Though he had no idea where the stairs might lead, up was certainly an improvement. Even more fortunate, the stairwell was narrow – narrow enough to deny the behemoth of children’s parts from pursuing him. Up, however, proved to be a far more taxing direction than “straight ahead”, and his pace slowed dramatically, breath ragged and sweat dripping freely from his nose and chin.
Up and up and up he climbed, the darkness around him slowly increasing its influence over him as his light dwindled into near nothingness. There was no sign of an exit, no sign of any change beyond the occasional twist in the stairwell, changing directions but rising ever upwards. He propped himself up between the narrow walls; the creep clutched at his fingers only to be torn away as his hands moved on to the next spot, the next jutting stone, pulling himself along, eyes half closed.
He didn’t even realize the light had gone completely out until he ran into the wall.
Pausing, he blinked several times, finding that he saw as much with them closed as open, and instead used his hands. He felt the stone in front of him and searched for a continuation of the path he was on, but there was only the way he’d come. A dead-end – exceptionally fitting a term, given the situation he was in.
His spark had long since quieted, and his weariness was coupled with the faint weight of despair along with an impossible mix of emotions that had only served to make him feel all the more nauseous. He was tired, he was hungry, he was angry, he was-
Click.
Hands wandering in unfettered frustration, his thumb found a spot in the wall that seemed to indent, and, heralded by the grinding sounds of moving stone, he was met with a rush of familiar scents: dust, must, and garbage. Weary as he was, and with no spark to regulate him, an overwhelming rise of relief and happiness swelled in his chest. He took first one step, then another, the red glow of bloodlights in the distance nearly calling to him.
It started as a small, hoarse chuckle, but he barely had control over his legs let alone the entirely unbalanced and overpowering fallout of his emotional barriers. Soon, as the stone wall slid shut behind him, leaving no signs that it had ever opened at all, all he could do was slump down onto the ground and laugh long and loud.
He laughed out of joy – rapturous and wondrous; he laughed out of pain – the stitches in his sides protested with every heaving breath between the mirth; he laughed out of terror – the empty faces, the patch-worked bodies, the danger of it all; he laughed out of sadness – the loneliness, the despair at his own incompetence; the laughed out of anger – the hatred for those born of the creep, for the man who told him where the woman had gone, for the damned Tower itself.
He didn’t know when the laughter stopped. He didn’t know when his eyes finally fell shut. He didn’t know how long it was he slept.
All he knew was he was, finally, free.
“Hey. Hey hey, boyo!” The familiar voice drew him out of his sleep, raucous and loud and urgent. “Wake up! Come on, thas it…” Warm hands on either side of his face gently shook his head – or, rather, meant to shake gently. The ache that seemed settled in his entire body had not spared his head, and the motion only served to elicit a moan – followed by a prompt ejection of his stomach’s contents. “Oh shit!”
When he finally opened his eyes, blearily blinking in the morning’s light, he was met with the sight of the large and hairy Glauco swearing to himself and covered in vomit. “Glauco?” he croaked out, the sour taste of his bile doing little to ease him into the realm of the waking. “What are you-“
“Didn’t think ye’d just waltz on in here, ya brainless idiot.” The man shook his head, disgusted but relieved all the same. “Ye look like shit.”
Closing his eyes again, this time to shield them from the light, Mathias weakly ran a hand through his hair. “I certainly feel like it.”
“Come on, then.” With a strength that was hardly surprising given the man’s size, Glauco strode over and helped Mathias to his feet, allowing the smaller man to lean on him for support. “Let’s get ye- well, us. Let’s get us cleaned up, hey?”
“…alright.”
