He's a skilled rider, but it doesn't save him from the fall. Skill and luck mean he doesn't hit the dirt as hard as he could have, and not headfirst-- but when he gets to his feet it's with a shooting pain in one leg that says he shouldn't hike any mountain trails tonight. Not a break, he thinks, but it will want rest. And anything he might have used to ease his way is gone with the horse.
He curses his misfortune aloud, but the rain swallows the sound. And then he pulls his wide hat-brim down further and starts up the trail, favoring his bruised leg.
He's beginning to fear he'll have to sleep as best he can sodden under a tree when he sees the light in the distance. With a cry of relief he starts toward it, pushing over the uneven ground faster than he ought, and not caring what branches tear at his clothes.
But he pauses to compose himself before he knocks. Even though the beckoning warmth from within is so close as to be maddening, he straightens, and shakes the rain from his hat before he puts it back on, and beats what mud he can from his cloak. Let whoever answers the door know they are receiving a gentleman, and not a robber on the road or a soldier begging quarter.
He raises a fist and pounds on the door three times, and prays to God someone answers.
--
2. The Beast! The Terrible Beast!
It lurched out of an alley like out of a nightmare, and he lost precious fractions of a second staring at it, trying to force it to be something he recognizes. By the time he has the presence of mind to reach for his gun it is upon him, slamming him back into the stone wall behind him, burying horrible white teeth in his shoulder.
He manages to connect a fist with one of its eyes, and it gives a howl that he feels through every one of his bones and stumbles back away from him-- just long enough that he can fire off a wild shot and then take off running, back toward wider streets.
His mind races: There may be others on the street. He must drive them ahead of him, if he finds them. He must remain always between the townsfolk and the monster.
"Go! Go!" he shouts at whoever he sees, in a voice he used to make heard across the chaos of a mountain battlefield. The blood running down his arm, the pitch of his shoulders, and the pistol in his hand lend him urgency - to say nothing of the second furious howl that bursts from the alley behind him.
--
3. Pay No Attention To The Passage Behind The Curtain
"Aha!" He takes a hasty step back when the candlestick gives under his hand, but leans in as soon as he sees what result the action produced. It's equal parts trepidation and excitement.
"How curious," he says, and his voice echoes faintly in the darkness of the stairwell. He glances over his shoulder. "--We should fetch light. A torch, a lantern."
There seems to be no question that he intends to venture down, and that he assumes his companion will come with him.
Boromir Wójcik Ectheliowski
He's a skilled rider, but it doesn't save him from the fall. Skill and luck mean he doesn't hit the dirt as hard as he could have, and not headfirst-- but when he gets to his feet it's with a shooting pain in one leg that says he shouldn't hike any mountain trails tonight. Not a break, he thinks, but it will want rest. And anything he might have used to ease his way is gone with the horse.
He curses his misfortune aloud, but the rain swallows the sound. And then he pulls his wide hat-brim down further and starts up the trail, favoring his bruised leg.
He's beginning to fear he'll have to sleep as best he can sodden under a tree when he sees the light in the distance. With a cry of relief he starts toward it, pushing over the uneven ground faster than he ought, and not caring what branches tear at his clothes.
But he pauses to compose himself before he knocks. Even though the beckoning warmth from within is so close as to be maddening, he straightens, and shakes the rain from his hat before he puts it back on, and beats what mud he can from his cloak. Let whoever answers the door know they are receiving a gentleman, and not a robber on the road or a soldier begging quarter.
He raises a fist and pounds on the door three times, and prays to God someone answers.
--
2. The Beast! The Terrible Beast!
It lurched out of an alley like out of a nightmare, and he lost precious fractions of a second staring at it, trying to force it to be something he recognizes. By the time he has the presence of mind to reach for his gun it is upon him, slamming him back into the stone wall behind him, burying horrible white teeth in his shoulder.
He manages to connect a fist with one of its eyes, and it gives a howl that he feels through every one of his bones and stumbles back away from him-- just long enough that he can fire off a wild shot and then take off running, back toward wider streets.
His mind races: There may be others on the street. He must drive them ahead of him, if he finds them. He must remain always between the townsfolk and the monster.
"Go! Go!" he shouts at whoever he sees, in a voice he used to make heard across the chaos of a mountain battlefield. The blood running down his arm, the pitch of his shoulders, and the pistol in his hand lend him urgency - to say nothing of the second furious howl that bursts from the alley behind him.
--
3. Pay No Attention To The Passage Behind The Curtain
"Aha!" He takes a hasty step back when the candlestick gives under his hand, but leans in as soon as he sees what result the action produced. It's equal parts trepidation and excitement.
"How curious," he says, and his voice echoes faintly in the darkness of the stairwell. He glances over his shoulder. "--We should fetch light. A torch, a lantern."
There seems to be no question that he intends to venture down, and that he assumes his companion will come with him.