β NO SHELTER It has been a long, long time since last Francis sat astride a saddle. But like many things, Francis finds that riding a horse is a skill that returns as quickly as soon as he begins.
The horse is a fine creature, a middle-sized bay borrowed from a farm in town. She takes to Francis quickly, ambles slowly and sure-footed across the cobblestone as easily as the muddy terrain beyond the edge of town. When the clouds begin to gather overhead, Francis turns back, eager to abandon this fruitless hunting trip for a roaring fire he can find at the Inn - or at home. But a few minutes into the return trip, something happens. A shadow dashes unnaturally soundless across their path, as though blown by the wind of a gale. The mare rears, throwing Francis immediately to the ground, and takes off at a gallop, between the trees and out of sight.
Damn it.
Picking himself up with a curse, Francis rights himself, collecting the shotgun he'd had slung over his shoulder, and follows the horse's patch through the woods to head back into town. With the sun beginning to set, Francis holds a steady pace, demeanor coolly collected until the very moment the sound of branches crunching underfoot echoes from behind. Whirling around, Francis aims his shotgun, peering between the trees, and tries to ignore the sound of blood thundering in his ears.
"Who's there?"
β KILL THE BEAST! There should be little about the town that feels familiar to Francis, but in the moment before the enormous creature charges him, Francis thinks of Sir John. Sir John Franklin, noble, idiotic Sir John, lifeblood smeared upon the ice like a broken bottle of wine. Francis' creature, like Sir John's, will remain a mystery to him: it has come for Francis, seemingly only him, and disappear back into the hell it emerged from before Francis has even considered his own mortality.
But he does not die. He lives, long enough to pull the pistol from his coat, and clutch it to his chest until his breath returns to him. And when it does, Francis rises on shaking legs, hands trembling for the excitement rushing in his veins. He cannot help but consider Sir John's last shout for Erebus and the assistance that would not arrive in time. Would he suffer the same fate?
He's nearly over the stone bridge on Gallowgate when a dull throb in his arm alerts Francis that he's suffered some kind of injury. He pats a new gash in the arm of his coat, surprised somehow to find his fingers stained with blood. Blinking, Francis continues, crossing over the river and toward the building he recognizes as the surgeon's.
β WILDCARD! [ Come with your own prompt! Chat up this grumpy patron at the inn! Write him a letter! Invite him to the traveling circus! The world is your Victorian horror oyster. ]
Francis Crozier | The Terror
It has been a long, long time since last Francis sat astride a saddle. But like many things, Francis finds that riding a horse is a skill that returns as quickly as soon as he begins.
The horse is a fine creature, a middle-sized bay borrowed from a farm in town. She takes to Francis quickly, ambles slowly and sure-footed across the cobblestone as easily as the muddy terrain beyond the edge of town. When the clouds begin to gather overhead, Francis turns back, eager to abandon this fruitless hunting trip for a roaring fire he can find at the Inn - or at home. But a few minutes into the return trip, something happens. A shadow dashes unnaturally soundless across their path, as though blown by the wind of a gale. The mare rears, throwing Francis immediately to the ground, and takes off at a gallop, between the trees and out of sight.
Damn it.
Picking himself up with a curse, Francis rights himself, collecting the shotgun he'd had slung over his shoulder, and follows the horse's patch through the woods to head back into town. With the sun beginning to set, Francis holds a steady pace, demeanor coolly collected until the very moment the sound of branches crunching underfoot echoes from behind. Whirling around, Francis aims his shotgun, peering between the trees, and tries to ignore the sound of blood thundering in his ears.
"Who's there?"
β KILL THE BEAST!
There should be little about the town that feels familiar to Francis, but in the moment before the enormous creature charges him, Francis thinks of Sir John. Sir John Franklin, noble, idiotic Sir John, lifeblood smeared upon the ice like a broken bottle of wine. Francis' creature, like Sir John's, will remain a mystery to him: it has come for Francis, seemingly only him, and disappear back into the hell it emerged from before Francis has even considered his own mortality.
But he does not die. He lives, long enough to pull the pistol from his coat, and clutch it to his chest until his breath returns to him. And when it does, Francis rises on shaking legs, hands trembling for the excitement rushing in his veins. He cannot help but consider Sir John's last shout for Erebus and the assistance that would not arrive in time. Would he suffer the same fate?
He's nearly over the stone bridge on Gallowgate when a dull throb in his arm alerts Francis that he's suffered some kind of injury. He pats a new gash in the arm of his coat, surprised somehow to find his fingers stained with blood. Blinking, Francis continues, crossing over the river and toward the building he recognizes as the surgeon's.
β WILDCARD!
[ Come with your own prompt! Chat up this grumpy patron at the inn! Write him a letter! Invite him to the traveling circus! The world is your Victorian horror oyster. ]