WHO: Tony Stark, Joselyn Smythe, Richard Dickerson, Wysteria Poppell, Vanadi de Vadarta WHAT: A group of nerds and one cool elf investigate some strange reports coming out of a Free Marches village. WHEN: Second week of August. WHERE: Free Marches NOTES: TBA.
Some urgent multitasking happens very quickly, and while it's actually sort of impressive that Joselyn doesn't accidentally fling Richard's knife into the river out of surprise she'd also sort of rather him not notice that, since it was closer than she'd like and he might want his knife back. (He'll get it back, it's fine, but she's doing things right now—)
Mostly, what she's doing is trying to gather up the two eels that they'd done in already in a sort of skewer formation like the worst snack they're definitely not going to eat while scrambling backwards from the oncoming,
“Then we can probably give these a new venery term,” she says, using her staff to push herself back to her feet, eels wiggling from Richard's knife, “I propose we're looking at a fuck off from this river of eels.”
Tony swivels around and backs up as soon as Vanadi calls out, and on reflex raises his shard-embedded hand up for just in casesies, but his expression skews more interested than disturbed.
The eels leading the charge, as it were, muscle and slither their way towards where Joselyn is skewering their friends, snapping, too-human eyes rolling. (At least one of them that catches attention seems to have two tails, split at the centre, which doesn't seem to benefit its ability to slither whatsoever, thrashing a little pointlessly.) More and more follow, swelling from the edges of the river. They move in concert, twisting around each other like tangling snakes, coming together into a while.
It even lifts up in the air by about a foot, like a big tentacle of writhing eel bodies, straining forward.
Tony is not calling a retreat so much as trusting everyone to mind their business, stepping around a little as he says, "Watch yourself, Smythe," as he squints at what is happening, hand still poised.
Mind her own business she does. With certain specimens skewered and everyone looking at the prospect of a tactical withdrawal from the riverbank, Wysteria fetches up her skirts in one fist, chirping "Mr. de Vadarta, if you please," in reference to the gentleman's ready sword, and then dives into the gap between their little coalition and the encroaching, roiling mass of eels.
She has a traveling kit to rescue, and makes about doing that with as much confidence as one might muster when one is acclimated to being rescued or otherwise miraculous preserved in otherwise threatening situations. Maybe Vanadi has to chop a few eels; maybe she just snags the kit by the handle and, squawking at a too-close snap of eel jaws, manages to skitter back to safety. Regardless: things saved, time to go.
This ranks pretty high into extremely gross things Vanadi has had to witness, and now seems like a really great time for some kind of hands-off blast of magic at the whole writing mass of them -- particularly when one snaps a little too closely to Wysteria. His sword's not quite close enough to do the job, so it's a quick bolt of black, crackling energy from his palm that sends the thing flying away instead. The next few get chopped, which is, as predicted, very gross.
But the bag and both persons are safely extracted, Vanadi lingering just enough to make sure any other snapping jaws might pick his retreating ankles over Wysteria's.
"No one else has left anything they're very attached to, have they? I'm entirely in favor of moving on."
With the eels successfully skewered, if any of them turn around to retreat in earnest, it will be to see Richard Dickerson standing and looking back at them from some 60 feet up the bank, well away from the river’s edge already. There are a few loose pebbles still rolling down through dirt and rock, marking the path he scarpered up and away.
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faderift2020-08-04 09:35 pm
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no subject
Mostly, what she's doing is trying to gather up the two eels that they'd done in already in a sort of skewer formation like the worst snack they're definitely not going to eat while scrambling backwards from the oncoming,
“Then we can probably give these a new venery term,” she says, using her staff to push herself back to her feet, eels wiggling from Richard's knife, “I propose we're looking at a fuck off from this river of eels.”
no subject
The eels leading the charge, as it were, muscle and slither their way towards where Joselyn is skewering their friends, snapping, too-human eyes rolling. (At least one of them that catches attention seems to have two tails, split at the centre, which doesn't seem to benefit its ability to slither whatsoever, thrashing a little pointlessly.) More and more follow, swelling from the edges of the river. They move in concert, twisting around each other like tangling snakes, coming together into a while.
It even lifts up in the air by about a foot, like a big tentacle of writhing eel bodies, straining forward.
Tony is not calling a retreat so much as trusting everyone to mind their business, stepping around a little as he says, "Watch yourself, Smythe," as he squints at what is happening, hand still poised.
softly punches my notifs
Mind her own business she does. With certain specimens skewered and everyone looking at the prospect of a tactical withdrawal from the riverbank, Wysteria fetches up her skirts in one fist, chirping "Mr. de Vadarta, if you please," in reference to the gentleman's ready sword, and then dives into the gap between their little coalition and the encroaching, roiling mass of eels.
She has a traveling kit to rescue, and makes about doing that with as much confidence as one might muster when one is acclimated to being rescued or otherwise miraculous preserved in otherwise threatening situations. Maybe Vanadi has to chop a few eels; maybe she just snags the kit by the handle and, squawking at a too-close snap of eel jaws, manages to skitter back to safety. Regardless: things saved, time to go.
no subject
But the bag and both persons are safely extracted, Vanadi lingering just enough to make sure any other snapping jaws might pick his retreating ankles over Wysteria's.
"No one else has left anything they're very attached to, have they? I'm entirely in favor of moving on."
no subject
At least he’s stopped to wait for them.